EXERPT
A Walk In His Shoes
Chapter 1
Spring 2005
Cars zoom past me as if late for an important meeting. I stand alone
on the faded yellow curb. A local transit bus squeals to a sudden stop
to my right. Potential passengers’ hustle their way towards me as
the bus platform lowers to the curb. The sounds of leaky hydraulics radiate
from under the frame as the bus driver opens the scissor-style doors. As the
passengers’ board and fight their way to an empty seat, I notice a young boy
staring at me through the scratched window of the bus. He is all alone. He is
wearing a blue and yellow mask that he probably made at school. The
eyeholes are cut out as well as a small slice for his mouth. For some reason I
can’t break my focus from this little boy. As I stare in bewilderment, he gives
me what looks to be a half smile that is projecting an unspoken message. He
slowly shakes his head side to side. Is he telling me no? What is he trying to
say? Why is this bothering me? I feel a shiver forming through my body. I
continue to stare at the boy as the bus pulls away. He raises his hand in the
shape of a pistol and puts it to his temple. He pulls the trigger and drops his
head down on an angle so that I can see his mask as the bus pulls away.
The exhaust is still billowing into the air as I walk across the street to a
local gas station. My thoughts are still turning the odd visuals of the little boy,
his mask, and the bus. As I approach the station, my attention is diverted to a
man on a Harley Davidson. He is wearing a worn black leather jacket that
looks like it has seen its share of highway miles. His Levis are torn on the
knees but held together by a few, small white threads. His face looks as if it
has never been under a shade tree. The lines and wrinkles on his weathered
face tell me he’s had a rough life. As I approach his motorcycle, he asks, “Hey,
man. You have a light?”
“Yeah, sure.” I hand him my lighter and as I do he says, “Can you get me
some cocaine?”
“I can get it but I don’t have a way to get it. I don’t have a vehicle,” I
respond – knowing there’s no way this guy is an undercover cop.
“I’ll give you a ride. Hop on.”
The powerful acceleration of the motorcycle jerks me backward. The wind
fills my ears with empty air sound. We fly down the road with one thing in
mind. One purpose, one reason. Our determination pays off as we approach
an area well known for its high volume of illegal activity. My ears are still
ringing as he kills the motorcycle engine. For a brief moment, I recall the boy
on the bus. The thoughts are washed out by the voice of my new biker friend.
“Hurry up, I don’t have all day,” he gruffly reminds me.
“I’ll be quick man, no worries.” My heart starts beating fast as I realize I
am about to get heroin and cocaine.
Before I met this guy I had no money and no way to get any. Once he gets
his cocaine and I get my heroin, we will probably go our separate ways. It
doesn’t matter though. We do whatever it takes to get our fix.
With the dope safely secured in my tightly closed fist, we drive to a local
grocery store. Their bathrooms serve as a safe haven for shooting up. When
you are homeless it is hard to have privacy. Public bathrooms provide that
privacy.
We pull into the grocery store and park the bike next to the building. I am
nervous as I approach the entrance. The automatic doors open swiftly to the
motions of shoppers and children. A gust of air hits me as I enter the
store. My focus is on the back of the store where I see a blue plastic sign
pointing the way. My fast-paced walk gradually turns to a jog. I can hear my
friend keeping pace but I don’t acknowledge him.
Since I reach the bathroom first, I go into the stall that is against the wall. I
like these stalls the best because if someone comes in while I am using, I
don’t run the risk of having people on both sides of me. My new friend goes
into the stall next to me. I see his hand lower under the stall wall. I hand him
his cocaine, a spoon and a needle. I start to get my heroin ready, but he
interrupts me saying, “Hey man, let me try some of that stuff.”
I know he hasn’t used heroin in a while and I’m a little worried to give him
some. He doesn’t seem like the type of person to reason with though, so I
hand him my leftovers under the metal door.
I return to my own priorities. I draw back the heroin and fill the needle. A
couple shakes of my wrist and the air rises to the top of the syringe. I push
the air through the needle and spin the needle around with my fingers. I look
down and gently place the needle’s sharp point against the vein protruding
from my left arm. One quick tap with my index finger and the needle tears a
hole. I pull back on the plunger to see a deep red color mix with the liquid
heroin. PUSH. The warm mixture enters my veins with vengeance. Within
seconds I feel the world’s troubles subside into total bliss.
As I wipe the blood from my battered arm, I open the stall door. I look up
and see my friend leaning towards the mirror with both hands on the sink.
Sweat runs down his temple and off his forehead. He looks as if he is staring
through his own reflection.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask. He takes a slow deep breath and says, “Yeah.”
He lets go of the sink with both hands and his body drops to the hard tile like
a bag of wet sand. Images of the boy on the bus flash back and start to haunt
me.
When I was in the second grade my teacher asked the class what we
wanted to be when we grew up. I tried to look ahead at where I would be in
20 years: a lawyer, a doctor, a fireman? With the imagination of an eight-
year-old boy, I had no idea that my decisions and choices in the upcoming
years would shatter all of those dreams. My loyalty to my profession I would
choose would prove relentless and devastating. I would become a heroin
addict.
I have fought many long drawn out battles only to be defeated time and
time again. My addiction was very subtle in the beginning and as time went
on, it became the aggressive dictator of my life. It has taken me to places I
could have never imagined. Deep, dark places which seemingly felt I was in
an unorthodox universe, far away from the rest of society. My days were
numbered and I was brought to the brink of death on several occasions.
This did not happen overnight. It was a slow and painful process. When I
decided I wanted out, it was too late. My addiction had already started
running its course. It had woven its threads through every cell and synapse of
my being. The foundation for my addiction was built on my decisions early
on. It would continue to build upon itself like a towering skyscraper and I
would be set underneath to carry its massive weight each and every day.
Once the foundation is set, you can never entirely demolish it. Even after
years of being clean, addiction particles surface frequently requiring daily
mental exertion to choose to avoid the icy grip of drugs. If I regress and allow
myself to feel its cold fingers even just briefly, it clenches around my body
and soul like a metal trap with unrelenting jagged teeth tearing into me,
grasping me, and refusing to release me.
Could this entire scenario have been avoided? Is my purpose in life to
serve as a warning to others? Would the outcome of my life be different had I
made better choices? What if I had dealt with my feelings and emotions
instead of looking to drugs to console me and artificially remove the pain?
How much agony could be erased if I merely said, “No thanks?” Was it really
so easy to avoid or was this an unstoppable beast meant for me to temper?