Jett shoved his hand into his pockets as he walked. He’d grabbed something to eat down the road, but now was looking for something else. In New York he’d known where to get what he was looking for, but New Orleans was a different kind of beast. Fortunately, he’d been able to sniff out what he was looking for relatively quickly after arriving. It was one of these places he was headed to now. He glanced at the sign to make sure he had the right place, as he’d only been to this particular location a time or two before.
Opening the door, a small bell sounded, and he nodded and smiled at a man behind the counter. Outwardly, it was a small homemade treat shop, with things like brownies and ice cream. If you knew the right thing to order, you were seated in the back. It reminded him of an old speakeasy, wherein the illicit stuff was hidden behind a secret wall or door. It was here that he would find what he was looking for. The lady that sat at a desk near the door nodded to him.
“Poison?”
“Skag.” he responded, watching as she retrieved and measured out what he was asking for. As she did so, he looked over to the side wall, and collected other items he needed – a tourniquet and needle, mainly. He could appreciate the fact that the needles were individually packaged like they might be for diabetics, so that someone couldn’t come back and try to bust them for dirty needles, in addition to the drugs.
He handed her cash when she handed over the heroin, and he took himself to an unoccupied corner. He was old hat at this, and knew how to tie and administer without the aid of another. After he’d injected himself, he untied the tourniquet and leaned back, waiting for the high to overtake him. It wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done, but it was the only reliable way he’d found to cope with his existence. He’d tried committing suicide in the past with no success, and eventually gave up on that, and looked for other means of escape. Heroin was his current escape.
Over time, he gradually relaxed, letting his mind wander and just forget about his problems for a while. He never looked at how long he was out, but since he usually got high during the day, he figured it didn’t much matter. Brandon was, he admitted to himself, a good sort. So far. In his own experience, they all came across that way. In fact, he’d only come across one who had maintained that, but that asshole in New York had offed her. He hadn’t known Brandon long enough to trust him, and moreover, didn’t know how long Marcus would allow for Jett to be kept in one place.
Some hours had passed before he felt the bulk of the drug’s effects wear off. It was then that he disposed of the needle in a provided container, as well as the tourniquet, nodded to the woman handling the transactions, bought a take-home kit, and left discreetly. He blinked a little as he stepped outside, then took a moment to put on a pair of shades. The sun was hot and bright, and a bit too much for him to handle right then. By his own guess, without looking at a timepiece, it was perhaps five in the evening – just past the hottest part of the day, but still a few hours from sunset.
Maybe time for some sightseeing he thought – he hadn’t done much of that yet. So he wandered, taking taxi or trolley to the touristy hot spots, trying to avoid Lafayette cemetary. He found himself there anyway, and with a steadying breath he strode in. He avoided teh tourist groups and history buffs as he stepped his way through the narrow path between headstones, until he came to a spot he hadn’t been to in ages. He was somewhat surprised he was able to find it – after all, the last he’d been there, the cemetary had looked vastly different. It didn’t matter though – he was there.
Moving out of that narrow path and around the length of the grave, he stood at the foot to look at the headstone. Jacqueline DuBois; 1840-1872 it read. Carefully, he moved forward, and crouched in front of the headstone, placing a hand over it. It had taken him time to get back to New Orleans after he’d left to fight. When he was finally able to manage to get back, she was gone. “Je suis désolé mon amour. J’aurais dû être là.” he said quietly. He removed his hand and then stood up, taking a last look before turning to leave.
“Ancestor?” a voice asked.
Jett looked up, annoyed at this intrusion. Before him sat a guy in a wheelchair, a camera in his lap.
“Something like that.” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. It took him a minute to figure out he was looking for a cigarette – something he didn’t have.
“Mind if i take a pic?” the guy asked.
“Of what?” Jett asked.
The guy indicated the marker. “It’s an interesting design, and the way the shadows have been playing on it would make for an interesting picture, I think.”
“Yeah. Sure.” he said, stepping out of the way, watching as the guy did his thing with his camera, taking a few pictures. “You do this often?” he asked after a bit.
“Take pictures?”
“Of headstones, in particular.”
The guy shrugged. “I like to take pictures that might make people think, or of things they have forgotten or don’t want to think about. Sometimes the dead fall into that category.”
The guy set the camera down and tried to power the chair backward, though eventually got frustrated. “I don’t supposed I could get you to help?”
“Sure. No problem.” Jet said, taking the chair and easily powering it through the rough grass and back onto cement.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. So…you a local?”
“Kind of? I’ve only been here a few months.”
“Few weeks, myself. Student?”
“Not exactly. Name’s Chance, by the way.”
“Jett.” he said, offering a hand which Chance then took. He took a minute to study Chance, reading the issues that lay on the surface, and in between the lines. Issues he’d felt himself, at times. “You eat yet?”
“No.” Chance said, eyeing him a bit skeptically. “My roommate’s probably expecting me though. I should get back.”
“Fair enough.” Jett said, walking alongside him as they headed for the cemetery exit. They walked in silence a bit, stopping just outside the gates. Chance carefully put his camera away, then started looking for something, eventually pulling out his wallet and sighing. “Something wrong?”
“Don’t suppose I could get some help with a cab or an uber?” he asked, a touch sheepish.
“Depends. What part of town you headed to?”
“Uhhh….” Chance paused, trying to think of the address a moment, before shuffling through his backpack for his phone.
Jett paid attention as he scrolled through the contacts, looking for the address. He noted that each contact had a picture, and as Chance was scrolling through alphabetically, he happened to notice Claude’s picture. “Wait…you know Claude?”
Chance looked up. “I guess? I take it you do?”
“Sort of. He’s dating a friend of mine.”
“You a friend of Petra’s then?”
He nodded. “I’ll pay for the uber to take you back.” he said. “Then I’ll have the drive take me back.”
“Thanks.” Chance said, putting the phone away as Jett called for an uber to pick them up. While they waited, a conversation struck up.
“So how long you been going through withdrawal?” he asked.
“Who says I am?”
Jett gave him a look and proceeded to give a short list of his most obvious tells. Chance sighed. “I can’t always get it, so I go through detox. I keep telling myself I’m gonna quit, but then I keep getting my hands on stuff, and it all falls apart again.”
“You need help, man.”
“Do I look like I can afford rehab?” he said, starting to sound a little cranky.
“No. I’m guessing you’ve spent some time homeless?”
He nodded.
“And somehow you ended up staying with Claude?”
“It’s his roommate that offered. Dave.”
“Don’t know him.”
“All I can say is I’m trying.”
“Never said you weren’t. Might be able to find someone to help you out. Or sponsor you. I don’t know many, but I do know a few people.”
“I don’t know. That’s like, a huge favor. And what if it doesn’t work?”
Jet shrugged as the uber pulled up. “Never know unless you try.”
They didn’t speak again, focusing more on getting Chance and his chair in the car, and handing over the address than in keeping with their conversation. The drive was silent, apart from polite driver/passenger niceties, and the music blaring on the car stereo. When they pulled up to the house, Jett got out to get the chair and set it for for Chance, keeping it still as he moved into it. After he was settled, Jett handed him a scrap of paper he’d scribbled his number on. “Think about it.” he said, giving it to him.
“No promises.” Chance said, heading for the house. Jett sighed, and climbed back into the car, giving the address of the penthouse building. He’d tried. He had a feeling about the kid though, and resolved to try and find out a bit more about him, if he could.