ZEN MODE

If you mention street drugs, the same few always worm their way into conversation.  The teens all smoke weed or spice, the junkies hit the harder shit like crystal meth, heroine, or oxycontin.  The hippy-wannabes are always searching for something stronger to trip on and “expand their minds,” as if LSD, Shrooms, Salvia, or DMT have some mythological properties to them and the pillheads are always trying to dull the pain with Norcos or Morphine.  Hell, since the ‘80s, the mention of drugs has elicited the image of some straight-tie-business-suit motherfucker taking a bump of coke with a rolled up hundred-dollar bill before banging a personal harem of prostitutes.  What most people reveal when they talk about these things is that, as much as they like to seem like it, they don’t know a goddamn thing about the modern street drug trade.  Me – I know a lot about it.

You name it, I’ve peddled it.

I started as a user, don’t get me wrong.  High school in the ‘80s?  Everyone was doing something, I can tell you that much.  I didn’t go to college because, at that time, you didn’t have to to be successful.  That didn’t stop me from being unsuccessful though.

I wound up spending most of my time drinking, smoking weed, and generally doing nothing useful.  I traded jobs like I traded days and it eventually got so bad that my parents just booted me out.  Said if I didn’t want to be a “productive member of society” then I wasn’t welcome in their home.  So I did what most junkies do in that situation and shacked up with those who either approved of what I was doing or just didn’t give a shit.  At that time, I only knew a few people who I could crash with, but I managed to hold down an apartment with a few acquaintances who also used.  It was fine for a few months, but when druggies are holed up with each other, they tend to expand each other’s horizons.  I hit rock bottom when I started shooting up.

There were blackouts.  There were horrible, crazy things that I did without even knowing.  I was using so much that I barely saw the light of day and started to resemble something akin to a Holocaust victim in appearance.  It was when I broke a bottle over one of my roommate’s heads that they decided enough was enough.  They checked me into rehab, and what ensued was two years of on-again-off-again binging and coming clean.  Eventually, though, it stuck.

By that time, I didn’t know what it was like to hold down a regular job anymore, so I turned to what I already knew best: drugs.  Naturally, it was hard to be a recovering addict setting out to sell drugs, especially when I never really wanted to give them up in the first place, but the thought of enjoying tons of cash for a long, long time was a good enough deterrent for me.  I started from the bottom – skunk weed – and progressed as I saw fit.

You want to know what the difference is between drugs back then and drugs today?  The shit people are willing to do now is fucking ridiculous.  Ever heard of Smiles?  It causes seizures, hallucinations, and major panic attacks.  What about Flakka?  It’s Bath Salts’ big brother that causes paranoia, hallucinations, and kidney failure.  It’s not uncommon for it to be cut with fucking rat poison.  But it was never my job to worry about what people want to put in their body.  It was my job to rake in cash, hand over fist, while people struggled to feel something while ultimately quickening their own ends.  Of every single drug that’s passed through my hands, though, none were as horrifying as “Zen Mode.”

I first heard about it through Ralphie Gould – a strung-out, middle-aged man that had come as close to a “best friend” as I could possibly get.  Ralphie was your run-of-the-mill sleaze bag, always looking for an ounce of this or a hit of that, but, deep down, he was a good guy.  His wife had divorced him years earlier when his addictions had started, taking the kids with her, but more than once I had seen Ralphie stow away a wad of cash with the promise of dropping it off anonymously at their house in the hopes that they would use it.  He was the kind of guy that, if he got his fix and had some spare change, he’d take you out to the bar and get you hammered if he could.  Ralphie was an opiate addict on account of his bad knees from a stint in the Army, and while he pissed me off beyond belief sometimes, he was a good guy and he had connections.

He’d stumbled into my apartment early in the morning, wracked by the shakes and drunk as could be.  I’d been trying to sleep but, having napped all day, I was finding it hard to shut my brain off.  When I heard him come in, I sighed and pulled myself up, throwing my jeans on and padding into the living room.  I reached in a cupboard and pulled out a blacked-out film canister – you know, the old plastic ones for camera film in the ‘90s?  I tossed it to him and he dry-gulped a handful of the fuckers on the spot.  After I got him some water and a sandwich, he finally spoke:

“You’re my savior, man, you know that?  Jesus, it was bad.”

