“Lady, white girl, horse, black tar, brown sugar, smack, goods, H, junk, Harry”
Nostalgia can be a hypocrite. In part VI, the prequel to this part, I said things weren’t so perfect after all. Here’s what I meant.
Another New Year passed by. I’ve given up the search for the next big high and distracted myself with doing delivery for brother’s bakery. The first spring bloomers were breaking through the defrosted ground. And so were the symptoms of staying “clean.”
As I was carving in the tally walls for every sober month the withdrawal crisis kept getting stronger. Depression, lack of genuine friends, guilt for how I might have shamed my family.
“Depression, lack of true friends, guilt for how I might have shamed my family.”
I hadn’t seen my drug buddies for ages—I guess because I didn’t have any drugs on me. My brother was the first who offered me a hand. He felt my agony and invited me to join him on the island of Hvar for a one-month summer vacation.
The house we were staying in was tucked in a secluded bay. The peace and the “sober” company helped me a lot to get back on my feet. I had already been clean for seven months and was feeling pretty damn proud of myself.
Right when life became simple again something unexplainable happened.
After two days of showboating with my jet-ski, a random local approached me and asked if I could lend it to him.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied as I was deep-down desperate for some new friends. Nothing peculiar here, right? Wait, here comes the unexplainable part. All it took was to try to break the ice in the most idiotic way ever. I reflexively asked if he could get us some drugs. “Sure, you wanna take some H?” he replied. I’ve heard that acronym before; it’s a street name for the “brown devil”—heroin.
I stuttered. In my head, heroin turned people into zombies. But he didn’t look like one. “Well, if he’s using it, I could try it once. Just for laughs!” I thought to myself.
“Sure, you wanna take some H?”
In a matter of seconds, a massive rush of curiosity took over me, and my bulletproof values went down the drain with a single fucking nod!
Davor was his name, and he was coaching tennis in Germany. Plus, he was a good friend with the Croatian superstar, Goran Ivaniševič—for all you younger folks; he won Wimbledon in 2001.
A couple of hours later we already met on a tennis court for some heroin-fuelled tennis. It was a scorching August afternoon. Before the first serve, Davor pulled out a brown cube from his bag, cut it up into lines, and handed it over. “Sniff it,” he said.
It’s normal for drug users to get along so fast. They are tied to a common desire and way of thinking. We were no different.
“I was flying, feeling like Goran in his prime.”
The emotions were like nothing before. I was flying, feeling like Goran in his prime. Nothing could touch me. Davor and I became best friends in a day.
That week we toured the hottest night-clubs of the Adriatic coastline. Everybody knew him. We had VIP treatment. I was starstruck.
Snorting heroin, playing tennis, riding jet-skies high on smack. This was just the first week.
I felt better. The depression from the lack of ecstasy and cocaine went away. I thought I had cured myself of heroin. Life’s tough when you’re young and dumb.
Life’s tough when you’re young and dumb.
“I won’t get addicted. I only use it from time to time. It’s just so euphoric,” I was deluding myself as I felt the horse slowly inhabiting my body.
Deja Vu. High on a scorching August afternoon, tennis with a stranger the drug made a friend. Using the brown sugar for the last time—until the next time.
A thought popped up in my head: “Once a junkie, always a junkie.” I smiled while tossing the bright-yellow ball to hit another serve.