Substance of Abuse

Heroin.

James Ralston opened the paper bag and withdrew the brown vial. Damn, it was easy, he thought as he headed for the exit. He didn't notice the man in a tan sports coat who had just entered the building, bumping into him and causing the bag to drop, with its contents scattering across the floor. The man proceeded to help him retrieve the new possessions, all the while apologizing for the mishap. Ralston couldn't get over how life had changed now that it was legal to buy drugs in Santa Barbara. He put everything back in the bag and simply smiled and nodded, indicating no harm done. The man walked on and Ralston continued out the door.

Only minutes earlier he had waited patiently in line as the crowd at the Drug Procurement Center (DPC) thickened with Friday night approaching. At the counter, he had handed his authorized request and magnetic-stripped identification card to an attendant behind bulletproof windows. She had given him a bill, which he then presented to a cashier, along with his Mastercard, for payment. In exchange, he received a duplicate receipt with a purchase number on it. Ralston then sat in the waiting area and read a magazine to pass the time. He didn't wait long. Looking up, he saw his number on the "ready for pick-up" screen. Ralston presented his receipt and ID to an attendant, who stamped the receipts, kept one, and returned the other, along with a paper bag and two pamphlets. One pamphlet described the risks of taking drugs. The other listed local Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and the various treatment facilities for acute and chronic drug disorders. The paper bag contained a small vial with heroin premixed in a sterile saline solution, two new syringes and needles, alcohol wipes, and instructions for intravenous administration. The bag was labeled, in large red print, "FOR PERSONAL USE ONLY." Another warning label reminded the user that it was a felony to sell this product, give it to a minor, operate a motor vehicle, or commit any misdemeanor while under its influence. The label added: "Recommended to be used only in your private residence."

The last two months had been a blessing. James Ralston, a shoe salesman, used to have a much more difficult time getting his heroin. No one knew about his habit. He insisted it was not an addiction ... weeks would go by without any heroin. Nonetheless, he enjoyed it, perhaps too much. Over time it had become more costly and much riskier. It was always the same scenario. Late at night, with a pocket full of cash, he walked through the seediest section of town or in a dark and isolated park, hoping his contact would show up and treat him fairly. In his mid-fifties and diminutive in stature, Ralston knew he was lucky never to have been injured and to have been cheated by dealers on only a couple of occasions.

When the drug legalization pilot program had been announced in Santa Barbara County, Ralston's first instinct had been that it wasn't for him. He feared losing the anonymity he got in exchange for the risks of the street. That didn't happen. DPCs were scattered widely, so users could easily go outside their own neighborhoods. More important, the drugs were extremely inexpensive compared to their street equivalents. Anyone interested in recreational drugs could now get quality product at one-tenth the old street price. Although the street vendors would tout the purity of their product, Ralston knew from experience that street heroin varied widely in how it was cut. He figured it would be safer to trust the government pharmaceutical companies to deliver a controlled substance. It didn't take long for him to give up the corner junkies in favor of the government-regulated DPCs.

In the mere two months since the pilot program had started, Ralston noticed he actually used considerably less heroin. Perhaps because it wasn't illicit, it may have lost some of its excitement. Ultimately, though, it was probably the sheer availability that helped limit his usage. Before the program started, he would seek out the drug whenever he heard it was available. The price would creep up little by little, but somehow the drugs were always available. He wouldn't describe himself as an addict, but when he ran short on his supply a couple of times, he experienced the worst flu-like symptoms he could remember. Each time his supplier somehow came through. Ralston was savvy enough to know he was purposely being strung out. Still, he made it a point to make a purchase whenever he could.

James Ralston was no thief. In fact, he had become quite a hustler in shoe sales. If a customer wanted to see a particular style of shoe, he made certain she tried on other colors and similar styles as well. He told the other salespeople he enjoyed the competition of selling, but in truth he had felt a degree of panic setting in as his monthly drug bills began to escalate. He paid his mortgage on time, but his recreational habit had started to eat into his food money. When the DPCs opened, it took Ralston less than a week to abandon his worries about loss of privacy. Instead he proceeded to shed his worries about loss of income.

Ralston got into his car, looking forward to the weekend. He was a simple man who enjoyed eating at home, listening to classical music, reading novels and occasionally taking a little heroin to take him into his fantasy world. As he turned onto the street, a blue Firebird parked near the entrance to the DPC lot turned on its headlights. Ralston laughed to himself as he remembered having to look for a blue Firebird at Pine Crest Park. He would drive a half-block past it, park his own car, and then drift between the trees into complete darkness. He'd be located by his connection, make his transaction, and head for home, hoping he hadn't been cheated, his heart pounding from the excitement he really didn't need. He was glad those times were behind him. Still, by habit, he watched as the blue Firebird pulled behind him at the traffic light. The light turned green, and Ralston continued straight ahead as the Firebird turned right. He let out a sigh and laughed to relieve the tension associated with old habits and concerns.

He cooked lavishly that evening, preparing himself a Tuscany treat to Pavarotti's tenor arias on the stereo. He thought about saving his heroin for another night, but instead he eased into his favorite chair and immersed himself in La Traviata.

He took out his new purchase, drawing up 1 cc of the clear liquid into one of the syringes. It was so easy now, he thought, as he fastened the Velcro tourniquet on his left arm. He took an alcohol wipe and prepped a spot on the forearm near a good-sized vein. He eased the needle into his skin, trying to imagine it was not his arm. He barely felt the fresh needle. What a relief as its silicone-coated body slid smoothly through his skin and entered the vein. He drew back just enough that a tiny drop of blood came into the syringe, affirming its proper position, then released the tourniquet before slowly plunging the contents into his vein.