CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
2004- Walk It Off
By the time we hit the street it was after 4am. Fucking hell, what a disaster.
Jake was a disaster- sticky hair, rumpled clothes, a cum stain on the crotch of his Brooks Brothers pants and a gigantic hickey streaking across the left side of his neck. His suit jacket was missing- it was probably somewhere in that sweaty little V.I.P. room. Oh well.
“Gimme your wallet,” I told him. He had a hundred-dollar bill and two 50s squirreled away in a side of his billfold. I waved the bills in front of his face and made sure to enunciate clearly and slowly, “Here is money for your cab ride. Make sure you don’t lose it,” then shoved the bills into one of his pants pockets.
Hopefully, it would cover his fare back to Manhasset. Hopefully he’d remember his address. I didn’t even want to imagine what would happen once his wife got a look at him.
I hailed a cab, threw his ass in the back, slammed the door and got the fuck away from Midtown. I’d done my duty- now it was up to Jake to get himself home.
After that, I had to walk it off. I needed to process what the fuck just happened.
My mind was blown that someone as simple as Jake Fuckin’ Shinman could wreak so much havoc, and in a space that I knew as well as my childhood bedroom. I’d honestly believed I’d be able to keep everything under control!
I headed uptown on Seventh Avenue and walked all the way to the A train station on 125th and Saint Nick. When I went into my purse to get my metrocard I found a crumpled hundred-dollar bill—the last vestiges of Jake Fuckin’ Shinman’s hookers and blow fund. I’d accept it as payment for services rendered.
As soon as I got home, I took a quick shower, climbed into bed and slept for 18 hours.
No more drugs. I had to stop.
