Chicago mid 1990’s

I was a strung out to high hell dopefiend, all that mattered to me was that next fix. Fuck who or what was in my way… Chicago was littered with high quality heroin at every corner, the southside projects were like something I have never seen, outside the decrepit CHA [Chicago Housing Authority] buildings in the courtyard would be 10 or so males and females, that would lunge at you soon as you made the walk up to the entrance. Each yelling out and totting a different brand of heroin, ‘Black Diamonds’, ‘Puke’, ‘Pitchfork’, they would leech onto you each fighting for a sale, each under cutting the other in price. The Nickle man was always a good bet, as the size of the bags on the South Side were double that of the West Side [which catered to suburbanite junkies, and deliveries to your car]. If you wanted the best heroin this is where you came, the South Side Projects, that were a stones throw away from the Chicago White-Sox Stadium. The gangs ruled those buildings hands down, they would have armed soldiers with 30 odd 30’s staked out on the roof along with the members with binoculars and hand-radio’s to communicate with the sellers on the ground that cop’s were coming.

Which at times would happen in an ambush attack, as there was really one road into the project buildings and one road out. At times they would come flying off State street, tearing through the swatches of grass, fishtailing as they got there rocks off by slamming on the gas storming the project building and taking it by as much surprise as possible. It was a site to see, if you were caught in the project parking lot, and they didnt find dope on you they would arrest you for tresspassing. It was the biggest crock of shit, but thats just the tip of the Iceberg for ‘Crook County’s’ finest the crooked Chicago Police.

You usually always new which brand/bag of dope was the best thru the network of junkies, so once you open your mouth and said… ‘Black Diamonds’ the guy would literally grab you buy the arm and escort you away from the other sellers, at times you would hear bottles smashing on the concrete behind you. Walking into the entrance you were told to stand up against the wall ala arrest stance, as you were quickly frisked down for weapons and than led down a concrete corridor that reaked of urine, puke, alcohol, and death. From there you were pointed in the direction of the bags you wanted. Be it up a flight a stairs or around the corner, passed the gangstars throwing dice, sipping on cheap malt liquor. Eyeing you with intention. They made it seem like you were safe, but in truth there was nothing safe about it. There were rapes, deaths, and robberies on a daily basis. I would just stare at the floor and shuffle up in line as I got to the seller who’s partner would ask how many you wanted and take your money, the seller would be holding a paper lunch bag just filled to the top with fat 1 inch x 1 inch square plastic baggies. A sight that would make my eyes sparkle, oh how many times I dreamed of just grabbing that bag and making a mad dash for it. I would have probably made it a good 5 feet before being sprayed in a hail of lead. I always surmised if I packed a loaded Uzi I could mow down enough people to make it outside. My sidekick would have to drive up the parking lot onto the front landing and pick me up. A dream once dreamt.

After seeing the same dealer day after day, sometimes multiple times a day. They would warm up to you and start to tell you where the best dope was or start cutting you deals. I would grab my bags, quickly wrapping them in paper or something and palm them and walk with a extremely steady pace towards the exit. I had to run a couple times for my life, but another tale another day. You would walk past the skinny crack head women, ‘I’ll suck your dick for a bag’ some would beg for money. It was a disgustingly sad sight. What happened in those buildings, would surely make a grown man puke in disgust. Finally I made it past the crack whores, and into the outside. Once outside a spotter would tell you if it was ok to go or if the police were circling, which you usually would have heard about before you got to the exit as the security system they had in place was untouchable.

Usually the first words as you slid into the car was ‘You got um all right?’ or ‘You didn’t forget my crack?’ Out of my pocket a pile of huge bags of oh so perfect heroin would sit on my lap almost making my dick hard. My buddy would usually already have the rigs filled with water and quickly hand me a cooker and as for a few bags for him/her to rig up as god forbid they wait till I am done. I would usually have a shot in my bloodstream with in minutes of getting in the car, pushed back into the car seat from the rush, my eyes would flutter and those brief seconds were what I lived for. Nothing else mattered, and nothing was going to get in my way of getting my shot[s].

After we would get those first few bags in us to get our sick off, out would come the pipe or the vinegar. Myself, I was a sucker for that IV rush from the crack. The quick build-up in my body, soon reaching my head with bells ringing so loud and fast I could do nothing, ahh my heart is beating fast as I type this. Under gray skies we would escape from the lawless southside and return to our places to shoot dope till we were unconscious.

Reckless abandon was implanted in that gram
Pop’n Ativan’s to chill the shakes
The plunger I would slam
Homerun… Stoned Immaculate
Oh’ the mistakes
narcotic fever, sweating beads of rain
Robotic madness, controlled by forces unknown
A day in the life of getting blown
Shadows of the devil I would spy outta the corner of my eye
I could never quite catch him and he hasn’t caught me yet
As I wake up drenched in sweat
Thank god those daze are gone
Withdrawn