The Phlebotomist of The Underworld
Not a glamorous title but unofficially mine nonetheless
Hope had not been completely extinguished.
Somehow I had managed to recall the sacred numbers in my brain matter, which was surely infested with hookworms. This late into the day with no food and no relief from the collection agency constantly reminding me of what was owed so that I could sleep at night and function by day.
Dana struggled to hold back tears as she came to terms with the death of shiny rectangle.
Heads were bowed and I said my prayers for the intimate service “Let’s find a payphone. I’m pretty sure I remember the number,” I said, still holding on to hope. At this time, a pay phone call cost $0.50, which we were able to scrounge up to make what seemed like the most important phone call of our lives. I jammed the quarters into the slot. 3 rings… aaaand… nothing. To add to our irritation, there was no more room for us to leave a voicemail. We had traveled an hour to the train station, spent over two hours on the train to get there, and now we were deserted and sick in Grand Central Station just like thousands of others who came before us and would follow afterwards.
We wandered out of the station with no real plan and tried to figure out our next move. Somehow, we ran into a couple. I don’t remember exactly who they were, I only remember their energy. They were extremely welcoming and allowed us to use their cell phone. They even invited us back to their apartment so we could try to regroup. Obviously we did not share the true intention of this trip with them. Getting blackout drunk on the train tracks was acceptable in New York City. Sticking yourself with needles, making a living by stealing from Home Depot, and scrapping air conditioners just wasn’t.
After accompanying the young couple to their home we tried several times again to call J but as the minutes and hours passed by, the frailty of our plan began to shine through the thin veneer that covered it. Eventually, these kind strangers said they had more interesting obligations for the evening that involved leaving the house, so we exited the building.
The young couple tried to persuade us to leave whatever plans we had behind us and accept that they were not happening that night. This was not acceptable, not an option, not even in the realm of possibility. With that, the winds of the city blew us back to another payphone. I figured there’s nothing else to do but to try to dial this man one more time in the hopes that he may come to save us and envelop in the warm blanket that came with the bags of bundles and stacks.
A voice on the other end of the phone told me in less than ten words that we will be meeting him in Brooklyn. Praise the Lord. Finally, we could worship the only God we knew. It was close to midnight when we finally got promise of salvation.
Dana reached into her bag and offered me another Xanax which I gladly accepted.
“Let’s get a cab,” she said.
Dana had a credit card. I had no idea who it belonged to. I cannot stress enough to you how little I cared about who’s money we were spending. I slid across the back seat to the middle so I could look out the windshield. I remember being shocked at the prospect of being able to pay for a taxi with anything other than cash and thinking to myself, ‘Thank God I don’t have to reach into my own pocket.’
Somewhere near the intersection of Rapture Avenue and Relief Way, we departed the cab and continued down a dimly lit alley in Brooklyn. Reaching a corner, a small man with braids and a white tee, who I believe was wearing sunglasses despite it being 1 am, materialized like a miracle last french fry at the bottom of the bag. Even with no one watching, I discreetly slid my cash into Dana’s purse and waited on the sidelines while she and the little man greeted each other like old friends. I watched with tunnel vision as she recited her lines and probably made plans for social meetings in the future that I’m assuming never took place.
Some people feel it’s necessary to pretend they have anything to discuss other than numbers with the person selling you felonies and taking your grandmother’s wedding ring in lieu of cash. If I were a stylish, good-looking girl I would probably do the same. Sometimes, it leads to a fatter bag, especially if you give them hope that they’ll get to see you on a day when you have nothing but yourself to trade.
As she came back to me, the gears of my brain, although clogged with hookworms, began turning to find somewhere low key to be released from this hell. After walking maybe 3 or 4 blocks, the light from a seedy looking pizza joint ignited a glint in my eye. I expected an obligation to buy something as I waited for Dana outside the bathroom.
It seemed I was not visible or at least not important enough to disrupt the staff as they continued their nightly routine. Dana always took forever to hit. This was a problem for most of the girls I knew. Some would scream and freak out, getting blood everywhere while losing a little bit more of their shot each time they tried and missed a vein. Eventually, most would break down and ask for my help in exchange for a little pinch.
I was a phlebotomist of the underworld. Not a glamorous title but unofficially mine nonetheless.
Finally the door opened and I slid into the bathroom before the buzzer operated door had a chance to lock again. At 97 pounds, I was able to easily slip into tight spaces. I looked at the contents of my bag and was happy to see the grey color that usually indicated high quality and even more excited to see the water turn the color of Pepsi as I mixed up the shot. I was wearing a blazer because I thought we would look fancy but in reality it probably just looked like what it was. Delusional. Desperate. Both were probably the names of high end fragrances. I’m sure that’s “a look” in some parts of NYC, so I don’t worry too much.
I slid my arm out of the blazer and took my belt off and wrapped it around my arm until it hurt. I flicked the syringe and squeezed out the bubbles and went to town.
Read part 1 here:
Mi Sun Chang is an Automotive Locksmith who also happens to write memoirs about her depraved past. It helps put her depraved present into perspective. She lives in Rhode Island with her ivory mystery snail (girlfriend) and two beloved cats.
