Tristan: Finding Hope

Chapter 3

Nova has to get ready and Quinton goes back into the room with her. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to take care of my craving. So I pretend to go back into my room, then I slip outside unnoticed and walk to the last door of the motel. There’s a guy there who call himself D-Man. I ran into him once when I was wandering around outside. He was totally a tweaker: skinny, thinning hair, pale skin, bones protruding, teeth rotting, sores on his skin. It was looking into a mirror of the past and after chatting for a little while, I ended up doing a line with him, hence my slipup a few weeks ago. Quinton was the one who found out. Ex-tweakers have a radar for people who are spun out of their minds. He stayed with me until my system was clean, until the crashing was over, and he’s been watching me like a hawk every since. He didn’t tell Nova about it, which I’m grateful for. The last thing I want to do is see the disappointment in her eyes that I’ve seen many times before, including when I kissed her. That one stung.

I rap on the door and he opens up, his eyes glossed over with that look I crave. I need to make it quick before I get busted, so I say I need to buy a hit, or two, or three, or four.

“Sure man,” he says, his voice in that same euphoric state as my mother’s. He goes back into the room and I wait outside because I can see the syringe and spoon on his nightstand and I know if I step over the threshold I’ll want to do that, but I can’t. Not without being busted the moment I pass out. Plus that’s the cause behind why we’re going out to celebrate that I’m disease free today. Still, I crave it and I think I pretty much keep my eyes on it the entire time until D-Man comes back with a small bag with a pinch of white crystals in it. I give him the money, and then tuck it into my pocket, hurrying back toward my room so I’ll have time to do it before we go out.

But my plan goes to shit because Quinton’s waiting outside when I get there, smoking, and when he sees me coming, he gets this weird look on his face like his tweaker radar is on.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, ashing his cigarette as he searches my eyes, probably for enlarged pupils and lack of blinking.

I miss a beat, but recover. “I went to see if they have any gum in the vending machines,” I say, pointing over my shoulder. “If we’re going to a restaurant, I’m not going to be able to smoke when I want to and I’m going to need something to keep me from wanting to grind the shit out of my teeth all night.”

He’s not buying it, but doesn’t press. “Nova will be out in just a second,” he says and plops down on the curb, stretching out his legs. He doesn’t ask me to sit down and I could easily slip back into my room and do my line. It’d make tonight a hell of a lot easier to bear. But I know if I do, he’s going to sense something else is up, and honestly, I don’t want him to know that I’m still that person who runs to drugs every time there’s a bump in the road. Or maybe I’m just deciding what road I want to go down.