the score

THE SCORE

J. ORTIZ

















I rolled over and looked at my alarm. Must be a gloomy day outside, no sunlight creeping through the folds of my drapes. Just a slight cascading grayness. It’s expanse blanketing the horizon with a sullen ambivalence known only to a New England sky.

After a bitter struggle with the snooze button, a restless shuffle. A quick grab to the left. One swift light and a deep hit. A beautiful sight, smoke rising thru the water. Thick rings bouncing around the handcrafted stained glass- and then the release. The diligent inhale- the deliberate exhale.

Sifting through the mess of empty cigarette packs, metal cookers, dirty cottons, capped and used rigs, behind the ceramic ashtray I made in sixth grade. I find a pack, pull out a smoke, ignite and lay back.

Sharp beads of light began to break the horizons hold on the captive daylight. The subtlety of the overlapping grays and the piercing blues slowly laid claim to a giving sky and the day to come. The fucking alarm yet again breaks the tranquility of calming my earth. A quick look at the clock. 10:45 AM Sunday morning. Time to get a move on.

The daily check. I run my eyes over my left arm. It got a lot of action the last couple of days. Deep purple and blue blotches ran the length from mid-forearm to right past the bend of my elbow. Running my index finger up from the base of my wrist gently pushing down and inspecting the darker spots on the way up.

Gentle presses

Broad strokes.

Gentle presses

Broad strokes.

Circularly massaging the deeper blotches for hard spots, feeling for the build-ups. Checking for the beginning of masts that could signify an abscess.

Gentle presses

Broad strokes.

Swabs and anti-bacterial ointments smoothed over the insertion points.

Junkie or not-

Good health

Clean use.

Good lengthy inspection,

No imminent danger. Track four from the “Zeppelin BBC Sessions” and “Black Dog” rumbles from the speakers. I head to the shower.







I love New England. I am not immune to flights of fanciful escape. Probably universal to anyone whose lived their life in one place. Fanciful escape though. To get away and come back home. HOME. A place you can’t fake or buy a feeling u can’t forget or deny… no matter how far u run.



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The walk from my house to my parish traversed everything that makes me smile. Gently sloping hills, lined with sturdy oaks. Canopies that filter the sunlight down onto individual homes built as much of labor as the permeating history of their material. Light breezes blown in off the aligning river carrying the scent of evergreen leaves, sweet morning dew brushed off from the recently mowed grass and filling your lungs with the life of the only place you’ve ever wanted to be.

St. Walking up on St. Matts as I have since kindergarten, and every Sunday since my graduation from its school, is a steady and calming sight. No matter in what light or in what sight, it’s laid brick and gothic layout, offer welcome to not only the most devoted parishners, but to any wayward soul seeking the comfort and respite of a willing family.

Peace is a most difficult thing to come by. So much so, that entire societies have placed the whole of their spiritual existence on obtaining said notion. I’ve always assumed that for the rest of us, we build such things piece by piece with the blocks of comfort attained through our most necessary trials of life.

“Good morning Nick.”

“What’s happening father….Jesus seems to be commanding quite the crowd today.”

“Well salvation always seems most pressing during the holidays… No?”

A slight smirk.

“Touché father.”

“One of our lecterns couldn’t make it. She was ill.”

“Then hopefully she’s home praying for good health.”

A dismissive nod.

“Did u want to fill in and give the reading before the gospel?”

“Funny father.”

“I’m actually quite serious. You have been an active member of this parish since you were in kindergarten. Dedicated altar server, CYO counselor. The youth dances that continue to this day, I daresay still carry just a hint of your subtle rebelliousness. I couldn’t think of a better representative.”

“You are serious.”

