A week before my last semester of university, I moved into an apartment across the street from where I lived the previous semester, moving from a two-bedroom suite on the third floor to a one-room suite in the basement. It was certainly adequate enough quarters for a quasi-indigent student like me; however, living in the apartment directly above mine was a morphine addict named Calen Mallow. He was over six feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds, a big fat guy with a childish high-pitched voice.<\/p>\n
I had been warned about him. Before my old roommate left town, he stopped by to say farewell and mentioned meeting a really weird dude outside.<\/p>\n
\u201cBe careful if you ever see that guy,\u201d he said, \u201cbecause I\u2019m telling you, that fucker\u2019s a poison reptile.\u201d<\/p>\n
I guess it was inevitable that a couple months later, I was returning home from another late-night creative session at the Hub, and he was standing on the front stoop of our building. I knew immediately upon sighting him that this was the fellow Dustin warned me about all that time ago. As I walked up the steps, he said to me, \u201cHey man…\u201d all spaced-out and sleazy-like, a hideous insectile wheeze.<\/p>\n
At the door, I fumbled with the lock, almost overcome with revulsion at this guy, this balloon-head mass of molecules looming over me in his winter coat, staring me down with empty eyes. Like a big bloated leech and that\u2019s exactly what he was: he was so fat he seemed boneless, not even a human being at all, but rather a giant slug merely shaped like one, a big anthropomorphic bag of pus and blood and snot and shit. Somehow, I was able to get inside without further incident.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t encounter him again until a couple weeks before final exams, but I\u2019d see him around the neighborhood sometimes, thankfully always at a safe distance. A couple years earlier I heard the phrase \u201cthe Mark of Cain\u201d to describe when one\u2019s first impression of somebody is that they are evil. Most people seemed to intuit he was someone to be avoided, and were wise enough to stay away, but he was able to fool plenty others, and some people, like me, are just dumb.<\/p>\n
Because on the fateful day I was returning home from work, walking down the central basement corridor to my apartment, and saw him pounding on the door of the suite opposite mine and yelling in a horrible voice, I dimly realized I should have kept walking past, and away from this questionable scene. But I was too exhausted to think clearly, tired and filthy from having put in a long day at the recycling plant after my morning classes, that I simply didn\u2019t bother, and instead went to my door and unlocked it.<\/p>\n
The moment I did that, I heard him cease pounding and turn to look at me; I could feel the weight of his eyes on the back of my head. And then I heard him say, \u201cDo you have a phone? I need to use it.\u201d<\/p>\n
For some reason, I let him in and he called his sister and made an arrangement in an obscure code, then asked for a ride to someplace near the downtown apartment where I lived during my first year of school. After that, I didn\u2019t see him for a while, except for a few times when I was driving or walking around the neighborhood and spotted him at a distance. He never recognized me on those occasions though; he only knew who I was when he needed something.<\/p>\n
So, of course, he came knocking about a week later with the same request as before. Having just gotten home, I was packing a bowl and looking forward to an evening spent swimming in the haze, but at the sound of his voice, I knew such was not to be. Obviously, he knew I was in there; he said he\u2019d been watching the parking lot, waiting for my return.<\/p>\n
This time he asked to borrow money as well, forty dollars. While we were driving, he asked what kind of books I like to read. As it happened, I was reading much by the Beats at the time, so I told him William Burroughs, Irvine Welsh, Hubert Selby Junior\u2014it seemed we had something of a common interest.<\/p>\n
By that one inquiry into my literary tastes, a nugget of affection was caused to exist, and the next time I saw him, it was the same as before: he used the phone, borrowed money, got a lift. But this time was different: \u201cI need you to wait for me this time,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
He directed me to a rough neighborhood near the train tracks that bisect the city. All the houses were rundown, the yards overgrown, pieces of garbage drifted in the wind. Sometimes sick-looking people entered or emerged from those houses; sometimes they walked past wearing clothes that didn\u2019t fit properly. I sat in my car with the engine running and the doors locked.<\/p>\n
