because he didn’t want one. Because he wasn’t sleeping right, he was too tired to work. All he really wanted to do was sit around and read and watch TV and take pills.
“He was taking more pills than ever. He had given up on the codeine. Morphine was the only thing that put him in the space he wanted to be in. Ten one-gram pills a day – a lot of opiate flowing through the old veins. The morphine didn’t exactly improve his energy level. He would sit most days like a rock, never exercising, and eating only junk food. But he didn’t gain weight. On the contrary, he turned into a rail. Nerves can do that, damaged nerves. He went to a pain specialist, who took his last few dollars. All the guy could tell him was that he’d have to learn to live with it. The doctor also thought John was exaggerating when he said how much it hurt. John prayed he could give the pain to someone else, like Sims or Tyler. Had the devil approached him with a deal right then, John would have signed on the dotted line without reading the fine print. He would have done anything to feel normal again.
“If it’s a drag being sick or injured, it’s doubly bad being broke and sick. John didn’t have money to pay his rent or buy groceries. He didn’t get aid from a single government agency because he wasn’t good at filling out forms, and was worse at waiting for people to get back to him. He was heading for a critical point. Two things converged on him at once. He spent his last dollar just as his personal physician decided it was time he quit taking morphine.
“Now John’s doctor was right about one thing. John had become an addict. But his doctor was like the pain specialist. He thought a lot of the reason John took so many pills was because he liked what they did to his head. He refused to renew John’s prescription for morphine and only wrote him a prescription for Tylenol and codeine, which was like giving a soldier a BB gun after he’d been used to an M16. John’s enemy was pain and now he had nothing to fight it with. Nothing legal.
“John turned to street drugs, and those cost. Until then, he had never stolen a thing in his life. But his situation left him no choice, he thought. He felt robbed of his dignity.
“He sat in his crummy apartment and made plans. He was clever – a good planner. He figured the best way to get money was from inanimate machines that couldn’t fight back or identify him. He knew a lot about machines – soda machines, candy machines, cigarette machines – how to get inside them. He bought himself equipment with a bum check: a portable power drill, a crowbar, a set of screwdrivers, and an adjustable wrench. He also got a hammer. Every thief needs a hammer.
“Then began his nights of prowling the streets. In many ways it was better than staying home alone with his pain. When he was doing a job, with the adrenaline pumping, he would actually forget the pain. In those moments, when the quarters came gushing out, he would feel satisfaction, a release from what he had been put through.
“Something else gave him release in those days. Morphine’s stronger cousin – heroin. It was hard getting morphine on the streets, but there was plenty of smack. John waited a while before trying it, knowing in his heart it might be something he couldn’t control, but also knowing the white powder was just waiting for him, like an exotic prostitute, who gave undreamed of pleasure, but who always kept her blade nearby – to insure prompt collection for her services. Ah, heroin, the king of all drugs. At first he just snorted it, and the relief it brought was extraordinary. But soon he was boiling it up in a silver spoon and skin popping it with needles a doctor wouldn’t have stored in his black bag. The high was wonderful. For a while John felt as if he had found a true friend.
“Yet even at the start he realized how demanding this friend was. If you didn’t give him money, he never visited, and if he stayed
“He was taking more pills than ever. He had given up on the codeine. Morphine was the only thing that put him in the space he wanted to be in. Ten one-gram pills a day – a lot of opiate flowing through the old veins. The morphine didn’t exactly improve his energy level. He would sit most days like a rock, never exercising, and eating only junk food. But he didn’t gain weight. On the contrary, he turned into a rail. Nerves can do that, damaged nerves. He went to a pain specialist, who took his last few dollars. All the guy could tell him was that he’d have to learn to live with it. The doctor also thought John was exaggerating when he said how much it hurt. John prayed he could give the pain to someone else, like Sims or Tyler. Had the devil approached him with a deal right then, John would have signed on the dotted line without reading the fine print. He would have done anything to feel normal again.
“If it’s a drag being sick or injured, it’s doubly bad being broke and sick. John didn’t have money to pay his rent or buy groceries. He didn’t get aid from a single government agency because he wasn’t good at filling out forms, and was worse at waiting for people to get back to him. He was heading for a critical point. Two things converged on him at once. He spent his last dollar just as his personal physician decided it was time he quit taking morphine.
“Now John’s doctor was right about one thing. John had become an addict. But his doctor was like the pain specialist. He thought a lot of the reason John took so many pills was because he liked what they did to his head. He refused to renew John’s prescription for morphine and only wrote him a prescription for Tylenol and codeine, which was like giving a soldier a BB gun after he’d been used to an M16. John’s enemy was pain and now he had nothing to fight it with. Nothing legal.
“John turned to street drugs, and those cost. Until then, he had never stolen a thing in his life. But his situation left him no choice, he thought. He felt robbed of his dignity.
“He sat in his crummy apartment and made plans. He was clever – a good planner. He figured the best way to get money was from inanimate machines that couldn’t fight back or identify him. He knew a lot about machines – soda machines, candy machines, cigarette machines – how to get inside them. He bought himself equipment with a bum check: a portable power drill, a crowbar, a set of screwdrivers, and an adjustable wrench. He also got a hammer. Every thief needs a hammer.
“Then began his nights of prowling the streets. In many ways it was better than staying home alone with his pain. When he was doing a job, with the adrenaline pumping, he would actually forget the pain. In those moments, when the quarters came gushing out, he would feel satisfaction, a release from what he had been put through.
“Something else gave him release in those days. Morphine’s stronger cousin – heroin. It was hard getting morphine on the streets, but there was plenty of smack. John waited a while before trying it, knowing in his heart it might be something he couldn’t control, but also knowing the white powder was just waiting for him, like an exotic prostitute, who gave undreamed of pleasure, but who always kept her blade nearby – to insure prompt collection for her services. Ah, heroin, the king of all drugs. At first he just snorted it, and the relief it brought was extraordinary. But soon he was boiling it up in a silver spoon and skin popping it with needles a doctor wouldn’t have stored in his black bag. The high was wonderful. For a while John felt as if he had found a true friend.
“Yet even at the start he realized how demanding this friend was. If you didn’t give him money, he never visited, and if he stayed
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