The Knowing: Awake in the Dark by Nita Lapinski Page B

with his feet apart in the middle of the room - hands clasped behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. His head was bald while thick black curly hair covered his exposed arms and legs like an ape. His face was broad with a permanent smile showing perfect teeth.
    “What can I do you for?” he asked through his creepy leer. “Whatever you need, I got it, no problemo there.”
    He reminded me of a giant cartoon wolf who licked his hungry snout as he spoke through smoke and mirrors. The air tightened around me and the voice said, “
He touches his girls. He has sexual intent. See the sadness down the hallway.”
I turned my head and peered down the hallway adorned with photos of his family. A large colored image of a young girl missing her two front teeth smiled at me. Goose flesh raced over my skin and I
knew
. I saw in my mind’s eye the stolen moments in the dark and I felt the fear and dread that hung there. Rogers’s deep voice brought me back to where I stood.
    “We’re havin’ a little part-e-e tonight, if you care to indulge. A little skipidy-do-dah to celebrate the wife’s birthday. It’ll be a good time, if ya know what I mean,” he said raising his eyebrows and smiling like the Cheshire cat.
    “I’m gonna wait in the car,” I said and hurried out the door. I felt like I’d been doused in his sickness and wanted to wipe it off. I looked back and watched Rogers’s body energy recede as he spun his tales of a happy home. In that case, I believed what I
knew
, listened to the voice and got out as quickly as I could.
    That same year I was introduced to a man more than twice my age. His name was Angel. He, too, was a friend of Roger and the couple Maggie knew where we scored most of our drugs.
    After the traumatic and confusing episode at Aarons, Angel’s flattery was like a delicacy I desperately needed.
    Angel had coffee-colored skin and a quiet demeanor and took me down a road of true self destruction, the likes of which I hadn’t yet encountered. Angel was thirty-five and I was fifteen and he showered me with attention. He told me I was beautiful and special, words I desperately wanted to hear. My mother knew about my relationship with Angel and never intervened or restricted me from seeing him. I assumed that she felt he might be a good influence because of his age, but we never talked about it.
    One afternoon I learned Angel had a secret habit while we sat in the bedroom of his condo and talked. Angel casually placed a bundle between us on the bed. He unrolled the kit and inside was a two - inch wide rubber band tourniquet, the kind used when drawing blood, a syringe and needle along with a spoon, eyedropper and small piece of cotton.  I watched as he mixed cocaine and speed in the spoon and dropped dollops of water to dissolve his tincture.  He then dropped the cotton onto the spoon and filled the syringe.  He held the apparatus upright and flicked his middle finger against the syringe to force any air bubbles out; he wrapped his bicep tightly with the tourniquet and gently inserted the needle.  He first withdrew a drop of velvety red blood which danced in the liquid. He then released the contents into his arm.  His eyes fluttered closed.
    I was fascinated. I laid my arm across his lap and said, “I want to try.”
    “No way,” he replied. “This is not for you.”
    “Why not? You do it. What’s the big deal?” I countered. Angel looked at me and neither of us spoke for a moment.
    “I’ve been doing this for a long time and I don’t want to be the one who gets you involved.”
    “Why not, Angel? Do you regret it?” I asked accusingly.
    “No, but I can handle it.”
    “Oh, and I can’t? I’m the little girl, is that right?” I sniped.
    “Ahhhh,” Angel sighed. “I didn’t mean that. Okay, I know you can make your own decisions, if you want to, I’ll help you.”
    And he “fixed” me with his syringed demon.  My stomach was hollow, I knew this was taboo and my