Afterward, he invited me up to his place and that\u2019s how I learned about his habit. It was then I realized the dubious intent of befriending me, for in addition to the phone, money, and ride, he also needed someone to help cook up the shots for him. By this time, skag had already reduced his mind to mush, and he was largely incapable of doing anything except talking, eating, and injecting.<\/p>\n
He showed me how to crush the $40 pills and boil them in a spoon, then strain it through a cigarette filter into the hypo, tap the needle to knock out the bubbles and hand it over to him, which he would then stick in his arm, always into the exact same spot, the hole a moist red dot haloed by a dime-sized bruise, plunge it down all the way down, then draw back a crimson blossom to rinse, and sink it again. His head would tilt back, all puffy and swollen, a big dumb grin on his face, and he would sit there not moving for a long time, then ask for a cigarette, which I provided, and lit one for myself.<\/p>\n
He started coming over with increasing frequency after that; those initial visits occurring once a week, then twice, then every other day (and apparently even every single morning after I already left for school, he would go to my apartment and pound on the door, shouting in that horrible voice, demanding to be let in, waking the other tenants, who generally couldn\u2019t be bothered to silence him).<\/p>\n
Such a span of time had already passed, and with no end in sight, it wasn\u2019t long before I started leaving bubbles in the needle when I gave it to him, but there wouldn\u2019t be a junkie alive if that truly worked.<\/p>\n
This all took place within a month, if you can believe it. I had no money left, but still that rotten parasite had to invade my home every single day, violating my solitude and disrupting my studies. He came over just to ask, \u201cGet paid yet?\u201d<\/p>\n
He also used my phone constantly, ringing through a small catalogue of people to ask for money, basically anyone he had ever crossed paths with, ostensibly for reasons other than supporting his habit.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey Gramma, I know it\u2019s me again, but I was just wondering if I could borrow some money, because the rent is overdue and they\u2019re asking about it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHey Vanessa, I just want you to know that I still have your guitar, but I was wondering if I could borrow some money, just a couple bucks until tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
I could actually hear his grandmother screaming at him one time: \u201cQuit fucking calling here!\u201d But in the end, he always got what he needed.<\/p>\n
He really did almost have it down to a science. I remember the story he told me about one time he asked some girls on the sidewalk for ten bucks to get a Slurpee and they declined, then started walking away, and the moment they did that, he just sat on the curb and put his head in his hands, such a pathetic gesture, this poor guy down on his luck, how could they not turn around and go \u201cAww,\u201d and then give him ten dollars.<\/p>\n
Apparently, I offended him one night when he was arguing with his girlfriend. The second after hanging up, he promptly dialed her number again and apologized profusely, only to shortly resume the loud voices. For some reason, the phone still worked, and this was what it got used for. After the fifth call, I told him to just leave her alone for a bit, chill out and be cool, calm down and think about things, and then he became all offended.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you know anything about my life? You\u2019re just a question mark.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he left, refusing any paltry displays of friendship or such.<\/p>\n
One day he actually scolded me because I couldn\u2019t spare anything, not so much as a dollar, not even a cigarette. \u201cYou know, man,\u201d he said, \u201csometimes when I ask people for money and they say they don\u2019t have it, they do have it. They\u2019re keeping that money to pay their bills or buy groceries or whatever. But they do have it, they\u2019re just lying to me. They say they\u2019re broke and don\u2019t give me anything and I\u2019ve got nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nothing except six muffins in a plastic case on the kitchen counter and three appliances and a brand-new Nike hat and Ray Ban sunglasses and someone else\u2019s guitar, plus several bottles of methadone and some other meds; instead of making do with that, he tries to take everything I have. The other day when he was over, I could tell he was eyeing around for things to steal. Luckily, I have nothing: a bed, two chairs, and an ancient wheezing computer jumbled atop a rickety dresser I found in the alley.<\/p>\n
He should have sold all that stuff already\u2014a fucking junkie should not weigh over two hundred pounds, he should be a fucking skeleton. I am the one who\u2019s in trouble here\u2014I don\u2019t have any money, not enough for a pack of cigarettes, not enough for even a loaf of bread. I can feel myself slowly becoming dangerously malnourished now. What little remained of my provisions was eaten days ago.<\/p>\n
