Glass (Crank 2)

very long time. My hands shimmy as I reach for the bindle

Robyn passes me. It’s different from the meth making the

rounds last year. This is hard little rocks and not much powder.

Robyn pulls out a glass pipe, but I ask, “Can we do some

lines?” I long for that punch to my sinuses. The one that

hard-core users can no longer handle because of the gaping

sinus-cavity holes. Trey gives me a strange look, and Robyn

says, Jeez, it has been awhile since you’ve used, huh? You

can’t snort glass, Kristina. You have to smoke this…or

shoot it. You’re not into needles by any chance, are you?

Trey laughs at my over-the-top horror. Needles? No way.

And, apparently, no fine white lines to watch disappear

into my nose. “Is it all like this now?” I ask, ignorant.

Trey answers with a shake of his head. You can still

find street-lab crank. This is Mexican meth, as

good as it comes, maybe 90 percent pure.

It’s pricey, of course. And worth every damn penny.

How much is that, I want to know, but before I can query,

Robyn drops a sparkling rock into her pipe. She lights

a Bic, holds it well under the glass, and a fine plume of

methamphetamine smoke lifts to greet her open mouth.

&nbs

p; The pipe travels next to Trey, who indulges, then passes

it on to me. My hand trembles, anticipating treasure.

Long-lost treasure. One slow, easy inhale sparks little

explosions inside my brain, firing directly into the pleasure

center, igniting ecstatic bursts from eyebrows to toenails.

Trey was right. Whatever it costs, it’s worth it. I want

to feel this great all the time. With one hit, the life I have

worked so hard to make normal perverts itself again.