SmokeLong Quarterly

“Hey, heroin girl,” I said. “What’s up?”

She was skinny as fuck, and standing on Hollywood Boulevard, right by the subway station off Vine.

I wanted to fuck her.

We chatted for a while, all small talk.

She didn’t have much to say.

Then this lady – she’d been standing there the whole time, like waiting for the bus or something – anyway, she started to convulse.

Heroin chick immediately kicked into action – CPR, resuscitation, whatever it’s called, the whole bit. It was amazing; she was amazing.

Meanwhile, I called 911 on my cell phone.

The EMT crew arrived.

Heroin girl backed off.

We started kissing.

A cop wanted to ask her questions.

She talked shit.

The lady seemed OK.

The paramedics took her away.

Everything calmed down.

I led my girl away, into the dark, into the back of the unlit parking lot opposite the Pantages.

We continued to kiss. We kissed more and more.

Then she said, “Hey, hey, just a minute, we gotta stop, just for a minute.”

She fumbled in her purse.

She found what she was looking for.

She tied off; she shot up.

She couldn’t really kiss anymore.

That was it.