Junky's Wife in Charlotte, North Carolina


Mmmmm. Poverty food. Tonight's dinner will be Ramen, that freeze-dried Eastern delicacy, flavor "Oriental." I will transport myself into the mystical realm of the ancient Orient, enjoying the delights of potassium carbonate, tocopherols and/or TBHQ and/or ascorbyl palmitate, seasoned with calcium silicate and dehydrated leek. It is one of those amazing foods, like Twinkies, that can live in your cabinet for decades and still be delicious. It is the food we would need to survive a nuclear holocaust or the apocalypse. It is the food of a junkie crisis. You can even eat it raw. There is also hot sauce at work. I've been adversely possessing it. Our boss brought it in, but it ended up on my desk. At first, I had it at the edge of the desk so that others could grab it as they wanted it. Gradually, however, it's moved deep into the recesses of my messy desk, and now people have to ask me for it. Muahahahaha!

But I will put the adversely possessed (see how useful that semester and a half of law school was?) hot sauce on the Ramen. Maybe I'll even indulge myself and stop at the gas station for some decaf coffee. I want the coffee at the meetings, but it makes it impossible for me to sleep.

The first thing I'm going to do when we get some money is go out to eat somewhere nice. There's this restaurant called Lulu's that we went to once. We shared a bottle of wine and talked and laughed and reminisced. There was a couple behind us that was fighting. The girl had recently moved to Charlotte to be with the guy. She was a very beautiful girl. They were fighting because ever since she'd moved to town, he'd been going out with his guy friends every single night. We looked into each other's eyes and giggled at them, secure in our superior love. I had quiche. He had a lamb shank. We took the bone home to the puppy. She still finds it sometimes, buried in the couch cushions.

There is another place that we enjoy, but we always fight there. Creative Loafing offers these half-price gift certificates to Creation, and you can get a $50 gift card for $25, and they have half-price bottles of wine on Sundays. So, if you get the gift card and go on Sunday, you can eat and drink until you fight with your mate. The food is good, something like pan-Asian with a French influence. They have these lettuce and cabbage wraps that I could eat until I explode. And delicious sushi, pasta, desserts...

I want a sit-down dinner and a reason to do my hair! It's going to be great when we can go out on dates again and smile and be attractive and scare grandmothers with our tattoos. It's important in a marriage to be able to go out and show off your joint personality. It's important to remember that you've got a face prepared to meet the faces that you meet.

For tonight, though, I'm preparing a face for Nar-Anon, and I'm stuffing that face with Ramen.

On our mantel: Spot Shot Carpet Cleaner; a dog-chewed copy of Home Movies ; a blue leash; a real human skull; a dog-chewed children's book; a dog bone; a Waterford crystal vase; an empty Cook Out milkshake cup; three candles; a pile of tattoo flash; Puma sneakers; a blue hat; a bottle of KY (the new mint-flavored tingly kind); a large blue cup; the case of a porn DVD; Febreze; a seashell; a rope toy; a device designed to scratch your head (it resembles a broken egg whisk); several tattoo magazines; several unpaid bills.

Why can't you just trust me? Shouldn't the answer to this question be obvious? He owes me over $2000. He's been in and out of withdrawal for the past month and carrying me along with him on this unbearable roller coaster.

He called me at work and asked me to bring him $60. He wanted me to drop everything, leave work, and drop off $60 cash for him to buy a tattoo machine. I wish I could believe him. I wish he wouldn't ask me for money. I wish he would stop and think about what these things sound like to me.

Sixty dollars: it's the magic number for junkies. For crackheads, the magic number is $40. I learn these things at Nar-Anon. There is a good chance that someone really does have a tattoo machine that my husband could buy for $60, and he needs a new shader. His shader sucks; however, that's his bucket of shit, not mine. If he hadn't been robbing me during his active addiction, I'd certainly drop everything and rush to the studio to buy him the machine.

But he was robbing me. It happened. It was real.

I wish I could paint. I'd paint myself all blue with a wide-open heart, beaming. I am very tired. http://www.thejunkyswife.com

Share / Tools

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Google+
  • AddThis
  • Email

More from SDReader


Log in to comment

Skip Ad

Let’s Be Friends

Subscribe for local event alerts, concerts tickets, promotions and more from the San Diego Reader