“ Nick, it’s not lost on me the reasoning for your impending no. If I may before you answer…. I have seen you every week in some capacity since you were five years old. I baptized you, took your first confession and offered you your first communion. I have seen you grow from a bashful child to a selfless and humble individual with a heart, whether or not you would care to admit, is so full of life and love that it hurts you that you cannot give more. And you give your everything. Since you’re return to my masses from the time you’ve taken off, you sit in the back and take no active part of our ceremony. You have gone from stifling, though always respectful, hostility some something of a calmer contemplation as you struggle to regain your foothold in our community. Look at this as a small stepping stone toward something you have obviously been working so hard to get back.”

I’ve known Father Joe Scarelli all my conscious life. Always known that he could see right through me….no matter how much bullshit I laid on him. He’s never come for me quite like this before. Not during two stints in rehab. Not during 3 years of homelessness. Not during anytime he’s laid over my bed and watched me give up on life, only to never succeed. This was going to be a long fucking mass.





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555-62...

“What’s up man? I was literally just dialing your number. What the fuck are you doing up so early?”

“Fucked if I know man. I was a little surprised myself to see so much of the damn daylight when opened my eyes. What are you up to?”

“Just leaving St. Matt’s. I was planning on stopping by.”

Faint sounds of heat on metal, are clearly heard thru the phone. Little bits of water coming to a swift boil.

Unmistakable.

“Dude you still there?”

“Yeah - I’m just setting up the morning medicine. You gonna come by?”

“I’m on my way now.”

“We’re you coming from?”

“You’re a fucking mess, it’s like I talk to the fucking walls. I’m leaving church.”

“HA HA HA HA! How was mass fucker? Any useful tidbits of wisdom from the man? You swipe a bottle of wine on the way out like we used to do back in the day?”

“NO you demented fuck. That shit’s awful. I can’t believe we did that shit then. I do hunger for the big communion wafers from time to time though.”

“Don’t hate man. That shit got us pretty wrecked.”

“We were twelve, dude. Huffing rubber cement got us wrecked back then.”

“Ha ha ha. I forgot all about you and your little thing for inhalants. I was always surprised you never started swiping the white-out like the rest of those dicks.”

“Suck it . I haven’t seen you sober since eighth grade.”

“AH---- Whatever with your judgments. Anyway I’ve got something that might pique your interest upon arrival.”

“Well I’d fucking hope so, I’m not coming over to help your mom with the new drapes.”

“Faggot.”

“Again, Suck it.”

“Come through the back when you get here.”

“Aight. Later.”

My best friend, Mark Trapello didn’t live far from the church. Just a couple of streets up the way. Two or three block from the spot were Jingle Bells was composed- I shit you not. As a matter of fact I’m passing by it right now, and its otherwise ubiquitous historical marker visible to no one.

I take a right at the armory and stand at the bottom of the hill that is his street. I’ve always liked his street though, it sloped up slightly quite manageable if you’re on foot. Walking up, old English Victorian houses line either side of the road, flanked by the dark greens of the maple trees, holding their own against the bold natural landscapes provided by the aligning sycamores.

The second to last house on the right; before the road gave way to woods, lay a traditional white picket fence giving way to an exquisitely manicured lawn, sprinklers on in full effect nourishing lush greens that gave way to steady Doric columns framing a sweeping wrap around porch that almost usurped the presence of the charming house it was attached to. The house that held the memories of my first sleep over. My first bong hit, my introduction to the Beatles as something other than a dodgy British pop band, and my first kiss, which took place under the towering weeping willow that slumbered over the rear of the house.

Through the back door.

Down the back steps.

And I knock-

“Yeah.”

“It’s me dude.”

“Well what do you want, a fucking invitation?”

I opened the door to Mark’s room and was almost brought to my knees by the exiting rush of smoke.

“Open a fucking window, Jesus Christ.”

“Then there’d be no point in bowling the room now would there? My young Mr. Torres.”

“I’m a year older than you prick. Can we get down to business?”

“Table. Equipment in the drawer if you need it.”

