I was never a big drug user through college and after. At my highest use I smoked marijuana three or four times a week. Usually once a week, for most of my post-college life. I dabbled in cocaine, and loved it. Tried ecstasy a couple times. Also liked crystal meth. But none of it became routine, none of it habitual.
Sometimes in my 20s I got a hold of a vicotin prescription and had some 100 pills at my disposal. This was the beginning of what I affectionately called the S.G.V.; Sushi, Guinness and Vicotin, a routine I indulged in every weekend or so while living in Oakland, California.
Florence kept her pills in a daily/weekly container, next to her remote control, usually on the arm of her recliner, or on top of a small chest of drawers on the floor. It was a cheap, faux-mahogany outfit, made to look like something Louis XV might have had; if he had been 2 feet tall. The kind of free gift one gets for subscribing to Time Magazine's "Great Novels of all Time."
Florence had to take at least three cycles of pills each day, usually between 5 and 10 each time. I couldn't tell you what they all were...I suppose some were for blood pressure, some for pain, and I knew she took Prozac.
When I'd first got the caretaking job I worked for a 63-year-old woman, who was taking so many prescribed medications a state organization had been alerted and had sent someone to her home to try and sift through all the different pills.
I was there when the woman came over. It was my first day on the job, and the patient wanted nothing to do with me. Her husband had recently died, and she was well on her way to dying herself, which she did days later.
But the pill organizer, if that's what her job indeed was, was astonished to see the woman, Ida, had been prescribed some 30 medications, by some 7 doctors. Many of the prescriptions were treating the same ailment.
"This sort of thing is killing people," she told me.
The woman was German and I had recently been to Germany. I nodded my head.
"Isn't there a way doctor's can see what others have been prescribing?"
"Not really. Unless all the drugs are coming through one company, which they don't usually."
When the Pain Doctor started prescribing Florence to take eight oxycontin pills a day, I saw an opening.
I knew it was a pain pill, perhaps something like vicotin, and I knew Florence had so many she wasn't going to miss it if I took one.
It was June, and soon the first 80 degree days of summer would give way to 100 degree days in Livermore. Florence had bought me lunch at Safeway, where we dropped off and picked up her medications. I hated the people that worked there. There was a mood of animosity, I assume perpetrated by one of the superiors. They all hated their jobs, and dealing with sick and old people all day probably didn't help. What's more, they were all fat married woman, and their boss was a young bastard, probably a medical student dropout who had somehow ended up at the Livermore Safeway.
If we were just getting pills and sandwiches, Florence stayed in the car for simplicity's sake. I'd lower the window a bit, so she could get some fresh air during the 5 or 10 minutes I was in the store. It was much simpler this way, to the point where if Florence did want to come inside, it was a burden to me because it meant I had to pull the wheelchair out of the car and get her into it, simply so she could stare at the cheese or fruit.
Most of the people at the sandwich counter were jerks too. Totally dehumanized, the 20 of them working in the Deli scrambled around, scooping fried chicken and chow mien into a bag for some fat bitch that had to be back in her cubicle by 12:35 pm.
Occasionally an immigrant would get a hold on one of these jobs and would actually take the employee manual seriously, being careful to say "have a wonderful day!" or "enjoy your lunch!" and maintaining a generally cheery atmosphere in direct opposition to the outright misery the area conveyed.
I'd decided, at some point between the pharmacy and the sandwich counter that day that I was going to try one of Florence's oxycontins. The bottle I'd just gotten had about 250 pills in it, and I knew she had several other prescriptions at home.
I thought getting a hold of one of the pills might be a problem. But once we got home Florence was off to the bathroom so it was as simple as opening the bottle and taking one out. I put it in the back pocket of my jeans, which would become my own personal pillbox for...well, forever.
I finished my sandwich and we watched the A's game throughout the afternoon. Once my stomach was full, I took the pill. I felt a little fuzzy, but nothing extreme. My shift ended at two, I told Florence goodbye and that I'd see her Monday.
Driving home on the vicious 580 freeway I the fuzziness gave way to slight dizziness. My the time I got home I had to run up the stairs to get into the bathroom to avoid throwing up on the carpet.
I've heard stories about people throwing up immediately after doing heroin. I thought of that as I was throwing up in the toilet, and I thought about it more as the day went on, because I felt wonderful. I turned on the television and lay on the floor in ecstasy.
The game was just ending, the A's had won, and I didn't notice. There was some white noise in the background, and I just stared at the vaulted ceiling in my sister's apartment. I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise into the white nothingness.
Quite simply I felt like a Jacuzzi had been installed inside my body. I wonderful, bubbling, temperate Jacuzzi that was would last for 4 or 5 hours. I sat there feeling like my life had suddenly achieved some focus.