All a Junkie wants is Avocado on Toast

My eyes heavily cracked open after midday. For the past what seemed like years, I had regulated my routine to being that of non at all. Three days earlier Nick and I had imposed ourselves onto our friend, Eddie, and into his tiny studio apartment. A double mattress lay on the floor with a small flatscreen perched at the foot on a grey plastic milk crate. The menu screen for Sin City playing on repeat. I must have been tangled in those sweaty sheets for twenty four hours at least.

Nick wasn't there. Both he and Eddie had been the day earlier before. After a solid weeks investment of all all efforts and resources, we’d all emerged spent. Our minds too clouded with whatever thoughts we were able to muster. Words and thoughts getting congested in the proses of articulation. We would mumble subtly, not so subtly. It was no big deal to any of us if we did. We were blessed with each others nonjudgmental company. That’s the thing about drugs and being an addict. During the development stages people are so admirably understanding and intimate with each other, like children. But then, just like that, the universe has done a complete 180. An entire shift in perspective. And suddenly you’re sitting on your head, cursing the world and all the crazy people in it.

Try his phone, no answer. Try again, phone turned off. This wasn't entirely unusual for Nick or for myself, it was all apart of the chaos within an addicts routine.

Unraveling myself from the constraints of the sweaty sheets, I took a step over to the window. A large curved multi panel of glass overlooking Crown Street. I stood there among the tree branches of the Cottonwoods in Darlinghurst, looking out on the passers-by. Just like the trees which decorated the streets with their cotton joy, I too wanted to leave a subtle remanence of myself sprinkled over these streets.

Eddie had no milk in his tiny bar fridge. Black coffee it had to be then. I wiped a mug clean with the inside of my shirt. It’s well past midday. No cigarettes left to compliment this mornings black coffee.

A knock at the door. One single knock followed by three friendly quicker knocks. Be cautious of those friendly knocks, it’s not always a friend on the other side. Usually someone Nick or I owe money to. I say Nick and I because people see us as a collective, without my consent. You cannot give consent for others perceptions though can you? Generally if two people are in a relationship they understand they are a reflection of the other. Our relationship may not have been your conventional romantic kind, but it was something to acknowledge. Our friendship ran a little deeper, I suppose others could see that.

Another two short knocks. As I walked over to the door suspiciously I called out.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Damian.” A voice replied through the door. I’m relieved its Damian. I open the door to invite him in. I gave the tattooed giant a hug. I always did like Damian, we shared quality time together. Then again, any addict would say that about a fellow addict. Damian and I had shared days together, talking about nothing and sharing everything. We knew each other deeply, couldn’t tell you his last name or if his mother was still alive but hey, we were ‘close’.

“What’s going on?” Damian asks.

“Not much, just woke up.”

“Ah yeah. .Where’s Eddie?”

“Think he’s at work. They hired a new chef at the bar so he’s been pretty busy getting that underway.”

“Yeah he said he interviewed a few last week. He didn’t want the bro working for him?”

“Would you?” I raise a brow.

“You want a drink?” I began filling my mug.

“You got coffee? I’ve got milk in here.”

He pulled out a two litre carton from his backpack, exposing a tattoo on his inner forearm. An eagle in a hexagon? I’m sure I hadn’t seen it before but it was faded green. Must have been old. I humbly smiled as he pulled the sword from the stone. The the two litres of gold I searched for only moments earlier had fell into my lap. I began preparing coffees for us both.

The bare necessities seem to be the most desired during these stages of events - dam Addictions. You prioritise the unnecessary over the essentials only to find yourself craving the essentials - go figure. Damian could sense I was a little unsettled. I told him how I woke up without a note or any sign from Nick, and that his phone was off. I must have looked uneasy because Damian’s look was empathetic.

“Thanks. I’m fine really, I’m just annoyed, you know. No note, no message, he left me nothing. The door wasn’t locked when I opened it for you.. I mean…” I shook my head gently as if to dismiss the idea, although my eyes remained fixated on the mugs at hand, shielding my uncertainties.

“Ah don’t even worry about it, you know how he is, you’re alright. You’re fine. What are doing today?”

Up until that point I had planned to stew on Nick’s whereabouts and to fester a deep sorry for myself. That just seemed like an embarrassing way to spend ones day now that I had another human to potentially judge.

“I'm not sure. What you up to? Feel like grabbing a bite to eat? We can walk down Oxford.” Avocado on toast, a real hot beverage and someone to help trace the whereabouts of Nick. I needed another brain to help solve this equation. Mine felt as if it was missing half. I nodded towards the backpack as I handed Damian his coffee.

“Going somewhere?” I asked before he could respond to my idea of grabbing brunch - lunch - afternoon dinner. It was afternoon.

“I’ve someone I need to meet in a little while over in the Cross.” Damian said as he lifted is mug for a sip. His eyes left mine as he looked out on to the street below. We both sat on the rusted bar stools at the window’s ledge. We people watched in stillness.

