The Junkie Who Helped Me Quit Smoking

I quit smoking in one night after one encounter with one guy. And I did it without the patches, the foul tasting gum or the over-eating-to-compensate that previously characterized my attempts to quit. I just seriously couldn’t bring myself to touch, or even look at, a cigarette ever again.

I’ve told this story a million times and all my friends claim to know it off by heart. Contrary to what they would have you believe, it is not full of exaggerations and it does not change every time I tell it. I don’t exaggerate and I never lie. It has grown over time, as I’ve remembered more details and thought of relevant things to add in, but I swear to God that it is all true.

Before I start, I think I should probably also warn you that I am constantly mocked for my terrible impersonation of the junkie I met that night. It really is a far more difficult task than my friends give me credit for though. I mean, for one thing, I am not even remotely close to being a street-wise gang-banger. I’ll admit right now that I’m a bit of a geek and that alone makes it hard for me to accurately impersonate a junkie. On top of that, making it all the more difficult, is the fact that this guy wasn’t at all what you’d expect a junkie to be like. He said fuck a lot but apart from that, he pretty much spoke like a normal person. So, like I said, it is a difficult task but I promise I will do my best to give you an accurate representation of the guy.

Well, with that said, I hope you still want to read it. I promise you, it is a good story…

It all starts with me walking through Brunswick Street mall after having had the worst night of my life. I won’t go into detail because it’s long and embarrassing and it has nothing to do with the story. What I will tell you is that I had lost my friends and had my phone, wallet and cigarettes stolen. Ordinarily, I would’ve been pissed (as in angry) but since I was pissed (as in drunk) and I was in the middle of an unprecedented run of bad luck, I decided that I just didn’t care.

That run of bad luck was really weird. It had started the week before with me losing my house keys. I got new ones cut and then on that same day I spilled coffee on my laptop. It wasn’t insured and of course it died. There were other little things too but probably the worst thing out was that I had my car broken into three nights in a row. Seriously. They took the battery the first night so I couldn’t move it. I just had to leave it where it was, exposed and vulnerable. Of course they came back. I don’t know if it was the same people each night but they ended up taking everything. The weirdest thing out of it was that on the first night, they took this really old, ratty pair of shoes. They left the CD player but took my smelly old shoes. Don’t get me wrong, they got the CD player the next night but why the hell were my shoes higher up on their list? The only value they had was of the sentimental kind. They were my first ever pair of Chuck Taylors…

I’m rambling, sorry. I have a habit of getting side-tracked. Usually I just tell people to interrupt me the next time I do it but, well, you can’t. So I’ll just have to try to keep myself in check. Anyway, so I wasn’t angry, in fact, I was pretty zen about the whole thing. I’d kind of just accepted that God was punishing me for something. I didn’t know what it was but I figured He knew best and, since there wasn’t much I could do about it, I’d just have to, you know, ride it out.

So, there I was, walking along, friend-less, possession-less, slightly depressed, but pretty zen when I was halted by a singe thought:

God I could do with a cigarette right now.

It came, the way it always did with me, like a water balloon to the brain; bursting out of nowhere and then soaking in deep. If I leave it soak for too long, it starts to feel like there’s a belligerent fat kid in my head, chucking a tantrum. I really wasn’t in the mood for that. Somehow, I had to get my hands on a smoke.

I looked around, scanning the street. It was filled with people and I caught glimpses of lit cigarettes here and there. It was hard to get a fix on anything though because of the continuous undulation of the crowd. I bobbed about and asked a few people but got answers ranging from a flat “No”, to the classic “Sorry mate, this is my last one” (translation: I’m too polite to just tell you to fuck off).

I got pretty annoyed because I always share my cigarettes. Always. See, I’ve got this theory about cigarette karma. I figure the way it should work is that every time you share out your cigarettes, you build up positive cigarette karma and then, when you find yourself in need, since you’ve been so generous, the universe should provide. Not by raining down cigarettes or anything, just by having people say yes when you ask. It’s simple, fair and completely logical but it’s also clearly not the way the universe does business.

With my theory and my faith in the universe both lying dead in the gutter, I decided to give up and start walking home. But then I noticed this guy. He was sitting by himself on some steps, fidgeting with a cigarette packet, a lit cigarette hanging seductively from his lips.

