Down in Brooklyn: Cleaning Up After My Best Year

My first year with Pete was the best. We moved from a Mid-America strip-mall town to the bustling excitement of Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. We were the only white folk in the apartment building. The others were black. It was summer. There was a lot of stoop-sitting. For them. A lot of kids running around. Sticky fingers and shrieking delight and jumprope. It looked like nobody had jobs. They were lucky.

We lived on the top floor of the building. We had a charge card. We bought an air conditioner for the bedroom. The rest of the apartment made sweat pour out of your forehead.

That was our best year. That was the year Pete had a heroin connection. He would come home from work and in his pocket were tiny white envelopes sealed with regular scotch tape. Sometimes he had only one (bummer), sometimes he had two. Once or twice he had three white envelopes. I wouldn't go to work that weekend.

We had blue ceremonial plates for our heroin occasions. I called them "blue plate specials." The blue made the white powder stand out. We would sniff the heroin through rolled dollar bills. He would drink Coke. I would drink Diet Pepsi. We would sneeze, many times, holding our nostrils to keep in the drug. I was 34 years old, but after the heroin my body felt loose like a baby's. We would sit on the couch and kiss seriously. Pete and I would fuck for five hours. We would hold on to our bodies, foamed in sweat. In between many different sexual positions we would make rapid runs to the toilet for throwing up. Our best year. Nothing could top it.

Years later, I decide I am actually in love with the goateed NSYNC member. The heavyset one. I want him to dance for me in my apartment. I feel sorry for him for he is always in the background?rarely has a solo. My friend Robin, who used to teach breakdancing in the 80s, she dances for me. It is always after many glasses of wine. I guess that's when she has the energy.

I no longer snort heroin. I no longer live with Pete. We are broken up.

The other day, traveling downtown on the 6 train, our old heroin dealer shuffled in at 42 St. He looked the same but didn't recognize me. I no longer have the urge for heroin, but I was damn tempted to introduce myself. Then I remembered he owed Pete 50 dollars and maybe that's why he didn't recognize me. Then again, I don't look the same. I don't even remember what I was back then. It's sad to remember. I'd rather live in the moment.