The Dark Backward.

The midmorning sun broke through the uneven Venetian blinds of my studio apartment. The air was stagnating and the particles danced in the beams of yellow light. The efficiency apartment was small and dingy; it consisted of one room, a kitchen, and an adjoining bathroom. A television on black milk crates, a small table, a touchier lamp encircled a large black foul-smelling futon that took up much of the room. Movie posters of underground directors such as David Lynch and John Waters cluttered the walls and dirty laundry and empty fast food containers littered the carpet.

I reached over and grabbed a light bulb that had been charred black on the bottom side. On the table next to the ratty futon on which I lay in nothing but my blue striped boxers and black sox, I picked up a little white rock from a small plastic zip-lock baggie. With galvanized jerks of hopped-up anticipation, I placed the small shaving of crystal meth into the light bulb and placed the copper end of the bulb to my mouth, I heated the bottom of the glass section with my lighter.

I drew in a long deep breath and watched as the dark grey smoke swirled and spiraled around inside the bulb as the meth liquefied from the heat. The meth crept from the back of my spine up along the top of my skull to my forehead with a static tingling sensation. My body felt like it was hooked into a 220-volt socket.

"Fuck, this is some good shit!" I quivered; my whole body shook as if I had chills.

I passed the bulb over to my friend Carlos, who lay next to me naked. Carlos was my neighbor who lived around the corner. A small copper-colored Mexican, Carlos looked almost Japanese. He had almond-shaped brown eyes and straight black hair parted down the middle. I had met Carlos in a bar in an alleyway in downtown Tijuana nearly a month ago. No one but Carlos and myself was in the bar at the time and sat at opposite ends, nursing our beers. As our eyes met, I could see in Carlos' eyes that he was hooked and asked if he could score. From that day on, it was a junky match made in hell.

As Carlos held the light bulb, his brown veiny feet wiggled in anticipation as his junk cells readied for a recharge. Carlos grasped the bulb wide-eyed and took a hit. To me, it looked like he was going to swallow the whole bulb.

I chuckled, "Stop giving head to my light bulb."

Carlos waited a few seconds, and exhaled, "Aye, cabrone!" His smooth and tan petite body was glistening in sweat and he was vibrating like a tuning fork. The smoke wafted across the television set on which a DVD of David Lynch's Blue Velvet played. On the screen, Frank Booth did his thing.

"Get ready to fuck, you fuckin' fuckers! Daddy's coming home!"

Carlos reached over and stroked my flat stomach, tracing the light brown hairs around my belly button. The meth was making Carlos feel sexy, but I pushed his hand away and turned up the volume of the TV with the remote.

"Hey, this part is so cool!" I said, pointing at the television. "Dennis Hopper really made this fucking movie great!" My teeth started to grind and my tongue began to click on the roof of my mouth.

Now, I am one of those types that like to kick back in silence and enjoy my hit, but one thing you can count on with a meth freak is that once he starts a story there isn't no stopping him. And that person was Carlos.

"I told you about my friend Bubu, right?" Once we scored for meth that was laced with PCP or crack or some kind of LSD. I had no idea what kind of crazy shit was in it so we returned to my apartment, I readied my aluminum foil; took a hit, and Blammo! There was this crazy static charge that hit me all over my body!" Carlos twiddled his fingers up and down his thin torso, ribs protruding.

I was agitated; I followed Carlos' words attentively. But, the slightest hesitation made me want to grab Carlos by the throat and force him to talk faster. "Okay!" I spat. "What happened next?!"

"Well, I fell to the floor and couldn't get up." Carlos said. "I laid there on my side, propped up on my elbow for six fucking hours and the only way I could keep track of time was by way of the TV programs came on. So, Bubu and I would stay up all night and get high and I always had plenty of aluminum paper and straws or we'd use my light bulbs; but, I never let him use my glass pipes because he eventually would wind up breaking them. So every day, we would go buy our dope. We'd visit off of Coahuilla Avenue and purchase it from Thing. In this shit-crusted alley filled with dirty kids and dogs, there is this huge, blue-painted concrete wall three stories tall. It had no windows but down on street level was a hole in the wall a little bigger than a man’s fist. Sedans with tinted windows would come and go all day long. When we would buy our meth, a hand would pop out and snatch our cash, we'd wait a few minutes and the hand would pop back out and cop us our dope. I would always say, 'Thank you, Thing.'"

Carlos stopped for a moment and scratched the bottom of his right foot. He stared at his big toe and began picking at the nail.

"Finish the fucking story!" I snarled. "What happened next?!"

Carlos smiled and rolled on top of me. Carlos could feel my heartbeat through his thin ribs. The heat from our bodies made our skin slippery and Carlos slowly rubbed his torso up and down on mine. Carlos planted a wet kiss on my mouth, I could taste the metallic flavor of the drug. Carlos whispered, "I'm excited. Wanna fuck?"

I looked up into Carlos' handsome face and studied the pencil-thin mustache over his pouty lips. But, I knew my limits when I am doped up on meth. Getting an erection was harder than changing water to wine.

"I'm not in any condition to do anything like that." I said, rubbing my hands across Carlos' smooth backside. "Besides, what time is it?"

Carlos looked over to the digital clock on the floor. "It's eleven thirty-two."

"Crap! I gotta go!" I jumped up and started to get dressed in my usual clothes of jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. The uniform of the obvious homosexual. Thanks Dad. I pulled on my biker boots, "Get dressed, I gotta met some friends downtown."

"Can I come with you?" Carlos asked, slipping on his red soccer jersey and shorts.

"No, this is some private stuff. Secret agent Bond kinda stuff." I said. I stopped getting dressed and took Carlos' right hand. "But, I can see you later?" I felt a surge of warmth in my heart.

"Yeah...can you get some more?" Carlos said, eying the small bag with remnants of dope in it.

I grabbed the baggie and placed it in Carlos' hand. "That's what this meeting downtown is all about, mijo." I dipped my finger into the baggie and pulled it out coated with meth. I then tenderly massaged my finger along the front gums of Carlos' mouth.

"Orale." Carlos smiled.

Us two embraced and kissed passionately.

"I got to go." I pleaded. And after switching off the television, we left the apartment with a slam and click of the heavy wooden door.

Downtown, I met my friend Salvador (Sally to his friends.) and Juan. We started to drink pretty heavily and around one in the afternoon I passed out. I woke up in my bed with nothing but my t-shirt on. Alone. Lost in darkness and confusion. I tried to remember what had happened and how I got home. My clock said 12:36 a.m.! My mouth was foul and evil tasting and I drank two glasses of water from the cooler. Two things I remember:

"But, I'm straight." Said an appalled waiter at whatever perverted advances I attempted to make.

"So's spaghetti until you get it hot." I snapped and goosed his ass as he walked away.

And I remember on the street asking a pretty girl for directions and getting a hostile response. I said to her, "Look, cupcake. Cut the attitude! Not everyone on this planet wants to fuck you!" She started yelling and I just walked away, "Bitch, your pussy stinks." You want to shut a girl up...tell her that her pussy stinks.