White Powder

 by Louise Tetreault

I was an innocent. Funny, how we never realize how precious our

Innocence is until it’s gone.

It was the summer of 1970. All was well or so we thought. They were the

good time party days under the New England sunshine. Even in summer the air

is cool in New England. The NOW Explosion, a forerunner to Music Television,

was a favorite game of ours. On Saturdays a Boston television station ran

corny music videos to the Top 20 hit songs. We would turn the volume down and

crank up the stereo with our favorite tunes from The Steve Miller Band, J Giles

Band, Fleetwood Mac, The Band and Van Morrison. They were the days of sex,

drugs and rock and roll.

I had met Jack at a party in Boston in December 1968. He had just

returned from Nam. I was impressed by his intelligence. Amid all the war protests

and angry outcries of my college comrades, here was a veteran telling me, “The

Vietnamese people are good people.  They don’t want this war.”

Jack was a thinker. He was there, lived through the horror and came out

better for the experience. Or so I thought. While Jack was intelligent, he was also

a pothead, one of the residuals of his experience in Nam. Likewise, his friends,

the people I hung out with every weekend that summer, were also potheads. I

was entering into a totally different lifestyle than I’d ever known. My quiet,

awkward, self-conscious personality was in a process of change.

I had gotten high on marijuana with friends in Boston and in the Berkshires

of Western Massachusetts. But that summer I met some serious dopers. Get up

in the morning. Drag yourself out of bed. Reach for the reefer. Get your head

right for the day. The whole focus of life was the pursuit of mind-altering drugs.

We did not seek the mind altering LSD drugs, but the narcotics that transformed

mediocrity into euphoria, and then misery into tolerance.

Times of no money with dope were better than times of money and no

dope. What good was cash if you couldn’t get high?

One blissful Saturday afternoon, we rolled through the Rehoboth

countryside with the car radio blaring rock music. Each of us clung to a can of

beer, and joints were passed among us until we were righteously stoned. The

Now Explosion was never finer than the view of the panorama of the countryside.

Marijuana heightened my experience of the surroundings. I am basically

obtuse and don’t always notice details at first. Under the influence of a marijuana

high, my senses were inundated with previously hidden stimuli. The trees and

sky were never more magnificent. The wind on my face was never as fresh.  I

heard sounds that were silent before. Nature became alive to me.

Maybe it was because I grew up in the city that driving high through back

roads was such a new experience for me. But marijuana made everything a new

experience for me.

“White power,” Jack whispered as we walked through a meadow of tall

grass. I had no clue what he meant. “White powder,” he repeated, “think white

powder.”

He said the same thing to Dave, Nancy and Ted. “White powder,” we

chanted.

The summer sun was hot on my face. I still had no idea what white

powder was, but everyone else was excited about it so I got caught up in their

madness.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, we sat in the living room passing joints and

listening to music. A visitor entered commenting on the cloud of smoke that was

visible when he entered the room. We were all oblivious to it because we were in

the middle of the smoke, and therefore, couldn’t see it. Its thickness choked our

senses.

It wasn’t until October that we actually scored some white powder.

Everyone was excited. I was unsure of what was about to happen.

“It’s New York skag,” Jack said. “”Heroin.”

My heart raced. I flashed with fear and dread and excitement all at the

same time. I wanted to do it, but I was frightened. I sensed I would be entering

into a new dimension and wasn’t sure that would be a good thing.

Jack took me into the bathroom.

“You need privacy,” he said. “It’s your first time.”

I got a little sick to my stomach when I looked at the syringe in his hand.

He removed his belt and tied it over my upper arm. His fingers expertly felt for a

vein.

“No luck,” he said, as he removed the belt and tightened it over the other

arm. He jabbed the needle into the crook of my arm.

“Damn,” he said. “You’ve got really small veins. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He continued trying to find a suitable vein until he met with success.

“Red flag!” he exclaimed.

I looked down as the syringe filled with blood. Then Jack plunged the

narcotic fluid into my vein. I tasted alcohol in the back of my throat. My stomach

was queasy.  Then I felt sensation of pins and needles pricking my whole body

as the drug circulated through my blood system.  Then an indescribable head

rush indicated that the drug had gone straight to my head. I felt immovable.

“You really got off,” Jack said.

I couldn’t walk.  He helped me walk back into the living room where the

others were in similar zombie like states. I sat for hours drifting in and out of

consciousness.

“You’re nodding,” Jack explained.

Everyone complained about the poor quality of the dope. I had no point of

reference. All I knew for sure was the taste was enough for me to want more.

