Love,
Brandon
Betrayal! How could he read my personal letters? I’m fucking tired of this shit. Every time I seem to give someone my complete trust, it backfires in my face. “Why did you read that?” I demanded.
Dane assures me, “Normally I wouldn’t have, but in this case, matters are different. You see, I wrote that same letter to my mother probably forty years ago, only a month before she was killed. It’s not a time I want to remember. As a matter of fact, I almost completely forgot until I met you, and since then, for some reason, I haven’t been able to get it off my mind. Don’t you see? It took you coming into my life for me to deal with it. So, I figure, it’s in God’s plan that I found that letter, so I could help you deal with it.”
He steps closer and continues. “Don’t you see it, white boy? Look, my mother’s gone. And she’s gone because I didn’t come to grips and learn from her. And for that reason, I remained a goddamn junkie my whole life. And now, forty years later, God made me find that note, and maybe even made me go through what I experienced, just so you would learn from me.”
My anger dies away. I am touched by what he has just told me, and I don’t know how to react. Dane places his hand on my shoulder, comforting me. “So check this out, shorty, we’re gonna fix this. Yeah, you heard me right, we’re gonna fix this problem, you and me together. They’re always telling us we need to stick together in here. I mean, for real, who else we got? I fucked up my life, white boy, so I’m gonna do everything in my power to not let you repeat my mistakes. You understand, white boy? Do you?”
I think for a moment.
At once, the situation changes, as I feel someone’s shoes stepping on my heels, pinning them to the ground. This is an old street-fighting trick in which the perpetrator might then shove his victim, sending him to the ground, maximizing his vulnerability to a stomp or kick in the face. I half turn my head and see my adversary, Cecil. “White boy! Sup, motherfucker?!”
Cecil’s fists are clenched. His chest expands and contracts with every breath, like a huge rubber ball. He lays a fat hand on my shirt. “Pussy, how ’bout this! From now on, you’re gonna kick down your meat and potatoes at every meal! What’s you think of that?”
I am sure that confrontations such as this are one of the things Cecil lives for. Within seconds, seven years of living as a junkie, eating out of trash cans, sleeping in prisons, hustling for a fix every day, instantly crushes my capacity for rational thought. In a flash, all other problems dissipate, the urge to hurt this man as fast and efficiently as possible becomes my single priority, and I remember my pencil in my right front pocket, sharpened this morning.
I turn, gain a firm footing, bend my knees, and press my hands against his chest, creating a human lever between Cecil and the ground. Push! Despite my light weight and deteriorated muscles, I shove him back long enough to go into my pocket, grip my pencil, and drive the shank forward.
In mid-swing, I am grabbed and grappled to the ground, and the pencil is taken from my hand. Disoriented under the choke hold, I wonder how the hell Cecil managed to grab me with such lightning speed. But wait, I can still see Cecil. The man who wrestled me to the ground was Dane.
Toby rushes in with a firm right hand directly to Cecil’s jaw, stunning the large man and sending him stumbling ass-first to the ground.
Cecil recovers, assessing the condition of his jaw by wiggling it with his right hand. Toby grounds his footing in preparation for round two, when we are charged by a group of monitors and taken down. Dane gets in one final word to Cecil. “Come near this boy one more time, or for that matter even look in his direction, and that will be the last person you’ll ever set your eyes on, I promise!”
Dane, Toby, and I regroup as we watch Cecil on the ground, squirming, flailing like a fish out of water. One monitor holds his legs, a second pins his arms to the ground, and a third sits on his head.
chapter thirty
Death and Resurrection
I wake up the next morning as a hand tugs on my shoulder. “Wake up, white boy, get up. It’s breakfast time.” Toby.
I lie there and take in my surroundings as a feeling of peace and comfort floods my body. After yesterday’s therapy, I am feeling very positive and motivated. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt in years, and one that I thought I would never again have.
Toby puts on a white T-shirt and pulls his khaki pants from under his mattress. “Hey Toby, what’s up with putting your pants there?” I ask.
“Check this out! When there ain’t no iron around, you fold them up neat and put them under your mattress before you go to sleep. And when you wake up, presto! A crease you can cut a stick of cold butter with. Like so.” He proudly holds up his pressed khakis.
“Damn. Nice one. But who are you trying to impress?”
“Man, you forget what today is?”
I realize why he’s getting so spruced up, and it pisses me off. Today is visiting day, but I have no one coming to see me. I reply smartly, “It’s Saturday, it’s breakfast time, and we’re some of the most pathetic junkies on the face of the earth, stuck in this shit-hole existence some choose to call life!”
Toby replies, “Stop bein’ so negative, white boy! Cheer up, life ain’t so bad! You alive, you got a roof over your head, a shower to get into, hot breakfast waitin’, and all five of your senses to work with. Remember what Dane always says, ‘It could be worse.’”
