Sierra Skye Gemma
This piece first appeared in Plenitude magazine, Issue 2. Published here with permission from the author.
The first time I see Stacey, I am standing in front of the courthouse on S.W. Morrison, in downtown Portland, Oregon. Iām with all the other punks in our usual spot. This is our block.
Iām eating some pasta that a stranger gave me. I said, āSpare change for food?ā to a man walking by. He was dressed all nice-like in a suit and carrying a hard plastic bag with a restaurant logo on it. He said nothing, but handed me the bag. I grabbed it and looked inside: a square cardboard box, no doubt filled with leftovers from his fancy schmancy lunch. I could tell from the bag and the container that this was gonna be some good shit. āThanks!ā I called after him, but it was too late. And as I pick out a gooey glob of noodles and cheese and sauce, I glance up to see her as she walks past me.
Stacey is fat. Dyed-red hair peeks out from under her dirty black winter cap. Her clothes are black. She has so many patches on them that I figure she must be a Traveller. Those patches show a certain punk sophistication, not from around here. She practically sparkles in all her safety pins.
I donāt say anything to her. Thereās no time. Instead I look back at Dean and nod towards the pasta. He shakes his head.
Damn, heās so fucking hot. Way too hot to be a street punk. He has that killer combo that always gets me: dark hair, light skin, and bright eyes. I think itās the contrast that Iām into.
I look for Chris. I search Chrisās expression, his eyes. I can tell he doesnāt give a fuck.
This indifference signals everything to come. In three years, Chris and I will make the decision that will lead to the demise of our relationship. The decision that, since I want to sleep with women, the only logical thing to do is for us both to sleep with other women. Then, a few months later: since Chris can sleep with the opposite sex, I should also be able to. Itās not my fault he isnāt bi.
Now, Chris looks at me, smirks and walks down the block a bit to talk to some of the other punks.
I turn to look at Dean, but dirty Sol lunges towards me. His hand stretches out towards my cardboard box. That fucker! I step to the side and swing my leg at him. Solās eyes widen and he tries to change course. He manages to veer to the left and the inch-long spike sticking out from the toe of my boot only grazes him.
āFuck!ā He grabs at his shin. āWhat the fuck, man?ā
Chris laughs from down the block. He yells, āWatch out for her! Sheās dangerous!ā
āIāll fuck you up.ā Sol spits at me. Gross.
āYeah? You wanna try?ā
āDonāt do it, man,ā Chris calls, āSheās small, but sheās vicious.ā
āBitch!ā
Nobody calls me that. Not without consequence. Not yet.
I take another bite of the pasta, think about keeping it, then throw it at Sol. The noodles and the red, chunky sauce hit him square on his left thigh. He squats to catch the noodles. Some fall away, but a few clump on the dirty cargo pant leg. The red sauce almost makes it look like a wound.
āFuck!ā he yells again. āAh man, you play dirty.ā
I smile at my triumph.
Sol looks at me, reassessing the situation, reassessing me, and then flashes me a rotten-toothed grin.
āItās mine now.ā
He piles the noodles still clinging to his leg into his hands and shoves them in his mouth.
āHa!ā He thinks heās won. Fuck him.
I look back at Dean. He has a slight smile on his face. He looks smart. I think, I could talk books with this guy. But I wonāt. Iāll never talk books with any of them.
His eyes flicker past me to Chris, who is now deep in conversation, out of hearing distance, then back to me.
āSo, if you two ever break up, you wanna fuck?ā
āYeah.ā
āCool.ā
There are two things I donāt know at this moment.
1). Dean likes to save his used condoms in this tin he keeps in his pack. He considers them trophies of a sort. When I find out about the used condom thing, I will be seriously grossed out. Iāll decide not to fuck him, even if Chris and I break up.
2). Dean has herpes. When I find this out, Iāll feel both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed that Iāll never get the chance to fuck him. Relieved that I never did.
Ten years later, Dean will finish his Ph.D. and become a university professor. Chris will contact me and say, āDo you remember Dean? Heās a professor now!ā Chris will give me the link to a university web page and Iāll see a picture of Dean, so clean and well-dressed, sitting in a high-back leather chair in front of a wall of books. Iāll stare into those bright blue eyesāthe bluest eyes Iāve ever seenāand remember the time he asked if I wanted to fuck.