Everything they say about heroin is true. It is highly addictive. One taste didn’t

turn me into a street junkie. But if definitely turned me on to the desire for more.

Like sex, once the appetite is stimulated, it becomes like food and water. The

need will always be there.

The next major rush took place in March. Jack and I had gotten married and had money to spend. We found an apartment outside of Boston, bought a kilo of marijuana and a bundle of skag.

We bought the brick from Gary and broke it up in his apartment. Until that

point in time I had never seen that much marijuana. It was compressed into the

size of a brick for easier transport. The size and shape also made it easier to

weigh. Not that any dealer’s scale was accurate. Most tended to have their

scales “adjusted” for their benefit. But Gary was a good friend. Jack trusted him

more than he trusted anyone else. Their friendship went back to childhood.

The round coffee table in Gary’s apartment was covered with leafy

clumps.  Jack decided to take a half-pound and break it into ounces for quick

sale.  At $20 per ounce we would make $160.  The brick cost $275 that meant

we would be high for months at a great price per ounce.  Jack used Gary’s scale

to weigh out ounces as accurately as possible. The smoke he intended to keep

was packaged at the full ounce mark. Those earmarked for resale were a tad

lighter. With the other half pound, Jack planned to make Mary Jane Superweed

out of a recipe he discovered.  That would leave us with a whole pound as a

reserve.

“We’re set for four to six months,” Jack exclaimed.

This was good. Getting smoke was one thing we wouldn’t have to worry

about for a long time. Somehow that assumption didn’t work out as planned. The

more we had, the more we smoked. Although Jack allocated an ounce per week,

if he ran out, he would break into another ounce. Besides, scoring as much as he

did, every long lost acquaintance he ever had stopped by to get high.

The skag was top quality from New York. Jack sold eight bags of the

bundle to his brother Ted and kept the rest for us. Dave and Nancy had a bundle

for themselves. We all got off together. Jack had to get high first, then he

grumbled because he had such a hard time finding a vein in my arm. Then when

I finally got off, he was envious at high how I got. My tolerance was much lower

than his. I would be immobile. Once I got into a comfortable position, either sitting

down or laying in bed, I would be completely relaxed for a couple of hours. I

would nod in and out of consciousness and experience euphoric sensations.

In such a state, there was no control over the mind at all. If someone

spoke, it took  a great deal of concentration to reply appropriately. And if the

response came out inappropriately, it didn’t matter. After all, I was high. We’d

laugh then and drift into another nod. The quality of the heroin would determine

how long the affect would last. We had killer dope that kept us off for the next

twelve hours. 

We settled into a life outside of Boston. I worked in town, and Jack found a

job in Newton. We established a routine much like other young couples.

However, our entertainment differed from the average. We got high every night

and got off on the weekends.

Gary and his girlfriend Linda were our closest friends. We’d get high and

go out drinking with them at a favorite pub in Cambridge. One night in particular

we ate some reds (seconal) before we got to the club. We topped it off with a

round of Tequila. The combination was deadly.

For no reason at all, Jack smashed a total stranger in the face with his

beer mug. Jack was average in weight and build. The guy he attacked was over

six feet tall and very muscular.

“Let’s go,” Gary ordered, ushering us out the door.

But it was too late. Outside the door, the victim’s friends were waiting for

Jack. One of them warmed up by repeatedly smashing his fist into his open

hand.  A melee broke out. Fists pounded against faces. I wasn’t about to stand

by and let my man be pulverized by the giant foes. I jumped onto the back of a

guy a foot taller than I was and began pounding him in the head with my shoe.

The ape twirled around until I slid off his shoulders and fell to the ground. I got up

to rejoin the fight and took a punch in the right ear. Gary grabbed me and spun

me away from the brawl telling me to wait at the car.

Cut and bruised, he and Jack finally arrived at the car. They laughed

recalling details of the fight and the excitement generated by it. The drugs were

wearing off. I felt sick and hurt and failed to see any humor in the situation. My

attitude was attributed to the downer. Seconal is a barbiturate.  I was bummed

out by the evening and felt out of sync with the rest of the group. In the future I

would stick with uppers.  Being down didn’t make sense to me at all. I’d rather be

high.

Hanging around with serious druggies had me brushing shoulders with

some very scary people. Drug dealers aren’t necessarily high class. Even if they

were, the product they dealt with tended to make them low life. I never thought of

myself as low life, but, as they say, birds of a feather.

The reality of low life became clear to me when I found myself at Joe

Kelley’s after wake party. Joe was someone I never knew, but Jack, Gary, Linda

& I crashed the gathering of his friends after his funeral because, “They’d have

dope there.”