I take inventory. I am a twenty-five-year-old junkie. I have been to jail and taken into police custody more times than I can remember. I have been involved in petty crimes, armed robberies, shootouts, and drug trafficking. I have pulled more hustles than ten junkies my age put together. The only crime in which I have not taken part is homicide, and I can honestly say that if the price was right, I might have. I have been pistol whipped, shot at, stabbed, prostituted, beaten down, and thrown down flights of stairs. I came from a nice home, lived in a mansion, slept in abandoned houses, and have been homeless. I have dined in five-star restaurants, picked food from trash cans, and gone for days without eating at all. I senselessly threw away my career as a professional skateboarder because I could not handle fame. I have been a successful entrepreneur in the illegal drug business, and begged for spare change on the corner. My reflection in the mirror depicts a person with the worst punishment of all: a waste of life.
Toby tells me it has been about four years since anyone in his family has seen him clean and sober. I am reminded of what life was like a few years ago when I was his age, before I was homeless, when I still had loved ones and a relationship with my family. I can’t deny I am jealous, and for some sick reason I take comfort in the fact that although he is intelligent, well spoken, and well dressed, he is nothing more than a piece of shit junkie just like me.
This is so fucking backward. In “normal” relationships, when someone you care about is happy, you should share their happiness. However, in this case, the more excitement Toby expresses, the more depressed I become.
As Toby dances around singing a rap song, he looks in my direction and asks, “So who’s coming to see you today, white boy?”
I reply, “No one that I know of.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, for real.”
“Damn, you must have really fucked up. Now it makes sense,” he says.
“What makes sense?”
“Why you look so goddamn down. Anyhow, I can call my baby’s mother and get her to bring one of her girlfriends.”
A brief pause. “Toby, let’s get real for a minute. My own family don’t want shit to do with me so why the fuck do you think anyone else would?”
“Okay, if you ain’t down, you ain’t down, no big thing. But next week I’m tellin’ her to come, cuz I know you gonna change your tune after being stuck inna room with me an’ Dane’s ass for that long!” He laughs.
Toby’s funny remark does nothing to lighten my spirit. Oh well, I think, I may as well get up, end my pity party, and get the day
going. I know what will cheer me up. A shower. A simple shower, although seemingly trivial, can make a junkie feel as if he’s a productive member of society. However, in the bathroom, every motherfucker is singing with joy. Not only do I have to wait for an available stall, I have to listen to every one of these happy pricks gleefully singing a rap song or an R&B ballad. I wait patiently, reciting something I remember hearing in group lecture: feelings pass. One other thought makes my situation tolerable, something my mother had always told me. “Brandon,” she said, “no matter what your trials and tribulations are, there’s one thing you always have to remember, God never puts more on you than you can bear.”
Dane enters the bathroom and begins brushing his teeth. As usual, he looks very serious, concentrating on his thoughts, but picks up on my self-doubt.
“What up, white boy?” Dane asks.
“I’d just rather not talk right now!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dane says. “White boy, I’ve never heard shit come out your mouth like that. What’s the fucking problem?”
I reply, “I’m so fucking pissed right now! I’ve been in more rehabs than I can count on two hands, and I’ve always had a family, or a girlfriend, or someone there for me on visiting day. Unfortunately, all those times were a game to me, and I fucked up and went back on the Dope as soon as I had the chance. But now, this time I really want to recover, and everyone in my life has given up on me.”
“Answer me this. How long you been getting high, white boy?”
“On Dope or anything?” I ask.
“Anything that’s mind or mood altering.”
“I’d say at least seven years,” I reply.
Dane lifts an eyebrow and raises a finger, which he points in my direction, again and again, in unison to the rhythm of his diction. “So let me see if I can get this right. You got high for seven years and expect to gain the trust and honor and respect from your family and friends in a few days? Impossible. If it takes seven years to walk into the woods, it stands to reason that it will take seven years to walk out of the woods.”
Dane has drawn his conclusion, and I find myself in agreement. Unreasonable expectations have always obstructed my judgment. I take a deep breath to calm down and stay in reality.
“Listen, I got somethin’ else for you. Now you know I ain’t the Sunday school type, but, you remember when Jesus was up on the cross? Now why you suppose he let that happen? You mean to tell me that Jesus Christ couldn’t have come down off that cross if he wanted to? Of course he could have. But he knew he had to die, in order to resurrect. You see? He needed to die to become more than what he was.
“It’s like a caterpillar who spins a cocoon all around himself. He becomes dormant. But then what happens? When the season changes, out comes a butterfly! Like Jesus, he is more than what he once was, even more beautiful than ever. You see, white boy, that’s us. We have to let our old selves die completely, and then and only then can we become this new beautiful person we’re supposed to be.”
Somehow, his words help me feel that there is much more to life than this place, my addiction, or this day. Dane continues, “And I don’t want to hear you say you can’t do it, or you don’t have what it takes, because I’ve met a lot of people in my lifetime, and I want you to know you have more heart in your big toe than most possess in their whole body. One thing my mother taught me since I was a kid: give credit where credit’s due, and you don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m telling you, you’re going to make it. You’re a fighter. And that’s the end of the story!”
We finish brushing our teeth. After we rinse I finally ask, “You got family coming today?”
