The Perfect Drug

It's March and darkness is closing in. Get through December, I told myself. Time heals all wounds. Then I wrecked my shoulder snowboarding. No more triathlon, no more working out, plenty of Percocet.

Everyone needs an addiction, no matter what it is: writing a bad novel, training for triathlons, losing money in the stock market, taking powerfully addictive narcotics. Some obsessions are healthier than others. My most recent ex girlfriend Sloan is the hardest to quit. To know her, is to love her and to love her is a mistake.

Sitting in my car before work, I consider my self-destructive behavior: The erratic emotions. The reckless actions. It became obvious last night.

I was parallel parking when some asshole laid on his horn. It's true, I'm one of these maniacs that shouldn't be allowed to commute in Los Angeles. On a normal day I have road rage. Lately, when the Percocet wears off, I'm borderline homicidal.

I parked my car as the guy rolled up next to me. I looked past his chula girlfriend and prejudged him to be a Mexican gang banger, twice my size and three times angrier. "You gotta fucking problem guero?" he yelled. "I don't have a problem," I said calmly. "Sounds like you got a fucking problem puto."

As the words left my mouth, I flashed to my friend Tito explaining the cultural differences of calling a Puerto Rican a 'puto' versus a Mexican. In Puerto Rico it means 'asshole' and is often said among friends. In Mexico it means 'cowardly bitch' and is reserved for bitter enemies. Unfortunately I was in Van Nuys and about to get my ass kicked.

Mr. Gang Banger jumped out as his girlfriend tried to calm him down. It was too late. I had called him out in front of his woman. Now it was a matter of machismo pride. The thought of backing down never crossed my mind. I jumped out of the car and met him in the street. He swung wildly and I hit him in the face. I immediately felt bad. It was one thing to get my ass kicked by this guy but I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his girlfriend.

He grabbed my shirt, ripping it as he flung me to the ground. I sprung to my feet, avoiding his sluggish tackle. He landed a weak glancing blow to my cheek and I realized he wasn't much of a fighter. Still one solid punch from this guy could knock me out for good. My only chance was talking my way out of things. I had certainly talked my way into this mess.

I dodged his punches and threw some half-hearted shots. "Alright, are you done?" I finally asked. He unleashed a barrage of Spanish curse words (some probably worse than puto) and I threw my hands up indicating I was finished. Might as well let him be the hero tonight, I figured.

I'm late for work but I can't stop thinking about the fight. I wonder if I have a death wish. I could have messed with the wrong guy. A real gang banger, strapped, with no fear of life in prison. A drunk UFC fighter. A homeless meth head with superhuman drug strength. No match for a degenerate hydrocodone addict.

Something must change. The something is me. Of all the women I've labeled as crazy, perhaps I'm the one who's losing it. For a year Sloan was my drug. I depended on her. I took advantage of her. I needed her. Now I'm crashing hard.

I stare at the Percocet in my hand then pop the pill.