Welcome to OpiAudio

Part I of a serialized Novella "OpiAudio"

The secretary tapped her pen on the counter, “Sir, you need to sign here.”  This snapped Fred out of his fog. 

              “And then I can go in?”  He asked.

              “There are a few more forms first, but this will verify your Medicaid.”  Fred signed the paper and handed over his ID.  The secretary clacked on her keyboard and looked back and forth between the monitor for what seemed to Fred to be at least an hour, but when he looked back at the clock saw that it had been 5 minutes at most.  It must be broken he thought.  The secretary resumed her instructions, “Ok, these forms verify that you agree to the procedure, and understand that the procedure will only provide relief from opiate withdrawals for 72 hours, and that you are not to take any opiates before coming to the office.” 

              “You got it.”  Fred signed the paper.  He still wasn’t entirely sure about what the procedure was, but he knew that people said it worked. 

              The secretary took the paper and put it into a folder without looking, “Thank you for choosing OpiAudio today sir, we have a wait list of about 45 minutes currently, but after today you can set up a regularly scheduled time.”  She suddenly got a bit cheerier, “Did those preachers out there give you a hard time?”  Fred shrugged his shoulders, the secretary rolled her eyes, “Those guys, they really think they can help you people better than we can.  You can’t pray away withdrawals, I’m sure you know that by now.”  Fred laughed at that one, he didn’t ever pray, but he knew that you couldn’t make withdrawals go away any other way than waiting or using.  He wasn’t a very patient person. 

              “Can I use the bathroom?”  He asked. 

              “Sure but do be aware that somebody will come in to check on you after about 5 minutes, company policy.”  She gave a smile as she said this, and Fred got the sense that she enjoyed telling would-be possible overdose victims that they weren’t trusted to go to the bathroom.  Fair enough, he thought.

              “It’s just, uh, the withdrawals, I think I might have to take more than 5 minutes.”  Diarrhea was one of the first symptoms Fred always got from withdrawals. 

              The secretary smiled wider and breathed out of her nose at a barely audible level, “That’s fine sir, but somebody will peak in.  I’ll let them know to use their eyes and not their nose.”  She giggled at that one.  “Here’s the key.” As Fred walked away he heard her whisper to the other secretary, “These junkies really think they’re fooling us sometimes.”  The secretaries were, of course, to be respectful to the patients, but that didn’t mean they were respectful behind the backs of the patients.  They spent long days dealing with junkies trying to trick them or ODing in the bathroom.  Their patience was worn down thin to the point of snapping when met with any amount of tension.

              The other secretary, a rotund man with an unkempt beard said back, “Well you’re going to check on him, I don’t think he was lying.”  Fred wasn’t lying.  He was in the bathroom for about 20 minutes and the secretary checked on him five minutes on the dot every time.  What was most annoying to Fred was that this would generally be a perfect time to use. It wouldn’t be hard to quickly snort some heroin or sneak some pills every 5 minutes, but he didn’t have any in the first place, that was the whole reason he came.  Fred had 3 dollars in his pocket, far too little to get anything at all, and no hope of a paycheck coming anytime soon. 

              When he left the bathroom, there was a addressless-looking man sitting in the lobby, Fred decided to sit next to him.  The man immediately struck up a conversation, which immediately annoyed Fred, “You ever been here before man?”

              “No” Fred replied.

              The addressless man’s face lit up, “Oh man, it is awesome, people ain’t joking when they say it’s like the real thing.  There’s a different feel every time too.  It’s like you get to try oxy or H or vikes for the first time every time too.  Might be better than the real thing even, since you don’t have to worry about it being laced or nothing.  Trust me big man, you’ll love it.”  He slapped Fred’s shoulder to conclude his review.  Fred flinched at this but tried to play it off as if he didn’t. 

              Fred replied, “Sounds like it’s definitely helping, man.”  All Fred was thinking was that he was grateful he wasn’t as bad as this guy.  He had a brief stint adrelessness but never enough to reach that level.

