Perfect (59 page)

of smells. Pain. Most of all,

pain.

Tony

Just Saw

A new guy check in. Tall,

built, with a way fine face,

and acting too tough to tumble.

He’s a nutshell asking to crack.

Wonder if he’s ever let a guy

touch that pumped-up bod.

They gave him the Redwood

Room. It’s right across

from mine—the Pacific

Room. Pretty peaceful in

here most of the time, long

as my meds are on time.

Ha. Get it? Most of the time,

if my meds are on time. If you

don’t get it, you’ve never

been in a place like this,

never hung tough from one

call till the next.

Wasted. That’s the only way

to get by in this “treatment

center.” Nice name for a loony

bin. Everyone in here is crazy

one way or another. Everyone.

Even the so-called doctors.

Most of ’em are druggies.

Fucking loser meth freaks.

I mean, if you’re gonna

purposely lose your mind,

you want to get it back some

day. Don’t you? Okay, maybe not.

I Lost My Mind

A long time ago, but it

wasn’t exactly my idea.

Shit happens, as they say,

and my shit literally hit

the fan. But enough sappy

crap. We were talking drugs.

I won’t tell you I never tried

crystal, but it really wasn’t

my thing. I saw enough

people, all wound up, drop

over the edge, that I guess

I decided not to take that leap.

I always preferred creeping

into a giant, deep hole where

no bad feelings could follow.

At least till I had to come up

for air. I diddled with pot first, but

that tasty green weed couldn’t drag

me low enough. Which mostly

left downers, “borrowed” from

medicine cabinets and kitchen

cabinets and nightstands.

Wherever I could find them.

And once in a while—not often,

because it was pricey and tough

to score—once in a while, I

tumbled way low, took a ride

on the H train. Oh yeah,

that’s what I’m talking about.

A hot shot clear to hell.

I Wasn’t Worried

About getting hooked, though

I knew plenty of heroin addicts.

I didn’t do it enough, for one

thing. Anyway, I figured

I’d be graveyard rot before

my eighteenth birthday.

It hasn’t quite worked out

that way, though I’ve got

a few months to go. And

once I get out of here, I’ll

have a better shot at it. Maybe

next time I won’t try pills.

I mean, you’d think half a bottle

of Valium would do the trick.

Maybe it would have, but I had

to toss in a fifth of Jack Daniels.

Passed out, just as I would

have expected. What I didn’t

expect was waking up, head stuck

to the sidewalk, mired in puke.

Oh yeah, I heaved the whole

fucking mess. Better yet, guess

who happened by? You got it.

One of the city’s finest.

Poor cop didn’t know what

to do—clean me up, haul

me in, or puke himself. So

he did all three, only dispatch

said to take me to the ER.

Hospital first. Loony bin

later.