Permanent Trip

Chapter 3: Garrett's fix

Garrett woke up the next days in a pool of his own urine and vomit. This wasn't the first time. He stood up, shook it off, and headed to his next destination of the local park. If he could feel it, his neck would've been in intense pain. As he walked over to the park, the sun started to come out. It had been damp, puddle-sodden weather for a while. The mosquitos would be coming out tonight, it was getting to be that time of year. He arrived at the park and sat down on a park bench, ignoring the damp clothes sticking to his skin. He needed to figure out what to do next. He had a few pennies in his pocket and that was it. He needed to get something to take off the constant edge before figuring out his next move. He hadn't had anything strong in the last few days. He needed something good. He was feeling incredibly restless. He needed something. He needed something. He needed something. He spotted an empty glass bottles of Corona Modelo on the ground next to his bench. He picked up the bottle and swiftly broke the bottom off, leaving only a handle with jagged glass edges. It was time to get his fix.

This wasn't the first time Garrett had assaulted someone. It needed to be someone with money. Garrett did not care who. The park was empty. He needed to look elsewhere. He started to head towards the strip of fast food restaurants (including the Arby's he had napped at yesterday) nearby the park. There'd be money there. After a few minutes of hunched and out of breath walking Garrett arrived at a Taco Bell. He walked in concealing the bottle under his ragged and foul smelling jacket. He walked up to the nearest person who was sitting at a sticky table near the door Garrett walked through. The person was a middle aged large man who wrinkled his nose at Garrett's natural aroma of unfortunate circumstances. The man said to Garrett. "Can I help you?", in a manner that suggested that the last thing on this man's mind was helping Garrett. Garrett said nothing. Garrett spoke louder with his actions than words. He quickly jabbed the bottle roughly into the man's leg and the man started screaming. Garrett hurriedly reached into this man's khaki pocket and pulled out a wallet. He needed to leave now. Not only would the police be called but he needed his fix. He knew a route that would not only lead him to a dealer but the police couldn't drive through. He ran through the Taco Bell kitchen, ignoring the screams, went through the back door and scrambled over a fence using only the prowess of man on his way to receive what he so desperately craves.

He headed toward the only address he had memorized in his brain that was ruined by over a decade of hardcore drug abuse. 612 Cherry Lane was his destination. It was a poverty stricken neighborhood which was perfect for Garrett. He would fit right in. He ran and ran. He needed his fix. Garrett hopped over another fence and was at Cherry Lane. After another few minutes of brisk walking, he arrived where his addiction was located. He knocked on the door. He knocked some more. He knocked again. Finally after his first started to turn red from so much knocking, a grubby man answered the door. He was wearing a stained white undershirt, old pajama bottoms and was holding a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. "Jesus fucking Christ", he pajama clad gentleman said. "Wake up the whole fucking block, whydon'tcha?" he said. Garrett responded with, "Give me the best cloud nine you got. I need something hard. I got an edge that's gonna slice open my goddamn brain." Pajama man aggressively rubbed his nose and replied with "Give me one fucking minute and I'll get you're fucking shit. Stay right there. You smell like fucking shit" He took a swig from his bottle and entered his house. A couple minutes passed. Garrett stood itching his arm and twitching. He needed his fix. The man reappeared with a bag of crack cocaine and said "That'll be fifty fucking fuckers." Garrett reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the leather wallet. He pulled out a crispy fifty and shoved in the pajama man's outstretched palm. The pajama man grinned a toothy grin revealing two rows of decaying teeth. He told Garrett, "A pleasure doing fucking business with you, take a fucking shower." Garrett grabbed the bag and took off to the woods behind the Cherry Lane. It was time for his fix.