EVERY DAY WITH HER (NEW YORK CITY, 1982) by Michael Backus • Cleaver Magazine
Speed-free for two days now and stuck waiting on the 116th Street A train southbound platform with a hard two-train hour down to my job at the Gansevoort Meatpacking District, I have this packet I got at the bodega at 113th and Broadway, this over the counter Ephedrine bullshit in its bright blue waterproof packaging, and this is what I'm reduced to, trying to pound two little pills to dust without splitting the plastic, using my fist against the greasy wooden subway bench, and though there are five or six other people waiting, no one is going to say anything to me, not at 3 a.m. at 116th Street—maybe not anytime—and finally I have it powdered but with nothing to snort with, not even a single dollar bill; just a pocketful of tokens supplied by my girlfriend Kiley the way a parent might pin a child's lunch money to his coat along with a note, I have to lean my head back and pour half down each nostril, snorting as hard as I can and it's worse than speed, the burning and the small sharp shards that didn't pound cutting into my nose and soon I have another nosebleed going and the train still hasn't come and after this there's another switch at Columbus and another wait, then ten hours of hard work and the whole thing in reverse and it has got to be the worse but given all this, it's still better than staying home, waking up to her and all that goes with her.