When we we're living in Dallas, Devon took up with a self-proclaimed jazz musician named David ("self-proclaimed" being the worst kind of jazz musician). Actually, I shouldn't say that Devon "took up" with David because it implies some sort of sexual relationship. Rather, David was Devon's daytime scam buddy. Together, they spent their days scouring up money to score dope, while their better halves were working.
Perhaps you detect a hint of bitterness in my voice. At the time, I had gotten clean. No more dope, no more coke. I had gotten a job, which paid a salary of $17,000 per year. Roughly, that translated into money for an efficiency apartment, cigarettes, .99 cent dinners at Taco Bell, and Friday nights at the Granville Dinner and Movie Theater (beer and popcorn--also for .99 cents). It wasn't much of a life, but it beat jail, dope sickness, and scabs that didn't heal.
Devon never quite signed on to my vision of suburban bliss. The plan had always been that she would get a job too. She tried at first, first landing a job at a photo studio, then a second one, waitressing at a hip restaurant in Deep Ellum. She only lasted a couple of days at each place. She quickly realized she could make a lot more money stealing from her employers rather than working for them. Once Devon "took up" with David, she stopped trying to find work altogether.
David was a forty-something sax player. He had dark hair that was peppered grey, and in style and appearance he resembled the well-known jazz musician, David Sanborn. Unfortunately, he had none of his talent. Every musician I have ever known simply has to play their instruments. They dedicate long hours to practicing and receive great joy out of playing. Then there was David, who carried his saxaphone with him everywhere, but I never saw him so much as take it out of his case. He did, however, stash his works (hypodermic needles) and dope in his saxophone case. If David ever did play his instrument, if he ever had any talent at all; his dope habit had long since robbed him of his desire to play.
David lived with a thirty-something, red-haired woman named Kristen. She lived in the straight world, made lots of money, and had a ten-year old son. I don't know what she saw in David or what it was exactly that had brought, and kept, them together. I only met her once. She showed up at my doorstep one day, looking for David. I told her he was out with Devon and I had no idea where they were. She looked at me, angry and confused, and asked me whether I thought they were spending "too much" time together, and whether I knew if David was "using." I looked at her sadly and told her that getting high was all that Devon and David did together. I agreed that they were spending too much time together, that eventually they were going to get into trouble. Kristen started to cry, and I felt like crying right along with her. We looked at each other sympathetically, each seeing the pathetic resignation in the other--each acknowledging that we were powerless to control these mad people we had fallen in love with. Kristen left. I never saw her again. The next day, Devon got pissed at me for "ratting" David out to his girlfriend. She told me David was really mad at me too.
I never knew exactly how they spent their days together. Generally, I know that it involved shoplifting, purse-stealing, and/or visits to pawn shops and dope spots. For a while, it involved writing lots of bad checks against my checking account, as well as the accounts of Devon's mother. Their official story is that they were "job-hunting" together. David would pull up to the house, every day at around 5:30 p.m. in his beat-up Honda Civic and leave Devon at the curb. She was usually high, her eyes little pinpoints as she walked in the door, a rolled up newspaper in her hand that was conveniently opened to the classifieds, but unconveniently speckled with blood. (Devon had a chronic problem finding veins at this point, which often resulted in her needles clogging with blood).
Once Devon got home, we would fight for two hours or so. Eventually, we would make up. She would promise me that she would spend less time with David, that she would get a job and stop getting high. I believed her because I desperately needed to believe her. No person with any sense would have believed her otherwise. Not after all we had been through together. By 10 p.m., Devon would feel dope sick and beg me for money so she could get high again. More often than not, I gave in. Frankly, I just wasn't strong enough to be strong for both of us. It was taking everything I had just to stay clean and go to work every day. I would give her enough for a capsules of dope (in Texas, heroin came in capsules rather than bags, and was sticky an brown, instead of a white powder) and wait for her by the door until she returned. Sitting at our kitchen table, I would watch her struggle to find a vein, sometimes for as much as an hour. Then, as Devon began to nod out, I would clean her up, throw away her clogged needles, and put her to bed. The next morning I would wake up, go to work, and the whole painful process would begin again.
Devon never did find a job or stop using, but she did stop seeing David. One day, while I was at work, I received a frantic phone call from Devon's father. Apparently, she was in the hospital, having just been attacked by David. I believe he really attacked her, because Devon insisted on involving the police--whom she hated--and filing a complaint. I later learned (from Devon) what had really happened. David had given Devon money to score some dope. It was a spot that wouldn't sell to David, either because they thought he was a cop or just plain didn't like him. Devon returned empty-handed, complaining that she had been beat. David didn't believe her and accused her of pocketing the dope for herself instead. Devon wouldn't admit it to me, but I'm reasonably sure that David's suspicions had been correct. Nevertheless, his response was to smash Devon's face against the dashboard several times. Then he drove her around in his Honda, looking for the so-called "beat artist" that had taken his money. She finally was able to jump out of the car when he had stopped at a traffic light.
I left work and met Devon at the hospital. She seemed genuinely scared. She also had lost one of her front teeth and not coincidentally, her desire to spend time with David. Later, Devon's dad and I went to David's house to confront him. If he was home he wasn't answering his door. I left a threatening message on his answering machine, which I regretted because it probably terrified Kristen and her young son. Still, I was angry. Angry at David, angry at Devon, and angry at myself for not being strong enough to help Devon. Angry that she couldn't quit using for me or for herself. Angry that I couldn't protect her. Angry that what was once a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile had been transformed into some sort of junkie-redneck that was missing a front-tooth.
I don't know what ever happened to David. I expect that Kristen probably left him after the police came to his door. I know that he subsequently phoned my employer and told them that I was a junkie and to ask me why I wore long sleeves in the Texas heat. Although I was no longer using, my arms were still pretty scarred up, and that was all my boss needed to know. I lost my job.
Sometimes I wonder if Devon is still missing that tooth.
5:35:37 AM 
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