HighWireGirl

On less than three hours' sleep, I frequently opened my eyes, still loaded. It's rough when you've gotta get moving. I'd brush my teeth in the shower and try to pull it together. I stood in the bathtub for a few minutes, wet and way beyond exhausted. Throwing up seemed to help clear my head. Not much in there to get rid of, but it felt productive.

I seldom had any drugs left in the morning. A little speed, perhaps - not even enough for a substantial bump. I always promised to save some, and I'd try. I hid portions from myself as soon as I got home, before my mind disintegrated. I'd squirrel away small bits here and there - wedged between some shirts in the closet, behind the stereo, tucked inside a shoe. I'd forget and remember all night long, turning the place upside down. Until all the lonely cocaine was gone and there was nothing left to do.

The previous evening, I planned to care about everything having to do with the following day. The most luxurious time spent inside my head, preparing for a busy tomorrow. I ran around on the top of a spinning world, breathing in all that I could and drinking up the rest. But come morning with its unbearable promise and bold sense of purpose, my illusion of imaginary progress collapsed. I was lost. And late again.

Once dressed, I half-ran to the train. I'd mentally shuffle my list of excuses. I rarely showed up on time. I convinced myself that my bosses were lucky to have me. I did a good job once I got there. Typing and answering phones, friendliness for no extra charge. Sure, I was a handful. But I worked the human angle very well. So smart, I thought I was.

And oh, the days were long. The hour or so at lunch broke up the monotony. I took long walks and quick rides to score my dope. I was high again by quitting time. I'd buy wine and drink a big beer on the way home. Then, shut the door and get tight until it was almost time to wake up. With a short while in between where everything was still. I must have fallen asleep.

Mornings. Standing on the subway platform, my fatigue was unbelievable. If I got a seat, I could be unconscious for thirty minutes. I loved being able to lean my face against the cool, metal wall. I'd fall out hard and wake up with my mouth hanging open. I often missed my stop. I'd race back to my building - eight, ten or twelve blocks, arriving to work in a pool of sweat.

God love the women in my office. They wanted to get close, but I took advantage of the relationships. We couldn't be close. They had rich, full lives and I had my drugs. Lisa was my office manager. She and her fiancé shared a place on Staten Island. They were planning to get married. I know she truly cared about me.
"I have a good idea. Why don't I call you in the mornings, before I leave the house?" she suggested. "Just to make sure you're awake."
"That'd be great," I agreed out loud. This is gonna suck, I thought.

I never heard the phone ring, but I'd come around to the sound of her voice on the answering machine. I'd crawl off the mattress and yank at the cord.
"Hello, yes," I breathed into the receiver.
"Good morning!" Lisa's greeting was hopeful. "Are you up?"
"Sure," I replied.
"Okay, then. See you in a little while."
I closed my eyes for just a minute, and two hours fell on top of me.

I couldn't understand it, how people were up and ready for things. I envisioned what their evenings were like - eating lovely meals and getting enough rest. They watched their favorite TV shows and chose outfits for work. They walked dogs and fed children. Teeth got brushed and alarm clocks were set. When the sun arrived, human beings got out of bed and started their day. Like on cereal commercials.

Mary, are you drunk?" Lisa asked me.
"I was. About four hours ago," I replied.
"I can smell it, you know," she said. I'll never forget how surprised I was. How it hit me. I had no idea that my co-workers might begin to question my condition. I couldn't believe my drinking was being discussed behind closed doors. I told so many lies, I was certain I disguised the truth with fantastic confusion. And I thought for sure, they didn't know what they were looking at.

*******

I crawled up the subway stairs on a Monday. New York was extra loud, with ambulances and police cars everywhere. The intersection was covered in cops, directing traffic and steering commuters away from a frantic situation on the corner.

I saw the candy first. It poured out onto the sidewalk slowly - chocolate bars, licorice and gum. The newsstand it came from looked like it'd been crushed by a giant. The walls were busted in and the magazine racks demolished. You could see straight through the roof of the kiosk to the blue sky where the man came from. He jumped from a ledge, seventeen stories above the Duane Reade. He woke up that morning, came to work and stepped out a window.

When the firemen pried the front of the newsstand from its frame, I briefly saw his face. His body twisted up so badly, just resting on all that candy. The whole thing, almost too strange to understand.

"C'mon, folks," one of the cops said. "Let's keep it moving. Nothing to see here." He was right, in a way. It was already over. Besides, I was still ****** up from the night before. I didn't know what I was looking at. I just kept walking.

For so long, mine was such weird and lonely living. Not really a life, just movement without direction. Like stirring a jar with a dead goldfish in it. For a minute, it looks like he's still swimming.