āĀ āĀ ā
When I first get close enough to Stacey to talk to her, she smells so sweet to me, better than the other punk girls. Sickly sweet, like rotten fruit. I love it. I want her. I want to drown in that smell. I donāt care that sheās fat.
She walks down our block in front of the courthouse and I call her over. I tell her that I think sheās cute. Sheās flattered, but straight. I tell her that itās a pity and that she can kiss me if she wants. She declines. Stacey isnāt the only new punk in town. There is a little street urchin slinking about. Heās called Booger.
I try to puzzle out why someone would be called that, and why they would be okay with being called that. I decide I donāt want to know. I donāt want to know him.
I find out that Booger is Staceyās boyfriend. Iām perplexed and disgusted and envious.
I am determined to hate him.
āĀ āĀ ā
I get drunk, really drunk, for the first time ever, under a bridge. Portland is The City of Bridges, but I donāt get drunk under a bridge with history or merit. Itās a nameless off-ramp from I-405. The gutter punks before us had long ago pulled a dirty couch under the bridge and some other falling-apart furnishings. Itās me, Chris, Stacey, Booger, and the Old Punk. Nobody likes the skeezy Old Punk, but he always has more money than anyone else and he pays for almost half of the booze.
The guys open the two-litre of Coke and dump most of it out. They pour in a fifth of Captain Morgan rum, or as much as will fit.
We sit in a makeshift circle and pass the bottle. Chris takes the first swig and passes it to me. I take one sip and almost spit it right out. I cough, splutter, tear up. Iāve never been much of a drinker. My drug of choice is acid. In a pinch, pot.
āAaack!ā I pass the bottle to Booger. They snicker.
When it comes back around, I say, āPass! Pass!ā I shake my head, refusing to touch the bottle, and Chris passes it to Booger instead.
āPass! Pass!ā they repeat, mocking me, jeering.
The bottle comes back and I repeat āPass! Pass!ā and they echo it, laughing.
On the fourth round, I take the jug. I close my eyes, put my head back, and swallow. Repeat. I ignore the burn. I ignore the taste. It goes straight from the bottle to my stomach, with barely a pause between.
After a moment of group surprise, they cheer.
āĀ āĀ ā
Blacking out is a strange thing because one moment youāre Here and the next youāre There. Like you stepped out of the theatre to run to the bathroom, except the movie is your life. The movie plays, life goes on, even while youāre in the bathroom.
āĀ āĀ ā
Scene.Ā
One moment Iām sitting in a rotting chair, the next moment Iām on the couch, straddling Stacey, making out with her. My underwear? Gone. Under my skirt, two of her fingers are pumping in and out of me while we exchange saliva. Her breath is bitter.
When I realize what is happening to me or perhaps what I am doing or maybe even what I am doing to Stacey, the sound of the scene breaks through to my mind. I hear the laughter and the shouting, the raucous encouragement from the three men. I pull back from kissing her and slur, āWait, wait, I thought you were straight!ā But itās a question, not a statement.
Stacey shrugs and says, āMe too!ā
So I do what only seems reasonable and I kiss her some more.
End Scene.
Scene.Ā
I am lying on the ground. Iām not sure if I have found my underwear or not, but Iām a little concerned because I canāt feel them. If I canāt feel them because, indeed, they are missing, then everyone can surely see my goods, ācause I am wearing the shortest skirt ever.
I vomit forcefully. I am surprised but not disturbed by this.
Iām tired and I try to lie down. But someone grabs my hoodie and pulls me back, which kind of pisses me off. Does somebody wanna fuck with me? Poor choice for them.
I look over my shoulder to see that itās Chris who is grabbing me.
He says, āWhoa there! You just puked there!ā
I look back down in front of me but see nothing.
āIt doesnāt count. Itās clear.ā
I try to explain. He doesnāt listen. I try to lie down. He pulls me up and says we have to leave now. Itās a long way home and buses will stop running in an hour.
I donāt remember how it happens, but I walk. I walk somewhat of my own accord.
After what seems like many blocks, Chris stops at a late night coffee shop. āWeāll get coffee here,ā he says. We go in and sit. He goes up to the register to get the coffee. When he walks back, I have passed out, my head on the table. He wakes me and I look around. I can barely see, but Iām pretty sure everyone is looking at me.