Joe was a local biker. His friends were clad in leather and chains, smoked

cigarettes one right after another and guzzled beer at the same pace. Joints

passed constantly. Conversation centered on their exploits. As I listened, I

realized I was among murderers and thieves.

Harpo, another dealer, got his name from the Marx Brother whose hair his

resembled. Although he lived at home with his parents, he made his money

dealing pharmaceuticals that he obtained by robbing pharmacies and hospitals.

His product was guaranteed 100% pure by the U.S.D.A.  As long as the seal on a

vial of morphine or Demerol was unbroken, you knew for sure you were getting a

good deal.

We were regular customers of his. He knew us so well he took my

personal check for drugs. That was unheard of now or then. In a world known for

individuals to be cutthroat and ruthless, this man trusted me. It was and is my

nature to be trustworthy. In this particular situation, I wouldn’t want to have

angered him.

There was an incident when Gary, Linda and Jack paid a visit to Harpo.

He wasn’t home. They decided to break into his house. Jack and Gary climbed

into a second floor window and searched for drugs. Jack decided to rip off his

television to sell for drugs. He and Gary were about to lift it out the window when

they heard Harpo returning home. They were putting the TV down on the floor as

Harpo entered the room. He pulled a gun on them.

Jack dove out the window, slid off the roof and fell to the ground.

According to Linda, he bounced when he hit the ground. Every time she told the

story, she laughed. I personally didn’t see the humor in the situation because

Jack hurt his back in the fall.  I wasn’t there and didn’t see it happen. If I had

been I might have laughed along with everyone else.

Harpo became Jack’s benefactor. When he realized Jack was hurt, he laid

some percodan on him.  Linda and Gary got their share for being there. While

Harpo was ready to shoot the intruders not long before the fall, the whole incident

was too absurd to be true. Jack was a likable guy. Harpo couldn’t hurt him in the

end. Besides, Jack and Gary were good customers.

Pickles was another pharmaceutical dealer. He was bowl legged from

having his legs broken twice: once by the Hell’s Angels, another time by the

Devil’s Disciples. He had crossed both groups in dirty deals. They let him live

because he was a steady supplier of pure grade product.

One evening we gathered at Gary’s awaiting Pickles arrival with a bag full

of goodies. I was tired and wanted to leave. Although I knew we would never

leave until Jack got off, I complained anyway.

Meanwhile, Pickles got there. Low murmurs were heard from the kitchen

as the men worked the deal. Linda and I waited in the living room. Gary called for

Linda, but Jack didn’t call for me.  I waited then went to see what was happening.

They were off.

“Where’s my hit?”

“You said you didn’t want any,” Jack said.

“I said I wanted to go home,” I protested. “I never said I didn’t want to get

off!”

I went into a rage.

Pickles found himself in the middle of a domestic quarrel. He reached into

his bag and brought out a small vial of Demerol. It had its own set up so I didn’t

use the same needle they had used. I got off like a bandit. As it turned out, I was

higher than they were and got a taste for something new.

What none of us knew at the time was that Gary had hepatitis. Jack and

Linda soon came down with it. They were very sick with it while I was healthy

except for my veins. I suffered an infection in my left arm and couldn’t even raise

it shoulder level. We all laid low for a while licking our wounds and allowing our

bodies to recuperate from months of daily injecting drugs into out veins. But did

we learn from the misery our addiction brought upon us? Not at all.

Once we recovered, the pace of the chase intensified. Ted had discovered a gold mine in Brockton. He had met a girl named Joyce who had a friend in Nam

who was mailing her envelopes of pure, uncut Vietnamese skag. The Brockton

Express was underway with the promise of unfathomable adventure.  As soon as

we got word that a “shipment” was in, the four of us took the drive down Route 24

to Brockton.

Even though he didn’t have a driver’s license, Jack insisted on driving my

car. Joints were passed as we sailed along filling the car with the smell of reefer. 

Jack noticed a state trooper flashing his lights behind us.

“Roll down your windows,” Jack ordered.

We opened alternate front and back windows for the air to suck the smoke

out of the car. We quickly popped gum into our mouths to mask the smoke on

our breath.  Any suspicion of the presence of drugs would have brought us

serious trouble. Gary had a half-ounce of marijuana that he slid under the seat.

He and Jack both had works.

Fortunately, the fragrance was gone by the time the time the trooper

approached the car. Jack fumbled through his wallet and pants pockets in a

feigned search for his nonexistent license. Fortune again smiled on us because

the Registry’s computer was down, and the trooper could not access the records.