              Without prompting, the man continued, “I’ll tell you, I tried the works.  They had me on methadone, suboxone, went to about every NA meeting that the Community Transit can even reach.  That was nice though, I got to see a whole lot of the area, all the way from Arlington down to Sammamish-Ha! Those rich spoiled fucks- and all the way over to Olympia.  None of that shit worked though.  Tons of treatment centers too.  But this was the only thing that could give me what heroin and oxys could give me, bliss. You don’t need none of those steps or higher power to get it, and that’s what those self-righteous fucks didn’t ever seem to understand, that none of that shit could actually recreate the feeling you get off snorting an oxy or shooting some H.  I prayed and prayed and worked those stupid steps, never got me what I needed.  Now, I don’t have much of what I need now neither, but it’s not like I care anyhow.  It’s a lot easier to sleep on the streets when you’re a bit doped up.  By the way big man, don’t worry about that warning they give-“

              The man was interrupted by a tired-looking nurse, “We can see you now sir.” 

              “Welp!  That’s me brother, have a good time now-heh heh” The man slapped Fred’s shoulder again, this time he didn’t try to hide his flinching and even allowed himself a small scowl.  The nurse mouthed “Sorry” to Fred before she took the man away.  Without any distractions now, Fred was left alone with his thoughts.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, the only thoughts in his head were that he had to shit again, and that he wanted his aches to go away.  He reminded himself several times that he did not have enough money to buy any more junk and that no dealer in their right mind would front him the money again, so he had no choice but to wait here.  There was little chance that this procedure, whatever it may be, would actually be able to give that bliss that the homeless man was talking about.  But everyone Fred knew swore that it killed withdrawals like none other. 

              Fred leered around the building for a bit and stopped to stare at the logo of OpiAudio for a while. It was a fairly simple logo, like most logos for recovery and detox clinics.  It was a simple music note enshrined in a sun that looked as if it was drawn by a particularly gifted middle school artist.  It was made of wood and sat above the two secretaries in the center, with the words “Peace at Last” carved underneath.  He hadn’t paid much attention to the logo or even anything at all about the building before coming in, all he remembered was the way his friend gushed about the place one night when they were all setting up their foil to smoke.  Finally, the same nurse called his name, and the homeless man walked out of the room stumbling a bit.  He was smiling now, but not in the beaming way that he was before, “Have fun in there brother.” This time he did not slap his shoulder.  Fred didn’t expect to have much fun.  The room was mostly bare, and painfully and brightly lit, especially for someone in the early stages of opiate withdrawal.  At the center of the room was a large chair with a big helmet filled with wires and what appeared to be a small syringe on the right edge.  The walls were covered in what was, to the overpaid interior designer at least, calming and tasteful paintings, including a painting of a genderless blobby looking person drifting to what seemed to be sleep in a large, equally blobby chair.  The room smelled of disinfectant and an overpowering floral air freshener, along with a whiff of urine and feces. 

              The nurse vaguely waved at the large chair in the center of the room, “Wait here, the doctor will be in shortly.”  Fred hadn’t noticed any doctor walking in and out of the room earlier.  But he was, admittedly, not very attentive before.  The dull jazz muzak could be faintly heard from the lobby.  Fred continued staring at the paintings, and grew slowly disturbed by each one for reasons that made him feel like a high brow art critic.  The painting of a house in a field began to appear like a rotting house, the blobby being in the chair appeared to be dying, and the painting of a bird flying became a painting of the bird falling. 

              Before he could continue his critique work a tired-looking doctor walked into the room.  He walked quickly but as if he wanted to be anywhere else besides where he was right then.  Not just out of the room, but out of the building, and ideally out of the whole city.  Without looking up from his clipboard he said, “Fredrick Nowak?”

              Fred tried to smile, “That’s me.”

              “OK.  So have you been here before?”  The doctor briefly looked up from his clipboard at the end of his sentence.