The heightened anticipation that accompanies the immediate period right before drug consumption rivals that feeling your body builds up right before you’re gonna cum. Shit a lot of junkies might even go with the former if you asked them which they’d prefer. Honestly, I might be inclined to join the pack. But that feeling, oh my. At the beginning, early in one’s “career” maybe its all about the end result. There’s no regard, nay no respect for the process. But then again what’s the fucking process when you’re young: locate, pickup, indulge, or insert, pullout, repeat. Maybe maturity brings an urgency to those later in drug life situations. Think about times when you’re fucking starving and you have to cook for yourself. You’re starving and all during that prep time you’re keeping your eye on the prize, but you build with care and finesse, knowing the care you show now, will most certainly yield benefits at the end. So slow and steady you go, your senses are inundated to the point that it might just break you. The hunger so pervasive, all your thought is bent on it and then that inevitable conclusion.

My eyes roll back.

My body slowly settles into the first comfortable crevasse.

And everything is perfect.



“That’s good shit.”

“Y-e-s s-i-r.”



“So dude you were saying earlier?”

I can barley muster up the energy to speak.

“Saying what?”

“Something that would pique my interest.”

“Oh yeah… I was on the phone with Robinson today.”

“Ya tell that fuck I said what’s up.”

“Well you may have the opportunity to say so yourself.”

Uneasy anticipation.

“Really? How so?”

“Well he’s got this new kid that’s gonna start running for him. Here to there you know same shit that’s been going on since he moved.”

“Yeah.”

“So he wants you to ride along with this kid on his first trip to NJ. He did mention you by name specifically.”

“Aw don’t I feel fucking special…. Any ideas as to why my name would have come up?”

“Probably because you’ve been around fool. You move a good bit of product amongst the college kiddies. I may or may not have mentioned your name, and the kid’s a little wet behind the ears, and he asks about you all the time.”

“Really.”

“Well this kid, he’s a good guy but he is starting off pretty big. He is from Wis-fucking consin. Not accustomed to the way we might do business up here or… (barely audible mumble)…to people in color in general especially in the game.”

“And that has to do what with me….and my being around?”

“C’mon Nick stop being such a dumbass. You and Rob go way back, we go back, my bad. I remember when you used to call him Jacques back when we played ball in elementary school to piss him off- ha ha and it so pissed him off.”

“Ya I remember he came back by calling me spic-and-span, that shit was funny.”

“Hah ha ha. Well there’s really no one else. You happen to be in the enviable position of being well connected and having grown up with the primary dope supplier in our metro suburban area. Needless to say you’ve already gained the trust required of someone carrying out this task, and hell you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

“Splendid. I assume arguing if futile.”

“Dude hoe many junkies do you know that use the word futile. Honestly considering the places you deal in sometimes im surprised your ass makes it out.”

“Don’t underestimate the ghetto man, they’re hustlers by necessity, not stupid”

“My bad I was unware vocabulary was that high on the priority list of kids that require firearms for survival.”

“Best go down spouting meaningful prose, even if every other word is nigga.”

“You’re and ass, and you call me….”

“Spare me please.”

“Alrighty Mr. Futile, like we’re in mortal combat or some shit, you’ll go down, hotel it, and come back whenever you wake up. Obviously you’ll be well supplied for your journey and am sure Rob will further compensate you upon your arrival.”

“Well what have I got to do?, what’s the story on my partner?”

“He’s seems actually a lot like you, seems to have a similar background, not quite the character you are….but”

“Fuck you”

“You’re doing a good deed man, he’s typical white bred type, smokes a lot of pot , he’s from fucking Wisconsin man, I got nothing.

“He use?”

“I’ll let you sort that out other than the smoking seems to me probably just some petty adolescent shit. You could tell he was a little uneasy when he came by and…saw the… litany of supplies I keep. But he’ll be by here like I say eight-thirty or nine-ish so be back by then, in the mean time….shall we head back to the table?”

One minute later……….Pure brown heaven.

