Below is an excerpt from my memoir (above is art by my wife Alycia Vreeland) which will be published May 22, 2018, on Vine Leaves Press. (It’s still not officially edited completely, but the content is the same).
Chapter 1. A Day in the Life of a Junkie
We’re in back of the van when Zooey’s hair catches fire.
She’s on the Nod and dips her faded pink bangs into the flame of the candle—the same flame we use to cook our dope. I smack her forehead until the pink-orange fireball is out. My eyes water from the stench of burnt, unwashed hair, as the Rush of the Speedball tickles my face, and then crawls down the back of my neck and into my shoulders, arms, torso, my hips, thighs, knees, down to the green laces of my black Chuck Taylor’s. With one eye on Zooey, I grab a plastic grocery bag and puke in it, tie the handles in a knot and throw it in the corner with the rest of the vomit bags, then cook up another Shot. Mikey’s eyes roll inward like white, slimy marbles—he hasn’t put enough Coke in his shot, so the heroin dominates his high. I cover him with a brown, crusty blanket, and thirty seconds later Mikey’s in a sleep so deep, I wonder if he’ll ever wake up.
Zooey tries to mix herself another shot but struggles to stay awake. I worry she’ll miss the vein and get an infection. Or worse, spill the last of the dope. Using the sleeve of my black leather jacket, I wipe the pink chunks of puke from my lips.
“You want me to help you with your shot, baby?”
Her eyelids flutter, and a slight slur trickles from her paling lips. “No … I got it.”
“Please, just let me help you, baby.”
Brownish blood slithers through the tattoos on her noodly arm—through the black static hair of Lux Interior, to the mangled flesh of a crucified Jesus Christ. “No, I got it.”
But I watch to make sure she lands her shot, then return to my own.
I draw the plunger back, and a scarlet tornado slithers through the murk of my filthy night cap. I push the dope into one of my last healthy veins and watch the prickled hair on my arms fall on my grey, oily skin. I rest my head against the wall of the van and slide the needle from my arm. Zooey’s head falls hard on my lap, and her hand slides down my bony chest.
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you, Jonny.”
I gently rub her back. Ten seconds later, we are sound asleep.