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CHAPTER 1
April 10, 2011
"Come on Danielle!" Karen shouted over the raging winds, which were both loud and aggressive, due to April's unpredictable weather. We were scurrying down the wooden planks along the boardwalk, five minutes from our community. Karen, who was drenched in a thick mauve turtleneck, and a pair of furry suede boots, ran awkwardly about two feet ahead of me, her left leg shorter than the right making her look funny. She laughed loudly, nearly tumbling over, her voice ringing through the air, despite the howl of the heavy winds. I followed, out of breath, trying to inhale the last of a cheap, fat menthol cigar. Black-and-Milds, the box said, and they were delicious. Strong and intense, scorching the back of my throat, just the way I needed something to be. We continued to run, as we laughed even harder. Teardrops were streaming down my face from my watery eyes, with the sun luminous and bright, but the weather still quite cold, at least for spring.
"I think I see her!" she shouted, referring to our mutual acquaintance August Delgado who, as always, was surrounded by a small cluster of people, all of them off into the distance. They were all people who lived in our Therapeutic Community; a long-term addiction-recovery program, named Safe Haven Village, or The Village as I liked to call it; because Greenwich had nothing on this place, it was a complete circus, a regular freak show by all definitions of the word.
We both squinted to see further, but we didn't really know what we were seeing. We were higher than one of these New York City skyscrapers, tripping on acid that August had given us. Rockaway beach was five minutes from our community, so we decided to search for our dear friend — sure we had found her, but not so sure it was really her, given the acid was really starting to kick in. As we neared just a little bit closer, we began to laugh giddily, as we could now see her waving erratically, heading towards us with two black guys, one of her comrade's several sizes larger than any of us. We ran fast and furiously towards the rocks they were situated on, screaming and throwing our arms everywhere as if none of us had seen the other for days on end. She caught up to us, moments later, all of us panting and out of breath, as we hugged one another, laughing gleefully.
"This acid's pretty wavy dude," August remarked, her mouth against my ear as she embraced me, "very mellow, it's like it takes ya on a long car ride into the country, a long car ride with excellent scenery," she added. As I could feel a slow, lazy smile spreading across her face, and I knew the acid was clearly hitting her as well. I felt her lumpy dreads in my hands and realized I was still holding onto her. We let go of each other, and we both laughed again.
"What's the plan for tonight?" she asked us, looking back and forth between the two of us, her lively eyes twinkling with mischief. Oh, Karen and I, we had plans alright. We looked at each other and smiled, but said nothing.
"Okay we'll leave it at that," she told us grinning, as the two guys finally caught up to where we were standing. I smiled and said hello, and we all slapped hands.
"We actually have to get ready," Karen told her, as we lit a couple of cigarettes, and passed them between the five of us.
August slid her hand into her grey hooded jacket, three sizes too big, and pulled out a little piece of plastic cellophane. "Here's two more," she said blowing smoke through her nose, and then, finally out of her mouth. She handed me the small packet, and I laid it in my palm, delicately sizing it up.
"You women are crazy, I mean we are in treatment after all," Stefan, one of the guys, with a crisp, British accent, said. The other guy nodded in agreement, and then laughed as he watched me eyeball Stefan's hand, raising an eyebrow. Between his fingers, he held a joint which I already knew was filled with K-2, a new, hip form of synthetic weed that no treatment programs were testing for.
"What? This? This is nothing!" Stefan said with a dismissive wave of the hand, but even as he said it, he had to laugh at his own audacity.
"They don't test for acid either," I pointed out.
His friend shook his head, "yeah, but that shit crazy yo. Put you straight in the ward!"
"Thanks," Karen piped in impatiently, "but we have to get ready now."
"Have fun you two," August told us, picking at a barrette that was attached to one of her dreads.
As we walked back to the facility, with the wind so severe it was practically blowing me over as if I was nothing more than a tumbleweed, I couldn't help but contemplate that guy's words. I had to admit; he had a point. How easily we justified taking a few hits of acid while living at The Community. August and I, especially. Dude, it's not a drug, it's a journey towards enlightenment, she liked to say, as I would nod my head in agreement, definitely; the purpose is only to achieve enlightenment. But, at heart, I think we both knew differently. It was our way of rationalizing something that we knew wasn't particularly good for us, the same thing Karen and I were doing with our latest, brilliant, money-making scheme that night. Which in actuality, wasn't at all new, or for that matter original, but we continued forward with the plan as we walked on, and when Karen and I arrived back at the facility we made our last-minute preparations for the big night.
"I don't think there is anybody I could do this with other than you, Karen," I told her later in her room, that night. She smiled and I had to admit; if I was going to head down this road, I was happy she'd be standing next to me. I had been living in my therapeutic community for about two months when Karen and I stumbled upon one another. When I first arrived at The Village, I had been completely lost.