              “No sir.”  The doctor seemed annoyed by the title of sir and sighed.

              “Well this,” He gestured to the helmet above Fred’s head, “is a state-of-the-art opioid receptor stimulation and addiction management device.”  The doctor wasn’t looking at his clipboard now, but he wasn’t looking at Fred either. “The way that this works is this small needle provides an electrical signal to your nucleus accumbens, you might know it as your ‘pleasure center’” Fred did not know what either of these were but liked that hearing ‘pleasure center’.  “The wires will mirror neurons from your memories, recreating an audio signal that you know and enjoy.  In short, because I assume little of that made sense,” A sense of disgust crept over the doctor’s face, “You will hear a song you like and you will be relieved of opioid withdrawals for the next 72 hours. Now,” The doctor sighed loudly, “do you have any questions?”

              Fred smirked a bit, “Anybody ever overdose on one of these?”

              “As far as we know that’s not possible, and for whatever reason that seems to be the most common question.  But we don’t allow people to use the device for more than 3 times in a week.  The machine has a built in-mechanism to not allow endorphin levels to reach a point where respiratory depression is possible.”  The doctor rubbed his eyebrows, “So you won’t stop breathing, which is how heroin kills you. Any other questions.”  The doctor kept staring at the door.

              Just when he began to walk away, Fred asked, “Will I eventually be able to stop using this without getting withdrawals?”

              Without turning around, the doctor answered, “No, we stimulate the same receptors as heroin does and, due to the effect of addiction on the brain, we have to stimulate them to a degree where you will still receive withdrawals if you don’t come in after 72 hours.  You will need to come here indefinitely if you want to avoid withdrawals.  But this will at least mean you will not heroin or any other opiates, and you will not overdose.”  Without asking for more questions, the doctored began walking out and opening the door.

              “What does indefinitely mean?” Fred asked.

              “Forever.”  The doctor walked out and closed the door just loudly enough to show that he was annoyed, but not so loudly that Fred would actually be able to lodge a complaint without seeming like a mentally unbalanced junkie, a skill the doctor had mastered in his year-long tenure at the facility.  After Fred began to dissociate while staring at the blobby blissful painting, the nurse entered the room again with a clipboard. 

              “You need to sign this to start the procedure.”  She handed him the clipboard then handed him a pen that she took out of her hair and immediately started tapping her foot.

              “What is this for?” Fred asked.

              “It says you agree to not sue the facility for any ill effects, not that should be any.  It’s just that this is new technology.”

              “I thought this place was like 5 years old?”

              “That’s new for medicine.”  Fred didn’t really care about any side effects anyways, anything that would end the withdrawals could do whatever it liked to him. He signed the paper.  The nurse pulled down the helmet and strapped it to his head.  He heard a click and then felt a prick which seemed to be poking his spinal cord at the base of his skull.  He shifted in his seat.

              “Is this…normal, this feeling?” He asked.

              “Sure.” The nurse replied without looking from the helmet, she was fiddling with some tube that reached up and around to a large machine that made various beeping noises.

              “I can feel it in my bones?”

              “Your amygdala is near your spinal cord, there’s not much we can do about it.  OK, when I press the button on that machine, the procedure will begin.  Are you ready?  You should really stop shifting by the way, it will only make the pain worse.”  Fred began to relax and nodded with a clenched jaw. The nurse walked over to the machine, turned it on, then stood in the corner behind Fred.

