As I sit, Dane leans close to my ear and says, “How you feel, nephew?”
“Different!”
“Different in a good way or different in a bad way?”
“A good way.” I grin.
The lecture is on the concept of “self acceptance.” On the dry erase board are written four words which I recite over and over: Acceptance Leads to Recovery.
I look to Sean Williams who seems to be jotting down the information in the lecture verbatim. Meanwhile, Toby occupies himself with trying to get the attention of a girl who sits a few rows in front of him.
As I mentioned before, the Tuerk House upholds a no fraternization policy, and violation of this rule is grounds for immediate dismissal. Consequently, in group lecture, the women are seated in the first few rows and the men are seated far behind. A big burly monitor sits between them, to oversee all activity.
The mentality of the addict is to develop a method to achieve what an authority figure forbids. This is called “getting over.” We junkies are fixated on risky situations, cheating other people, having a secret, breaking the law right under the noses of the casual observer. This pacifies the addict with a feeling of superiority, as well as floods their body full of endorphins and adrenaline, therefore producing a slight “high.”
An example of what one might consider getting over in the Tuerk House is what is called “flying a kite,” a system of breaking the anti-fraternization rule by passing notes to women right under the watchful eye of the monitor. Toby has devised such a system. He rolls a penny on the floor toward the far end of the room. This distracts the monitor’s attention, as his reaction is to look in the direction of the noise. At that moment, Toby slides the folded note across the floor, under the rows of chairs, directly to the woman. To my amusement, the woman catches on and picks up the note.
In a half hour, class is dismissed. The monitor watches as the women exit first, one row at a time in single file, followed by the men, who exit in the same manner. The last to leave the room are Dane, Toby, Sean Williams, and me, who are seated in the back row. In rehab the back row is nicknamed “Death Row,” because it is logical that anyone eager to learn will sit as close to the front as possible.
As we are about to leave, Dane, Toby, Sean Williams, and I are stopped by Mr. Tworek, the instructor. Mr. Tworek is in his midfifties, white, with a receding hairline, skinny as a stick. “May I speak to you gentlemen?” he asks.
Everyone honors his request and steps to the side. Except Toby who says, “Man, we ain’t done shit!”
Toby walks away from Mr. Tworek, who steps after him. “Get back here! I am talking to you!”
Toby turns to Mr. Tworek and yells, “Get the fuck out of my face!” Mr. Tworek, a frail man, is intimidated. He shrinks back and Toby storms off, slamming the door behind him, startling Mr. Tworek and causing him to jump.
Straightening his tie and regaining his composure, Mr. Tworek directs his speech toward the rest of us. “You gentlemen better start taking this class more seriously. You’re playing with your lives here, literally, and from the looks of your cards, I don’t think any of you have a winning hand. I worry about you three, and your friend. I sincerely hope that you straighten out and fly right. You need to understand the severity of this situation. Think of this class as the difference between life and death, literally, your life and death. Hopefully you can convince your friend of this before it’s too late.”
Dane tells Mr. Tworek, “Don’t worry ’bout Toby. We’ll talk to him.”
Mr. Tworek hugs all three of us in order to let us know there are no hard feelings.
Once in the hallway, as I head back to the room, Dane calls after me. “Come on, white boy, we’re going out for a smoke break and you are, too.”
“Nah, Dane, I feel like shit. I’m gonna go lay down.”
Dane asks, “What’s the problem, nephew?”
I reply, “Nothing. I’m just gonna go back to my room and crash out for a bit.”
“Get the fuck out of here!” he says. “You need to start socializing. You know what they say, ‘Idle time is the devil’s workshop.’ You need to start communicatin’ with other people so you can stay out of your head! It’s a dangerous place to be, all by yourself, so here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna turn your white ass around and come smoke with us!”
Sean Williams steps out from behind Dane and chimes in, “And we’re not taking ‘no’ for an answer!”
This vision of a rich white kid, smartly dressed, backing up the order of an old-school gangster like Dane, causes a strange sensation in my head…. What is this? The feeling begins in my temples, creates tension in the back of my neck…and so, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am laughing.
Outside, in the “smoking area,” a fenced-in back lot of the Tuerk House, there is a line of men standing against the wall. A monitor passes cigarettes to them, one at a time. The ritual smoke break, to me, resembles a Dope line, with one difference: after everyone cops, instead of going separate ways to get high, they split off into groups to discuss issues relevant to their lives—feelings, families, relationships, plans for recovery, what chick they are going to fuck, or what kind of dope they are going to shoot upon their discharge.
As Dane, Sean Williams, and I listen to Toby recollect his sex exploits, we hear a voice call out, “Brandon!”
