He screamed “That’s It! Now I’m gonna hurt you!” in his very best crazy-enough-to-do-it and started coming at me, but even then we both knew it was over. If it’d just been his fists things might’ve been different, but the moment he picked up a weapon everything turned radically against him. My motivation to protect myself was overwhelming compared to his desire to hurt me, and the poor drug-addled bastard didn’t stand a chance.
I think about Puke and his screwdriver whenever I hear about somebody - cops usually - shooting someone because they “feared for their lives.” And nine times out of ten I think to myself “Bullshit.”
Like this, in Dallas. (Trigger Warning: Cold Blooded Murder.)
What happened to me was the opposite of that. I had a genuine drug-crazed lunatic lunging at me with a ground-down screwdriver screaming how he was gonna hurt me. If I’d been a cop, or even just a guy with a gun, I could’ve shot him dead and that would’ve been it. Apart from some affidavits, lawyers and paperwork, I’d probably be a free man - free to spend the rest of my life knowing I’d killed somebody for no good reason.
If I’d had a gun I would’ve thrown it away. Seriously. It would’ve just gotten in the way. With the adrenaline shooting through me at that moment I could’ve taken on three guys with screwdrivers. Maybe even four. If you’ve been in a similar situation you know what I mean: when you think your life’s actually being threatened you feel a whole lot of things at once, but the very least of them is “scared.”
As it happened, I didn’t even need to use my fists. Instead I yelled back at him twice as loud - like the biggest, baddest drill sergeant there ever was -“Hurt Me? HURT ME? YOU LOVE ME MOTHERF*CKER!”
Stopped the poor guy dead in his tracks. He just stood there stunned, looking at the screwdriver in his hand like he didn’t even know how it got there. It was probably the most humiliating scene I’ve ever witnessed and it all happened right in front of his girlfriend. I almost even felt sorry for the guy.
Beneath the fold is the backstory of A Boy Named Puke. It’s a junkie story, so it’s a lot like all the other junkie stories - a little bit of funny and a whole lot of sad. Not what you’d call a happy ending either. Horrifying, actually. But, like all the junkie stories that don’t end in death, there’s at least a chance at redemption.
Puke was an angry young man. He was angry about materialism, cops, corporations, capitalism, sellouts… pretty much you name it, he was angry about it. He wasn’t angry about being named Puke though. Puke was the name he gave himself to show how angry he was - one of his many anti-social affectations. Mostly I think what made Puke angry was being 22 years old, hopelessly addicted to needle drugs, and smart enough to know what a fucking drag that was.
Puke was the junkie boyfriend of Michelle, my junkie housemate in San Francisco. Veterans of shared housing may know the phenomenon: the new housemate who’s just fine at first, but turns into a full-blown junkie after about a week.
While Puke and Michelle fancied themselves as heroin addicts, most of the time they just shot speed. Essentially they were addicted to the rush of the needle: Heroin when they could get it, speed most of the time, and in a pinch, whatever-crap-they-called-coke on the street… they’d find a way to cook it down and bang it. Didn’t look too good on them either: whoever coined the term “heroin chic” never met Puke and Michelle.
With the junkies came the junkie friends, a ragtag group of malnourished white kids who spent their days begging for change on Haight Street and the Cable Car turnarounds. Generally a harmless lot, but still depressing to run into on the way to the bathroom. As a club, needle users have a fairly open membership policy. It doesn’t matter if you’re dull, racist, or even deranged: so long as you know where to get drugs and how to use them, you’re in.
The worst of the bunch was their speed dealer Bruce, a guy who on the best of days didn’t look like he’d slept in at least five years. The first time I saw him was on the floor of my bathroom lying next to the toilet and going into convulsions. Next to his head was a puddle of drool and a bag with what looked like an ounce of meth. He was shaking so hard he didn’t even seem human - more like some giant leather-jacketed insect in its death throes.
“Hey… Hey… Hey! Are you alright?” I knelt down next to him and could practically hear his synapses firing as he he processed the information. He said something like “Oh yeah! Rightee-do!” mumbled a bit and laughed to himself as I helped him up off the floor. I said “You forgot your bag.” and he said “Oh yeah.” and kept on walking. There was a lag time of about five seconds before he came back for the drugs.
While clinically speaking Bruce was the most far gone, Puke was easily the most tragic of the lot. While Michelle and the rest of them shuffled in and out essentially dull and harmlessly, Puke still had a bit of fire burning in him and underneath all the angry poser bullshit you could tell there was a fairly intelligent mind. Some nights he’d come over to my room when he was high and talk to me from the doorway. At the time I was actually making a living by writing and he said he wanted to be a writer too. He showed me his journal - a worn spiral notebook filled with doodles, phone numbers and some rambling poetry. I looked at an entry called February at Sal’s and started reading but stopped after a couple of lines. I wasn’t sure if he’d meant for me to read it or was just showing me his credentials so I handed it back to him and said “Cool.” There was an awkward moment where it seemed like he had something to say but didn’t know quite how to say it. Then he went away.
