CARRY ME HOME - PART 2: HARPER
Harper packed up her car the morning of graduation. The morning after she left.
By the end of the summer she had seen nearly everything she thought she could see in America, and headed for New York to settle down. She had in her mind a thought of becoming an artist, or maybe an actress. That was what was great about New York, she had convinced herself, that anything a person could want to be could be achieved in a place like New York.
She pulled into Manhattan and as a way to prove to herself that she would never leave, the first thing she did was sell her car. Then she found a hostel and dropped off her meager belongings before heading downtown to party in some dingy club. She was now in the middle of it all, she now was it. What else was there?
She found a shitty job as a cocktail waitress at some shitty dancehall tucked into the East Village. It was more tourist than native, but she didn’t care. She filled her days by wandering the various cultural landmarks of Manhattan, not even bothering to gaze over the bridges or look down the tunnels that connected the center of the world to the periphery. She went to museums and galleries, tried out for plays and did the occasional modeling. Everywhere she went she met someone who would take her somewhere else to meet someone else.
She eventually found a little subletted apartment of her own tucked into the top of a dirty building somewhere near Chelsea. There wasn’t much to it, but she would sometimes buy day-old flowers to put by the window that looked out into an alley. She also got a phone line, and it was mainly to collect messages from Andre, who seemed to call everyday. Sometimes she took the calls, but quickly bored of them, and the spaces between answering grew.
It wasn’t completely a conscious effort. Harper was rarely in her apartment, spending her time meeting people and working. After a few months she quit her job at the bar and was a receptionist at a downtown art gallery. This allowed her to use her impressive well of sexual charm on all kind of monied people instead of the fat and drunk tourists that had come into her old job.
One day in the middle of November she was looking at her ever-neglected “To Do” list and saw Andre’s name circled. She called him on a whim, and he answered almost immediately. As they chatted, running down what each person had been doing over the past few months, he reminded her of the promise they had made about Thanksgiving. Harper had forgotten about it, but insisted that he come out to her, and that they would call Deion during dinner.
The day before Thanksgiving she went to Newark (ugh!) to pick up Andre. She had made an awful sign to kid him a little, which he glowered at and refused to find funny. The cab ride back to Manhattan was a little awkward, and he signaled he didn’t have enough to pay the driver, so Harper covered it.
They went to Chinese food the next day, the least romantic and blasé one Harper could find, but still she couldn’t shake that Andre wanted more than just a fulfillment of a promise they had made in high school. They called Deion, who couldn’t talk long.
The next day Andre begged to be taken around Manhattan. She loathed the idea of playing a tourist, having already convinced herself that she was a native, but she begrudgingly agreed to see the usual tourist crap. They didn’t get to the Empire State Building, luckily.
When Andre left, she settled back into her real life, the one not punctured by visits from the past.
Soon she was being invited to parties that she never previously would have been at. With these sort of high money parties, tucked away in private lofts all over the Meatpacking District, came a different kind of adventure. Instead of drinks and weed, the choice for the more collegiate and low end parties Harper had attended, this new crowd offered all the finest drugs money could buy.
She would never forget the first time she used cocaine, the rush of energy and the feeling that she could accomplish anything. But it left quickly and was too expensive. Heroin wasn’t her first choice, but a musician boyfriend convinced her to try some and she was hooked.
It didn’t affect her life, not right away, and so she felt that she had it under control. Besides, she only used it socially.
One day, she received a call from Andre. On a whim, perhaps at the desperate sound in his voice on the answering machine, she picked up the phone.
“Harper,” he said. “It’s about Deion.”
He didn’t have to finish, she already knew. It was what she had been dreading ever since he had announced sometime senior year that he would join the Army.
She dropped the phone, sank to the floor, and cried out “Deion, Deion, why.”
After sobbing for what seemed like an hour, she crawled away from the still unhooked phone, and lay next to her bed, staring at the ceilng.
Life became a blur after that. She tried to work, but her grief overcame her at odd times. She could tell her bosses were getting frustrated with her, but she couldn’t feel better. The only thing that seemed to help was heroin.
Before, it was recreational, fun, not a problem. Now she used it everyday. Days blurred by, and she sucked her boyfriend’s supply dry, and he would get more so she could use it all again. She remembered, hazily, of getting a call from her boss, telling her she was fired for not showing up for a week.
