Memoirs Aren't Fairytales Read Online Free Page A

clothes and short attention span, she seemed constantly hungover even though she said she rarely drank. She was the bartender, and during our breaks we'd go out back and smoke together. She had the dankest weed and didn't mind smoking me up as long as I didn't tell the other servers I was high or who I got the pot from.
    She was a no-frills, no-bullshit stoner, and quickly we became pals. Her apartment had a real bed, a couch, and dishes in the cabinets. Her most prized possession was a two-foot glass bong named Baby, and many nights after work Baby got us so fucked up Eric and I had to crash there.
    Renee became our go-to for weed. We'd been buying it from Eric's co-worker, but he was unreliable and expensive, and the herb tasted like dirt. Every payday, we gave Renee sixty bucks. She'd go to her dealer's house and come back with a half-ounce of the whitest, stickiest bud we'd ever seen. We used to get some sick shit in Bangor because lots of people grew it. This weed was different, hydro grown, and after a bowl you could barely remember your name. She referred to her dealer as Jesus. I was pretty sure she wasn't religious, but weed, she said, was her bread and wine, and Jesus was her savior.
    Her secret lasted until the end of winter. Renee went back home to New Jersey for two weeks to visit her parents, and when she returned we noticed a change in her. At first the change was slight. She had loads of energy and never stopped talking. Then she started to lose weight. She was never fat to begin with, but the thickness on her arms, thighs, and stomach were disappearing. I watched her eat dinner at the bar and munch on snacks after we smoked. I also noticed her frequent trips to the bathroom. That meant one thing, she had to be bulimic.
    One night after a few hits from Baby, Eric and I confronted her. She laughed when I said the word, bulimic, like I was crazy, and then asked if we wanted to meet Jesus. It was odd how she shifted the conversation and suddenly wanted to introduce us after months of keeping him a secret. Maybe she was tired of being the middleman, or maybe Renee wanted to share the blessing with us. Maybe Jesus could recite a prayer that would stop me from having nightmares.
    We took the train to Jesus’ house on a Saturday night when we all got out of work. I was telling Eric about the tips I'd made when out of nowhere, he nudged me and signaled me to look up. Towering over my seat was a man, his legs inches from my knees. I didn't know how long he'd been standing there or how I hadn't noticed him before. He was dressed like the homeless, bundled in layers with a stained jacket. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, and his back was slowly bending forward, so his face was getting closer to mine. Eric kicked his shin, and the guy straightened his back and opened his eyes for a second. His pupils were the size of a grain of sand.
    When the man started to take his second nosedive, someone on the train yelled, “Methadone saves lives,” and all the other passengers laughed.
    Eric stood up and said, “Get the hell away from us.”
    The guy stumbled toward the door, held onto a side railing, and continued to bend forward like he had done when he was in front of me.
    I had heard of methadone. Bangor had a methadone clinic, and some oxy-head acquaintances from high school were rumored to be enrolled.
    “What's he on?” I asked Renee.
    “Heroin.” She said it like she'd seen the effects of the drug hundreds of times before.
    I couldn't take my eyes off his face. He was young, close to my age or a few years older, although the wrinkles on his forehead and the dirt and scruff on his cheeks made it hard to tell. I found it strange that he didn't flinch when that person yelled or when everyone was laughing at him. If anything, his expression was peaceful like heroin had deafened him.
    Watching him reminded me of the first time I tried ecstasy and the emotional numbness that came with it. The most devastating thing