By then it was unspoken knowledge I wanted them out. Puke’s nightly overtures were an awkward attempt to befriend me - at least enough into letting them stay. I could tell it was a difficult job for Puke, who’s whole demeanor was based on not having to kowtow to anyone. Still though, I think he wanted to be friends with me - not just because I was the ipso facto landlord, though I’m sure that was most of it - but because I was using my mind for a living and he saw in me the possibilities for himself if he hadn’t gotten so fucked-up on needle drugs.
A couple weeks after they moved in I woke up to hear two of their friends talking in the hallway - one of those heavy, maudlin sort of confessionals peculiar to the high and sleep-deprived.
“Yeah…” one said, “I feel kinda stupid about it now, but that was back in Santa Cruz… back when I was a Nazi.”
“Okay, that’s it…” I thought to myself, “Nazis in the house is the final straw…”
True, he sounded like a contrite, even “reformed” Nazi, but seriously… as a Jew I had to draw the line somewhere.
“Look,” I said once the entourage had left, “I hate to do it, but you guys gotta be out of here by the end of the month. The drug thing’s just too much for me.”
Michelle just sat there glassy-eyed, almost but not quite understanding what was going on. Puke, on the other hand, understood immediately. I could see his eyes sharpen through the haze of the drugs. I was pretty sure they’d just shot up.
“What’re you saying’ man? You trying to kick us out?”
“Yeah,” I said, “It’s just not working.”
“Still man - you can’t just kick us out.” Just a hint of threat in his voice.
He’d been expecting this to happen at some point and, just like me, rehearsed the ways it would go.
I responded as gently as I could: “I’m sorry man, but it’s an oil-and-water thing. Junkies and non-junkies just don’t mix. You know it.”
“Pretty fucked-up if you ask me.”
“Yeah, well… that’s the way it goes.”
Puke held his stare, contemplating some sort of escalation but saw that I was giving him a way out, at least for the time being, without losing face:
“Yeah right. Whatever.”
* * *
Old Joke: What’s the difference between a thief and a junkie?
Answer: A junkie will help you get your stuff back.
The first things to go were a cadmium battery and some floppy discs for my word processor (this was back in the early nineties…) I’d looked for them everywhere, refusing to believe Puke or Michelle had stolen them, mostly because of the sheer pettiness of the crime. Who the hell would steal floppy-discs?
Nevertheless, the things were gone and I wasn’t finding them so I finally had to confront Puke with it. He didn’t take it too well: “What the fuck are you saying? Now you’re calling me a thief? WELL FUCK YOU BUDDY I DIDN’T TAKE YOUR FUCKING COMPUTER SHIT! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”
His anger was so sudden and sincere I actually believed I was falsely accusing him. “Sorry man - it’s just I’ve looked for them everywhere and thought maybe they might’ve gotten mixed up with your stuff that’s all… Sorry.”
“Well fuck you anyway.”
That night I discovered some binoculars were also missing and understood that yes, things were actually being stolen. The next morning I pounded on their door - they were still awake - and told them to come up with my stuff, pack up their shit and get out.
“Fuck you we don’t have your shit.”
“Fuck you Puke. You ripped me off and lied to me about it to my face so now I’m telling you to give it back and get your sorry asses the fuck out.”
Puke stood up and made as if he was going to get physical, but since he hadn’t really slept in three days it made for a fairly unconvincing show of force.
“Fuck you Puke. I have the check.”
Michelle’s eyes went wide and she said “You have the check?” in a way that made it sound like something sacred or holy, which to her it was. It was her tax-refund, a little over two hundred dollars, and had arrived, fortunately, in the morning’s mail.
Puke held back a bit, considering his options… “How do we know you really have the check?”
“I don’t know Puke…” I started to laugh, “Do I SOUND like I have the check?”
He paused to consider this. I did sound like I had the check.
“Look,” he said, “We didn’t take your stuff, but we know who did…”
“Yeah? Then go get it.”
“It’s not that easy. He’s gonna need some money.”
“No Puke.” I explained.
“You don’t know this guy,” he continued, “He doesn’t fuck around…”
“Oh yeah, right… Those floppy-disc traffickers… pretty dangerous crowd.”
Michelle pulled a paper bag out from under some clothes and said “Here’s your shit. Where’s my check?”
Seeing her come up with the goods like that, along with the angry, ridiculous expression on Puke’s face… it was all so pathetic I just had to laugh. “God…” I managed, “If you knew…”
“That’s It!” Puke shouted. “That’s fucking IT!” Grabbing the screwdriver he started at me: “Now I’m gonna hurt you!” But by then the game was over and we both knew it. That’s why I was able to shout him and his screwdriver down without even lifting a finger:
“Hurt me? Hurt me? You LOVE me Motherf*cker!”
About a year later I saw Michelle begging for change on Haight Street. I gave her some money and asked about Puke. She said he’d been in a motorcycle accident and gone into a coma for six weeks. He’d just come out of though and was having his legs broken, set and re-broken by doctors in the hope that someday he’d be able to walk again.
I felt bad when she told me that - despite everything that happened I’d kind of liked Puke and wouldn’t wish what was happening to him on anyone. Still, I couldn’t help wondering, as he lay there in the hospital having his legs broken, splinted and re-broken, if he ever thought back to the days before the accident and wondered what he’d been so angry about back then.