Then, there she was: Karen Frodge.
She came tumbling into my life, turning it upside down, and who would have ever thought it possible? This seemingly innocent young woman, with round wire-rimmed glasses, pale skin, and dark hair she always had tied in either a tight bun or ponytail. Clothing demure, only earthy tones, no makeup. That's the image I saw first, and yet I was drawn to her despite this. I was thrilled to learn upon one of our first conversations that she was well-read, a fan of many of the greats. Writers, poets, and philosophers, and some who were all three; Nietzsche, Proust, D.H. Lawrence, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas. Iconic female poets like Emily Dickinson, Sara Teasdale, Dorothy Parker. It explained our connection, at least partly. I had been so lonely, and intellectually I was completely dehydrated. I'd been in the community for over a year, and she'd been my first real connection since I'd been rotated from an upstate facility into the re-entry unit in Queens, New York. It was hard for some to grasp; being surrounded daily by a slew of residents, at least a hundred and fifty, how somebody could become so lonely, so detached. The truth is I don't think anybody could anticipate the loneliness that came with living in a community such as this one.
People were always discussing recovery programs as if they were all exactly the same, but this program was unlike any rehab I'd ever heard about before. The mold for a therapeutic community was, in theory, a sort of boot-camp for drug addicts, and it was almost as if it was New York State's best-kept secret. Or worst, depending on how you twisted it. The long-term treatment program was split into two parts and could take up to two years or longer to fully complete. During the first phase, I had been shipped upstate and landed in a small town five minutes from Poughkeepsie, with 72 other women. All rehabilitating from a variety of addictions. Surprisingly, that was the phase that I had acclimated to, much, much better in comparison to the second phase dubbed the Re-Entry unit, which is where I was now and how I ended up here in The Village, of course.
The Re-Entry unit was the part of the program designed to help a client reenter back into the real world, the second piece. This was where the client was supposed to be able to acclimate back into society, because in theory, once we'd finished the upstate phase, we had been trained and conditioned to learn how to follow rules and be well-socialized, and of course, drug-free. Most people despised the first phase, and couldn't wait to move on to the next part, but for me, the first phase had been something I had adapted to easily because there was simply no other choice in the matter. The area was desolate, the facility was strict, there were only women, and a person just did what they had to do. One had to figure out how to survive, it was like being in the military, one just simply found a way to endure it. All nine months.
Re-Entry, on the other hand, lifted many of the restrictions set forth in the upstate facility, and was also filled with men, and after a fresh split from my fiancé of the better part of a decade, and completely drug-free for the first time in years, the new changes had left me in a state of utter confusion, and consequently, sullen and withdrawn. So, I isolated, I shied away from the general population in both my community and my new hometown, in New York City. When Karen and I met, we formed a friendship based on my alienation, because she was also a loner, and isolated from the community's general population. In her case, she had grown accustomed to the loneliness, because she had been institutionalized from a young age, after parting ways with her family many, many years ago and her family was American dysfunction at its finest.
Her life had started off quite promising, though. She had been adopted when she was just shy of two by a well-off, energetic, ambitious young couple, who'd given her an adopted older sister as well. Her father was a hard worker who refused to let his attractive, perfectionist wife, and their new-found children want for anything. His flawless American dream soon became unraveled at the seams. When she was nine, her father was arrested for being involved in some type of child pornography scandal. Incidentally, he was sent to prison, and the rest of the family went broke. Things were never the same for her, and by fourteen she was completely alienated from all of them and left to struggle on her own. Without family, she turned to sex and drugs, and eventually ended up lost somewhere within the system. As soon as I met her, I could feel her desperation for human connection, and we'd bonded through this same, unrelenting need that was shared between the two of us. Now, here we were two months later, and we were deciding to turn our lives in a completely different direction.
It started in February, while on the trains. We had been sitting quietly, both of us deep in thought, headed to Manhattan for some mundane errand or another. Like most others living in the neighboring boroughs, she too found the tiniest excuse to go gallivanting through the streets of Manhattan.
February had been brutal, especially for me, coming from South Florida a year before. I was forced to acclimate to the cool wintery weather, without warning, now that I was living in Queens. Ice covered the pavements, and the air was sharp and cold, with a wicked bite most days. Snow was everywhere, and it was hard and chunky, due to the overabundance of it that year. It had no time to dissipate before the new snow arrived, keeping the entire city painted white, everywhere. I was huddled up in two jackets, a leather somebody had donated to me, and my furry black jacket I used as lining underneath, trying very hard to stay warm as I thumbed through The Village Voice, a trendy local paper, while Karen and I rode the subway into the city. Near the end of the paper, I passed about three or four pages of advertisements for escorting services, reading the last of a slew of them casually:
UPSCALE ESCORTING AGENCY
Make up to several thousand dollars per day escorting extremely high-end clientele. Must be in great shape physically, and be able to work a demanding schedule, which could require overnight shifts and the possibility of traveling with clients. Attractive, young college types are strongly preferred.
