Circa early- to mid- 2005.

the JUNKIE way

Pretty new to Los Angeles and new-ish to relative sobriety (the first time), your author, in an attempt at some sort of fidelity, creates a new habit. Jamba Juice (the junkie way). Maybe that’s weak… but, then, it’s weak. I worked at my first ever talent agency during waking hours and a west coast version of The Olive Garden on weekends (some nights, possibly)?

Meth is a stimulant. And all of the sudden, I had to be on time and on the ball, constantly. And all of the sudden (well, less suddenly than that)… I did not have Meth.

In a time of getting high (or rather, trying to be functional) in a legal manner, I improvised. I took 2 psuedofed in the morning. You know, the stuff that they use to make meth. The little red pills that are literally just psuedoepinephrine. And consequently is now behind the pharmacy counter. Boo!

One down.

I didn’t enter Jamba Juice one morning looking to get high. That’s comedy. But like bad comedy. In any event… it was on my way to work and, again, in my search for some sort of fidelity, I’d become a bit of a minimalist when it came to meals. I thought health… juice… on my way to work… try it.

Now, in 2005, the Jamba Juice offerings were much slimmer. So, I choose from what I can. Always a small, the base was a “classic smoothie” called Peach Pleasure. Okay, fruit blahblahblah, no bananas… whatever. Smoothies are misleading… they can often be crazy-ass sugary calorie-laden concoctions. But, this was great. safe. no bananas.

“You get one free boost with that”.

“huh?”

I had yet to become the ADD-fueled morning person that I would. So, it’s a bit fuzzy.

But, what isn’t fuzzy is “the boost”. This is the gateway to Jamba Juice (the JUNKIE way)!

I look at the menu or the board all confused-like (as is sometimes my default disposition that I am trying to shake). The disposition that I have no idea where I am, what to do, that this question that I’ve been asked is possibly high-level mathematics related and I could never even conceive of it’s existence, even.

But I digress.

“ummmmmmmm….. how about Energy boost?”

And a habit is born. So, this altered smoothie with Energy Boost and 3G Charger Boost (though I’m sure it was called something different at the time) plus my psuedofed plus the office’s coffee. And I am good to go. I eventually ask if they sell the “boosts” in powder form separately. They do not.

I achieve something very similar to a low-high.

But it is great! Not because I achieve aforementioned low-high in order to achieve some sort of high, but precisely the opposite. I am an adult that has a day job with a dress code. I have vacation days. Health insurance. Overtime pay. I am never late. I own a car. All this is possible. I am a contributing member of society (somehow)… furthermore, I am actually a functional human being. My one-time faraway mostly theoretical wish of walking amongst the normal people in hope of one day becoming one is not only possible… but actually happening.

So, that’s the story. This only lasted as long as I worked at the company. The head of the company is crazy and tends to clean house every two years… give or take word of an agent interviewing elsewhere*. In any event, with no agents, I really had no one to assist.

*yeah, I hate to say it… or maybe I don’t care… but “Entourage” does not get anything incorrect. People are FUCKIN CRAZY!!! And I kinda love it. I mean, not to say that my judgement is the best… but WTF?! Tens of millions of dollars are based on crack headed decisions… eeek. But that’s what I love!

And the laying-off was catastrophic because it wasn’t really about the job… it was the entire idea that I had assimilated into society… that I could do it. Of course one really doesn’t directly have to do with the other, and everything ended up being okay… sort of. Hysteria.

I never really did go back to Jamba Juice.

Such is the mundanity of dysfunction cascading as sobriety.

…for all the wrong reasons.

I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And it was okay. Really. Fine. Lovely.

but this, categorically indicates that I’m weird. Off.

I romanticize medicine. medical terminology and understanding. the needle. my flesh. my blood. the centrifuge. and a funny drowsy-ness that might feel like being high.

One drives up there because they think that they will be surrounded by others who would like to donate for the good of humankind. sick people. But it’s a crack shack really. People who refuse to make money any other way.

Another lovely crack shack. A generic ghetto version of Cheers. Everyone knows your name. I’m the new kid. And in the generic ghetto, it usually works for me [but that's another story].

But getting back to the point… what’s  worse? What is really worse?

Wanting to intently stare at the large, possibly 9 gauge butterfly needle [syringes are like guns, the lower the gauge, the larger the barrel] pierce your skin and hit your vein. Dark, dark blood (“everyone’s blood is different, but yes your blood is darker then normal” I am assured)… floods the clear tubing and up up up.

Complete certainty. Validation. Everything is right. And the blood is so dark. I feel so much more rich and human. Than anyone in that room. Anyone anywhere. My blood is naturally that dark. That substantial. Naturally.

So, what’s worse?

It’s merely stupid to drive to the valley for 5 hours of prodding and poking and questions if all you’re expecting is $35 in return. And maybe, possibly a generic ghetto Cheers-like atmosphere.

It’s something weird and fucked up to drive to the valley to put up with the prodding and questions when you are expecting the poking in return.

Anyway, today is day number #2. In the journey of, “I need to get high, what better place to go than to the dentist?”.

Root canal, whatever… just give me a steady flow of nitrous and a script for pain killers.

Fuckin’ Vicodin, man… no one gives Percocet in this town.