She found another job, this time at higher end club as a hostess. It’s hours were more in line with the way she was living now, so although her drug use increased, it didn’t really impede her except every so often.
Everyday seemed the same, she either worked or didn’t, but always was under some kind of haze. If it wasn’t heroin, then she’d drink until she’d pass out.
On one day off, a random Thursday, she woke up to someone incessantly buzzing her apartment. She let them up, and opened the door. It was Andre. Harper didn’t remember making any plans. He said it was Thanksgiving.
“It’s not a good day for me,” she said, hoping he’d just leave so she could go back to sleep.
“I just flew all the way across the country,” he said, leaning in, “and that’s all you’ll say to me?”
She moved out of the way, against her better wishes, and he came in. He looked around, but seemed to either not see, or choose not to see, the mess she had made in her addiction. He then turned his attention to her, and Harper didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Like a dog looks at a steak.
They made small talk for a bit, him of his boring college life, she lying to make her life seem just a little better. They sat down on her futon, looked out the window that had a vase full of dead flowers. She wished right then to trade places with the flowers for just the next ten minutes, or until he left.
The buzz that had been building in her mind grew to a dull roar, especially she made them a few drinks to take the edge off their boring conversation. He was too busy staring at the wall to notice her hands shaking as she poured out the drinks, and sneak a few slugs from the bottle.
Slowly they loosened up, until they were laughing like old times. She looked in Andre’s eyes and smiled, hoping to communicate some kind of harmless warmth. He smiled back, then leaned in and kissed her.
Harper jerked back, and said, “What was that?”
“Oh come on,” he replied, rubbing her shoulders and pulling her closer. “You’ve been eye-fucking me all night.”
“No,” she said. “No.” But he kissed her again, kissed her so hard that she couldn’t respond, and the room began spinning from too much alcohol and she couldn’t resist anymore.
The last thing she remembered before passing out was looking over at the window with the dead flowers, as he climbed on top of her, and wishing she could trade places with the flowers for just ten minutes.
When she woke it was early morning, just an hour or so after midnight according to the digital wall clock, and she staggered to her feet feeling like absolute shit. She looked around her tiny apartment, making sure Andre wasn’t there. She wondered if he had even come last night, or if anything had actually happened. What had been a dream, and what a reality? She didn’t know anymore.
Harper dug around in her drug kit, finding the last of her heroin. She cooked it up, then prepared a needle. It hurt going in, of course, but it was a barely noticeable prick after the thousand times before. Then she felt life rushing in, replacing what she had lost.
She slumped against the wall, dropped the needle and stared at the wall. The heroin had been from her boyfriend’s stash, and as her body shuddered she wondered if it had been heroin at all and if she were going to die. She wondered if Deion would be there, but then she thought about being a child and learning about hell. War heroes, even ones that never had a chance to be a hero, didn’t go to the same place as worthless drug addicts. She thought that, and cried.
When Harper woke up she was in a hospital. Electric beeps and panicked talking filled the air and crushed against her aching head. She groaned and tried to sit up, but couldn’t find the strength.
“Don’t,” Andre voice floated over like fog. “You’re still took weak.”
“Andre.”
“You overdosed.”
“Why are you here?”
There was a long enough silence that she began to wonder if he had left. Finally, he said, “I couldn’t leave you.”
“I almost wish you had,” she spat back.
“You’re not well.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re mad at me,” his cool voice was pissing Harper off. She decided to switch subjects.
“How long did you stay last night?”
He didn’t respond immediately, and she triumphantly waited.
“Let’s not talk about last night.” He moved into her view. “Harper, you aren’t well.”
“You said that before.”
“You need help.”
She knew it was true, but couldn’t respond.
“If you want,” he continued, “you can stay at my parents while you get better. There’s a decent rehab facility back home.”
“Home?” She could feel her strength returning. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Don’t be unreasonable.”
“I’m serious. That place isn’t my home. I don’t even know what that word means anymore. Home. I’ve lived out of a suitcase for the past 15 years of my life, there is no home for me to go back to. This is my home. New York is my home. Where I am is my home. Not California.” She turned her head, feeling the short burst of energy recede. “I’m tired. Can you leave me alone for a while? Come back later when I don’t feel like dying.”
But he didn’t come back that night, or the next day. She waited until the night of the second day, and then took the IV out of her arm, dressed in the middle of the night after the nurse had checked on her, and walked out of the hospital, full of determination to change her life.
