Donna Dallas

When We Hit Bottom

We always found someone worse than us
Dave found that homeless hippie camp
when he stumbled along I-95
that summer 
a good 85 degrees
he had been lying by the side of the road
since dusk
he tried to shoot up in the only car 
that stopped for him
the driver freaked when Dave jabbed
his abdomen with the needle
shoved him out the minute he could pull off the road

Homeless hippie camp had collected rainwater
a good stock of needles 
dropped off by the First Baptist Church
a mattress that gave us lice
an abundant supply of acid 
the one night we took it
we ran through the forest 
smacked into vines 
branches whipped us
we rested inside a rotted tree stump
woke covered with chiggers
Dave tried to burn them off
his skin blistered up
bloomed into an infected 
yellow volcano of pus
with constant ooze

We ventured into the emergency room ripe
hungrily scanned for any drug we could snatch
the hospital staff watched us in disgust 
as the nurse injected Dave’s oozy bubbles
with antibiotics and salved his track sores
I covered my arms in shame

Halfway through the long walk 
back to the camp 
a pickup truck pulled over 
offered a ride 
Dave put me in the passenger seat
and watched beady eyed from back seat 
as I coaxed the fat old truck driver 
for twenty bucks 
he pulled over a mile before our stop 
and said nothin comes for free, toots 
as he unzipped his fly

We walked the mile 
and Dave snatched that twenty from me 
with a cold sneer that put a chill through me
he said whores don’t get to keep their money
then disappeared into the dark

I coasted along I-95 for a few months rail-thin
ready to tear apart like an old sheet of newspaper
a torrential rainstorm hit
I ran under a bridge to keep dry
found Dave huddled in a worn 
dirt trodden blanket
shaking and mumbling
sores layered over his face and hands

I walked back out into that rain
half-dead
four miles to the same ER
collapsed in front