ELIZABETH McKINNEY - PART ONE

Here’s what happened.

I was riding with Elizabeth McKinney, a high-cheeked Aztec woman, bullet-proof heart and eyes to match. Backseat of a Crown Vic and as her luxurious hair graced my lips I was overcome by the pungent scent she gives off when under the influence. We’d spent the night in bars along Grant Street, me burning back shots of Old Crow while Elizabeth, an addict’s distain for alcohol, drank ice tea. Midnight crept toward us, then passed and next thing we knew it was two in the morning. Time to go, she whispered, trembling hand clutching my shoulder. She's coming down. Down Columbus in the rain, hard right at Broadway. Shotgun bursts of spray blinded the windshield and the Uber man cursed, set the wipers set to high. Elizabeth straddled me, stroking my neck with long purple nails and kissed me. I still couldn't believe we were sleeping together.  

You said the Mission? asked the Uber Man. Yes, I replied, SnakeHead Lofts. Julian at Sixteenth.

We crossed the lobby okay, but Elizabeth began stumbling when we entered the fake industrial elevator. I put my arm around her waist and at the sixth-floor led her down the cement corridor to my unit. Floor to ceiling windows, loft-friendly furniture throughout; before Elizabeth it'd been the pride of my life.

Need my stash, she whispered. From a musty shoebox behind the tiny altar she’d assembled next to my bed, red candle, photographs of her dead parents, La Sante Muerta statue, she’d gathered her works: cotton swabs, plastic cigarette lighter, syringe, silver spoon and a baggie of what she called horse or skag or shit, depending on her mood. She's comfortable here, I'd lie to myself, we’re in a real relationship.

She stumbled to the bathroom, washed the inside of her left arm while cradling the syringe like a Eucharist wafer. Filled the plunger with water. Back in the bedroom she licked the spoon and set a chunk of horse on top, then rolled up a cotton ball and slid across the bed to where I was sitting to place a chaste kiss on my cheek. She's excited. I wanted to grab her, lick her moist neck knew better. Don't interrupt.

She squirted a drop of water from the syringe into the spoon, flicked the lighter and began to heat the bottom, junk dissolving before her eager green eyes. When she dipped the cotton ball into the spoon it expanded like a sponge. Delicately inserting the tip of the needle into its center, she used the plunger to suck up the heroin. Needle flat against on the skin at the bend of her arm so the point went down the length of her vein, and not across, she turned to me, smiling sardonically. Now comes the tricky part.

She didn’t want to miss the vein, of course, so she carefully pulled the plunger back until a trace of blood flowed in. Perfecto, she said, then pushed the plunger and when the syringe emptied she carefuuly removed the needle and climbed on the bed. Didn’t take long. Heavy eyelids drooping, she began to nod and all of a sudden her features changed, her lips filled out, cheeks grew taunt, green eyes curving upwards behind tiny slits.

Please, she said, join me, leaning on my shoulder what her look of love I can’t refuse and yet again, despite my fear, I said, half what you had. She prepared the syringe. Less than that, I insisted. Yeah, yeah, she replied. Afraid to look, I gave her my arm. Working fast and confident, Elizabeth found a vein and inserted the needle. Nothing happened. She made a mistake! Then it rolled over me.

Her addict friends say that heroin is the best orgasm they’ve ever had, multiplied by a thousand. A tropical wave of relief surges through their bodies, they claim, eliminating as irrelevant feelings of sorrow, regret, anger, stress, and guilt - except maybe a tiny flicker of anxiety: no one should feel as good as I feel! Like I'm being hugged by someone I've always loved, some of them believe. But when questioned, they admit the personage who hugs them is someone they cannot find except at the end of a needle. If you think too much, or worry about things, like I do, you sense a problem. A great, drug induced ecstasy, perhaps, but if you experience it, even one time, it’s embedded in your memory. No matter what, you can’t get the fucker out and for the rest of your goddamn life you’ll be thinking about doing it again, even when you realize the orgasm you experienced, if it really was an orgasm and not just a junkie’s dream, was as impersonal as shit. Maybe I’m old fashioned, and I’m certainly not one to badmouth drugs, but shooting heroin is the opposite of loving another person, the opposite of affection for anyone other than yourself. An orgasm calls for some feelings for a partner, be it someone I'll spend the rest of life with or an individual I met less than an hour ago and will never see again, thank God. Some form of affection or at least lust seems necessary, whether it's a powerful finish or a wilting, sudden jab of my enlarged prostrate, a partner’s part of the deal. But you don’t need a partner with heroin. You don’t even want a partner. You’ll snitch off your partner if it gets you another fix. So ignore the orgasm bullshit. Bottom line: you get high, feel good, and pay for the rest of your life.

Measure 50, the Genital Mutilation Prohibition Act, brought her to me. A few months after my divorce, back when I was working - before I was saved. She arrived in handcuffs, escorted by a middle-aged female Deputy Sheriff with a long thin nose, cropped hair, and no eyebrows. A warm Spring morning if my memory is correct, but the weather is irrelevant in Visiting Room Four. Twenty by twenty and twelve feet high, institutional green, slick concrete floor, the white ceiling imbedded with brass fire sprinklers protected by thick mesh screens. Snicker bar wrappers littered the floor and it smelled how you you'd expect the San Francisco County Jail to smell: urine, sweat, and lots of Lysol. From all around and above and below the clamor of hell; crashing gates, steel doors popping, obscure voices, walkie-talkies, and the disconcerting rattle of waist chains.

She passed through the jail-side sally port laughing at something the deputy said. First thing I noticed were those beautiful cheekbones and big, greenish eyes. Black hair streaked with purple, she wore a yellow jumpsuit too tight for her full body. Long sleeves, so I didn’t notice the tracks on her arms until months later, after her release.