As I stared at the ad with a small square photograph in the corner of a bottle blonde with heavy eye makeup and pink colored lips, I tried to imagine what that must be like. Taking off to Paris with some wealthy older man, rich as Croesus, most likely with a wife and kids scattered somewhere in the city. We'd dine at fine restaurants and casually drink only the most expensive, aged wines. I'd have a string of authentic pearls around my neck, pretending to be someone that I could never be, as he'd motion for the waiter to seat me. Everybody would assume I was his mistress, given my young, fresh face.
Exciting, or unsettling? It was hard to say.
I looked at the last line which had the phone number listed, with a contact person; ask for Lynette.
Well, I thought; there's an idea. It was a half-hearted, private joke I was holding with myself, and yet I couldn't seem to shake that one tiny sliver of curiosity.
Not only were Karen and I desperate for money, but we were also very bored. Even with the phase one restrictions lifted, now that we were re-entry clients and living in The Village, we still couldn't do much, because the program had not cleared us to search for employment yet, it took up to six months or longer for that privilege. All residents were required to do volunteer work in the community first (which meant working the jobs employees should be working), and then take vocational training or complete college courses. Only after completing these prerequisites would we then be allotted what the program referred to as a work permit. I'd never heard of such a thing, but then again, I'd never even heard of a long-term treatment program period, so I had nothing else to compare it to. Truth be told, neither of us was interested in a cheap hourly wage, being overworked and underpaid, like the rest of Middle-Class America, anyway. It was the one thing I hated. We tried to envision something beyond that. We were both creative and care-free, and yearning for adventure. Plus, I really needed the money.
Due to the cold, dry air, my skin had broken out in a vicious pattern of Psoriasis, up and down my arms and legs.
Symmetrical. It develops completely symmetrical, the dermatologist had confided in me during my appointment, a few weeks before, his face full of fascination. I was thrilled that my skin disorder fascinated somebody, but personally, I felt like a freak, deformed and ugly. My skin looked pale and dry, with pink splotches everywhere, except my face and neck. At least it was winter now, and I could get away with hiding it, but spring would be here soon, and I had to start thinking about treatments for this dreadful-looking disease. I needed the money to be able to finance UV treatments for my skin — which my dermatologist informed me, Medicaid didn't plan on covering.
"What about upscale escorts?" I said, turning to Karen, still at least partly joking. Her mouth opened and then closed, a smile slowly spreading across her chubby face. It was her most appealing attribute because her smile completely transformed her. When she smiled, her eyes would sparkle with mischief as her top lip curled, one of the sides twisting upward, forming this distinctive, seductive grin. It was the one thing that made her seem totally irresistible.
"Danielle Martino, did you really just say that?" she asked incredulously, an amused chuckle tumbling out of her mouth. I shrugged nonchalantly. I didn't know what else to say. I knew her shock came from the fact that I had a bit of a feminist streak, and it wasn't just my issues with men or the archetypes, either. The last few years heroin had been my only lover, and though I had been engaged to Matthew, I had lost the desire for truly explosive intimacy. If there is one thing that every heroin addict will faithfully agree with, it's that once heroin makes love to you, no other lover stands a chance. Heroin is like a nice, slow fuck. A thrashing rush in the beginning, during the initial, collide and then slow, and sensual, working her way down like a tongue, from the top of your head down to the very last inches of your feet. She was a sweet, miraculous orgasm, the whole way through.
"Karen, I mean, what's really wrong with it?" I asked, trying to justify my ridiculous suggestion to prostitute. I was trying to minimize it, diminish it down to nothing when inside I wanted to choke myself for even suggesting it. I had been so lost and lonely, though. It was more than the fact that we had no money, and that we were bored, and that I had psoriasis. The deeper issue was that I couldn't figure out my purpose in life. I'd been anti-materialism, a bohemian vagabond — a real beatnik — my whole life. Had I been wrong? Perhaps money was the answer. I had thought love was, at one time. I had turned to drugs, made heroin my religion and found out otherwise. Art had also been salvation once, but now it seemed even art could no longer save me.
Karen shook her head hurriedly, letting me know she didn't disagree.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Addictarium (The War Stories Chronicles Book 1)"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Nicole D'Settemi.
Excerpted by permission of Prodigy Gold Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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