He issued a warning for speeding and sent us on our way. The marijuana high

was blown, but we had something better to look forward to down the road.

The quality of Vietnamese heroin was primo. It was being shipped to us

directly from the source. As a result, it wasn’t cut with anything. Domestic skag

could be cut with quinine, baking powder or methadrine. This practice

necessitated “tasting” the product before purchase. Sometimes a taste would

reveal harsh additives. Other times it wouldn’t. There was no need to taste the

Vietnamese stuff. It was the real thing.

During one of our trips to Brockton, Jack took too big a hit and overdosed.

He was comatose near death on the floor. Ted performed CPR. Joyce scurried

around picking up evidence of drugs and paraphernalia and hid it in her car. With

my heart pounding, I waited for the ambulance service to come.  We’d been

married just over two months. How would I explain his premature death to my

family?

Shortly after the ambulance arrived, the police came. They wouldn’t let me

ride in the ambulance with Jack. I was escorted in a cruiser. The uniform officer

pumped me for information playing on my distraught emotions. I kept my story

straight. My focus was on the ambulance. Suddenly, Jack sat up. I was relieved,

and the questions stopped.

Meanwhile, narcotics detectives searched the apartment. It was clean, so

they didn’t find what they were looking for. No doubt they would maintain

surveillance on us until they did find what they knew would be there again.

Junkies are consistent. They keep wanting more.

 When the Vietnamese skag wasn’t plentiful, Ted ventured into Boston

and New York City scouting for other sources to keep his thriving business going.

It also made sense for the core group to enjoy the primo dope and for the

customers to get the more commercial bags. Jack brought me along on a

scouting expeditions to Roxbury once.

“Wait here,” he said, as he got out of the car.

I was completely dismayed.

“You can’t come up,” he added as he shut the car door.

I reached over and locked the door. I wasn’t a person of prayer in those days, but

fear prompted me to utter, “God, help me!”

I was raised in a relatively safe middle class neighborhood. Roxbury was

predominantly a black project seething with crime. A gang gathered to play on

the basketball court while others watched. Cars full of youths cruised up to the

courts with reggae music blaring from car radios.

I observed the familiar scene. Two cars slid up to each other. Car

windows rolled down.  An exchanged followed. The cars spun away in opposite

directions. A car pulled up beside me. Five pairs of black eyes peered over at

me. I was the only white woman in the neighborhood. They knew I didn’t belong

there. I trembled in my seat. The car pulled away. I startled when I heard the car

door being opened. It was Jack. Without saying anything, he started the car up.

“The deal took longer than expected, but the dope is good.”

That was all that really mattered. The dope was good.

It was just another Saturday night. Jack and I were at Joyce’s with Ted.

Business was good and all was right with the world. We had all just finished

getting off. Jack and I were in the living room confessing our love for each other

while Ted and Joyce were in the bedroom taking stock of the supply of heroin

they had left.

Suddenly, there was a quick knock on the door. Then the door burst open.

Plain-clothes police officers stormed into the living room announcing themselves

and waving pistols.

“Put your hands up,” one of them said. “You’re under arrest.”

It was like a dream. Something I’d seen on television or in the movies.

Being off kept me calm. The officers frisked Jack and me. They pulled my hands

behind my back. The clinking of handcuffs on my wrists made the nightmare

reality.  The metal cut into my wrists confining my hands. It was the end of

May. Eight months of doing hard drugs, and we were in jail. What would become

of us?

I was cold. The police had put us into separate cells. The silence was

broken by familiar voices. I could hear Jack and Ted talking. Bail had been set for

each of us. Ted had enough to get himself out. Joyce called her parents. Jack

and I were broke. Ted gave up his way out so Jack and I could be let go.

“I’ve been in jail plenty of times, “ Ted explained, “Lou hasn’t. Get her out

of here.”

The police released us. The drive back to town wasn’t as jovial as the ride

in had been.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“Get a lawyer.”

“How?”

“Don’t you have money in your savings account?”

            “Not that much.”

“We’ll have to take it out.”

Silence followed. I was paying a dear price for excitement. Somehow it

didn’t seem worth it.

“What do you think they’ll do to us?”

“Nothing. They want Ted and Joyce. I don’t think they’ll do anything to us.

We just have to get through this court hassle.”

