For I am ever obedient to my King

I haven’t had a fix in six weeks.

Been trying to take better care of myself. It shows, I guess. People say I look better, and even those who didn’t know about my little…habits. I even feel better. Head’s clearer, for one thing, and the breathing comes easier.

But the…jonesing, I guess you could say…the jonesing never quite goes away. Sometimes it’s all I can think about, for hours on end. The smell, the texture, the taste, the feeling…and I thought to myself, everything in moderation, right? I work hard, don’t I? Nobody can call me lazy. I deserve a little break, don’t I? A little way to relax?

All the old justifications. I know them well.

So on a rainy Friday night I find myself driving to a run-down parking lot by the river, across the street from an abandoned gas station. I drive up to a man with greasy black hair, acne scars, and a neck tattoo not quite hidden by the collar of his jacket. There is a certain grim cynicism in his eyes. And why not? He sells his wares to anyone, even children. The only thing that matters is if they have the cash.

And I have the cash. I give him some crumpled bills. He hands me my fix, and I get out of there, since I don’t want to linger. And I really, really want that fix.

I take the freeway home. Fewer cops there, at this time of the night. I can smell my purchase. It fills my car. It is maddening. Absolutely maddening. I have to put the bag in the back seat so I don’t reach for it while I drive. Hard to concentrate. But I do it.

When I get home, I make sure everything is absolutely perfect. The lights, just right. The music…Beethoven’s 7th Symphony, I think. Movement II, Allegretto. Yes. Perfect. A tray table by my couch, with a glass of cold water.

Ready. At last.

I put the bag on the table, lie down on the couch, and reach inside the bag.

A moment to savor the smell, the texture.

Bliss.

And for the next fifty minutes, I slowly and carefully eat my large order of Burger King french fries.

-JM