"Needles" (a short story I'm working on)

The poppy tea is wearing off, as I stare at the big, plastic canister of seeds. So glorious are these dreams of euphoria experienced both waking and sleeping, pulsing from crotch to chest to head, and I begin to glow with beautiful, shameless pleasure. The only downsides I've come up with are overdosing and that I can't shoot tea.

My mind wanders back to a week ago in Tompkins Square Park. I was with Liz and her lanky, train-hopping boyfriend Jackson. They generously shared beers out of a large McDonald's cup (a traditional crusty show of hospitality), and in return I gave them a bottle of tea to split (I drank my share at home). Sitting there in the freezing semi-darkness, I realized I hadn't been this fucked up in a long time--it was refreshing like the smell of biting, cold winter early in the morning. I kept refusing to drink more and more as the cup was passed around the circle--not even a circle really, mostly just passing it between themselves. The alcohol made my opiate high even more sloppy, but it didn't matter.

We were all 22 in New York City, at 7:30pm on a Friday night, and I couldn't imagine that there was any other option as fulfilling as our constant conversation and friendly chatter that we were engaging in. 

The smell of piss wafted over from the sandy dog run; I assumed that its pungent stink never really left this area, and maybe never would, it would be the last piece to leave before gentrification completely engulfed us. Fuck. But it felt right to be sitting there, huddled together around the beer.
----[pause talking to R as I write this in our living room]----
"can I have another addy?" 
'haven't you already had another half?' 
"No, I've had one." 
'oh, here you go." 
He places the chalky gem in my hand, I placed it on my tongue like the nuns gave us at Communion only to be struck by the familiar taste of the sickeningly sugary amphetamine salts and binders until it slid out of sight a second later.
------------[speed back up]--------------
People kept walking by, not giving us too much thought, besides when Jackson, in his Southwestern rasp, requested cigarettes. I am confident he asked every one who passed whether they were or were not illegally smoking in the park [it's a 50$ fine in NYC if the cops catch you smoking a CIG in the park]. But all he got were a lot of "no"s and barely audible lies followed by a quickened pace.

I looked to the right and noticed a bit behind us on the path were two youngish adults, perhaps in their late 20s, pushing a plastic lined shopping cart towards our bench. Their forms were barely visible without the street light to outline them against the bushes on the other side of the path.

Immediately I knew they were handing out food to us because we had been given meals by church groups a few times as teenagers in Tompkins, and they usually carried all of their supplies in the same cart-setup. I knew they were approaching us because of how young and dirty we all looked, the young junky with her crusty friends. Atleast, with Liz and Jackson, I did not feel embarrassed that they were coming up to us, just hopeful that their bounty would be good, maybe hot dogs and quarter drinks like the last time 4 years ago.

"Hi, how y'all doing?" she said, her greeting sounded kind and soothing it surprised me, as they stopped their cart in front of us.
"Good" "Okay..." "Fine" we replied some variation of the same sentiment back, knowing to be wary of strangers in the park, but curious of what they might be offering us.
"Would you like any condoms, clean needles, hygiene kits?"
My mind exploded at the word 'needles.' It was like those dreams I have where all I remember are the snap shots of medicine cabinets full of abandoned pill-bottles, my hands about to grasp them, then blank-------I brought my focus back to the park, the cold, the safe shooting supplies within feet of me, then the embarassment: asking for them in front of friends, and all the mortifying implications of admitting this desire. As Jackson and Liz, joked that they could just take the whole trash bag of condoms with them, and they'd be done for the night. Jackson even told them how he had been off the needle and all of his old vices (besides alcohol and weed and anything we give them) for two years now. Shame, guilt, stuck thick in my throat, as my mind attempted to figure out our next chess-move.

"Just condoms!" We all laughed as they hand us bags full of Trojans and information about their LES harm reduction center. The plastic touched my skin, but my mind barely registered it as it continued sucking and salivating over 'needles,' until I heard my voice cutting through the jovial air:

"Actually can I have some needles?"

The entire world hung momentarily still for me--a mixture of fear and self-loathing flushed my cheeks--I waited for her reply, attempting to make a calm face.

She replied some explanation of why I had to join the exchange before I could receive my treats: "Sure, but first I have to put you into the exchange program and give you a card that protects you when you are carrying used needles. That way the cops can't arrest you for them. But you should always wash any reside out of them before you plan to bring them to the exchange; sometimes the cops can arrest you for residue" [the card says otherwise, but the pigs don't respect anything in NYC, I don't even want to think about the beating I'd receive for even being caught with that card].
However, even having to do the necessary paperwork was all fine,  I would have done anything at the moment to get the gifts in that bag, so fixated on the final goal I already smelt the butane in the lighter ready to fire up a shot. I didn't hear the words only the tone of her voice, like a non-profit canvasser trying to convince me that I had enough time today to save the whales and get to my appointment on time. It was all irrelevant to me, all I wanted were those pristine chemical pushers.

Finally, like a child on Christmas, I accepted:
ten 27 gauge, 1/2 cc rigs,
blue medical tie offs,
pre-rolled cottons,
alcohol swabs,
metal cookers,
and bandaids.
I revelled in the thought of all the glorious shots I could, should, and would take. The pleasure already rolled over my body at the possibility of mainlining anything. The big down-side of shooting drugs is that the needle will always call me back, almost making the high secondary. Like knitting, or writing, sometimes the act is more enjoyable than beholding the sometimes ugly creation, but I guess shooting up isn't a hobby or career--well, I've been told it shouldn't be. My eyes followed the volunteers wander off, on to help the other souls hanging off the benches in the park.

I realize I have been fantasizing over this moment since I was 16, the glory of getting clean needles from an exchange; I spent days and nights dreaming about this as I pushed on, trying to use old gummed up, bloody rigs. Because stopping was never my thing. [But I know one day, one day I'll be done...]  I perched high on that bench; I could even get trained in Narcan at the clinic I mused, the thought thrust excitement through my chest. My mind luxuriated in the ecstasy of it all and forgot about all of my desires besides the one to slip my new toys in my veins.

Somehow it all worked out as if I had willed it to happen. In some ways, I did.

-Lucy

Please tell me what you think friends, peeping-toms, and those of you who stumble on to here blindly. I'd love to hear from you or about you or about my writing or anything really! It'd warm my heart (even more than getting needles).