It wasn’t a busy street at this time of day, Crown Street. Perhaps it was early morning or evening when people come and go to and from work, but right now just the occasional passer-by. Women and men in their thirties wore tailored suits and carried streamline leather briefcases. A long bearded man wearing a flannelette and a vest rides gently past on a vintage Amsterdam bicycle. He peddled to my pulse. I’ve always wanted one of those myself. I would paint it gloss cream or off-white, the inner tires would be white to match. It would have a leather cushioned seat with a basket on the front. It’d sure beat taking the bus. The smell on the 333 was permanently laced with a three day old musk. One that would stick to your clothes if you traveled further than a couple of blocks. A bicycle like that would be much better, I thought to myself.

I understood the vagueness of Damian’s response to mean - don’t ask questions. Dealers don’t want to be seen with users, ironically. They seperate themselves from their customers with a falsified line of dignity.

“I’ll come back around after, see what you’re up to.” Damian said as he gave a gentle smile. He was a little distracted by the fact he had somewhere else to be. Was he excited to get drugs or was it nerves? His feet tapped like nervous puppy, or an addict about to score. I could see each toe inside his sneakers, playing their own unique game of hopscotch. He noticed that I noticed, our eyes met quickly then his shifting quickly to the door.

“Thanks for the cuppa, I should get going.”

“No thank you, thanks for the milk and the company.” I was sincere.

“You should call me okay, in a few hours if you haven’t seen him.” His eyes were intense, and looking deep into mine. I was nervous again.

“Sure, okay, I will. Sure, bye”

“Bye.”

Looking around the room it hadn’t changed much. There were no echoes of the conversations which just took place. Dirty mugs sat where they had when I first woke up. Whilst cigarette smell hung in the air, the only evidence of company. I felt uneasy, a different unsettling feeling to the the earlier sense of abandonment. A deep shudder, a cloud of dark possibilities filled my mind. Where is Nick? And Eddie for that matter?! He said he had plans with his new chef, but did he actually go the restaurant this morning? I had a sudden urgency to leave, to leave the vacant room which I no longer felt alone. I left the room without a second thought. It was left with only repetitions of Sin City in the background, a static melody for its silence.

Walking down Crown and heading to Oxford Street, the warm sun was a welcoming kiss on my skin. I was cold blooded, reptilian. Not like one of the elitist-reptilian-masked superbeasts-who-planned-to-rule-the-world, I just took a while to thaw out - even after coffee. We addicts have bad circulation. I instinctively turned left past the purple art gallery toward ‘Pharmacists’. A quirky cafe opened by a friend, Brandon. A recovering coke addict with too much of daddy’s money. Brandon had good intentions and an even better heart. A well dressed man in his thirties, he wore tanned pointed Williams boots with cuffed navy chino’s and a slim line buttoned shirt. He smelt a blend of Armani, Arabic beans and your mothers fabric softener.

“How are you darl?!” He squeezed me for the answer.

“I’m good Brandon how are you?” I say into his chest.

“Oh I’m doing okay I suppose. Had a little slip up last week though.”

“Was it casual or did you go all out?” One of those answers would have been okay, ask any 12 Step group.

“All out, full blown bender. Went missing for two days, my poor staff didn’t know what the bloody hell to do on Friday. Alison called my father, Christ. I brought it on my self. He told me, he said, either sort your shit out or I’m taking over the cafe. He is guarantor of the place after all, I suppose.”

We were seated at an isolated table by the side window when one of the waitresses brings over an avocado breakfast for me and an espresso for Brandon. At that point I thought the day had been solidified, nothing could dampen this day. Brandon continued to share his escapades with such comical dramatised conviction as he himself possessed. I’d finished my breakfast and sat back to catch the end of his tale.

“Wait, you see him?! You see that guy?”. Brandon half whispered, points to a man across the street.

“The malnourished terminator?”

“Yeah. He was at my hotel room last week, I swear it. He was dropping a vile of something off to some other guy who was there. It was green though. I was too out of it to care at the stage though.”

“Just how many guys did you have in your room Brandon?.” We both smirked at the question. The man across the street was exchanging bags with who looked to be a man in corporate, a suit of some sorts.

“Wait.” I tried peering closing to see the thing I thought I could see - the eagle tattoo.

“Did you see his tattoo?” I ask back at Brandon. He was distracted with his staff now.

“Who’s, when?” He was singling the waitress over to clear our tables for new patrons.

“Honey I have to get back to it. It was so nice to see you. Let’s catch up properly soon okay.”

We left the table at the same time. We both knew we wouldn’t catch up soon. He was in recovery whilst I was unapologetically using. My problem was yet to reach its limits. I was fast becoming someone you may pretend not to see in the street if I were three days in. I turned to walk back out onto the street, inclined to follow the flight of the eagle tattoo. Still no sign or call from Nick. I wasn’t sure what signal I was meant to be looking for exactly. Chances were, I wasn’t looking in the right place.