On Sam-dog's first walk of the day I overheard a fight between a man and a woman coming from behind the bank. "Bitch! Get the fuck out there! Fucking stupid!"
A woman dressed in a sweet pink sweater, nice heels and perfectly tailored black pants stumbled out of a gate. She wasn't crying. She didn't look frightened. She ignored traffic, held a bill in one hand and snorted something from the other.
Around 2:00 p.m. I took Sam for a quick jaunt and was confronted by a few drunks standing on the bank's lawn. "Lady! We want to say hi to your damned dog! Come'ere!" I waved and held my hand to my ear as if I couldn't hear them. After a couple more tries they gave up and dipped into their crumpled paper bags.
This evening, a boy about seven years old was running around the lawn while his mother went inside the bank. He was a hundred feet away behind a tree before she came out. She looked confused, so I pointed toward him and she stumbled off without thanks.
Sitting on the lawn was a group of boys maybe 17 or 18. They had tidy haircuts, were slightly plump and pink in the cheeks, and squinted into the lowering sun. A man with braids to his waist was leaning over them, standing perfectly still, silent. One by one, the boys got up and went to the cash machine. When each would return, they would plop back down. I crossed the street, looked back, and the man was gone.
On my return the man with the braids had another man pushed up against a wall in the bank's entryway. Again, he wasn't saying a word. Sam sniffed at his pant leg as we walked past.
Showing posts with label addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label addiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
First Name Basis
"What's your name, sweetheart? You're out late. Sorry we was doing something wrong there. You forgive, right?"
As she spoke I fixated on her two absentee teeth, and the gold crowns on the shards next to the gap. Her gums black with decay.
"Wendina. And no worries. I could care less what you two were up to. What's your name?"
"My name is Kelly. Pleased to meet you. You're cool, and you have pretty teeth."
I wanted to pay her the same compliment, but a little white lie would have ticked her off. She's smart--brilliant, even--and she was so flamed on crack she was pacing and flailing. To top it off, she's the same prostitute who threatened to beat the shit out of me a few months back.
There was a brief moment of recognition before we continued. Without acknowledging, we forgave each other for the messy incident, the menacing, and the frantic call to 911. Bygones.
"Thanks. I'm about to lose the same two you're missing." The direct approach. Find common ground, Wendina. Find it fast, because there won't be another opportunity quite like this.
"That's a fucking drag. The only good thing about that is they give you those Vicadins after they yank. They're not my favorite, though. I'm on some great pills, I tell you. What kinna pills you like?"
"Sleeping pills. They aren't what got me in trouble, but they're a big problem."
"That why you up so late? Can't sleep? Man, I love to sleep. I could crash right here and now if it weren't for that other stuff. Hey, I could be your AA sponsor. That'd be funny as hell!"
I stepped a bit closer to her and tapped her arm as we shared a good laugh. My instincts were dead on. Next thing I knew, she was listening to me ramble about my lifelong battle with insomnia, consoling me and telling me her woes.
Her smaller friend leaped out from behind the trunk of the tree we were under and offered to make a phone call. She wanted to hook me up with whatever I needed. Damnit if I didn't consider it for more than a few seconds before I declined.
"No, I can't go there, but you're an angel for offering."
"He could be on his way. Let me know."
"I will." She went back to hiding behind the tree.
Kelly and I then proceeded to have a rousing discussion about drugs, teeth and the fact that the two don't go together. Addicts are drawn to each other. There's an instant affinity regardless of lifestyle, history or differences in personality; and we always have bad teeth. It never fails.
"Go inside and get some rest, hon," said Kelly. She gave me the nicest toothless smile I'll ever get.
"I'll try my best."
"Before you leave, what's your dog's name, anyway?"
"Sam."
"Sam. That's a perfect name for him. Goodnight, Wendina and Sam."
"Goodnight, Kelly."
As she spoke I fixated on her two absentee teeth, and the gold crowns on the shards next to the gap. Her gums black with decay.
"Wendina. And no worries. I could care less what you two were up to. What's your name?"
"My name is Kelly. Pleased to meet you. You're cool, and you have pretty teeth."
I wanted to pay her the same compliment, but a little white lie would have ticked her off. She's smart--brilliant, even--and she was so flamed on crack she was pacing and flailing. To top it off, she's the same prostitute who threatened to beat the shit out of me a few months back.
There was a brief moment of recognition before we continued. Without acknowledging, we forgave each other for the messy incident, the menacing, and the frantic call to 911. Bygones.
