Can you blame an addict for breaking the law?

"Prohibition" by David Rose

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Prohibition by David Rose

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It had been ten days since my last fix.

I knew what I was going to do was wrong, but unless you knew the yearning that your body exerts, the internal pull which strangles your very soul into submission, then you cannot judge me. Yes, it was wrong. Yet that was always so simple to say, to let the word slip from your lips and forget its inability to exist in our world as a proper description. Of course it was wrong. It was also necessary. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted it and I wanted it more and more each meter that I neared. I was not proud, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like doing what I was going to do. People always want black and white, it comforts them, but I’m not going to give you that. That’s too easy.

The electric autotaxi drew to a halt in a derelict, abandoned part of town. The drop in population had left large parts of the city uninhabited and soon the life had been sucked out of them. What was once so human about the world decayed and shriveled when left untouched, leaving nothing but the reminder – the echo – of the image of man. Yet, it was no longer human, structures neither alive nor dead.

The computerized voice informed me of the fare. I swept my debit card through the magnetic slot on the console and waited for the network to authorize the payment. “Thank you, Mr. Bronte,” the flat, impersonal tone reminding me that it was no longer possible to hide, to disappear; making sure I knew that every movement of my life was tracked. I had made sure I still had a walk to reach my destination, but the nagging which was worse than guilt shook its head behind my back; the disapproval of an almost omniscient power which believed in the certainty of its judgment.

I placed my hand on the door which exhaled smoothly. As I stepped out, I heard the inevitable Japanese-accented Americanism: “Have a nice day, Mr. Bronte.” Christ, who wrote the software for these machines? The singular was always being squeezed out by the criterion of cost-effectiveness: why adapt it, when people will just learn from it?

It was a dark winter evening; frosty, the breeze crisp. The taxi hummed as it pulled away to another call or to circle the night streets. I waited until it turned a corner, then I doubled back on myself and set off, my body being rushed by pumping desire.

I turned quickly left and shuffled into the dark away from the neon blue streetlights. The alley was narrow, the light made a vain attempt to penetrate but quickly retreated, defeated. I could make out the dark shapes of industrial bins and dumped rubbish. The empty familiarity was soothing, a promise to my aching want: this was the right place because there was no one and no one was mockingly whispered in the rush of the wind.

I pulled my collar tight around me. The guilt followed me, amusing me, the wrong an ecstasy without an erection; flesh without penetration. The urge began to speak to me now, telling me of its wants, how it would repay me with absolute pleasure rushing through my veins. Promised heaven, if only I did what it wanted. Addiction.

Those who craved black and white loved this word. Physical, or psychological, at least it was an explanation. An explanation which put an expanding abyss between them and me; I was unfortunate, but they could never, never be like me. I was addicted and needed help: poor, poor me. Save me!

I smile to myself. They understand nothing. I am the same as you, I am you. It’s an addiction because – and this is the thing you fear most – I like doing it. My tongue has an erection just thinking about it, my blood rushes in preparation. My body and I, both of us, want it because it is pleasant. That’s the bottom line. That’s why I’m here. Again. And, that’s why I’ll be back in the future, because it is good to do.

Silence gently lapped about me as I paced towards the hidden, steel door. I knew this place, I knew the dealer personally. I was a regular and this, in this countercultural underground, was important. It meant trust. And trust made a difference. None of that mixed shit sold to the unsuspecting. Shit which could have you vomiting for a week. No bad cuts. Here I could be certain that I was buying what they told me. I could afford such a luxury, I was lucky. When I pass the thin, pale skeletons on the streets, clutching their stomachs as though torn in two, I remind myself just how lucky the wealthy are. We can afford to indulge our desires.

I stopped in front of the door, hidden to all who did not know. A sheet of mirrored steel nailed to the wall. I took my mobile out and pressed the memory key which sent the pre-set text message. I waited twenty seconds and my phone rang. I brought the screen level with my face so they could see who I was. I could see no one, as I expected.

“Good evening, Jack.”

“Good evening,” I responded to my phone.

“Are you alone?”

I passed the vidiphone over my shoulder and turned it through three hundred and sixty degrees. The line cut off abruptly.

Another twenty seconds and the door was slowly pushed open. I stepped back to avoid it and then quickly entered. Inside was another door at the base of the basement stairs, a restaurant with that ubiquitous sign for the initiated: “Quality Red Wine”. I felt at home as though a cleaver had divided me from those who did not know, and its clean cut had made the reason for pretense disappear. Warmth entered my body, it relaxed slightly. Satisfaction was near. I was amongst my own people now, those who crawled under the blustery clichés carried by middle English voices.

I descended the stairs and pulled the entrance open.

“Good evening, Mr. Bronte,” the large man greeted me.

“Hello, Jerome,” I said, “Are you busy tonight?”

“Just you and one other client.”

“Good, I like privacy,” I responded.

“Please follow me. It is good to see you after such a brief time.”

A brief time. I had been coming more often it was true, but I had just been promoted at work. A thirty percent increase, I could afford a little self-indulgence now. Not only that, but now it would be only the best places with the best cuts. Christ I’m fortunate, I have my habit – as my mother so delicately describes it when talking about other people oblivious to her own son’s problem – but, at least, I don’t need to take risks. There were diseases out there. Jerome and his mock civility were a price worth paying.

We walked through the set tables, candles acting as beacons to light our way, our steps silenced by the plush, dark, red carpet. Jerome pulled the seat out for me and I sat. He was ludicrously large for a waiter, but we all knew the reason for that. I looked about and noticed the other diner. A woman, herself alone, yet I had no desire to join her. We were here to indulge ourselves, what we were to do was necessarily antisocial. I couldn’t see what she was taking, but she had obviously started. Her eyes were closed, in rapture, her head swaying dancing to some internal, secret tune.

I was jealous. I wanted mine now. But, I was aware there were still several rounds of the game to play.

Jerome came back and placed a bottle of Tuscan red on the table. He was unenthusiastic, he knew me, but even counter is a culture. His fingers were tightly wrapped around the neck of the bottle. I said nothing. I knew the rules. Jerome departed leaving the wine on the table.

I remembered my first time, how green I had been. When the bottle had been placed on my table, I had protested and said I didn’t order it. The bottle had gone, as had any chance of ever ordering. It had taken three weeks of choosing from the normal menu to learn the rules of the game.