It was about 3 a.m. when we got back to our apartment. We had to be in

court before 9. We went through our closets getting the right clothes to wear to

court. Jack called Gary and Dave to let them know what had happened. I ironed

a shirt for Jack and a dress for myself.. Dressing up was a costume foreign to our

jeans and tee shirts. The drive to Brockton lacked the familiar anticipation. This

trip was full of apprehension.

Joyce’s parents had hired a big name lawyer. They kept her secluded

from us. Shame was evident on her face. Her parents were horrified. After a

while, we were given audience with the high priced lawyer. He confirmed Jack’s

theory. The police wanted Ted. Since we were in another room from where the

heroin was found, we would probably be charged with being present, a

misdemeanor.

“Will you defend us?” Jack asked.

The lawyer condescended. We were petty junkies, but our money was as

good as any the money of any other criminal he represented.

Inside the courtroom Ted was escorted into the defendants’ docket along

with others who hadn’t posted bail. He looked pale and thin.   He was a reflection

of Jack and myself. I hadn’t looked into the mirror much during that period. My

dress hung loosely. Surely I was as sickly as he was.

The case was continued. The court ordered Ted to the Veterans Hospital

for treatment until the set court date. Our lawyer advised us to get into

counseling.

“The judge will see that as an effort towards rehabilitation.”

We’d do whatever was necessary to keep out of jail except stop using. 

The counselor was as jaded as we were. He’d seen it all and heard every story.

Jack spoke as the counselor reviewed results of our blood and urine tests.

“I’m feeling pretty sick, man.”

Jack was trying to score some methadone to keep the edge off.

“You’re chipping,” the counselor said.

“I’m sick,” Jack retorted.

“Lay off the dope, and you’ll be okay.”

“I need a little help,” Jack continued.

“You’re not using enough to get any methadone. Go home and get

straight.”

With our principal supplier out of circulation, we scoured the city for any

possible traces of dope. Whatever we did couldn’t compare with the quality we

were accustomed to doing and the price was higher.  Once outside of the inner

circle, we were peons like the people we used to deal to.  We were reaping what

we had sown. The deals we got were like the deals we gave. The good time

party days were winding down.

The appointed court date came. Because I had no criminal record, the

charges against me were dropped at the request of the prosecution. Jack’s

charge of being present received a suspended sentence. The court ordered Ted

and Joyce into rehabilitation programs. Ted spent six months in a VA program in

Brockton where he was not allowed any contact with the outside world. Joyce

faced a similar pronouncement.

We left the courtroom feeling very uncertain. Rather than return to the city,

Jack and I took a long drive in the country. We didn’t talk much. I rested my head

against the back of the seat and took in the scenery. It was a refreshing change

from the jungle that our life in the city had become. We drove for an hour and

found ourselves on a side street off the highway.

“Take a look at that!” Jack said, breaking the silence.

I saw a “For Rent” sign in the window of a little cottage. Jack stopped the

car. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing.

“Come on. Let’s take a look.”

Jack’s most charming personality came out as he spoke with the realtor.

She led us to another house around the corner where a little white house was for

rent. My heart raced as she took us inside. The house was modest and sparsely

furnished. It was a summer cottage that recently had a heating system installed.

We would be the first year round residents.

As we left, I glanced down the street and caught a view of the beach. The

street dead-ended unto a cove. I wanted to stay there the rest of my life but

couldn’t imagine how that could happen. What was Jack thinking?

He chatted amiably with the realtor. I remained silent as he lied to her

about being in business for himself. Those were the days before credit checks.

We were a nice young couple. If we could come up with the money, we could

have the house.

Once we got back in the car I blasted Jack. He convincingly told me he

would borrow the money from his father.

“We have to get out of the city,” he added. “We have to get straight.”

He was right. I just couldn’t foresee how we would be able to stay there for

long. Jack’s father gave us the money, and we moved in. I took the bus into

Boston to work. Jack started looking for a job. We eked out an existence.

Finally, we got jobs in Attleboro and commuted an hour back and forth to work.

Between our two paychecks, we managed to pay the bills and always had

enough money for a bag of smoke.

Ted’s six months in the VA ended. He was on methadone maintenance.

Every day he had to go into Boston and give a urine specimen and spend time in

group counseling. At the end of the day, he would walk out with his dose. On

Friday’s he would get extra doses because the clinic wasn’t open on weekends.

It wasn’t long before he was selling his weekend dose to us. Then he’d

buy heroin for himself.

We were right back where we started. New surroundings, but we were

getting high every night and getting off every weekend. There wasn’t the same

hassle with needles and chasing after deals. The high wasn’t as good as skag,

but it was close. Best of all we kidded ourselves into believing we were getting

straight.