The fact that I use the word, seductively, here should suggest just how much I wanted a goddamn cigarette, because this guy was not a pretty picture. He was quite obviously a junkie. I already said he was fidgeting. But it wasn’t just what he was doing with his fingers; there was just this general sense of movement about him. Like, if you were to draw him as a cartoon, you’d draw him with little squiggly black lines all around him. He had sores on his face and all up his arms. His left arm in particular was a mess. And his skin was just, well, dead looking, if you know what I mean. He kept looking around a lot, like he was expecting a bus or something. But he was nowhere near a bus stop. It was like he was waiting anxiously to go nowhere and do nothing.

Despite all of that and despite the ugliness of the mouth it was resting in, that cigarette was seductive and it lured me over to him.

Now, it did occur to me that junkies can be really aggressive sometimes, unpredictable at best, and that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. My brain is a bit lazy though and by the time that thought had bothered to put in an appearance, I was already standing right in front of him. I was inescapably committed to the interaction but I had absolutely no idea what to say. So, I just stood there. Like and idiot.

He looked up at me slowly. It was strange, he had this real James Dean quality about him that should’ve been impossible for someone in his state. The cigarette hung casually from his lips, his eyes were half closed and he seemed, within that moment, to radiate relaxed confidence.

“Can I help you?”

The cigarette jiggled with his words. This is going to make me sound lame, but I always like it when people speak with cigarettes in their mouths. Especially when the end is resting just on their lips, so that it seems impossible that it could stay in place. Somehow, it always does stay in place and in that moment, as I watch it jiggle, something in me concedes that that person is infinitely cooler than I can ever hope to be.

I opened my mouth but I couldn’t get words to come out. After a mortifying couple of seconds I managed…

“Aaaaah, I was wondering if I could just bum a cigarette off you, mate?”

The way I said, “Mate,” made me sound like an idiot and I winced inside. I tried to keep my face cool though.

He looked down and then looked up at me again with a half smile playing around his face, as though he’d seen my real reaction.

“Rough night” he said, or asked, I don’t know, he kind of mumbled it, but it sounded more like a statement than a question.

He kept looking at me for a second and then moved over on the step and told me to sit down. I did as he said and then snuck a sideways glance at the cigarette packet. He flipped it open and fingered a cigarette but then, almost as if on an automatic impulse, he flipped the whole packet over, closing the lid and started tapping it on his knee. I was frustrated but I didn’t want to rush him. There’s a certain etiquette involved in bumming cigarettes, especially when you’re bumming one off someone that scares you. So I waited.

Then suddenly, “Things are changing…” he paused and indicated where with his finger, “inside my head.” “Everything’s getting messed up, fucked around.”

I sat still.

“I want to tell you something. Before I get too fucked up. Before I lose it.”

I thought that was all very melodramatic and was struggling to stifle a laugh when he looked at me again. With that look, the laughter drained out of me like water from a gravity bong. His sick, frenzied eyes seemed to eat me up for a second. There was some sort of ferocious desire there that threatened to overtake him. He didn’t move, but I instinctively pulled back away from him. It was weird. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything so off-putting.

He pulled his gaze away from me with a grunt and looked down at his feet.

“You got time” he said. Once again, it seemed like it should’ve been a question, but he said it like a statement. He went quiet for a while, so I sort of hesitantly said, “sure,” just in case he was waiting for an answer.

He didn’t respond straight away. When he finally did look up again, that James Dean composure was back. And when he spoke, it was like the junkie part of him had melted away and he was just a normal guy.

“Don’t you think this place is fucking weird man?”

He looked at me, searchingly. He was waiting for an answer but I had no idea what he was talking about. Feeling self-conscious, I ducked my eyes out from under his gaze. Once they were free though I couldn’t work out what to do with them. In the end, I just directed them out into the street and then in answer to his question, I shrugged. To my great relief, that proved to be enough of an answer for him to continue.

“There’s people living desperate fucking lives here man. It’s the lowest you can go, the fucking pit of human misery. Look at them…” He indicated with his head and his eyes. “…tucked up like babies.”

There was a group of little scene kids sitting a few meters away from us but they didn’t look at all like babies; two of them were ferociously pashing and the others were sprawled out on the ground, smoking. I frowned and darted my eyes about, trying not to be too obvious. Babies…babies…? And then I saw them; pressed up against the wall, on the other side of the street, were the familiar rag bundles that always lined the place. I hadn’t even registered them at first. I mean, you know they’re there and you know that there are people in them but you get so used to seeing them there that your mind just weaves them into the background. You take about as much notice of them as you do of the fliers people stick all over everything.