              A loud trumpet began to sound in Fred’s head, which began to clear up and created a silky and soft sound.  Almost immediately Fred’s sweats and aches began to subside.  He relaxed into the chair.  The song appeared to be some sort of jazz music, which for whatever reason seemed to be what most of the patients heard their first time.  Fred didn’t know any jazz music, and thought it was classical music and he was just loopy.  Slowly, a sense of warmth began to envelop his body.  He began to feel a literal buzz, where every cell in his body felt like it was vibrating.  That homeless kook was right, this is amazing, he thought.  It was even better than the first oxy he had snorted, the same great sensation but with none of the itchiness.  A piano began to play, and he felt his body meld with the chair.  He could no longer feel where his body ended and the chair began.  Fred could feel each note from the piano massage his body, moving from his toes, up to his scalp, and back down.  He looked at the blobby painting again and muttered, “You’re not so scary now.” Then he chuckled to himself.  The trumpet began playing again and he felt drool drip onto his chin.  He tried slurping it up but he stopped caring after the third attempt.  His head flipped to the back of his head and he closed his eyelids and tried to just enjoy the moment.  But that moment the nurse walked back to the machine and turned it off.  The music stopped but the feeling did not feel like it was subsiding quite yet.

              The nurse began unstrapping the helmet and talking to Fred, with her voice seeming far less colder than before, “OK, that’s all the time we can allot.”

              Fred slurred, “A lot of what?”  The nurse giggled at that.

              “I can tell it worked for you, but it’s time to wake up now.”   Fred’s eye returned to a vaguely normal position and he began to look around the room again.  The paintings felt less ominous and the room less painfully bright.  The paint was a warmer color and the temperature of the room was now perfect instead of unbearably cold. The nurse resumed her instructions, “Alright now, we have to get you out for the next patient.  Do you have a change of clothes?”

              Fred seemed confused, then felt warmth coming from his crotch, “I…when did that happen?”

              She giggled again, “It’s normal for the first few times, don’t be embarrassed, but we really need you to leave so we can clean it up.”

              “I don’t have any other clothes.” 

              The nurse sighed, “Well, make sure to bring them next time.  We will see you in 3 days.”  She flashed a quick smile and then went over to the door.  She signaled to the rotund secretary to tell him to come and clean up the room, “Are you alright to stand up?”  Fred shrugged, then shakily stood up.  The nurse put a hand on his back and guided him out of the room.  Upon entering the lobby again, Fred noticed that it was quite full, with a mix of haggard and not so haggard looking people milled about, with a young woman with a litany of piercings and tattoos looking up excitedly as he stood up.  “We can see you now” the nurse said, and the woman quickly stood up and grabbed her bag.  Fred noticed a smirk on her face after looking at him with a quick glance down.  A lot of people in the lobby were smirking. 

              One man shook his head, chuckled, and said, “Gotta bring a fresh pair man.” Fred just gave him a blank stare back.  He didn’t care much what people were thinking, he was just glad that he didn’t have to shit anymore and there were no more aches.  He shuffled to the front desk and set up a next appointment for 11 AM on Friday.  Fred walked out the door and looked up at the concrete sky above him, feeling the clouds around his body like a warm blanket.  It was drizzling outside, but he could barely feel the drops hit his skin.  His whole body still felt warm, and the rain was refreshing and helped keep him at an optimally minimal level of alertness.  The group of preachers began to berate him

              “Sinners must repent to enter the Kingdom of God, you still have time brother.  Give up this life, join God’s flock.  We are in the end-times now you can see that much, surely.  You have the tools God gave you to give up what brought you here.”

              “Mashallah he has seen the light, now he must embrace it.  Submit before Allah to wash away your sins.  We can help find you an address if need be.”

              “God forgives all.”

              “The time has come to escape your suffering, give up your worldly attachments.”

              “The spaceship will be here in just a matter of time, you must ascend to the higher plane now, before it is too late.”  Fred hated those freaks. 

              “Work to achieve unity.”  This one struck Fred, it was a skinny brown man that said this.  Fred figured he was a Hindu.  They were the only ones who ever seemed to vaguely interest him.  Although he wasn’t interested enough to stop walking. 

              Fred walked over to the bus station and opened his pack of cigarettes.  There was one and a half left, and he decided to smoke the halfie.  After lighting his cigarette he looked around and saw the homeless man smiling at him, “So, man, how’d’ya feel?”

              Fred just smiled, “Pretty good man.”