One evening, my neighbor came over to have a word with me. He was a pot dealer who looked like Josh Hartnett and lived down the hall.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that guy bothering you?\u201d he asked. \u201cBecause I know he comes over here a lot and I\u2019m just wondering because you aren\u2019t the first person he\u2019s done this to. He\u2019s gone to every single apartment in this building and even a few across the street and just tries to take things, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d he said. \u201cHe used to do the same thing to me. Finally, one night I just got fed up and grabbed him around the head and dragged him outside and threw him down on the ice and started beating the fuck out of him. Doesn\u2019t talk to me anymore though.\u201d<\/p>\n
He said if that guy ever came back (and he surely would) I could just come get him and he would take care of the situation for me.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t all bad though. One time, he came over with an acoustic guitar and used my phone to tune it to the note he said rang at dial tone. Then we composed a song together because it was April and I was editing my story \u201cRifle Retribution,\u201d which I had written in commemoration of the Columbine school shootings. And I will always remember that fat junkie sitting in my rocking chair, strumming away, an urgent blank-faced zombie chant: \u201cKill them all, kill them all \/ Everyone must suffer now \/ Everyone must pay.\u201d<\/p>\n
I have to admit a morbid fascination with the process. I was long in thrall with William Burroughs after reading Naked Lunch \u2013 a full two years by this point. So, we did indeed forge some kind of friendship. I remember he looked at my arms one day and said I should start injecting, he\u2019d even help me insert the needle, not even use a vein the first time, just stick it in the thigh where there\u2019s the most meat.<\/p>\n
He had a tendency to piss people off and induce them to assault him. This worry manifested one day when he asked if I was a good fighter; he said I looked strong. That was the time we were driving to the house across the street from an elementary school wherein a big pale fat man with glasses had cartons of cigarettes stacked to the ceiling; we went in there and each bought a carton and left.<\/p>\n
Another time, we went to a rundown old house in the ghetto and hung out for over an hour with a couple withered old Natives, waiting for the delivery they said was imminent; they even asked if I fix and I said no, but I was secretly flattered they thought I was one of them.<\/p>\n
In those days, a quartet of teenage stoners used to come by and get high with me. They lived like vagabonds: instead of going to school, they walked around the city all day with a huge backpack full of weed, selling it. They made more money in a week than I did all month and they were smart: they said they were saving it, not spending foolishly. They said they were going to make as much money as they could while they were young, then call it quits after they turned 18 when their criminal records get sealed. There had even been some talk of climbing the ladder.<\/p>\n
Being somewhat their elder, they looked up to me and thought I was cool: I was a writer, I had my own place. They\u2019d wait till I was home from work, then they\u2019d come over and I let them stay as long as they wanted. They often hung out till it was late enough for them to go home to their parents\u2019 house and sleep. Sometimes I amused them by drawing cartoons or reading bits of my writing. They found out about Calen. He came over one evening while they were there and he got embarrassed and left. They knew right away he was a big bully taking advantage of me; they offered to get rid of him. They knew who to talk to, just say the word.<\/p>\n
I think it was them who told me a story about a girl who didn\u2019t know any better and agreed to go on a date with that guy. However, when she got to his house, there was a fat man in his underpants, a briefcase full of money, and a little boy. After she knocked on the door, she could hear a kerfuffle inside and somebody saying, \u201cHide the money, hide the money.\u201d Then they let her in, but the whole scene was so creepy she must have bailed out immediately thereafter.<\/p>\n
Finally, there was the incident when he\u2019d taken everything. I was flat broke and all I had left was half a pack of smokes. He came over, sat in my rocking chair, and reached over to take one \u2013 but then he saw me tense up and withdrew his hand. Because he knew: the very second he took one of my last cigarettes without even asking, I was going to bash his head with the aluminum bat I had at the foot of my bed. He might be a morphine addict and say the world turns to hell when he\u2019s in withdrawal, but the exact same thing happens to me without nicotine, and truly I would have delighted in vigorously terminating this nuisance once and for all.<\/p>\n
