Frank and Donny make a deal. There are a small pile of pallets that Frank needs moved to the garage. In exchange for helping, Frank will help Donny shoot up for the first time.
    "Do you have a rig?" Frank asks.
    "Yeah," Donny says, preparing to remove the syringe from his pocket. Frank stops him.
    "Don't show me," Frank says angrily, "wait until we're done. Is it a clean needle at least?"
    "Yeah," Donny says, "I got it from the needle exchange program."
    "Good," Frank says, "if you're gonna be a shooter, might as well have a clean rig."
    The work was tedious. Frank didn't want to help much. He kept complaining about his back hurting. Donny carted away most of the pallets by hauling them on is back. By the end of it, he merely dragged the pallate along the ground, towards the block-long distance from where they picked them up. The pallets were cockeyed and degraded, set amongst a pile of refuse that looked to be built up for a bonfire.
    "If they're gonna be burned," Frank says, "I might as well be the one keeping warm from them!!"
    It struck Donny as odd that this was the exchange for drug training. The afternoon was wet and clingy. The icicles hanging from the eave spouts dripped a steady rhythm. Copper tagged along. It was a good dog, and knew when to step out of the way. The work made Donny's body covered in sweat, though. Eventually, he took off his Bears coat altogether. It was 5 pallets in all. By the end, Donny was panting steadily.
    "Okay," Frank says, "thanks for your help. I have a Xanax I can give you for the effort."
    Donny is jubilant. The blue pill is placed in his hand. It is a one milligram tablet.  Donny now has enough benzodiazapam to raise the plateau of his high. The benzos and oxy went together like eggs and bacon. The drugs would mix and fuck him up royally.
    "Thanks Frank," Donny says, with a touch of gratitude.
    "Anytime," Frank says, "you can buy it all from me now. So, where do you want to do this?"
   
    They are in the back of the Blazer Hilton, fixing to shoot up. Donny knew other intravenous addicts on the streets, and knew how drowsy he would become when doing it for the first time. Donny wanted to be in the Blazer so that he could just pass out in the back when done injecting. The walk from Frank's was too long for a nodding out junkie.
    "Well, like I said," Frank begins, getting the air of an instructor, "these Oxies don't have the extended release coating, but I still think we should cook it up. There might be a wax binder, or something with the pill. If we cook it, any impurities should be boiled out. Then we filter it. We should be able to just crush it up, mix with water, and shoot."
    "Only I'm shooting up," Donny corrects, "I don't share needles."
    "Right," Frank grumbles, "I meant you. I've got my own stash, thank you very much."
    As Frank puts a dollar bill over the Oxy, and crushes it with a rolling motion of his lighter, Donny studies him. Frank has not aged well. The drugs have left a landscape of ruin across his wrinkled face. He looks like he is in the '60's age bracket, rather than the 40-something he actually is. Frank's green eyes light up greedily as the drug is mixed with the water. The old man grins, and Donny sees two teeth from the side are missing. Being homeless didn't afford a proper dental plan.
    Frank used the cut-out bottom of a pop can to do the mixing. Donny made sure it was a fresh can, one that was unopened. They both drained the soda as they walked back to Gus' Blazer. It didn't occur to Donny that although the soda was unopened, the bottom of the can still might be dirty just from sitting there. Frank eased Donny's worries by burning the can with a lighter until it was seared black. The Oxy bubbles as it boils. It looks like pepto bismol, with that strange pink coating.
    "That should sterilize it," Frank says with expert junkie knowledge, "like I said, there's no coating to be burned off, but I don't know if it will get all chunky because of the cold. It's best to be safe than sorry.  Tie your arm off now."
    Donny takes a length of nylon rope Gus had in the back bed of the Blazer, and wraps his arm up tight. The needle is between Donny's teeth, making him look like a drug-addled pirate.
    "Give me the rig," Frank says, as he precariously balances the fluid in the shallow popcan bottom. Donny hands over the needle. Frank takes out a fresh cigarette and tears off the filter. Placing the butt-end of the filter into the drug mixture, Frank then jabs the needle into the other end of the cigarette filter, and pulls back on the plunger. The liquid is sucked up through like a sponge.
    "You've gotta filter it," Frank says in a quite voice, "to get most of the germs and tiny stuff that you don't want in your body."
    "Oh," Donny says stupidly. Who knew self-destruction had such a well thought-out process?
    "You can use cotton," Frank says, "but I just use a smoke filter because cotton seems to get dirty before you use it. It's a dirt-magnet."
    "Right." Donny says blankly.
    Frank flicks the syringe with his finger.
    "For air bubbles, you see?" Frank explains, "if you get an air bubble in your vessels, it could pop, and that'll be the end of ya."
    The end of him? Sounds good. Speaking of which. Donny takes out the Xanax, and as Frank holds the needle outstretched in one hand, Donny crushes and snorts the pill. Frank looks bewildered.
    "What in the name of Christ are ya doing?!?!" Frank asks.
    "I want the biggest high ever," Donny says, "one part Oxy, one part benzo Xanax."