              The man looked up and laughed from his belly, “I told ya man.  That shit is better than anything I’ve ever had.  Way better than that methadone bullshit.”

              “Nice that it’s free too.”

              “Well it ain’t free, but I got a charity covering this for me.  You got Medicaid?”

              “Yeah.”

              “That’s good man, they don’t let me take that anymore.  Not much you can do for it when you ain’t got an address.  But oh well, I still make do.”  The man slapped his shoulder, and this time Fred didn’t flinch.  “You hear trumpets in there?”

              “Yeah.” Fred took a long drag from his cigarette.

              “People hear that their first time for whatever reason, I hear metal music now.  I love that shit.  It’s a bit weird to hear that while you start to nod off though.”

              “I don’t like metal.”

              “You’re missing out man, heh.”

              “I guess.”  Fred tried to just smoke his cigarette and end the conversation, but the man wasn’t having it.

              “Just so you know man, those warnings about not using in between sessions, total hogwash.  They don’t keep withdrawals away for the three days anyways.  Just don’t do it the same day.   That’s how I ODed.” 

              “I don’t have any money for any anyways.”

              “You can always come spanging with me, you might want to wear some rattier clothes than that.  Ideally ones you haven’t pissed in, heh heh.” The man directed a beaming smile towards Fred which made him shift his shoulders and put forth an effort to not seem disturbed.  The man was missing several teeth, but that didn’t seem to keep him from smiling. He continued, “You gotta find some sorta way to kill the time between appointments, trust me on that.”

              Fred waited a second before responding, “I think I wanna quit it for good.  My friend says he got me a job at his work, but I gotta stay sober for it.  He’s been sober for about a year.”

              “Well if that’s what you wanna do that’s what you gotta do.  Can I get a cig off you man?”

              “This was my last one.”

              The man dismissively waved his hand, “I saw your last one, but don’t worry.  I’m a bit stingy with ‘em too.  They’re 25 a pack now, I don’t know how you afford ‘em for yourself.”

              Fred snorted, “I don’t” Then they laughed together.  The laugh seemed to finally shut the man up, and Fred gave a blank, ostensibly attentive stare in the direction the bus would come from, hoping the man would just let him enjoy his high. 

              The man did not, “How old are you anyways, ya look young.”

              “28”

              The man laughed, “You ran through the shit quick huh?  Wasn’t ‘til I was 32 when I started thinking I had to stop.  You’re a few years ahead of me.”

              “How old are you?” The man held up 4 fingers on one hand and 5 on the other.  Fred wasn’t sure if that meant 45 or 54 but didn’t care to ask.  So I’ll be homeless by 41 or 50 then, he thought to himself.  Finally, a bus appeared from around the corner.

              “You think I can use your Orca card to get a ride?”

              “They don’t let us do that anymore.”

              “Ahh, just give it a shot.  Most of them drivers don’t care anyways.”

              “Last time my friend and I tried that they kicked us off and threw the card away.”

              “I’ll buy you a new one.”

              “With what money?”

              The man laughed, “Fair enough, what if I give you a bag?”

              “I told you man, I gotta stay off that shit.”

              “Gonna be a hard day at work tomorrow, you’re gonna need something to relax.”

              “I’m not giving you the cig man.”

              The man waved him off, “Ah alright.  I’m giving you a good deal, but alright man.” Fred hoped that would end the conversation, but it didn’t, “That shit in there is good, but it ain’t good enough to keep you off the junk permanently.  No reason to anyways, why feel like shit for 2 days at a time when you could just tie off?”

              Fred balled his fists, took a breath and then threw his cigarette pack at the man, “Just take the fucking cigarette and shut up.” The man picked up the pack and smiled his semi-toothed grin at Fred again.

              “You got a light too?”

              “You want my fucking kidney next?”

              “Ay man ease up.  I might got one.”  The man fumbled through what seemed like 20 different pockets in his cargo pants and jacket until he finally found a lighter.  “I’m Jack by the way.”  Fred didn’t respond, “Scared of telling me your name?”

