The motel where I was staying was in poor condition, just like the other buildings in the neighborhood. My room had water stains on the ceiling, more stains on the carpet and I knew there was at least one hole in the wall where a mouse was because I had seen it scurry across the floor when I walked in. But it was a place to stay until I figured out what I was going to do about a more permanent place to stay.
I could have called my folks. My mother would have let me stay with them for a while, but it had been almost three years since I had last talked to them, even though mom had sent me birthday and Christmas cards. She had even sent a card on what would have been my daughter's birthday. The last time we spoke, they had refused to send me money, saying that they wouldn't support my drug habit even after I insisted that it was to help me pay the rent and buy groceries. I hadn't spoken to them since.
Picking up my suitcase, I set it on the bed and opened it, tossing clothes out of it so I could get to what I wanted. I didn't even bother to put my clothes in the dresser that was provided. It wasn't like I was going to live there. Instead, I tossed them on the chair next to the bed, and took out the syringe and the last bit of heroin that I had on me. I would have to find a dealer in Tulsa if I didn't want to go through withdrawal which was never a fun experience. Besides, I needed to have the heroin. It was the only way I could forget the past, even if it was for a short period of time.
I walked across the room and closed the curtains before removing my shirt and tying an elastic band around my arm, just above the elbow. It probably would have been easier if I snorted heroin instead of injecting it straight into my veins, but I never liked getting high that way. Besides, I was good at getting the needle in just right so that it wouldn't miss the vein.
A cop drove past with it's siren on and I paused with my heart pounding. I knew from experience that getting caught with any kind of drug was not a fun experience. They had locked me up in Chicago more than once for drug possession and had even sent me to a rehab center which didn't help me. I wasn't about to get caught when I had just returned to Tulsa. Especially since I didn't want to end up explaining myself to my friends or worrying my mother more than she probably already was. Fortunately, the cop continued to drive to wherever he was going to and I sat on the bed, sighing with relief.
It didn't take long for me to shoot up and it wasn't long before I felt the familiar high that I got from the drug. Over the years as my body got used to the heroin, I had to increase how much I took in order to achieve the high that I wanted. It seemed hard to believe that I had refused to take it the first few times it was offered to me in Vietnam. Back then, I was still young and had dreams of owning a garage someday with Soda. But as my days in the war continued, and I saw more people get killed in ways I wouldn't dare imagine, I finally gave in and tried the drug. I had been using it ever since, along with many others who had served in the war.
Sometimes, I wondered if Soda had ever tried heroin while he was fighting in the war. Maybe if we had fought together, I wouldn't have become a drug addict and maybe he would still be alive. It was something I wondered about often and knew that I would never get an answer to it. Even Darry and Ponyboy wouldn't know if Soda had tried drugs because he wouldn't have wanted them to worry. I hoped he didn't. I would have hated to see heroin destroy Soda's life the way that it was destroying mine.