I nodded, “You know, if you are going to need shit, you should give me a heads up.  I won’t always have things lying around and I don’t put shit on layaway.”

He grunted, tearing another bite from his cheese sandwich.  I watched him lick the Mayo from his lips.  “Had a lot on my mind lately.  Heard Sara’s been seeing some guy – starched-collar, banker type.”

“And you’ve been watching, haven’t you?”

He was quiet, but he bobbed his head up and down, his mouth full again.  When he swallowed, he swiped the cuff of his dirty sleeve across his face and took another bite.  This time, he spoke with his mouth full.

“Yeah.  I seen him.  Good looking guy.”

I could tell he wanted to say more but was choosing to hold it back.  I decided that I didn’t need him crying in my apartment again, so I changed the topic.

“Hey, I need you to get in touch with your Coke guy again.  Big Steve’s having a party or some shit and wants to hook me up as supplier.  Lots of cash on the line.  You think you could do that for me?”

Ralphie bobbed his head again as he plowed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.  After some wet smacks, he leaned back, burped and smacked his hands down on the countertop.  “Yeah, I can do that.  No problem.”  He sat for a moment, then, as if struck by some epiphany, slumped forward and began patting at his pockets.  I groaned, thinking he was looking for a pack of cigarettes.  I didn’t need him smoking in my apartment again either.  The last time he had, the landlady had almost evicted me.

“Not here, man.  You gotta go outside if you want to smoke?”

Ralphie eyed me quizzically, then cleared his throat.  “No, uh… I’m not looking for a smoke.  I got something for you.  Something new.  Figured you might want to check it out.”

Now Ralphie had piqued my interest.  By that time, I had already pushed a little Flakka, and, as far as I knew, that was about as “new drug” as you got.  Ralphie always knew what I had in stock – sort of my underboss, if you catch my drift.  For him to be telling me about some new product I had to check out was not something I took lightly.  If anything, it meant insurance for future business.  I leaned against my tiny electric stove and listened to the clock tick.

His hands fell on something and he pulled it out of his pocket.  It was a vial, thin and clear with a rubber stopper, but there wasn’t a liquid inside.  Instead, there was something sandy – something that looked like a kid had ripped open every color Pixie Stix he could find and poured them all together.  It sported every color of the rainbow and then some, all mixed together in what looked like some gray-purple mess.  I chuckled.

“What the fuck is that?”

Ralphie’s mouth split into a wide-toothed grin.  “People on the streets been calling it ‘Zen Mode’ on account of it making you all relaxed and stuff.  I heard it’s good.”  He handed me the vial and I looked it over, noting the fineness of the granules.  It wasn’t Coke, that was for sure.  I pulled the rubber stopper free and took a whiff.

“Smells like fucking crushed up Fruit Loops.”

“I know, right?”  He laughed again.  “I ain’t tried none myself yet, but it’s getting big out there.  From what I gather, not many people have it around yet, so that’s another thing.  I know a guy who knows a guy who makes the shit.  Makes it in some cabin in Upstate New York, up in the mountains.  Could be an in.”

“That where you got this from?”

Ralphie nodded.  “Yeah, figured I would bring it when I stopped by next.  Glad I remembered it tonight.”

I turned the vial over, watching the colorful dust inside shift against the glass, plinking against it softly.  “What’s it do?”

“I hear it makes you real relaxed-like.  Troubles just float away.  Dunno many people who do it though, so that’s all I got.”

I glanced at it again then back to Ralphie.

“You up for a little taste test?”

I suppose now is a good time to mention that, while I was officially off drugs, I still had to use them whenever I got a batch.  Not much, but I needed to make sure that it was Cocaine and not fucking Baking Soda, right?  Didn’t want anyone smoking a nugget of stale Parsley either.  I tried to steer clear of the new drugs – only do them once – but Ralphie was a beast and I used him as a taste tester all the time.  He seemed to enjoy the experiences.  When I made the offer, he clapped his hands together and slid them past one another greedily.

