Cocaine Addiction

My seven-year-old son came up the stairs around 8am, he saw my door was closed, but slowly opened it.  The light broke the darkness of the room and shined in my worn out face, just giving enough light to realize the morning had come.  Before I had a chance to say anything the door was pushed all the way open and a tiny figure entered.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” said my son softly. I could only imagine the smells my son was getting from the room, drugs, sex, and alcohol.  All night partying and snorting coke, drinking until my body said stop.  I can only hope the woman I brought home saw herself out that night, as I never noticed nor cared.  I managed to pull myself out of bed, but the aftermath of the party soon kicked in and I immediately felt sick and crawled to the bathroom.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son looking at me with such an innocent look, not really knowing what his daddy was doing.  It sometimes surprised me though that he never asked what was wrong, or maybe I was just ignorant enough to not pay any attention to it.  After throwing up the entire nights stomach contents, I pulled myself to look in the mirror.  An absolute monster is all I saw, my eyes were blood shot and face was swollen.  Around my nose was red and dry, with some crusty blood still hanging on.  I had not shaved in a few days, and really looked as if I had spent a month in a refugee camp.  Is this what my son saw; was this the image I was projecting to him?  I tried my best to clean myself up, but it seemed to be no use, this would have to do.

Walking down the stairs was a challenge, my son had went ahead of me; yet, my depth perception was completely off, what was actually one step seemed to be three.  When I came into the kitchen he was already sitting at the table.  I couldn’t quite make out what he was playing with, but when I got in for a closer look I knew exactly what it was.  When I had come in that night, I left my wallet, keys, and few grams of cocaine on the kitchen table.  I tried to focus and actually believe what I was seeing; my son had opened the cocaine and had spread it all over the table.  He was looking at me with a playful face, pure innocence, and had the empty bag in one hand and a straw in the other.  He looked right at me and said,

“Look, I’m just like daddy,” If I had a gun, I would have put it to my head and pulled the trigger to wake from this nightmare, but it wasn’t a nightmare.  Two nights before, I was having a poker night, and we were all doing lines while playing poker and my son had walked in as I was snorting a line.  I never saw him staring at me until I looked up and screamed at him to leave the room.

I now realized my son had seen a true cocaine monster and was no longer afraid.  He stared at me from that table with no fear, and without any words clearly told me I was a worthless cocaine addict and this was the son I was raising into a man.

I’m walking up the steps to the second floor of a seedy motel located in one of the darker parts of town.  You are almost certain of the clientele whom are staying in the rooms of this motel.  Not much lighting surrounds me and there is a grungy smell in the humid air; it has been a hot summer and I am sure this place has seen good business. The motel clerk asks no questions, as you can rent rooms by the hour, and for him this is a regular occurrence seeing a broke down man trailed by a strung out whore.

I opened the door to the room and was pushed back by the smell of body odor, knowing that the room as not seen a thorough cleaning and was likely rented multiple times today.  The prostitute followed behind me keeping a safe distance, but she knew I had the cash and the drugs to get us through the weekend, so instinctively she would follow me in.  This girl was no different, she needed to support her drug habit and her regular ‘johns’ would be guys like me; family men with money and jobs, no longer caring what happens to me.  I hadn’t seen my wife and kids in over a week and I was barley running my business, or what was left of it.

There was nothing to the room, one twin bed up against the wall, a broken television, and one lamp on a small table with a chair next to it.  Fortunately in this room the air conditioner was working, but that wouldn’t take care of the smell lingering in the room.  Everything in the room was a dark brown color, mainly due from all the cigarette smoke, which masked a lot of the smells coming from the carpet and the bed. The hooker took a seat on the bed and started fiddling in her purse.  She made it look like she was looking for smokes, but was giving herself reassurance the mace was within reaching distance.

I made my way into the bathroom, there was no shower curtain, and that bathroom had not been cleaned since the last occupants, there were used condoms floating in the toilette, along with cigarette butts.  No syringes, tinfoil, brillo, or drug residues anywhere; the room was likely used by a man getting his lunchtime fix with one of the local hookers in the area.  These girls had their regulars and this would be the spot to meet, as it was temporary place to disappear that ironically enough everybody knew about.  I lit up my first hit of crack in the bathroom and I could hear the woman prepping lines on the table.  I got the rush I needed and then prepped my next hit and walked back into the other room.  The hooker was sucking back lines on the table, and I knew at this rate, I would be making another call to my dealer before the night was out.