Misguided Mix: Street Drug Roulette

[How mistaken identity sent me into a psychotic tailspin]

January 2019 - North Lamar Transit Center - HW 183/N Lamar Blvd - Austin TX - 3AM

Darkness falls. Charged with a subtle demonic feeling energy, the atmosphere of the otherwise unassuming night radiates chaos in my midst. As I scan the landscape, I can’t help but sense that I’m being watched. By whom, I cannot recall. Although somewhat familiar, they vaguely escape me. I am the center of the universe, the lone wolf, in this dangerous game of Russian roulette I have chosen to play once again. However, in this instance, the absence of pistol and lead are replaced with a far more deadly combination, especially in the wrong hands. I am the wrong hands. My weapon of choice, a used hypodermic, a common adversary of foes like myself. However, like any weapon of choice, they are only as good as the ammunition they chamber, or lack there of. I have plenty of that to go around. I wish I could tell you what was on the menu tonight, but in all honesty, I can’t even begin to be certain. Sometimes desperate times, jones-ing for dope as a homeless drug addict at 3AM with zero connections, call for desperate measures. In my case, I am very desperate, too desperate in fact, and for me that is increasingly alarming.

[Golden Chick] where I searched for meth

You see the previous two hours of my dreary, hollow existence have been spent trudging the empty corridor of Rundberg lane and Lamar Blvd, aimlessly asking the occasional strung out whore and psycho-social street dwelling schizophrenic if they had the means to procure a taste of the “good stuff.” At this hour, the “good stuff”, which I have developed quite an acquired taste for, is crystal methamphetamine. Around here it might as well be the currency of the homeless masses. In my experience, by way of pure economics, if you are living on the streets and are a drug user, crystal meth is most likely a staple of your junkie diet. It is cheap, readily available, and packs a figurative punch that would envy the likes of George Foreman and Mike Tyson combined, especially if you shoot it. One 10 dollar shot of meth can last upwards of 12 hours, sometimes more, depending on the purity. It only makes sense why it is the usual hot ticket item for those looking to escape, or enhance, their already meager homeless existence. It rarely disappoints, always delivers, and provides a much needed nostalgic release, for old times sake. Despite this, tonight I have one problem of epic proportions, myself. Due to being fresh on the streets for the first time in my life, coupled with the fact that I am quite literally willing to take anything anyone can afford me, I lack a keen understanding of what I have actually gotten myself into. As I would later discover, true street smarts are acquired through learned experience, and the only way to learn is through trial and error. Hopefully without getting yourself killed in the process.

Like Wagner’s “Entry of the Gods into Valhalla”, a serene rush of gentle euphoric bliss washes over my trodden frame. “Finally,” I exclaim with a reserved display of jubilant glee. After a hard fought journey through the ins-and-outs of the nearly abandoned streets, searching high and low for but a glimpse of my long lost poisonous friend, I am victorious, at least I think I am. I was able to locate a fellow junkie and persuade him to sell me a shot of the remaining dope he had left. Although unaware, this was my first mistake. Anytime someone hits you with, “I don’t have much left, but I’m gonna help you out,” walk away. There is no such thing as loyalty on the street at 3AM, especially if tweakers are involved. Mistake number two came when he “sold” me his last shot pre-loaded into a used syringe. This is problematic, for obvious potential health reasons but less important to me at the time, because I can’t verify what in the hell he actually put in the rig. But, desperate times call for desperate measures right? I digress.

[N Lamar Transit Center] where I stopped to get high

Armed with my weapon of choice, loaded with my favorite ammunition, I blast off into outer space. One minute, nothing. Two minutes, nothing. As time passes I grow more and more anxious of the ever approaching reality that I might have gotten ripped off. Did he just sell me a rig full of water? Damnit. As I contemplate my utter disgust, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. My heart drops. Someone is messing with me. I can feel them watching me, preying on me, waiting for me to turn my back so they can pounce like a hungry lion. The atmosphere takes a turn for the worst. It’s as if everything in the world, past or present, has just been delegated to this moment in time, and I am the center of attention. My surrounding environment holds its breathe, awaiting my next move. The sky begins to pulse, a huge gust of wind awakens me from my deluded state, and suddenly, as if being prompted from forces unknown, I have to leave. I don’t know why, I cant even fathom how I got to this current state, but I have to leave. Although I’m running straight ahead, refusing to look behind, I am certain that something or someone is chasing me. I can feel their energy gaining on me. I pinpoint my destination, a make shift drainage ditch, and without second thought, I crawl in. Silence.

Eyes closed, heart beating out of my chest, I am slowly bombarded with unintelligible whispers coming from above me.  Quite literally jammed into the middle of this drainage ditch, I cant see out on either side, but the ever growing whispers begin to torture my mind. “He’s under here,” I piece together with growing skepticism. I hear a faint siren in the background, which causes my heart to drop further. It all makes sense now. I was running from the cops, who have now surrounded me, and are discreetly mounting their coordinated attack, in efforts to thwart my crime spree. The whispering begins to surround me, this time manifesting from new voices. As I feel the walls of justice helplessly closing in on me, I snap. “I’m under here! Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!” At this point I have one card left to play, surrendering with grace and dignity, living to fight another day. I slowly shimmy out of the drainage ditch, feet first, eyes still closed, softly speaking words of reassurance to the cops in order to preserve my intact physical self. I know the drill, turn around, hands on your head, walk to their voice, at which point an officer will place me under arrest. The anticipation is killing me. 10 seconds, nothing. 20 seconds, nothing. What feels like an hour passes, and still nothing. Upon opening my eyes, I can’t help but audibly gasp. No cops, no police cars, no forces of the unknown chasing me in the dark. Just me, standing near a drainage ditch at the North Lamar Transit Center at 3:17AM. Yes, only 17 minutes have passed since I “blasted off” into the unknown.

[Bath Salts] that I mistakenly shot up, thinking it was meth

As I came to find out the next day, what I had in fact actually shot up were bath salts. They resemble crystal meth, and if pre-loaded into a syringe, especially without tasting them first, it’s virtually impossible to tell the difference. If you are unfamiliar with bath salts, they are essentially crudely made central nervous stimulants, sold in local smoke shops, that induce horrific hallucinations. Google Flakka, a brand name for bath salts, hopefully it will disturb you.

To some, this event just might be the harbinger of what was to come if I were to stay on the streets, which it was. To me however, it was just another night.

Spencer Brooks Otto