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loloteheBelinda was the one that upset me the most, I think. I'd seen plenty of addicts before, but she was really the only one where I felt awful about her.
There was a brief period where I was staying at Hotel Hell. It was an old hotel (obviously) and the skinheads who lived just upstairs from me were always doing thing to their apartment. They tore up the floor; but then, they'd decide to go rollerskating, so you'd get some random, sheet-rock dusted, roller-skate-clad foot crashing through the ceiling. They had decided that taking the stairs was passe, so they cut a hole in their balcony and installed a rope ladder. My place was the first stop, but never the final destination.
I think the worst was when they decided to repaint the lobby. Yes, they had bought the paint and trays, but no rollers. What they did: they poured the paint on themselves and then rolled against the walls. It only went as high as they could reach and ended in a mad scramble of hands. Marred faces oozed along the walls and up the stairs.
That's where I met my first Belinda. She was only about six years old, but she'd knock on my door at seven AM.
“Can you take me to school? Mommy's sick again.”
I should have stolen her. I was only 22 at the time, but I should have just wrapped up that kid and all her stuff and taken her away. I wish I'd learned her last name. I have no idea how that kid got home in the afternoon. Maybe she walked. I do know I'd signed a few forms for her so she could go on field trips. I am so adult.
Later, I was living in the roach motel and the next door neighbor was a dealer. I was OK with it, as he was very quiet. He was decent company at 3 AM.
I say that: I was working for MSN at the time and got out of work at 2 AM. Yeah, we worked weekends and holidays like it was nothing. It was a 24/7 shop and someone would ask, “What's it like working on Christmas day?” and you had to come up with something clever, so you said, “Oh, it's Christmas? I didn't even know it was winter. Does the sun still shine?”
But the next-door neighbor was quiet and polite and I had no problem with selling him a cut of salt at 3 AM. Hey, $5! I'll eat this week. I liked him.
He eventually moved out and a family moved in and I had to call the cops because they would never shut up. They yelled at each other all the time.
That's when I was dating Zach, even though he was married. I thought it would be good for me. I thought I'd been too possessive in my last relationship, so this had a built-in stop-point. He was married to Mona but he was dating me and—I came to find out—I was a much stronger personalty than Mona and threatened the relationship. But it didn't matter because he was also dating Belinda.
Belinda was this big, goofy kid and she and I got along just fine. I didn't know at the time that Zach was fucking the both of us, but I do recall being OK with it when I found out. Well, I was OK with her.
I don't remember why I had left a pair of shoes at Zach's, but I had. I'd broken up with him because he stood me up too many times and owed me $600. I asked for my shoes back. He gave me a pair of shoes, but they weren't mine.
I took them to Belinda, thinking they were her shoes. They weren't.
It was Belinda who decided we should go over to Zach's with the mystery shoes. She knocked on the door and, when Zach answered, we both sang, “These aren't our shoes!”
“Well, they're not mine and they're not Mona's,” Zach said.
“We'll just leave these here, then,” Belinda said. “And then, whatever girl these do belong to? At least she'll get her shoes back.”
I did get the shoes back. A week later.
By that time, Belinda had broken off a needle in her arm. I didn't know she was on heroin, but she came into the 24-hour cafe where we used to hang out, looking like death warmed over. I was wearing a skit because some guys had bet I didn't have one. I was also in my lab-coat to cover what the skirt didn't.
Belinda had a bracelet on. “I was at Parkland for twelve hours. They said it would be twelve more.”
I was just mad. “Get in the car. We're going to Baylor.”
I should go back a bit here. Big Dave died before all this. I think I told you about Big Dave.
He was born without the ability to produce gamma globulin and they told him he'd die before twelve. He kinda went nuts and got locked up. Then he lived past twelve. He went nuts again, got locked up, and then came out and decided heroin might be fun.
But Big Dave's problem was he had a sister, Darla, and he was basically taking care of her with his insurance payments. He asked my roomie\ex-boyfriend, Cris, if he know any places that did methadone. He'd also named Cris the executor of his estate.
Of course, they did nothing to protect Big Dave's estate, so, when he died, the sister, Darla, was thrown into the street and family that had never helped Big Dave got everything.
So, fast forward a few years. Back to Belinda.
I drove Belinda to the ER and walked in before her. They asked me what was up and I said it was an abscess on the lower-left arm with discoloration of veins and fever. “Do you have her transfer papers?” Oh, no, I'm not a doctor. I'm just in a lab coat.
And they asked her what she cut it with.
I had no idea Belinda was on heroin. I felt like an idiot. The two guys who had made the trip with us were just “duh” about that. It should have been obvious.
I saw her a week later. She showed me the healing wound (and jeesuys fuck it was ugly) and she told me how excited she was to be going into rehab. “I'll finally feel like a normal person again.”