    "I don't think you should do that," Frank says with keen eyes, "you might die. You're already shooting up 5 milligrams of OC."
    "It's too late now," Donny says with a lunatic's grin,"the pills snorted, and the rig is loaded. Let's do it."
    Donny offers out his arm. His veins are engorged, the upper bicep pulsating with fullness. Frank leans forward and lines up the shot. With a practiced skill, Frank slides into the vein the first try. To confirm what he suspects, Frank draws back on the syringe until the first few numbers on the syringe barrel is Donny's blood.
    "Ready?" Frank asks in a wavering voice.
    "Do it." Donny demands.
    Frank pushes the plunger down. The fluid is hot upon meeting his blood, and then that warmth spreads. Sweet warmth, like he's never felt, ever. And no sober person has ever felt it, either.
    Frank unties the length of cord from Donny's arm. The feeling swells, roaring throughout his body. The rush from it is unreal. It's everything multiplied. No joyous experience Donny ever had could compare. When it reaches his heart, the sensation builds and builds. Beyond sex, beyond any of the other highs Donny experienced. Donny's back straightens, and his head rises, tilting backward. It takes his breath away. And also his heartbeat.

Donnyâ¦Donnyâ¦Donnyâ¦Donnyâ¦.Wake up, Donny!!
   
    Donny feels a strange weight pressing upon his mouth. His lungs inflate, but not by themselves. Donny tries to sit up and meets something scratchy and tickley. Donny tries to sneeze, but feels more air breathed into his mouth, down his esophagus, into his bronchioles.
    "Donny?!?!" a quiet voice calls out, "come on, sit up!!"
    Strong hands lift up Donny by the chest. Donny's head lolls back, then straight forward with the motion. As Donny's blurred vision returns, the first thing he comprehends is the tiny letters stuck to his Bears coat. There are so many of them, and they don't spell any words. They are very sticky. It takes a few seconds to realize they are from the alphabet soup Frank had fed him earlier. Donny must've puked all over himself.
    The drug literally took his breath away. And his pulse.
    Donny had hit the main line, and nearly died as a result. Donny tries to scoot on his hands and knees out of the cab, but succeeds in only falling forward, and hammering his face against the Blazer's wheel well.
    "We've gotta get you up and walking," Gus says hesitantly, "we've gotta get the blood flowing again."
    Gus exits, then drags Donny's limp body to the end of the tailgate.
    "C'MON, DONNY!!" Gus screams. The Carpet Kings voice echoes off the adjacent wall, yelling at them again as a phantom.
    Donny's feet touch the concrete, and he nearly pitches forward onto his face again. Gus supports him with Donny's weight slung over his thick neck. Donny's shoe kicks something heavy and metallic. The object clangs along the ground. Donny swoops his head down. Gus' tools are scattered along the street, by the tailgate. One of Gus' fancy toolboxes is burst open like a clam shell. Most of the tools are gone.
    "Goddamn you, Frank" Donny says in a slurred tone.
    "Whose Frank?!?!" Gus says irately, "is that the mother fucker who shot you up, and stole all my shit?!?!"
    Why must Donny's overdose also affect Gus? Because Donny lead the thief right to Gus' Blazer. It was Donny's fault. But even harsher was the realization that Frank was a cold-blooded prick. WHat kind of monster would steal a man's tools, while a stranger sits there, dying? Maybe it was a hot dose, and Frank planned on killing Donny. No, that wasn't it. Donny had taken the orange pill before the injection, to test it out.
    "I came back here, before I went to bed," Gus says with anguish, "I wanted to make sure you're alright, see if you needed anything."
    "I--I'm sorry Gus," Donny says, with a marble mouth. Talking is hard. Everything is hard. Donny is so dizzy.
    "Keep breathing!!" Gus says, drooping under the weight of Donny. The strength leaves Donny's body and he tumbles to the sidewalk. Gus turns Donny on his back, and motions towards a shop owner who came out to see what the commotion was.
    "CALL AN AMBULANCE!!" Gus wails, "TELL THEM SOMEONE IS OVERDOSING!!!"
    Gus took training for Cardiopulmonary resuscitation every year at a company retreat. The employees were all involved as well. It was a great tax write-off, and gave the workers a chance to grow closer as friends.
    Gus begins punching Donny in the solar plexus, in an effort to stimulate the heart, lungs, or both. The Carpet kings hands thud against Donny's ribcage. In between every few blows, Gus gives resuscitation to him as well. Gus is exhausted by the time the paramedics come onto the scene.
    "Give him a shot of Narcan!!" one EMT says, as he drops to one knee beside Donny. The EMT shines his light into Donny's eye.
    "Pupils are dilated, and unresponsive," the paramedic says to his partner. The newly-arrived EMT begins preparing a needle.
    "What did he take?" the EMT asks Gus.
    "I don't know," Gus says, terrified, "Oxy. I think he was on Oxy. He shot it up. It was pink shit. I don't know. But he was addicted to Oxy Contin before."
    "It' might've been opana," one EMT says to the other.
    "Do we need to intibate his airway?" the EMT confers with his friend.    "No, I don't think he's gone into septic shock," the other answers.