"Thanks. I'm about to lose the same two you're missing." The direct approach. Find common ground, Wendina. Find it fast, because there won't be another opportunity quite like this.
"That's a fucking drag. The only good thing about that is they give you those Vicadins after they yank. They're not my favorite, though. I'm on some great pills, I tell you. What kinna pills you like?"
"Sleeping pills. They aren't what got me in trouble, but they're a big problem."
"That why you up so late? Can't sleep? Man, I love to sleep. I could crash right here and now if it weren't for that other stuff. Hey, I could be your AA sponsor. That'd be funny as hell!"
I stepped a bit closer to her and tapped her arm as we shared a good laugh. My instincts were dead on. Next thing I knew, she was listening to me ramble about my lifelong battle with insomnia, consoling me and telling me her woes.
Her smaller friend leaped out from behind the trunk of the tree we were under and offered to make a phone call. She wanted to hook me up with whatever I needed. Damnit if I didn't consider it for more than a few seconds before I declined.
"No, I can't go there, but you're an angel for offering."
"He could be on his way. Let me know."
"I will." She went back to hiding behind the tree.
Kelly and I then proceeded to have a rousing discussion about drugs, teeth and the fact that the two don't go together. Addicts are drawn to each other. There's an instant affinity regardless of lifestyle, history or differences in personality; and we always have bad teeth. It never fails.
"Go inside and get some rest, hon," said Kelly. She gave me the nicest toothless smile I'll ever get.
"I'll try my best."
"Before you leave, what's your dog's name, anyway?"
"Sam."
"Sam. That's a perfect name for him. Goodnight, Wendina and Sam."
"Goodnight, Kelly."
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Domestic Row
Recently there has been a regime change, and not just in the Middle East. The block south of mine has shown some signs of improvement. Perhaps it's partly due to the cold weather, but I think it's something bigger than that. By all appearances, the man who used to control the neighborhood has succumbed to his own demons.
If you can't keep track of your crew, you can't lead. Impairment in any form--physical disability, drug addiction, mental illness, poverty, distraction--can cost a leader his job. One thing has remained, and it's more unpredictable and dangerous than any gang-related skirmish. He fights with his lady.
Law enforcement hates domestic fights. I have a cousin who patrols a neighboring city, and whenever he's called out on a "domestic" he braces himself for the worst. If a fight happens because of a deal gone bad or crew member getting out of line, the presence of police is usually enough to halt the would-be assailants. A fight born of deep emotion, betrayal, fading love or abuse of a loved one doesn't stop just because of an audience; even if that audience is armed. Tension rises in my cousin's voice when he relays stories of men dragging women into the street by their hair. Or a wife brandishing a knife and taking stabs at her controlling husband. Or a woman prepared to shoot her boyfriend because he won't pay back money he owes her.
What fuels the fights between my neighbor and his better half I cannot say, but there's certainly plenty to fight about. The last few times the police have been called in, they were able to enter the apartment complex where Mr. Ex-Pimp and his little band of crack addicts reside. With some effort they were able to quash the domestic, and once inside they could confiscate drugs and dealers. Impairment of emotion left that door wide open.
Now that Mr. Ex-Pimp has lost his edge, a newer, showier brand of boss has stepped in and kept the various mini-gangs in line. Fights involve shouting matches, posturing, puffery. When the volume hits a certain level, Mr. Yellow Hummer and Mr. Vintage White Jag appear out of nowhere, and the shouting stops. After all, noise makes us all aware of the problem, and noise is usually what causes us upstanding citizens to call cops; and cops are bad for business. Simple as that.
The prostitution has slowed due to the cold weather, but it's possible it won't come back this spring. That's not the focus of the new regime, as keeping a bunch of beaten, bedragled girls in line and doped up is a lot of work for not much payout. The ego of the old guard liked the feeling of power that came with controlling women. The new guys are more likely to become clients.
One trend I noticed even months ago was the one-on-one pimp/prostitute combo pack. A couple, desperate for drug money, supports itself via the girl turning tricks. There is no way to keep a woman safe if you don't have a reputation as a badass, and addicts aren't badasses. They're impaired. It becomes a domestic problem, and one that I imagine is difficult to track and control.
Love in the world of drugs: It's a beautiful thing.
If you can't keep track of your crew, you can't lead. Impairment in any form--physical disability, drug addiction, mental illness, poverty, distraction--can cost a leader his job. One thing has remained, and it's more unpredictable and dangerous than any gang-related skirmish. He fights with his lady.