Seven days after that conversation, she shot a full gram and killed herself.
There was a brief period where I was staying at Hotel Hell. It was an old hotel (obviously) and the skinheads who lived just upstairs from me were always doing thing to their apartment. They tore up the floor; but then, they'd decide to go rollerskating, so you'd get some random, sheet-rock dusted, roller-skate-clad foot crashing through the ceiling. They had decided that taking the stairs was passe, so they cut a hole in their balcony and installed a rope ladder. My place was the first stop, but never the final destination.
I think the worst was when they decided to repaint the lobby. Yes, they had bought the paint and trays, but no rollers. What they did: they poured the paint on themselves and then rolled against the walls. It only went as high as they could reach and ended in a mad scramble of hands. Marred faces oozed along the walls and up the stairs.
That's where I met my first Belinda. She was only about six years old, but she'd knock on my door at seven AM.
“Can you take me to school? Mommy's sick again.”
I should have stolen her. I was only 22 at the time, but I should have just wrapped up that kid and all her stuff and taken her away. I wish I'd learned her last name. I have no idea how that kid got home in the afternoon. Maybe she walked. I do know I'd signed a few forms for her so she could go on field trips. I am so adult.
Later, I was living in the roach motel and the next door neighbor was a dealer. I was OK with it, as he was very quiet. He was decent company at 3 AM.
I say that: I was working for MSN at the time and got out of work at 2 AM. Yeah, we worked weekends and holidays like it was nothing. It was a 24/7 shop and someone would ask, “What's it like working on Christmas day?” and you had to come up with something clever, so you said, “Oh, it's Christmas? I didn't even know it was winter. Does the sun still shine?”
But the next-door neighbor was quiet and polite and I had no problem with selling him a cut of salt at 3 AM. Hey, $5! I'll eat this week. I liked him.
He eventually moved out and a family moved in and I had to call the cops because they would never shut up. They yelled at each other all the time.
That's when I was dating Zach, even though he was married. I thought it would be good for me. I thought I'd been too possessive in my last relationship, so this had a built-in stop-point. He was married to Mona but he was dating me and—I came to find out—I was a much stronger personalty than Mona and threatened the relationship. But it didn't matter because he was also dating Belinda.
Belinda was this big, goofy kid and she and I got along just fine. I didn't know at the time that Zach was fucking the both of us, but I do recall being OK with it when I found out. Well, I was OK with her.
I don't remember why I had left a pair of shoes at Zach's, but I had. I'd broken up with him because he stood me up too many times and owed me $600. I asked for my shoes back. He gave me a pair of shoes, but they weren't mine.
I took them to Belinda, thinking they were her shoes. They weren't.
It was Belinda who decided we should go over to Zach's with the mystery shoes. She knocked on the door and, when Zach answered, we both sang, “These aren't our shoes!”
“Well, they're not mine and they're not Mona's,” Zach said.
“We'll just leave these here, then,” Belinda said. “And then, whatever girl these do belong to? At least she'll get her shoes back.”
I did get the shoes back. A week later.
By that time, Belinda had broken off a needle in her arm. I didn't know she was on heroin, but she came into the 24-hour cafe where we used to hang out, looking like death warmed over. I was wearing a skit because some guys had bet I didn't have one. I was also in my lab-coat to cover what the skirt didn't.
Belinda had a bracelet on. “I was at Parkland for twelve hours. They said it would be twelve more.”
I was just mad. “Get in the car. We're going to Baylor.”
I should go back a bit here. Big Dave died before all this. I think I told you about Big Dave.
He was born without the ability to produce gamma globulin and they told him he'd die before twelve. He kinda went nuts and got locked up. Then he lived past twelve. He went nuts again, got locked up, and then came out and decided heroin might be fun.
But Big Dave's problem was he had a sister, Darla, and he was basically taking care of her with his insurance payments. He asked my roomie\ex-boyfriend, Cris, if he know any places that did methadone. He'd also named Cris the executor of his estate.
Of course, they did nothing to protect Big Dave's estate, so, when he died, the sister, Darla, was thrown into the street and family that had never helped Big Dave got everything.
So, fast forward a few years. Back to Belinda.
I drove Belinda to the ER and walked in before her. They asked me what was up and I said it was an abscess on the lower-left arm with discoloration of veins and fever. “Do you have her transfer papers?” Oh, no, I'm not a doctor. I'm just in a lab coat.
And they asked her what she cut it with.
I had no idea Belinda was on heroin. I felt like an idiot. The two guys who had made the trip with us were just “duh” about that. It should have been obvious.
I saw her a week later. She showed me the healing wound (and jeesuys fuck it was ugly) and she told me how excited she was to be going into rehab. “I'll finally feel like a normal person again.”
Seven days after that conversation, she shot a full gram and killed herself.