     They have a bag valve mask over Donny's mouth. One pumps the bubble-like device steadily as the other finishes filling the syringe. Donny claws at the cupped mouthpiece. The EMT pulls it away for a second. Donny mutters something. The EMT lowers his ear right next to Donny's lips.
    "DNR," Donny mouths, "DNR, don't do it."
    "What's that mean?" Gus says with a grey pallor to his skin.   
    "DNR?" the EMT says, "it means Do Not Resuscitate."
    "GODDAMIT DONNY!!" Gus cries, "don't pull this shit now!! These men are trying to save your life!!"
    "DNR," Donny says again, struggling against his own heavy lungs.
    "Guys, he doesn't know what he's saying," Gus insists, "just save him. He's been through too much to give it all up now!!"
    The EMTs meet each others eyes. They deliberate in ways unspoken. If they revive a DNR case, they might get sued, for malpractice, or not honoring a patients wishes. Being homeless, Donny doesn't look to be able to afford a high-priced attorney. He couldn't even hire a lawyer to defend himself in court, during the Occupy Iowa thing.
    The EMT continues to supply air to Donny, and the syringe is shot into Donny's arm. The effects are almost instant. Donny is back among the living. He gasps loudly, and begins breathing shakily. His features start out with a blue tinge, then to a pale grey, white, and fleshy pink. The anti-opiode clings to the opioid receptors in Donny's brain, and the Oxy is denied.
    "Are you alright Donny?" the EMT asks, as Donny's eyes dart around, surveying the scene.
    "You just overdosed on what looks like Oxy-contin. Or Opana. Do you understand, sir?"
    "Whuz?" is all Donny can muster, in a dazed tone. His mind is cloudy and bleak. Medicine rages in his body, in a war for dominance over a man's chemistry.
    Gus hurriedly picks up his tools. The Carpet King grunts with effort as he lifts his mangled toolbox and throws it into the truck bed. The handle from the stainless steel hammer pokes out of the maw of the toolbox, like it is caught in it's jaws.
     "I only let you stay because of how you took the rap for me at the occupy park," Gus says, frantically, "if I got a criminal record, I couldn't get no more jobs. But I can't let you stay now, Donny. You're too far gone. Shooting up? With needles?!?! What the fuck, man?"
    Gus slams his tailgate and fumbles with his keys. It's almost like a hit and run, with Gus escaping. But the old man didn't do anything. He still looks guilty though, practically tripping over himself to get going.
    "I'm sorry, Donny," Gus says, "But I'm done. I'm not your daddy, and I don't think we can even be friends now. Goodbye Donny."
    Gus scoops up his last remaining company hat, and begins to hook up the battery. The pit crews at the NASCAR races had nothing on Gus Landry. Gus practically threw the battery into the spot, and connected the cables in a matter of moments. Gus started the engine, revved once, and took off.
    One EMT notices. They are indistinguishable from Donny's inhibited mind. The EMT gets to his feet, and goes to the curbside, trying to wave down Gus.
    "Don't," Donny requests, "he's not to blame. He just came back and found me. He didn't give me any dope. Just leave him alone."
    "What drugs have you had today, sir?" the EMT asks. The young guy is holding Donny's wrist, and timing for a pulse.
    "Xanax," Donny says in a frightened whisper, "and Oxy. They had some different formula, or something."
    "I don't think that was Oxy Condone, sir," one ambulance tech explains, "that gentleman said it was pink, right? It might've been Opana, which is several times stronger than Oxy."
    "Well, the toxicology report can tell us what you had," the guy says, "we just need to do a little bit of blood work."
    Donny glances down at his arm for the first time. A long snail trail of blood is crusty on his arm. A dot of pink drug is also dried on his elbow, like a florescent birthmark.
    "I'm fine," Donny says, "I don't need any further tests."
    "But you--"
    "I don't have insurance," Donny says, struggling to his feet. If there was one tried and true way to deter medical attention, it was always the lack of medical insurance. It works. The two ambulance technicians are already gathering supplies, preparing to depart.
    "You almost died," the guy says, as he packs up his gear, "I can't give any life advice, just medical advice. But if I was you? I would think about getting off this shit. Go to the methadone clinic."
    "I keep hearing that," Donny says without emotion, "maybe its for real."
    "you don't have to go cold turkey," the other EMT says, "being on methadone is better than this shit. If you can regulate your supply of treatment, it'll take you off the streets."
    "You guys aren't gonna call the cops, are ya?" Donny says thickly.
    "We aren't obligated to call the cops unless there's gunshots, or weapons involved," the EMT mentions, "it's at our discretion. No, we won't call anyone. But don't make us regret it. Sometimes it takes jailtime to force someone to get clean."
    "Thank you," Donny says appreciatively, "you guys saved my bacon."
    The EMTs both look at him with a touch of sorrow. They see not a man, but an addiction with flesh and bones. It is something they witness on a regular basis. Their jadedness looks to be a form of protection now, not allowing them to get emotionally involved with the fuck-ups of the world.