“They’d almost look innocent if it wasn’t for the stench.”

He leaned back and sniffed and then directed his attention towards the scene kids.

“And then fucking about in the middle of it are these kids. With their shoes and their dresses and their neon fucking shirts. Like it’s a fucking little playground. It’s a weird fucking combination man, a weird fucking thing.”

At that point, the only thing I thought was weird was the way this guy was talking. I’d never heard anyone say fuck quite so much but apart from that, he didn’t sound like what you’d expect from someone who looked the way he did.

He was about to say something else but then he looked at me and stopped. He frowned thoughtfully for a second, as though he was reading my mind and then he smiled.

“I didn’t always look like this you know. I’m still getting used to it myself.”

That freaked me out. I mean, it genuinely felt as if he’d read my mind. I started thinking that this guy was really switched on but then he said, “I don’t even know if this is my body. It doesn’t look like it but who would know.”

He moved towards me, along the step, in one simple and deliberate motion. Then he bent his head and asked conspiratorially, “You ever bought drugs off a junkie?”

I didn’t know if he was asking or offering or what but I pulled back and kind of shook my head and waved my hands and made this really retarded spluttering noise. I swear I saw a smile flicker in his eyes but he stifled it before it reached his mouth.

“I have,” he said, “twice and only because I was fucking desperate. The first time I just needed something; anything, you know? My mates couldn’t get shit and I can’t fucking stand this place sober.”

He stopped, spat and continued.

“Then this guy comes up out of nowhere and starts offering me shit. He sells me a baggie of this… stuff. I don’t even know what it was man but it fucking sent me through the roof. It could make crucifixion fun. Fuck… I felt like my body was gonna burst off me and whatever it is that’s really me was gonna finally be free. Fuck man, I can’t explain it. I felt right for the first time ever. I’ve tried other drugs man but nothing like this. Nothing mattered. Everything was perfect and I realized that it was the only good time I’d ever had in my life. It was fucked coming down but even more fucked because I knew I’d had the high point of my life. Nothing was ever gonna beat it. Everything before it had been shit and everything after it was gonna be shit and there was no escaping it.”

The story stopped there for a moment. He’d gotten all agitated and was talking really fast and I think he just ran out of energy. Or overtook himself and lost what he was saying. He made an awkward jerking movement with his arms and then grabbed his knees and dug his fingers in. He quickly curled them back again and slid the palms of his hands down his legs. Then he grabbed onto his shoes and slid his fingers underneath. There was something about pressure with him. He was always applying pressure to different parts of his body. He made a long, grunting sound and then he spoke again.

“After that I was possessed. I went out every night looking for it, looking for the guy or anyone else who might’ve had it. But no-one ever did. No-one even knew what I was fucking talking about. Until tonight. I found him. The same fucking guy. Smacked straight into him like he’d just shot up out of the ground in front of me. He flipped at first but then he looked at me, up and down, sized me up and then his eyes went bright like he’d just had good news and he said, you’re fucked mate. Then he backed away from me, still with that same fucking look on his face, winked at me and turned around and ran. I went after him without even meaning to. Like there was a hook in my chest attached to him. I was that fucking out of control when I caught him up that I grabbed him by the shirt and swung him round and slammed him into the ground. I pulled him up and then shoved him back down again. He was like a fucking rag doll and he kept laughing so I kept going at him. He was all limp at first and he didn’t fight back but then, I dunno, that mania just dropped out of me and I felt fucked and so I shoved him down and backed away to catch my breath. As soon as he saw what I was doing, he leaped up and started coming at me and his eyes were fucking on fire and he said, I been savin’ this just for you…”

I’m going to interrupt here for a second because I have to tell you how freaky it was when he spoke as that guy. His voice changed entirely. I guess it was just an imitation but it was a disturbingly good one. He took on this strained, deep kind of voice that sounded like a car driving over gravel. He only did it twice. Both times he dropped it just as suddenly as he’d taken it on and then kept talking like nothing had happened. Okay, so, getting back to the story…

“He came right at me, really fast, got right up in my face and raised his fist. I thought he was gonna hit me so I went to step back but I fell. I think I tripped on something but I ended up on my arse anyway. The fucker smiled then and opened his fist real slow and dangled something between his fingers. It was a syringe. He asked if I wanted it. I was about to laugh at him. Why the fuck would I want that? But then I heard myself saying, yes. As soon as I said it I could feel my body aching for it; this terrible, anxious fucking burn. He smiled slowly and then snatched it back up into his fist again and held out his other hand. I knew what he wanted. I stayed on the ground, pulled out my wallet and dropped it there in front of me. Couldn’t bring myself to hand it to him. He looked at it then looked at me. He didn’t make a move for it but his other hand came towards me, unfolding as it came. As it unfolded, the syringe rolled down until it was resting right on the tips of his fingers. I took it. He left his hand there like he wanted to help me up.”

