The Big Fix by Tracey Helton Mitchell Read Free Book Online Page B

based on sex—it was emotional in nature. This was the first time Ihad felt as if someone liked me for more than just what I had in my pants. She made me feel like I was okay just the way I was. She liked to read books to me and tell me her deepest secrets. She told me she left because her stepfather had been molesting her since she was thirteen. She finally got up the courage to leave the house after her mother refused to believe her. I admired her strength. A boyfriend got her started on drugs, then left her for better opportunities. She had no street smarts, no experience. In reality, neither did I. I was just a few months ahead of her in this life.
    I started to think of things we could do for money.
    â€œWell, let’s go up to Larkin and O’Farrell,” I suggested.
    Larkin and O’Farrell is an intersection near a center that helps homeless youth, which means that corner attracts a special type of predator, the type looking for young women. I had been stopped there many times by men looking for sex. Before we could even agree on an amount, they always wanted to know my age. Apparently I looked sixteen, because I walked away with cash a few times.
    I never thought I would have sex with anyone for money. Heroin made it so easy. It asked me how this was any different from the random hookups in bars I used to have. This time, it told me, I could get paid for it. My newfound friends agreed. Junkies on the street had the perfect guy for me that first time. He was safe. He told me I was a goddess. The next time was easier. I was stupid to sell myself short. No one had really wanted me all my life. Now men nearly ran their cars off the road to spend time with me. It seemed to make sense. I was a feminist. It was my body, my choice. I was unable to see that the drugs were making all the choices for me.
    I continued. “Maybe we can catch one of those kids with money going to the youth center. If not, we can do a quick date and meet back here.”
    Her silence told me everything.
    â€œNo.” She shook her head at me.
    Here was the difference between a casual user and where I was in life. She was willing to sit around in withdrawal until easy money or drugs came her way. She didn’t understand. I didn’t want her to. Part of me was wishing I could be like her. Two cute young women could sometimes get gifts from strangers—seemingly with no expectations for sex in return. In reality there was a “system” with the unspoken rule that all debts would eventually be collected. No one around here got anything for free. We all paid one way or another. But my heroin habit was pushing me past the point of waiting for a free gift to come along. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla on my back needed to be fed.
    I started to raise my voice. “While you are willing to scrounge money for drugs, looking for change in a couch to support a $5 habit, I need some REAL money. I am supporting a $30- to $50-a-day habit.” She could not understand the things I was willing to do. I was glad she couldn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t end up like me.
    The party ended for me when I traded my stability for my next fix.
    I tried to explain to her, “If you aren’t making money, you are walking around sick. No one is helping you. It is just us.”
    She shook her head at me again.
    One of the older junkies had told me early on, “You better be shoplifting, selling your ass, or working the hell outof anyone that crosses your path. Or all of these things. You are getting your teeth pulled for pain meds to sell. You are living on the street. You are alone in the world.”
    My girl was not willing to do any of these things. I was proud of her for this. I envied her ability to say no, but I knew this would be the end of our friendship. A few days later, I put her on the bus to stay with a relative in Michigan. She made it out alive. Years later, she sent me letters thanking me for taking care of