Cuffs off? the deputy asked. Yes.

We sat across from each other a red plastic table, security camera hovering overhead. I work for the City of San Francisco, said as soon as we were alone. Senior Testing Administrator. Supervise the administration of written examinations, monitor testing practices, and manage applicant flow. She shrugged. But I’d been pulled off my regular job, I continued, and assigned to a special project. I’m interviewing inmates about genital mutilation.

She raised her eyebrows. It’s not me, I added. It’s Measure 50. What’s that mean? she asked.

City referendum, I replied, make’s it unlawful to circumcise, cut, or mutilate the foreskin, testicles, or penis of another person under the age of eighteen. Elizabeth grinned, shaking her head. She doesn’t believe me. The Measure includes an exemption for cases of medical necessity, I emphasized, but not for custom or ritual, which may have profound implications for the many Jews and Muslims who considered circumcision an essential part of their religious or cultural beliefs. She wrinkled her nose. Not surprisingly its a hot topic of debate, I concluded.

I forced a smile, to put her at ease in case she didn’t know that Measure 50 was the subject of considerable ridicule. Our Board of Supervisors, I began again, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, I clarified, brainchildren of the measure, want to reach out to potential "yes" voters. So they established a project to inform jail inmates. I didn’t want to get involved, I confided, lowering my voice while leaning across the table, but my request was denied. My assignment, I said in a louder, firm tone, is to interview inmates in Pods 16 and 17. Females, she said. Yes, and I need a translator. I took a deep breath. Jail Admin selected you. You speak Spanish. Right? You’re on the Second Watch work crew. Correct?

She nodded, but said nothing, staring at me. I wonder if confused? Perhaps a learning disorder? You might enjoy it.

Do I get out of my housing unit? Yes. Earn good time? Yes, two for one. She squinted, as if thinking hard. Okay, she said.

 We conducted a hundred and sixty-two interviews in four weeks, Elizabeth and I at one side of that table, the inmate on the other. She did a great job, translated cheerfully, she’d even pull their sleeves if I lost their attention. Due of budget constraints they'd assigned me only one Movement and Control Deputy. After the interview ended, the deputy had to escort that inmate back to her cell, and only then did he or she began to search for the next inmate to be interviewed. Sometimes that prisoner was not in her housing unit, off to medical or in court. So we had plenty of time to talk. She seemed to ignore the rigors of incarceration, said that doing time was the price she paid for being free on the streets, explaining without hesitation that freedom meant using drugs. She'd give me the low down on the inmates we interviewed. That girl’ll do anything for cheddar, she’d say. Cheddar? I asked. Money she replied. Loans out her good-good to staff, she added, guys and gals both, she added. I soon appreciated her humor, her honest responses to inmate questions, and the efforts she made to look as good as possible given the circumstances. On the other hand, her attitude toward issues I considered important like justice and climate change and world event shocked me. The news, she’d say, the stupid SF Chron or Channel 13. That bullshit doesn't exist for me. I’m into . . . how do say it, nunciation? Renunciation? Yea. The renunciation of bullshit. Try to turn one piece of bullshit invisible every day, you know . . . things not to get hung up on like the NFL or some dumbass TV show. I tell myself, let it go, learn to walk right past it, give it no mind at all, it's all bullshit.

So . . . what do you care about? I asked. No, no, she replied, pointing a finger. We're not going that way. Don’t know you. On our final day together she rubbed her leg against mine during interviews, looking ahead as if nothing was happening. The day complete, she shook my hand in a businesslike manner, walked rapidly through the sally port and didn’t look back.

A week later she left a voice message on my cell: Come visit, I’m dying here

They assigned us to Room Four, assuming I’d come for the project and it became a weekly thing until the Sheriff’s Department released her - three months early because of crowding. We’d agreed to meet up but she never called. I figured she forgot about me. It turned out to be more complicated, everything is complicated with Elizabeth. No phone she said weeks later. I’ve renounced cells, she added. I’ll pick you up. Too many problemas, she replied, let’s meet at Union Square.

There she was, right on time, looking beautiful. Back then I was filled with great ideas. Poetry reading? City Lights Books? Shook her head.There’s a new French movie playing just . . . Don’t go to movies. How about the Giants? Told you, sports are invisible. So I took her to a trendy restaurant she didn't like, but regardless she seemed comfortable with me and also, and this is important, she ignored the other men no matter how they stared - as if they were invisible. Held my hand at the table and put all her attention on me.

You read these books? she asked, first time at my loft. And what a clean freak! Soon enough she was coming around two, three times a week. She’d began using again but I didn’t say anything. We fell into a routine, take a walk, talk, pick up take-out, eat at the loft and make love. Some days she arrived sick, coming down trembling under the sheets, dripping with sweat and I’d call and take the next day off. By afternoon she’d feel better. Then she left for a few days, but always came back. Six months into it I was missing work on a regular basis. My supervisor began avoiding me.

Fresh from the shower Elizabeth stood naked before me. Why the long face? she asked. You want some? She cupped her breasts and flashed that look she gives when she wants to fuck. Eager perhaps, but never excited, cool in fact, waiting patiently in her drug calm manner for me to make the first move. By now she depended on me for everything, but always tried to remind me that she's in charge, that I’m the one with unmanageable desire, that I’m the bottom even when I'm on top. I lead her to the bed and soon we were rolling around, her lover-face staring wide eyed, calling me stulla as if it’s our very first time and when Elizabeth stuck her tongue down my throat it didn’t take her long, which only fueled my jealously, wondering if she like this with other men. She groaned, clamped her legs around my waist so hard that for a moment, until she finished, I couldn’t breathe.