He stopped and gave me this really genuine look. Then he said, “This is where it gets weird.”

I felt like laughing. This is where it gets weird?

“So I took his hand and his grip was stronger than I expected and suddenly I felt like I’d flown up into the air. I don’t know how to explain it. Fucking out of this world man, like nothing you could imagine. Just this blinding and deafening upwards rush. I remember thinking, who is this guy and what the fuck is going on? And then the next thing I knew, I was on my feet. I looked down and my hand unfolded, the same way his did and the syringe dropped out and onto the ground. The end pushed all the way in. I looked up and I swear I saw the guy flick around the corner. I ran around after him but there was no-one there. I did see a figure in the distance… too far away though. Anyway, so I looked down again and I’m in this…”

He picked his arms up and turned his hands over, looking at himself as though at something foreign. When he started speaking again, it sounded like he was trying to keep himself from throwing up.

“… this body that’s not mine. I don’t recognize it. I don’t even recognize the clothes. They’re not mine. I’ve never fucking seen them before. And the fucking state of it, I mean, I’m in some fucking junkie’s body. I figured I had to see my face. I’d know my own face. So I went up to the window of the shop… and I could kind of see my reflection. It was hard to tell in that light but then I caught my own eyes, you know, when they adjusted to the light and you always know your own eyes. That’s a weird thing to say. But they were my eyes, definitely my eyes.”

He paused.

“I don’t know what the fucks happened to me,” he said with a great exhalation of breath. Then he just looked at me and kept looking, eyebrows raised. I felt like I was sitting there just casually watching a puppy drown. I seriously had no clue what to do though. I mean, fuck, was I meant to say something?

He dropped his head and his shoulders hunched over. Then he made this soft, quick snort, or maybe it was a sniff, and his body shook a little. I thought he was crying but then he threw his head back and I saw a smile. He flipped the cigarette packet up off the ground (it had fallen there at some point) and slid out a lighter and a fresh cigarette. He stood up as he placed the cigarette in his mouth and then leaned against the stair-rail to light it.

“Do you think that fucker stole my body?” he asked, with a grin. The cigarette jiggled. He flicked the lighter.

He laughed to himself and, once he was lit, took the cigarette from his mouth and looked out into the street. I sat there, not knowing what to do. I couldn’t just go. I felt that I’d look awkward even just standing up. My fingers started to tap like they do when I get nervous. There’s no way he could’ve seen it but he did look down at me suddenly and frown. Then he smiled.

“Shit man, you came over for a smoke. Fuck, where’ve I been.”

He put his own cigarette back in his mouth, pulled a fresh one from the packet and took a step towards me. He’d closed his fingers over the cigarette so that his hand was in a fist. As he extended it towards me, he allowed his hand to unfold and the cigarette rolled down, coming to rest on the tips of his fingers. I looked at it, looked up at him. He smiled again, slowly.

I know it’s not logical but after what he’d just told me, I could not take the cigarette. Instead, I stood up and carefully backed away from him.

“You keep it man,” I said. I didn’t intend it to but it came out sounding really condescending. I cringed. I didn’t even try to hide it, just wore it all over my face.

He laughed and nodded. “That’s smart man, real smart. You got a lesson out of it, didn’t you?”

With obviously feigned thoughtfulness, he looked at the cigarette and then held it up for me to see.

“Don’t ever take a cylindrical object from the outstretched hand of a stranger.”

He laughed again and in that moment, as I stood, being mocked by a junkie in the middle of the street, I decided that I had reached my limit for humiliation. For that night anyway. So, I smiled the closed-mouth smile I always do when I’m being made fun of, I put my hands in my pockets and I walked away.

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Tags:

addiction, brisbane, bruswick, cigarette, junkie, mall, quit, scene, short, smoking, story and street