Junkie Horror Story
by Amanda Izzo
“Did you know she met Janis Joplin?”
I dropped my copy of Just Kids by Patti Smith, and looked at my new roommate Lori sitting on her twin size bed frame with a glorified gymnastic mat as a mattress.
“What?” I tried not to bark at her, but I just wanted to fall into the world of a gritty New York City at the Chelsea Hotel in the 70’s. Where good heroin highs and quaalude lows are waiting, and Mapplethorp is somewhere running film through an old 35mm to shoot for his X album with gay male escorts. It sounded like a bit of heaven to distract me from my living hell.
I hopelessly wanted to forget that I was just dropped off at the grimiest detox in Boston on the island. (If you were an addict in Boston in the early 2000’s, you need no introduction.) The Andrew House, just over the Long Island bridge, that Marty Walsh would years later shut down in 2014 leaving close to a thousand displaced homeless addicts adrift. Over a decade later, you can still see the ripple effects and carnage left behind from one lapsed political mistake made when driving by Mass Ave and Melnea Cass.
And for those who aren’t native Bostonians, it’s the same island and facility where, ironically enough, it was rumored that Shutter Island was filmed. Whether that was true or not, I felt just as insane and out of touch with reality being there.
“Yeah!”, Lori said pointing at the open book in my lap. “She said she went to a show Janis was playing, and they started booing the rain and she said…,”
“They’re booing me, man”, I ruthlessly interrupted her. “Yeah, I know.”
Realizing I was being the world's biggest bitch, and not wanting my things to be ransacked and raided for smokes or cheeked meds I didn’t have, I offered a little more conversation for courtesy's sake.
“She actually just mentioned that.” I tapped my nails on the book cover.
“Cool, cool, cool. I loved her album, Horses! She was such a badass, man, and not just for not shaving her pits, I mean really a feminist icon. Yeah, yeah…” She trailed off as she bobbed her head up and down. She looked like she’d hatched from an egg earlier that day; stringy, greasy, blonde hair to her ears and an oily complexion between giant sores and facial scabs. She had this creepy way of moving her jaw too far left or right in between sentences. I hated sharing rooms with chicks who were in for uppers. They just don’t understand the delicate art of shutting the fuck up. As soon as she opened her mouth to say something else, there was a light knock on the metal doorframe.
“Amanda, I need you to come with me for a second to the nurses station.” Thank God someone saved me from Lori.
“Ayeeee! Alright! It’s about time someone gets their free government dope around here! Hey, dose her up good, Nurse Jackie! Ha-ha! Psst, save some for me!”
Thank the fucking lord.
As soon as we turned the corner, I apologized to the Edie Falco look-alike on my new roommate's behalf, and in the same breath immediately inquired about that free government dope.
“Well, darlin’,” she sighed, opening up the half door at the nurses’ station, “I’d love to medicate you, but legally I can’t.”
“...I’m sorry?” I felt terror rise in my chest at the real-life horror scene unfolding before me. How could I be stranded on an actual island without any sign of accessible medication to help me kick? And so help me, if she says something about my insurance being the cause. With a gloved hand, she slid a small white testing strip towards me.
“I am, too. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
I peered down only long enough to see two unmistakable pink lines.
“...You’re pregnant.”
I took three stumbling steps backwards out of the small office, trying to place as much distance between me and those two lines as possible. Swiveling on my foot, I turned and started making my way towards the exit. I need fresh air. Blood pounded in my ears, and I felt like my heart would thump its way out of my chest. Suddenly, I couldn’t feel my legs. Would they hold my weight? Following behind me, Nurse Jackie had become a warbled adult in a Charlie Brown skit that the kids couldn’t understand. Things looked strange, and spotty, like an old black and white television being turned off. OK, I need to sit down, I feel really weir-
“HEY! AMANDA! Stay with me, hey, focus! I need you to look at me!”, a doctor was snapping in my face and waving his hand back and forth. Did I pass out?
“Yes, you did.” He answered. I wasn’t sure I’d thought that out loud.
“You hit your head, but luckily the nurse was able to guide you on the way down. Look at me, focus,” the doctor staring intently at my left eye rather than right. My lazy eye must be acting up, which accounts for the double vision.
“We have an ambulance on the way.”
I will never again make fun of the dumb girl who can’t run away in a scary movie.
BIO: Amanda Izzo is a writer, mixed-media artist, and entrepreneur who splits her time between Boston, MA and Rochester, NH. Having had her photography and visual artworks published periodically, she has spent almost a decade enjoying the art of creative writing in private. Over the past year, with the help of encouraging friends and family, she has begun to share detailed recollections of her life and youth in the form of creative nonfiction pieces. In the hopes of sharing experiences and connecting to other readers, and shy creatives alike.