              “Fred.”  To Fred’s relief the bus came around the corner, he steeled himself to not let Jack convince him to use his ORCA card.  A few more minutes and he’d be sure to use again just to try to block out Jack’s voice.  Fred glanced at Jack and saw him holding out the bag.  “I told you, I don’t want it, just take the cigarette.” 

              “Flush it down the toilet if you don’t want it.”  Fred swiped the bag and stuffed it in his back-right pocket.  He resigned himself to selling it to Eddy on his way to Frankie’s.  He could use the money to buy another pack of cigarettes, he just hoped that Eddy would have the cash.  The bus ambled up to the stop and took its time opening the doors, hopefully freeing Fred from Jack’s rambling.  Walking up the steps onto the bus seemed more difficult than it should be.  Fred’s right leg now seemed to have a cinderblock attached to it. 

              As he swiped his ORCA card and tried to find the nearest seat, Jack piped up, “Hey man, can I use his card? He said I could.”

              The bus driver sighed, “You got an address?”

              Jack waited a moment and replied hesitantly, “Yes.”  This was the first time Fred had seen Jack without full confidence.

              “Then you should have a card.  Fuck off you bum.”

              “Ah well figured I’d ask, heh.”  Jack tried to look cheery as he walked off but he was looking at the ground now.  The subtle reminders of his loss of rights never stopped bothering him. The doors closed and Fred began to be overcome by guilt.  What if the driver hadn’t of noticed? How bad could another 20 minutes of his rambling even been?  It was starting to rain, and Fred wondered how long it would take and how wet Jack would get.  He wondered where he was even going, where did the address-less even need to go to?

              Fred sat with this pang of guilt and sat down near the front of the bus.  His whole leg was now tingling and when he sat a burning sensation began to sear his leg right where the baggy sat, at least where Fred thought the baggy sat.  It was a small and nearly weightless and shapeless baggy, but it was psychically bound to him now.  He felt as if he could feel every atom’s movement from the baggy.  At the very least, the sense of guilt overcoming him began to be overshadowed by the growing pain in his leg, which was starting to spread up his abdomen and into his left leg now.  The bus blared advertisements from the loudspeakers, only interrupted by brief news snippets and the stops.

              “Mayor Hermel announced a clearing of all unsanitary so-called habitations, with the operation to be complete by the end of the week.  He vowed to, quote, ‘rid the city of all the address-less’.”

              “41st and Evergreen.”

              “Overcome by feelings of dread and anxiety?  You are not alone.  The time has come to join a community.  Join the millions of others who have found relief with Klonopin.  The FDA has now approved its use for depression, with resounding success for its patients.  Talk to your doctor or social worker today to see if it is the right drug for you.”

              “Low on cash?  Stuck in a rut?  Drop by a Droplets! Droplets is a blood donation center which gives you cash for white blood cells, platelets, plasma, and even simple blood!  We offer 50 dollars for blood, 75 for plasma, 100 for platelets, and 200 for white blood cells.  Earn up to double for your first 3 visits!. Call one of our many locations in the Greater Everett-Arlington area for many details. Droplets Northwest cannot be held responsible for any injuries due to pre-existing conditions nor any conditions which may develop in the future.”

              “Governor Michaelson gave a speech to the victims of the Snoqualmie fires yesterday, apologizing for the lack of funds for the newly address-less.  Those who lost their homes, he said, will have 3 months to find proper housing before their civil service rights are revoked, and up to 6 months before being subject to removal. Social advocates across the country commended the governor for what some are calling ‘the most compassionate use of leeway we have seen in recent years.”

              “5th and Broadway.”  This was Fred’s stop, if he was to see if Eddy wanted to buy off him.  His whole body was burning now, and felt as if it was made of stone as he tried to stand up.  After cracking the stone open, he lurched up and grabbed onto a handle, almost falling down.  People were staring at him, not that they weren’t before.  A mother with her child looked down at piss stain, back up at him, and then quickly to the ground.  Many others did the same. 