“Nah, nephew, there’s no need for that. I’m only in this joint for fourteen days. I’ll be seeing them soon enough. Besides, I don’t need my people seeing me in this condition. It’s just plain out sad.”
“Well, Dane, you have no one comin’, I have no one comin’, looks like I’m gonna be your shadow today.”
He grins. “C’mon, nephew, that goes without saying!”
Back in the room, Toby is putting the finishing touches on his wardrobe. He sprays a thick mist of a knockoff brand of Obsession in the air, walks back and forth through it, looks our way and announces, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the lonely hearts club.”
“That’s fucking hilarious, Toby, you should be a comedian,” I say.
Toby laughs and Dane comments, “Boy, you better thank God you’re not in the situation we’re in. Remember, Toby, the same thing that can make you laugh can make you cry in a second.”
Toby smiles, wiggling his index and middle fingers. “Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you. After my girl leaves, I’ll let you each smell a finger.”
We all laugh. As low as Dane and I feel, we couldn’t deny that Toby is one funny motherfucker.
There’s a knock at the door. Dane calls out, “Who is it?”
“It’s Mr. Leeper, Brandon’s counselor.”
I go to the door to greet him. “How you feeling today, Brandon?” Guy asks.
“Well, to be quite honest, I feel pretty down.”
“Why? What’s going on? Talk to me, homeboy.” Slang words like that make me feel like I have a friend who cares.
“Honestly, Guy, this might be my worst day I’ve had here yet. I feel like absolute shit about myself. I’m so fucking depressed. I know I’ve got to stop getting high, right now that’s the only thing that’s going to fill this empty hole.”
Guy cuts me off. “All right, Brandon, you’re a grown man, enough of the pity party. It’s time to take personal responsibility for your own actions.”
I roll my eyes, but Guy persists. “Well, Brandon, this is what recovery is all about, dealing with life on life’s terms. Anyway, I came to talk to you about something.”
“All right, man, what’s up?”
“Well, I was hoping we could do it in my office,” he says. By the tone of his voice, it sounds pretty important.
“Sure.”
As we make our way to his office, I worry.
Did my mother not pay my initiation fee? Did she die? Do I have AIDS? What’s going on?!
chapter thirty-one
Changes
We enter Guy’s office.
He sits, I sit, in the so-called relaxation chair.
Guy tells me, “I have some good news and some news you might not care to hear. Which do you want first?”
“Well, this day has been horrible so far so let’s keep it going, I’ll take the worst.”
“Brandon, I know more than anybody that the world seems to be on your shoulders. When I tell you this information, you’re sure to think the world is going to come crashing down. But acceptance is, as I said before, what we recovering addicts call ‘dealing with life on life’s terms.’”
He pauses. “Brandon…”
The cruelest device in all humanity is the preparatory speech. Although this one is intended to inform, comfort and educate, it is instead bringing me anxiety and fear.
“Yeah, Guy, just fucking tell me.”
Guy pauses, prolonging the suspense. “All right. You might not recall, being you were somewhat ‘out of it’ during your time of arrival, but during your admission we drew your blood. It’s required upon entering this facility for your safety and rehabilitation. I’m sure I don’t need to explain that when you shoot Dope, your odds of catching any number of diseases is much greater than they’d be for a person who uses via smoking it or sniffing it.”
My skin goes cold, although I’m hot inside. I’ve been afraid this day would come.
Guy moves next to me and holds my hand. I’m terrified. I’ve shared needles, cookers, cotton, and water with other junkies as often as I’ve shaken their hands. I’ve entered abandoned houses, found old needles and used them. I’ve had unprotected sex with hookers.
In the last few months, one of my sources of income was a medical clinic that paid me thirty dollars each time my blood was drawn, and another ten dolla
rs to attend a class that educated addicts on how to avoid high-risk situations that transmit disease. I could make an additional thirty dollars if I picked up the results of my blood test. I always showed up for the check, but I refused to listen to the results. I was aware of the risks of my behavior, but I took no precautions to avoid contracting HIV, “the ninja” as junkies call it.
Guy draws the speech to its climax. “Well, you’re fortunate, and honestly quite blessed. You haven’t contracted HIV. I wish I could say the same about hepatitis. I’m sorry, Brandon, you have hepatitis C. I know this isn’t gonna matter much, but ninety percent of IV drug users in Baltimore City carry this infectious disease. Look at it this way, at least it’s not HIV, and there’s medication you can take to treat this disease.” He hands me a pamphlet to educate me about my new life partner, hepatitis C.
Living on the streets has taught me to take disturbing news with a demented sense of humor. I reply with a laugh. “Fuck you, Guy, I can’t wait to hear the good news.”
“I haven’t lied to you yet, right, Brandon?”
I nod but my grin conveys my distrust.
“Your mother’s coming to visit.”
And the world just…stopped.
“What the fuck, Guy? You call that good news? You know damn well I messed up every chance at rehab I’ve ever had! The last thing I want is to build my mother up to break her down again.”
Dreamseller Page 20