All my thoughts swept away by 70 units of muddy water pounding through my body. You ever have your mind cleared in an instant? It’s some shit I must tell you. One minute your mind, operating normally, continuously, brooding on matters of consequence, meddling tedious issues of our own making pushing us to a stress that would otherwise not exist and then………. instant freedom.

It’s hard for you guys to understand I’m sure. I’ll say this though to give you some perspective. I’ve once in my life, well twice if you count ejaculation, been privy to an experience that rivals a high and the rub is that is fucking universal, go figure. Limited to the willing and the brave? I wonder. Yielding to the selfless and true? Fucked if I know. I do know this: boy can it knock you to your knees and take the breath right from your lungs, only for the strong I suppose. I would even wager that love nullifies any and all inhibitions, no? Just like a drug, so ironic. However, I find myself not in the ranks of the courageous. I’ll leave this battle to those fortuitous soldiers and these feelings to the expanses of my dreams, how else can one be safe?





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I found myself rudely pulled from the doped up unconscieneness that’s happily numbed my life and squashed my ambition. Damn did that take lots of work. I hear foot steps. Intentionally muffled footsteps slowly creeping their way through the garden to the back door. Some slight stumbles. Some audible curses. The shuffling continues, past the back bushes, down the path to the back door and then a slight collapse. Creeping druggies in foreign terrain, its funny shit. I hear the steps gather themselves and open the screen door that leads down to the basement. Another collapse, that third step is a bitch.

And then the soft knock at the door.

Bashful tediousness is quite hilarious. I’m sitting, laying back on the recliner closest to the door and I can’t help but laugh. More muffled knocking from the door and a faint “Mark”. I’m not giving in until he has the balls to knock correctly; had this been me or any other wanton consumer of goods the door would have already been pounded on or picked. Damn junkies, no impediment insurmountable in the quest.

A forceful knock.

I laugh again.

“Hold on to your fucking nuts buddy, I’m coming.”

Mark falls off the adjoining couch, startled and pissed.

“Who the fuck is that!”

A quick look at the clock.

“Wisconsin I’d suppose.”

“ Damn! We’re we really out that long? Well get the fuck up and get the door, he’s gonna be your best friend for the next day.”

I was actually quite eager to meet the person I’d spend the next day and a half with. That’s a bloody fucking long road strip with a stranger. Like having a blind date were you have to sleep with the bitch, the fuck ever heard of such a thing! I went to make for the door but the lethargy most definitely kept my ass pressed to the seat I had spent the last hour in reminiscing about the life I could have lead. The swelling on my right arm brought me quickly back to the reality of the life I had chosen. One more attempt up to the door and here we go. Right turn on the deadbolt and the push forward.

“What’s up man?”

“Not much dude, I’m here to see Mark.”

“Yeah?, Mark know you?”

I was just fucking around.

“Yeah I’m here for work, he should know what I’m talking about.”

“Work huh? What kind of work?”

“Work dude. Who the fuck are you? Why are you crowding the door?”

“Little testy are we buddy, mind you im the one already on the inside? Definitely not the attitude that’s going to keep us alive on our little trip. So check that shit at the door and come in.”

Good first impression from Wisconsin, I definitely didn’t want to be riding with a kid that was going to be a bitch first and a dealer second. No matter what your business is in those parts if your carrying you’re a dealer and everyone in the know is watching. No room for misimpressions in our business. Someone always looking cop or looking to rob. I definitely didn’t want to be part of either camp especially since we were going to be the visitors to another neighborhood and impression was everything. I turned toward the inner corner of the room and saw Mark with a broad shit-eating grin starting to come too.

“Come in and sit down dude. Don’t mind Nick he’s a prick.”

“I learned it by watching you.”

“Shut up.”

“Alright Wisconsin let’s get down to business. Have a seat at the table.”

“I think that’s a good name for you….Wisconsin, you object?”

“Call me what ever the fuck you want Wisconsin’s the best of what I’ve heard so far up in this bitch. I got a lot of variations on cheese, so Wisconsin’s fine with me.”

I smirk and look up.