              “This your stop?” The bus driver called.  Fred didn’t reply.  After a few moments, but what felt like an hour to Fred, the driver shrugged and closed the doors.  They were off again.  After being subjected to more ads and news segments, the stop near Frankie’s house finally appeared.  Fred didn’t feel so heavy anymore, however, and quickly got up and walked off the bus. 

              The walk to Frankie’s almost seemed pleasant.  It was starting to rain hard now, but the buzz from OpiAudio had receded to a state of blissful delirium.  The piss was drying from Fred’s pants, and he began to forget about the bag in his back pocket.  He quickly decided to tape it inside the toilet tank.  Not a very creative spot, admittedly, but one that would work for a day, which is all he needed to sell it to Eddy after work tomorrow.  As he walked up the hill to Frankie’s house he began to hear the trumpets again, just ever so faintly, as if someone was playing it a block over at a very dull get-together that might pass for a party. 

              Fred walked into Frankie’s house without knocking.  He knew the door would be unlocked.  There were always people walking in and out of his house, and somehow nobody ever robbed Frankie, even when it was just his girlfriend who was home.  Like any day where Frankie was home, he was at his coffee table rolling blunts.  He smiled when Fred walked in, “Good shit, eh?”  He looked down, “Holy shit you pissed yourself? Oh man,” He laughed and clapped and turned red, “I should’ve told you about that, that’s my bad man.  You need to shower?  Yeah, you do, you smell like shit man.  Well, piss, not shit.”  He started laughing again and took longer to regain his composure this time.  Fred went to sit down on the recliner, “Fucking Christ man! Don’t sit on my furniture like that.  Go! Take a shower! Change your fucking clothes and wash those shits.  This blunt’ll be here waiting for you when you get out.”

              Fred went to bathroom and realized his brilliant plan was foiled by the fact that he did not have any tape.  He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to ask for tape without seeming suspect.  He turned the shower on then began rummaging through the cabinets to find a suitable hiding spots.  Ultimately, he decided on placing the bag under a bottle of cleaning fluid.  The bathroom was filthy, so it wasn’t likely to be used anytime soon.  Fred couldn’t remember the last time the bathroom, or anywhere else in the house for that matter, looked clean.  He took a shower, put his clothes in the washing machine, and sat back down in the living room in a towel.  Frankie didn’t like this, “Fuck’s sake man, you got clothes, go put ‘em on!”  He was already smoking the blunt while rolling another.  Some rap song was playing and he turned up the volume as Fred went to go find his bag.  He put on a pair of sweatpants and a hoody and walked back out. 

              Frankie cocked an eyebrow, passed the last bit of the blunt to Fred, then lit the other, “So, how’d you like it.”

              Fred struggled to come up with any words, he just smiled and said, “A lot.” And chuckled. 

              “So you gonna be able to be sober for work tomorrow?”

              “Yes sir.”

              “Good, I got everything set up for you man.  Don’t make me fucking look bad.  You want a drink man?”

              “Yeah I’ll take a beer if you got it.”

              Frankie shook his head, “Only got hard A, I can make a weak one for you if you’re trying to pussy out on me.”

              Fred laughed, “I’m just worried how it’ll mix with my treatment.”

              “Oh, trust me man, you can drink as much as you want with that shit.  Hell, you can show up to that place drunk.  Just don’t go in smelling like the stuff, they’ll kick you out.  That happened to me once and I almost shit my pants at work the next day.”

              Fred shrugged, “Well, if you insist.”  Frankie laughed at that.  He went to the cupboard and poured a pint glass a quarter full of vodka, and another maybe an eighth full and filled the rest with powdered, orange-colored juice. 