Law enforcement hates domestic fights. I have a cousin who patrols a neighboring city, and whenever he's called out on a "domestic" he braces himself for the worst. If a fight happens because of a deal gone bad or crew member getting out of line, the presence of police is usually enough to halt the would-be assailants. A fight born of deep emotion, betrayal, fading love or abuse of a loved one doesn't stop just because of an audience; even if that audience is armed. Tension rises in my cousin's voice when he relays stories of men dragging women into the street by their hair. Or a wife brandishing a knife and taking stabs at her controlling husband. Or a woman prepared to shoot her boyfriend because he won't pay back money he owes her. What fuels the fights between my neighbor and his better half I cannot say, but there's certainly plenty to fight about. The last few times the police have been called in, they were able to enter the apartment complex where Mr. Ex-Pimp and his little band of crack addicts reside. With some effort they were able to quash the domestic, and once inside they could confiscate drugs and dealers. Impairment of emotion left that door wide open.
Now that Mr. Ex-Pimp has lost his edge, a newer, showier brand of boss has stepped in and kept the various mini-gangs in line. Fights involve shouting matches, posturing, puffery. When the volume hits a certain level, Mr. Yellow Hummer and Mr. Vintage White Jag appear out of nowhere, and the shouting stops. After all, noise makes us all aware of the problem, and noise is usually what causes us upstanding citizens to call cops; and cops are bad for business. Simple as that.
The prostitution has slowed due to the cold weather, but it's possible it won't come back this spring. That's not the focus of the new regime, as keeping a bunch of beaten, bedragled girls in line and doped up is a lot of work for not much payout. The ego of the old guard liked the feeling of power that came with controlling women. The new guys are more likely to become clients.
One trend I noticed even months ago was the one-on-one pimp/prostitute combo pack. A couple, desperate for drug money, supports itself via the girl turning tricks. There is no way to keep a woman safe if you don't have a reputation as a badass, and addicts aren't badasses. They're impaired. It becomes a domestic problem, and one that I imagine is difficult to track and control.
Love in the world of drugs: It's a beautiful thing.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Man with Two Eyes
When I see someone with a ghastly face, I try to count the recognizable features as quickly as I can. In his case, he has two eyes, right where they should be, but that's about it.
It appears he's had his jaw removed due to cancer. His cheeks are lopsided, with one much larger than the other. Part of one of his ears is missing. Maybe it's a ghoulish birth defect or the result of an injury, but the pattern of scars along his jawline make me think otherwise.
I've never seen him without a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He can't even make the three-block walk from his house to his favorite bar without a sip and a smoke. God, who could blame him? I go into depression from so much as a pimple. He must look at people with severe skin diseases or cystic acne with envy. He probably hasn't had to listen to some teenager wail about how zits have ruined their social life in ages, because what he has going on pretty much trumps all that.
He's also addicted to prostitutes. They've seen it all, but I doubt they can look at him while they "work". Then again, they probably don't look at any of their johns too closely, for fear they might accidentally make eye contact. A revolting, shame-inducing job isn't going to change just because a client is attractive.
My one and only conversation with him was mostly about alcoholism and addiction. We were walking the same direction, and ended up chatting for several blocks until he reached his bar and I reached my home. By the end of the walk we decided that, on rare occasion, it's okay to be an addict. Sometimes it just doesn't matter. He knows he's one of the few, and I know I'm not.
No worries, new friend. No one blames you for hastening your own end, even those who would blame you for your face.
It appears he's had his jaw removed due to cancer. His cheeks are lopsided, with one much larger than the other. Part of one of his ears is missing. Maybe it's a ghoulish birth defect or the result of an injury, but the pattern of scars along his jawline make me think otherwise.
I've never seen him without a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He can't even make the three-block walk from his house to his favorite bar without a sip and a smoke. God, who could blame him? I go into depression from so much as a pimple. He must look at people with severe skin diseases or cystic acne with envy. He probably hasn't had to listen to some teenager wail about how zits have ruined their social life in ages, because what he has going on pretty much trumps all that.
He's also addicted to prostitutes. They've seen it all, but I doubt they can look at him while they "work". Then again, they probably don't look at any of their johns too closely, for fear they might accidentally make eye contact. A revolting, shame-inducing job isn't going to change just because a client is attractive.
My one and only conversation with him was mostly about alcoholism and addiction. We were walking the same direction, and ended up chatting for several blocks until he reached his bar and I reached my home. By the end of the walk we decided that, on rare occasion, it's okay to be an addict. Sometimes it just doesn't matter. He knows he's one of the few, and I know I'm not.
