My Dark Places - James Ellroy [61]
I moved into Robert Burns Park. I stole some blankets from a Goodwill box and slept in an ivy patch for three weeks. A nocturnal sprinkling system doused me at irregular intervals. I had to gather up my blankets and run for dry spots.
Outdoor living ate shit. I went to the California State Employment Office and got some job referrals. A Serbo-Croatian psychic hired me as a handbill distributor.
Her name was Sister Ramona. She preyed on poor blacks and Mexicans and spread her message via mimeographed flyer. She healed the sick and dispensed financial advice. Poor people flocked to her door. She soaked the stupid cocksuckers for all they were worth.
Sister Ramona was a racist and right-wing fanatic. Her husband drove me to poverty pockets and dropped me off with newspaper bags full of handbills. I slid them under doors and stuffed them in mailboxes. Little kids and dogs followed me around. Teenagers laughed at me and flipped me the bird.
The husband gave me two bucks a day lunch money. I spent it on T-Bird and muscatel. Flame-O was right: I turned into a full-fledged wino.
I put a roll together and got my pad back. I quit my Sister Ramona job.
A high-school acquaintance introduced me to a woman who needed a place to stay. She said she’d devirginize me in exchange for a roof. I eagerly accepted her offer.
She moved in. She devirginized me under duress. I didn’t turn her on and my acne-scarred back repulsed her. She fucked me four times and told me that was all I was getting. I was crazy about her and let her stay anyway.
She bewitched me. She dominated me completely. She stayed with me for three months and announced that she was a lesbian. She’d just met a woman and was moving in with her.
I was heartbroken. I went on a long vodka bender and blew my rent money. My landlord evicted me again.
I moved back into Robert Burns Park and found a permanent dry spot by a toolshed. I started to think that outdoor living wasn’t that bad. I had a safe spot to sleep, and I could hang out with Lloyd and read in public libraries all day. I could shave in public restrooms and take occasional showers at Lloyd’s place.
I got my rationale straight and proceeded on that course. I switched my diet from steaks to luncheon meat and haunted branch libraries all over L.A. I drank in library men’s rooms and went through Ross Macdonald’s entire oeuvre my first few weeks on the street. I kept a change of clothes at Lloyd’s pad and bathed there occasionally.
It was fall ’68. I met a freak at the Hollywood Public Library. He told me about Benzedrex inhalers.
They were an over-the-counter decongestant product encased in little plastic tubes. The tubes held a wad of cotton soaked in a substance called prophylhexedrine. You were supposed to stick the tube in your nose and take a few sniffs. You weren’t supposed to swallow the wads and fly on righteous ten-hour speed highs.
Benzedrex inhalers were legal. They cost 69 cents. You could buy them or boost them all over L.A.
The freak said I should steal a few. I dug the idea. I could tap into a speed source without dope connections or a doctor’s prescription. I stole three inhalers at a Sav-On drugstore and hunkered down to chase them with root beer.
The wads were two inches long and of cigarette circumference. They were soaked in an evil-smelling amber solution. I gagged one down and fought a reflex to heave it back up. It stayed down and went to work inside half an hour.
The high was gooooood. It was brain-popping and groin-grabbing. It was just as good as a pharmaceutical-upper high.
I went back to my spot in Robert Burns Park and jacked off all night. The high lasted eight solid hours and left me dingy and schizzy. T-Bird took the edge off and eased me into a fresh euphoria.
I’d found something. It was something I could have at will.
I went at it willfully. I stole inhalers and flew every third or fourth day for