              He brought the glasses to the coffee table, put the glass of vodka down, then stirred the other with his finger.  A good deal of juice spilled on the floor when he did this, so Frankie wiped it with his sock, “Here ya go, ya pussy.” Frankie said, then chuckled to himself.  They shared another blunt and talked about how great the OpiAudio treatment was, how it worked better than methadone, surely better than NA and rehab, and for free too.  By the end of the blunt and drink Fred could feel himself beginning to nod off, both in a sleepy way and in an opiate induced bliss sort of way.  He slurred through explaining that he needed to go to bed.  Frankie replied, “Alright grandpa, it’s 6:30 but I guess we have to work tomorrow.  You sure you don’t want to play?”  He gestured to the menu screen of some clone of some shooter that they had been making since Fred was a kid.  Fred shook his head, “Ah well, get on to bed gramps.” And he chuckled again.  His eyes were blood red, they got red quite easily.  Fred prided himself on the fact that his eyes hardly got red when he smoked, and looked down a bit on Frankie for his physical inferiority.  Of course, Frankie was much taller and stronger, but at least Fred could hide his buzz a bit easier. 

              Fred could only sleep on the couch, which was occupied by Frankie, who certainly wasn’t going to stop playing his game.  Fred just kicked up the recliner and drifted off to sleep.  He didn’t dream, he hadn’t dreamt since he spent a week in jail.  He liked the fact that he didn’t dream, the few dreams he had since he started smoking were usually intense and slightly less often horrifying.  Usually they were flashes of his deepest anxieties.  No sensible fears, like being murdered or heights or any other number of phobias.  His dreams centered around his family and friends finding out secrets about him.  Never a secret that Fred could remember or discern in the dream, but something which caused him to be abandoned by everyone he had cared about, or at least spent time with.  He once dreamed that he was found out for missing a finger, which led to everyone hating him, since he was unable to throw a football. But he couldn’t throw a football even with all his fingers.  Nonetheless, this led to his total loneliness in the dream, and an ex-girlfriend of his saying she never wanted to speak to him.  He awoke in his cell drenched in sweat, someone in the holding cell laughed at him and asked if he wanted his mom, so Fred just turned around and stared at the wall for the rest of the night.  He didn’t sleep for the rest of his brief prison stint. 

              Fred woke to the sound of Frankie screaming at the TV.  Somebody had just killed him.  According to Frankie’s screams, this was due to a poor internet connection, or possibly cheating on the part of his virtual killer.  Outbursts like this were why Fred hated video games, he was too prone to anger, too bad at video, and too ashamed at himself for outbursts like this.  Frankie threw his headset down, “Fuck this, I’m going to bed.”

              Fred stretched and asked, “What time is it?”

              “11.  We gotta get up in 6 hours, should’ve gone to bed anyways-fuck me.”  Then he put an extra patronizing tone, “Night night sleepy head.”

              Fred quickly got up and got on the couch.  The TV was still on.  He left it on because Frankie got mad when people messed with the remote, which was nowhere to be seen anyways.  He wondered how exactly his life had gotten to this point.  He had a loving family, one that would not speak to him anymore, but loving, nonetheless.  He wasn’t a particularly gifted student, but not too poor either.  Hard-worker too, but he couldn’t manage to pass any drug tests.  He wondered why he hated his friends.  Frankie was a friend, he thought, but a major asshole.  He was mad at himself for thinking this way, Frankie was giving him a place to stay, and more importantly, an address.  Frankie’s generosity was the only thing standing between Fred and walking in the rain like that homeless man, if not prison when the mayor or governor decided to make a play for another press conference.  But still, Frankie was an abrasive person to be around, and quite uncaring.  He thought about he wanted another cigarette, how stupid he was for not getting off the bus to sell the heroin to buy more cigarettes, how utterly weak he was for trying to keep it in the first place.  After his brief stint of worrying, Fred felt another wave of opiate bliss roll over his body, and realized how grateful he should be for his situation.  He was starting a new life tomorrow, one where he may have his own address, one where he may not feel so useless, so scared of others, and so full of self-hatred.  His last thought before falling asleep was, thank you-u-u OpiAudio.