I moved the plate and poured two thin lines out on the countertop.  If it had been Coke, I would have looked like a lightweight, but it wasn’t.  Ralphie wasted no time and, pushing one finger against one nostril, snorted the line through the other and then leaned back, his eyes watering and his hand rubbing his nose.  I corked the vial, smiled at him, and then followed suit.  It felt like fire going in.

I glanced at the clock, noting that it was just after two-thirty.  I always liked to know when a drug hit.  It was one of the main selling points, after all.  The faster, the better.

Ten minutes passed without incident.  Ralphie and I were both waiting patiently for the fireworks to start, idly shooting the shit, when all of a sudden, Ralphie’s voice began to grow slower and slower, until it was less talk and more just this constant drone coming from his mouth.  My eyelids felt heavy and I knew it was happening, so I checked the clock and noted how long it had taken.  Everything seemed to be moving slower.

Ralphie was laughing now, but it seemed impossibly low.  With a dull thud, he slid off the barstool and onto the floor, sending it clattering to the carpeting, still laughing.  I realized that I, too, was on the floor – my back pressed up against the cool face of the stove, my ass on the linoleum.  I, too, began to laugh.

Now, many drug users, like alcoholics, will tell you that they can’t remember what they did.  Sometimes, this is true – blackouts do happen and they can be really rough.  Most of the time, however, they don’t forget.  They laugh it off, saying they don’t remember, but they do.  They did something embarrassing or uncool and they don’t want to acknowledge it.  There’s still a memory there, and that memory is just the same as if the substance was entirely out of the picture.  This is what I remember from the night I used Zen Mode.

3AM

I feel weightless, almost like I could just get up and float through the ceiling and out into the early morning sky.  That rigid feeling in your bones, the one that’s always there after a long day’s work?  Totally gone.  You’d swear that your bones had turned into jelly – that you were just some fleshy balloon, waiting for something to bump you up, up and away.

I’m laughing, still, and I don’t know why.  Ralphie is lying on his stomach, face beet-red, arms out to his sides.  He keeps talking but all I can hear is this muffled noise – like a teacher from Charlie Brown talking underwater from a mile away.  There’s this buzz, too, but I figure its Ralphie’s vocal chords thrumming in his gullet like a big-throated guitar.

I can’t move but I don’t care.  There’s never been a more comfortable spot in the world.

4AM

There’s a tingle in my spine and down my arms.  I can feel it pulsating – riding the fire of each and every synapse from my tailbone to my tongue and back again.  I’m not laughing anymore, but Ralphie is and he’s starting to turn purple.  The buzz is still there, matching the sting in my spine as it fades in and out, but it’s louder.  Ralphie’s voice sounds softer.

The shadows are dancing in the room even though the only light that’s on is constant and uncovered.  I watch as they twist and shift – as they pool in the corners deeper and deeper.

A car’s horn sounds from outside but I don’t jump.  Nothing in my mind tells me to move at all.

5AM

The sun is bleeding in now, but I can see it through the walls.  The white is pinked by its rise and Ralphie isn’t talking anymore.  The shadows are clinging in the corners like forgotten spiderwebs, refusing to diminish.  Ralphie’s face is purple-black, but he’s still moving – his fingers twitching, his bulging eyes blinking, his tongue stuck out between his teeth and unable to slink back into his mouth.

I can hear the sun scraping upward.  It sounds like chalk and metal scraping together.  I try to cover my ears but it’s still there and the buzzing – oh God, the fucking buzzing.  It sounds like wasps, fighting and writhing, nesting in my ears.  It sounds like something died in my head and the flies have all come, drawn by its carrion scent to have their fill.

I smack my head with the ball of my hand and think I can feel something come crawling out the other side.  I see it squirming and feel it drop onto my shoulder but, when I look, there’s only blood.

Only blood.

6AM

I can feel them crawling on my body but I can’t move it.  Their legs feel like pins as they run underneath my clothes, wrapping their thin bodies around mine.  I can see the red seeping through my wife-beater and my jeans.  I can feel it pooling, warm and unsettling, between my ass and the tiling.  I want to cry but I’m afraid more will come out through my tear ducts.  I look to Ralphie for help, but he’s gone.

