Whenever God sends angels my way, they seem to be the lazy ones, too afraid to fly into my darkest hours . . .
I got the stuff. This time, it was a little yellower than usual. I drove a couple of blocks to a nearby alley just off Hoover. Dog shit, human shit, litter everywhere. Homeless people resting, sleeping, and shooting up. Gang graffiti, the relentless swarming of flies. Skinny stray dogs. Rats scurrying about like cockroaches among the cockroaches. I parked between two trash dumpsters, which shielded me from passing cars. Just south of Dodger Stadium, all the alleys in the Hoover-Pico District looked the same. I knew almost all of them. I took a slice of tin foil from the glovebox, wrapped it around the Bic pen, twisted one of the ends shut, then pulled the aluminum cylinder off the pen. I used the blunt end of the pen to make a small crater in the makeshift pipe. Then I used the pen’s tip to make four holes in the mini-crater and dropped a piece of the stuff inside it. My brain couldn’t wait for me to unleash the pleasure of the stuff by engulfing it with the flame of a cigarette lighter so that it could spread through my lungs and everywhere else, including my brain. Before I took a hit, I used my cell phone to call Cheryl back. “My water broke!” she shrieked. “Nathan’s coming! Head to St. Jude’s!”
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ADDICT'S WAY | Stephen Liosi 
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