PENNY

Once upon a time there was a drug whore named Penny. She had blonde hair, tits like bait, and a walk that made men forget their wedding vows. She didn’t do jobs - she was the job. Her work was staying high, and she got paid in powder. She was a professional in the economy of sex and dope, and business was good.

For a while.

But coke is a young woman’s game, and Penny, lazy by nature, aged like spilled milk. Tricks dried up. Connections vanished. Even the dealers got bored of her. So when the free rides ran out and the mirrors stopped lying, recovery started looking pretty good.

Penny found a home in Narcotics Anonymous. There, she rebranded. Gone was the party girl—now she was a survivor. She told stories about the big bad men who got her hooked, beat her senseless, and tossed her out when she wouldn’t spread her legs. People nodded. Clapped. Some cried. Penny was a hit.

She even got herself a job - a real one. Name tag, break room, employee of the month. She saved some money, got a used car, and moved into a one-bedroom apartment where the plumbing mostly worked. She was doing well. So well, in fact, that she decided to check out her first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting - just to support a coworker. Nothing serious.

But something happened.

At AA, there were no screaming toddlers crawling under folding chairs. No dealers lurking in the parking lot. The meeting started on time, because the chairperson wasn’t still coming down from last night. No one hit on her. No one offered her pills. She wasn’t afraid of being raped walking to her car afterward.

Penny felt... civilized. It was like NA, but with fewer track marks and more dental work.

She never went back to NA.

Today, Penny works at a treatment center. She wears blazers and heels and says “alcoholic” like it’s a noble title. Everyone who remembers her from back in the day is either dead or back out. Penny, though, is doing great. She’s found her people. Her story’s cleaner now - less cock, more cocktails. She talks about wine in bathtubs, not threesomes in trap houses.

She’ll say, “One day at a time,” like it’s something she came up with. Like it wasn’t pulled from a dusty old pamphlet that’s been making the rounds since Truman was president. That’s the game now: learn a few bumper sticker slogans, memorize the script, and pass it on like sacred wisdom. But it’s not wisdom. It’s just noise. She spent forty years getting high and still doesn’t have a single original thought to show for it. So she parrots the same tired shit—keep coming back, this too shall pass - and calls it service. Says she’s helping the newcomer. Says she’s giving back. But really, she’s jerking herself off in the mirror, telling herself she’s a healer. Telling herself she’s found purpose. And maybe she has. But you sit there, broken and desperate, while she tosses spiritual glitter in your face and calls it sunlight. You’re supposed to leave your ego at the door. Penny brings hers in on a leash.

If you met her today, you’d never guess she once gave a blowjob for a Klonopin in a gas station bathroom. And if you’re a young, strung-out guy trying to get clean, Penny might just sit you down and tell you how she did it, like you were made of dirt and she was made of light.

You’d never guess you had anything in common at all.

BIO: D.W. Chesrown writes raw, unflinching fiction about addiction, recovery, and the tragedy of self-destruction. His stories cut close to the bone, pulling from lived experience in detox, halfway houses, and the long aftermath of bad decisions. He writes with grit, dark humor, and a clear eye on the absurd. Penny is his first published story. Find more at www.dwchesrown.com or on X at @dwchesrown.