Leaving Dirty Jersey: A Crystal Meth Memoir by James Salant

Author:James Salant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2007-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9.

ALONE WITH THE BUSHMEN

In the following weeks I became obsessed with retrieving my stolen poems. Whenever I was getting high with anybody who might have even heard of Danny White, I would tell that person to deliver Danny a message: that he could keep the computer and I would let the whole thing go if only he copied my poems to a floppy disk and had them delivered to me. “That’s it,” I would say. “You tell him.”

Of course, I also needed to recover the lost money so I could go on shooting dope.

“Mom, I have to tell you something. I was walking out of Maxi Foods with my friend Brady. You remember Brady—from GSL, I was telling you—the mechanic, staying at one of the sober-livings in Woodcrest. I told you we’ve been going to meetings…”

“I think I remember you telling me about a Brady.”

“Anyway, we were walking out of Maxi Foods last night and these Mexicans jumped us. Brady tried to fight, and one of them hit him in the head with a bottle. I had to take him to the emergency room. They got all my money and my computer.”

“How many were there?”

“Hi, Dad. Four.”

“Jesus Christ, Jim. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. It’s just I was at the emergency room all night and I’m exhausted. A little shaken up.”

“You sound shaken up. I’m so sorry that happened to you. And they got the computer?”

“Yeah…my poems.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…but Jim—I have to ask—we haven’t heard from you in weeks—”

“I work all day, then go to meetings. I have friends. I haven’t wanted to trouble you—”

“Trouble us?”

“No, I’m just saying. I’m enjoying being independent. This kind of shit happens when you’re on your own.”

“Not necessarily. Never happened to me or Dad.”

“Well, out here it does. But that’s not the point. I mean, I wouldn’t even be calling to worry you if I didn’t need money for rent.”

“We sent you money for rent.”

“I’ve been using that to live on, food and stuff. I was gonna use my paycheck to pay the rent, but now it’s gone, over six hundred dollars. I mean, I hate to have to ask you—I like being independent—but I don’t know what else to do.”

“No, of course. I’m just glad you told us. And it’s never any trouble for us when you call. Please call more. Can we send a check?”

“Western Union would be better, only because the landlady’s been asking me. I didn’t see her before and then I ran low on cash. I’m sorry. I know it’s a fortune.”

“It is, but we’ll do it. Just tell me—are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I promise. I’m fine. Happy, even, aside from this.”

“Is Brady okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

With a half ounce of meth from Patti, I got back on my feet: dealing, shooting up, crashing on her couch. Then, a few weeks after the robbery, one of the regular heroin junkies over at Chuck’s—Todd, a shady character—told me that Stacie was selling a Toshiba laptop for two hundred dollars.

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