Where his body was, there’s only a dark stain now.  I know, somewhere in my head, that the shadows have swallowed him.  They melted down the walls and squirmed across the floor and slowly picked away at him in my peripherals – piece by piece until he was all gone save for the stain on the carpet.  I want to cry but I’m afraid that they’ll hear me and come for me next.

I hear the doors creaking in the hallway.  I hear them opening and shutting in their frames, sometimes in loud bursts.  I can hear footsteps on the carpet, but I can’t turn my head.  I become distinctly aware that the sun is now setting again.

7AM(?)

The walls are paper-thin now.  I can see shadows moving behind them, inside of them.  I can see the shapes of hands press against them.  The walls ride their contours like translucent rubber.  When they don’t give in, the shadows move some more until they find a thinner spot.  I hear the walls crumble as they poke through them and drag their nails downward.  Each time, I feel another one of the things poke a hole in me and crawl inside.  I can feel them burrowing beneath the skin.

I can see Ralphie’s head, sometimes.  It rises out of the black stain in the carpet, purple and swollen.  His eyes are so wide that they are falling out and his cheeks are shiny.  His tongue looks like an engorged worm.  Each time, the head comes up and then sinks back down so that just the eyes are above the carpet.  They watch me and they watch the shadows and then it sinks back downward, as if into a pool of water.

I can hear him laughing again.

The shadows aren’t shadows anymore.  Their gashes in the walls betray them.  They are sharp but they move like oil.  Each time they point, I can feel the things inside me push outward through my skin.

(?) AM/PM

The shadows melted the kitchen away and circled around me.  I can see their eyes but, when I try to look at their faces, it’s like looking into the thin edge of a razor-blade.  They don’t speak but I know they want to pull me back through their holes.  They’ve got things to show me in there, they tell me.  They’ve got things to show me that they like to show people.  I see Ralphie bob up from the carpet.  I hear him laugh, long and low.

The things inside me have replaced my bones.  When the shadows reach, my arms move, and I marionette how they see fit.  I don’t know what’s streaming down my face but it’s not tears.  It’s black and oily and burns on the way down.  I cough sometimes and it comes out then too.

The doors are still opening and closing but they aren’t behind me – they’re all around.  I can see them opening and closing, just like the holes in the walls.  They’re letting more shadows in and letting some out.  They pass through, just like every other day, but I can see them now.  I can see them.

One shadow reaches toward me and I can feel my heart again.  I can feel it fluttering in my chest – not out of anticipation, but out of weakness.  I can feel the pain swelling and I want to puke it up.  It touches me and the pain splashes over the edge.  The oily substance spills out of my mouth and takes my teeth with it.

Ralphie is laughing but his laughing is the buzzing.  The buzzing is the scrape of the moon and the sun, metal on chalkboard.  All shifts but the shadows don’t melt away and the things, though rigid in my muscles now, move.

My body is black with sweat.

That’s when I woke up.

I was lying in my bed, the fan quietly whirring overhead.  I could hear its click and the answering tick of the wall clock on the far end of the room.  The red numbers of the digital alarm clock read 10:00AM.  I sat up, sputtering into my clenched fist, and then cautiously glanced at it afterwards.  There was no color to the spit and I felt my heart loosen and slow.  I swung my legs out of bed.

 I took a long shower and, for the first time in a long time, I thought about getting a real job.  When I finished, I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked toward the kitchen.

And that’s when I saw the stain on the carpet – black, ragged and man-shaped.  I knew I wouldn’t be seeing Ralphie again.

It’s been weeks and, now, I keep hearing about a new drug out on the streets.  The other dealers are pimping it out like it’s all the rage and junkies and kids are eating it up like candy.  They say it looks like Pixie Stix and smells like Fruit Loops.  They say it relaxes you real good.  They say that it’s just what you need and they’ll sell it to you in a little glass vial for only fifty bucks.

But what they won’t tell you is about all those who’ve gone missing – and how, long after, you can still hear them laughing and feel the brittle thinness of the walls is your bones.