Then he sat back and laughed in my face; he didn\u2019t make it this far without skirting the edge of death a few times by his continual overbearing; he knew when to pull back, he just liked pushing the limits. He already drained me dry and he knew it. He was just testing me, the good boy in his straits, to see where my boundaries are.<\/p>\n
The last time I saw him was at the end of April: final exams were over, all the snow had melted, there was sunshine and blue sky and green grass; it was spring. I was getting ready to go back to the farm to help with seeding. He asked me to drive him somewhere near the legislative building to meet his dealer and he told me to wait there, but he had been so goddamn rude that I left immediately and drove back to my apartment and got my baseball bat and my knives ready, and if that stupid fuckhead had the gall to come back, I was going to bash his fucking head in and dismember him in my bathtub.<\/p>\n
But that bastard had the luck of the devil in many ways, and me too for that matter, because he was almost arrested in the park that day and it was merely luck I wasn\u2019t there to get caught along with him; but also they let him go because he simply talked himself out of it somehow, said he wasn\u2019t there to buy drugs, he was just looking for someone by that name for some other reason. But it detained him long enough that by the time he came back, I was gone.<\/p>\n
Working on the farm that spring was its own sort of hell, but two months later, we had the crops in the ground, and the rocks were picked and I was back in my apartment waiting to resume my job full-time. The neighbor who offered help came by and said that every day while I was away, Calen came down and pounded on my door yelling and screaming just like he did the whole time I was actually there; he didn\u2019t even realize I was gone. That neighbor came over another time with one of his buddies and we got high and talked about salvia divinorum, a then-legal psychedelic drug I had written about and was recently interviewed for national radio.<\/p>\n
Somehow, I was able to evade Calen for a whole week and instead devoted that time to writing a short story about a man who walks across Antarctica. But after seven days cooped up in the sweltering cube of my apartment, I got restless, so I borrowed some money from my mother and bought a bus ticket to Victoria so I could have a quick vacation before I ran out of time.<\/p>\n
A couple days after I returned, I saw Calen lurking on the street corner in front of our building. He beckoned me over and explained that he was waiting for a delivery of some crack-cocaine and I could smoke it with him if I wanted; he was getting off the needles and doing this instead. I said yeah sure whatever, feeling nihilistic because the previous day I was supposed to meet a girl for a date, but she stood me up.<\/p>\n
Another painful analogue between him and me was that our relationships with women at that time were nearly identical: I too was the pathetic creep begging for another chance, screwing up abominably, then begging for another. So, we fell in together, and over the next couple days spent every last penny I had. Luckily, my car still had enough gas that I could get to work on Monday.<\/p>\n
So, once again, that bastard bled me dry, and in the weeks subsequent, I was able to avoid him by going to my friend Will Kopek\u2019s house after work, and if he wasn\u2019t at home, which he often wasn\u2019t, I\u2019d simply sit on the patio behind the house with my pipe and write notes and sometimes stream off a scene or a couple paragraphs for a story. I\u2019d been struggling to write fiction for three years by now, but it wasn\u2019t until this very summer that I had the incredible break through\u2014burst out with six brand new full-bodied short stories and eight more that winter (including this one). Kopek knew I was having trouble and invited me to come live in his basement, so I did.<\/p>\n
Thus, the summer gave way to autumn, and all kinds of stories, and all kinds of drugs. I was quite glad to forget about Calen and move on with my life. The following spring, my friend Mick saw him through the window of a pizza parlor, vomiting on the sidewalk. People say he was actually a normal guy before he started injecting narcotics, but I doubt it.<\/p>\n
That autumn, I dreamed about killing him\u2014stalking him across an icefield, I followed him into an old barn and butchered him with an axe, slammed it into the back of his head and chopped him into pieces. (This dream was somehow connected to another dream about a Christmas sleigh that was also a time machine.) And so, there was vicarious fulfilment in that.<\/p>\n
I still see him around the city every couple years\u2014same scumbag fuckhead\u2014thankfully always at a distance and doesn\u2019t appear to recognize me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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