No worries, new friend. No one blames you for hastening your own end, even those who would blame you for your face.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Mr. Methadone Head
It's impossible to go more than five feet around here without rubbing elbows with desperation and depravity. There is a methadone clinic, several regular AA meeting spots, a couple of make-shift shelters, a popular food bank, homeless vets waiting outside the VA hospital and two bars--populated by prostitutes--that tolerate crack and heroin distribution. Poverty and violence are part of daily life. Someone is being torn apart by the excruciating pain and anxiety of withdrawals, hiding in a doorway in hopes that no one sees them cry. Someone else is hiding a gun. Most of my neighbors try not to notice, but I can't help myself.
Yes, it's true, I meet people more easily than most. If you start talking to me, I'll jump right in despite myself. The majority of the planet doesn't want to see or talk to the addicted or homeless, but there I am, yapping away. It's difficult to listen to some of these people talk. It exposes another world; one of hurt, fear, pain, hunger, abuse and cruelty that's frightening and baffling. Sadly, this means most of my neighbors will probably never meet Mr. Methadone Head.
I know his real name. It's a fine, solid name, given to him in infancy by a mom who loved him on sight. He's a nice, normal guy. Okay, he's a nice, normal guy with a serious addiction to methadone (to replace prescription painkillers) and methamphetamine (to stay awake).
His body and mind have likely sustained permanent damage from these two drugs. He can't remember my name to save his life. He knows he's lost name retention, and looks a bit uncomfortable when he has to ask again. He repeats my name over and over in the hopes that it will stick, while busily scratching one of the many open sores on his arms. He quotes John Lennon and Janice Joplin, but can't remember the source.
This morning we had our longest conversation, yet, and I learned that some of the kids in the local make-shift gang beat up a homeless guy who has a fine, solid name of his own. "They beat him up, and then they peed on him. You know the guy? He has one of those diseases that's one of the really bad ones, too. So he can't even walk." He meant muscular dystrophy.
"Then they kicked him out of the hospital after an hour. Sent him back here with blood still on his face. All over this side, especially," and he traced an area on his cheek and chin.
Mr. Methadone Head digressed to the topic of the methadone clinic. "'People say I'm crazy, doing what I'm doing.' You know, W...W...Wanina..da? Did I get it? I do my thing and get out. Dealers hang out there, too. Mean fuckers. And those kids that hurt that guy, or maybe similar. They act tough. It's fucked there. Those people steal shit. I do my thing and get out."
It's good to know that even Mr. Methadone Head has standards.
Yes, it's true, I meet people more easily than most. If you start talking to me, I'll jump right in despite myself. The majority of the planet doesn't want to see or talk to the addicted or homeless, but there I am, yapping away. It's difficult to listen to some of these people talk. It exposes another world; one of hurt, fear, pain, hunger, abuse and cruelty that's frightening and baffling. Sadly, this means most of my neighbors will probably never meet Mr. Methadone Head.
I know his real name. It's a fine, solid name, given to him in infancy by a mom who loved him on sight. He's a nice, normal guy. Okay, he's a nice, normal guy with a serious addiction to methadone (to replace prescription painkillers) and methamphetamine (to stay awake).
His body and mind have likely sustained permanent damage from these two drugs. He can't remember my name to save his life. He knows he's lost name retention, and looks a bit uncomfortable when he has to ask again. He repeats my name over and over in the hopes that it will stick, while busily scratching one of the many open sores on his arms. He quotes John Lennon and Janice Joplin, but can't remember the source.
This morning we had our longest conversation, yet, and I learned that some of the kids in the local make-shift gang beat up a homeless guy who has a fine, solid name of his own. "They beat him up, and then they peed on him. You know the guy? He has one of those diseases that's one of the really bad ones, too. So he can't even walk." He meant muscular dystrophy.
"Then they kicked him out of the hospital after an hour. Sent him back here with blood still on his face. All over this side, especially," and he traced an area on his cheek and chin.
Mr. Methadone Head digressed to the topic of the methadone clinic. "'People say I'm crazy, doing what I'm doing.' You know, W...W...Wanina..da? Did I get it? I do my thing and get out. Dealers hang out there, too. Mean fuckers. And those kids that hurt that guy, or maybe similar. They act tough. It's fucked there. Those people steal shit. I do my thing and get out."
It's good to know that even Mr. Methadone Head has standards.
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