I wake up the next afternoon and Iām fine. Tip top. I tell Chris, āLetās go spange for burgers.ā
āĀ āĀ ā
I always spange for Midol. It works like a freakinā charm.
Iām pretty sure I invented it, ’cause when I start one day, the other punks are surprised. But when they see all the peopleāespecially womenāhanding over their spare change to me, even dollar bills, the guys are pissed. They canāt pull this off.
Sometimes I spange for tampons, which works great too.
Between me and Chris, we make $6 in no time. We take it to Burger King and buy Whoppers, on sale for $1 each. We buy two each and have change left over. Weāre living the high life.
āĀ āĀ ā
Iām always on Staceyās case now, ’cause I want more. Come over, come to our house. Chris and I have our own room. We rent a room with this crazy guy. Heās crazy, but harmless. We have a piece of foam we sleep on, with a sheet and everything. We have blankets. We even have extra sleeping bags. Thereās a shower. You can use it, Stacey, if you want.
One night, Stacey relents. She comes over, with Booger. Itās very late when the four of us get to the house. Our crazy roommate isnāt in the living room when we unlock the door. Heās probably passed out drunk in his bedroom. We creep upstairs.
We are already pretty hammered when we get to the house, but we keep drinking. I try to get in Staceyās pants, but she puts me off. I feed her more alcohol, but she wonāt budge. I promise her that weāll shower together in the morning. Maybe sheāll be turned on when weāre both slippery with soap or squeaky clean from the shower.
She promises nothing. Eventually, someone turns off the light.
Chris and I are curled up on our foam mattress, with Stacey and Booger not five feet away. Chris passes out, but I canāt sleep. I can hear Stacey and Booger talking in the dark on the other side of the room. He whispers that he doesnāt want Stacey to take a shower with me, that Stacey is his, that theyāve got something good going on. He starts whimpering. Is he crying? I hate him then. What a pussy. What a punk-ass bitch. I want Stacey all the more now, just to fuck up his life.
The next morning, Stacey refuses to take a shower with me. She wonāt take one at all.
āĀ āĀ ā
A few days later, when Iām in the shower, I notice something. The soap smells weird. No, itās not the soap, itās me. Itās not any part of me, itās my crotch. I finally understand why the boys in high school would call the ugly girls āfish tacos.ā No one ever called me that, except for Nathanael, and that was one time. I clocked him full-strength, right in the temple. He was the biggest kid among the skaters and his legs buckled and he stumbled when I hit him. He mustāve told the skaters to never call me a fish taco or I would fuck them up because no one ever did. Good choice for them.
Now I am a fish taco.
I go to the good people at Planned Parenthood. I know them from when I got an abortion earlier in the year. I tell them I have no money and they put me on a sliding scale payment. They give me a prescription for $3.85. It is an antibiotic for bacterial vaginosis.
I think about Staceyās fingers in me. I think about the dirt under her fingernails.
I think about how she wouldnāt take a shower.
āĀ āĀ ā
Chris leaves to go Travelling. I worry about him a little, but mostly I am lonely.
One night while he is gone, Stacey and Booger come over to sleep at our place again. I have no illusions that it will lead to something sexual and, anyway, I donāt care. I am done with vaginosis.
As usual, it is late when we get back to the house and our roommate has long since passed out. As soon as we get settled into the bedroom, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I gotta take a shit. When youāre out late, there is never a good place to shit. I hate taking a shit in public bathrooms, so Iāve been holding it for a while. I hope they donāt notice how long I am gone.
When I get back to the room, Stacey and Booger are hunched over something. Itās a small, sticky-looking brown ball thatās dissolving into liquid on a spoon. Booger holds the spoon. Stacey holds the lighter under it.
This is beyond my experience. I know heroin involves a spoon, but I thought heroin was white. This is not white. I canāt show ignorance ācause Iāve got an image to maintain. I donāt say a word as Booger dips the needle into the brown liquid.
Stacey wraps a piece of rubber around her arm and ties it, smacks her arm on the inside of her elbow a few times.
Iāve never known anyone who did heroin. Stacey seems perfectly normal to me. Maybe it isnāt such a big deal after all?
Booger injects the needle of brown water into her arm.
Immediately, it seemsāalmost the very moment he depresses the syringeāshe starts to freak out. She says, āOh my god!ā and not in a good way. Not the way I always imagined her saying it.
āOh my god!ā Louder this time.
I look at them and then the door. I donāt want the sound to wake our roommate.
āDonāt let me turn blue! Donāt let me turn blue! Donāt let me turn blue!ā
She screams this again and again and I think my brain is going to implode from the sound of her screaming.
All of a sudden I realize that she could die, that people die all the time when they do hard drugs. I imagine her head popping off and blood spraying on our ceiling. With how much she is screaming, it seems entirely possible. She could die in my room and the cops will come and Iāll get arrested. What the fuck were they thinking? What the fuck was I thinking? Why did I allow people to do heroin in my house?
As quickly as it starts, it ends. She calms. Booger, seeing that she isnāt dying, puts the needle in his own arm. They soon cease to be good company.
The next day, Stacey and Booger hang out and watch TV. I canāt stop looking at her. I canāt stop thinking about last night and how I thought she was going to die and that I was going to go to jail forever. I want to ask questions, but I donāt know how.
When Booger goes out for a smoke, I try to make eye contact with Stacey, but she doesnāt look at me. She seems exhausted, worn out.
āIāve never done heroin,ā I say.
She looks at me, finally. She shrugs as if to say, And?
āIs it . . . Do you . . . You donāt seem addicted, is what Iām trying to say.ā
āOh, Iām totally addicted. You should see me when I havenāt had it for four days. I freak out.ā
āĀ āĀ ā
When Chris gets back from Travelling, he tells me a story.
He went to San Francisco. While there, he met some nice hippies who had an old Volkswagen van. He travelled with them down to LA. The hippies smoked pot with Chris, but didnāt tell him it was laced with PCP. While high on PCP and marijuana, they toured an area where Nazi skinheads liked to hang. Chris hopped out of the van, in a drug-fueled rage, and beat a Nazi senseless. Beat him almost dead. āIt was so easy,ā Chris says. āLike he wasnāt even trying to fight back.ā
I tell him a story too. It is a story about a dumb girl and an exploding head and a blood-splattered ceiling.
Chris resolves never to do PCP again. I resolve never to try heroin.
We know something needs to change, but we wonāt say it aloud.
āĀ āĀ ā
Stacey and Booger leave soon after Chris gets back. They are going Travelling again. I imagine Stacey and that stupid boyfriend of hers, hitchhiking from place to place, meeting new punks, spanging till they have enough cash to move on, seeing the whole world like this. Accumulating patches and safety pins.
One day, a couple of weeks after Stacey disappears, I pick up her trail, her scent. I begin to notice that heroin junkies have a very particular smell. It has something to do with the way the body processes the drug. Heroin induces sweating, so the smell lingers on their bodies. Itās sweet, like theyāve been sweating molasses. I learn to identify a heroin junkie from three feet away, by smell alone.
It gets to the point where every time I go downtown to spange, all I can smell is that stink of candy gone bad. I grow tired of living off of spare change.
āĀ āĀ ā
Trainspotting, the movie, comes out the following year. Chris and I have an account at Blockbuster Video by then. I have a credit card with a $250 limit. So I rent the video because our new roommates want to see it and I have become the Responsible One. But I am still too shaken to endure it. When the dead baby crawls on the ceiling, I leave the room before anyone can see that I canāt keep my shit together. That Iām about to crack for a creepy, fake-believe baby.
āItās only a movie!ā someone calls.
āI gotta piss!ā I yell back.
But I sit on the toilet and shake. I wonāt cry. Iām still tough. Iāll never cry, like that punk-ass boyfriend of Staceyās.
Sierra Skye Gemma is a non-fiction writer living in Vancouver, BC. Her essay āThe Wrong Wayā won the 2012 Edna Staebler Personal Essay Contest and was published in Issue 124 of The New Quarterly. Her non-fiction has been also been published in the Globe and Mail, Vancouver Sun, Vancouver Observer, Fringe Magazine, and West Coast Families. She is an Executive Editor of PRISM International, western Canadaās oldest literary magazine. Find her online at sierraskyegemma.com or on Twitter @sierragemma.
Always LOVE Sierra’s writing! It’s always amazing and so honest.