The four of us stop talking, our attention diverted to an old, short, dark-skinned man who is approaching.
chapter seventeen
A Ghost from the Past
“Brandon!” the stranger calls out. He has a thick-bearded mustache, which connects to his hair and resembles a gray lion’s mane. His clothes hang from his frame, accentuating his wiry musculature, which has worn its shape into the deterioration of the fabric.
The stranger makes his way past the rest of the addicts and over to us. I still don’t recognize this man. My mind is racing. Who the fuck is this? Did I rip him off? Did I steal one of his packages?
Finally upon us, the stranger says, “Brandon! What’s up? White boy, I haven’t seen you in years! I figured you were in one of three places: prison, rehab, or six feet under!”
“Well, you got one of them right,” I say, and he senses that I don’t recognize him. Now the situation turns into a game, his game, a test to see how long it takes me to remember.
Through my peripheral I can see Dane, Toby, and Sean Williams looking back and forth to each other. I understand Dane and Toby well enough to know exactly what they are thinking, because I am thinking it, too, a possibility of violence. Sean Williams, who is not experienced in this type of situation, I am sure is planning the fastest way to notify a monitor if any trouble should arise. With my friends at my back I take a deep drag of my cigarette, trying to remember who this old man is. Finally, he smiles and gives a hint. “Remember the bank on St. Paul?”
“Get the fuck out of here! Isaac? Is that you?”
“Yeah, white boy, it’s me!”
“Oh, shit!” In the presence of an old friend, the situation has changed. In a way, I feel more at home.
I smile, noting the deeper lines in his face, the gray hair, the whites of his eyes a bit yellow.
I introduce Isaac to my new friends. “Sean Williams, this is a good friend of mine, Isaac.” Sean Williams, as usual, demonstrating his politeness, smiles and extends a respectful handshake.
Dane then nods, and Isaac nods back, confirming the mutual acknowledgment that they are two of the same.
Toby smirks. “What’s up, Grandpop? Where the fuck did you get those busted-ass shoes? Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
The silence that followed was an indication of what was about to happen. When Isaac senses danger or vulnerability, his dark wide eyes fall into a blank stare, and I have always dreaded the moments that follow. It’s been about three years since I’ve seen him and this is the exact type of enraged fit he was in when we parted ways. We’re right back where we left off; the only thing that’s changed is t
he date and time. Before I can stop it, Isaac has Toby by his neck, slamming him against the wall. Toby’s facial expression changes from a smug grin that says, “Yeah, I told that old junkie,” to “Uh-oh, I just fucked with the wrong person!”
Dane and I grab Isaac and attempt to pry his fingers from around Toby’s neck. We are used to this type of shit. By jumping in and not taking sides, we are affording both men a way out of a full-on fight and allowing them to save face. Sean Williams, on the other hand, reacts by frantically running for a monitor.
Two monitors charge in and split us apart. Toby screams in the most threatening voice possible, “It’s not over yet, bitch! I got yours! You hear me? It’s not over yet!” Obviously, he would not be talking so tough had it not been for the fact that two enormous monitors held Isaac back.
The monitors push Toby inside the building to cool off. He storms up the stairs, yelling, “It’s not over yet, you old motherfucker!” Contrary to what Toby says, we know it’s over and done with.
The monitor says with authority, “Smoke break’s over!” Patients curse under their breath. Cigarettes are the only drug we have access to and we only get six a day. We all take our time walking back inside; some of the guys stop to make small talk with the monitor, just a ploy to buy more smoke time. I tell Dane and Sean Williams to go on without me; Isaac and I need to catch up.
On our way back upstairs, Isaac and I go back and forth with questions.
I ask, “How’s your grandmother?”
“She passed away,” he says in an unsettling voice.
“Fuck, I’m sorry to hear that, Isaac.” Isaac’s mother was an old-school free-baser, or “basehead,” as they used to call the coke smokers prior to the advent of crack. One night, when Isaac was eight years old, she left him alone and never returned. Eventually, when the authorities found him living alone, they were shocked to learn that he had been taking care of himself for several months. But the reality was that Isaac had really not depended on his mother anyway. He was so used to being without her and knew how to survive in her absence. Child Welfare Services took custody, and after some research, discovered his one living relative, a grandmother. Isaac had heard stories about his grandmother from his mom, about how he had his grandmother’s eyes, nose, and personality. When he met her for the first time, he recognized her because they did look very similar. After that, Isaac and his grandmother took care of each other.
The two of us end up in a quiet conference room where we can speak privately.
I take a good, hard look at my old friend. “Damn, Isaac, last time we were together, remember that shit?”
“Do I remember?” he says. “How can I forget? That bank was tighter than a virgin’s pussy!”
“Well, I heard you got knocked off for that shit and caught eight years.”
“Nah,” Isaac says. “The bank was no big deal. Later I caught the eight and did five.”
“What for?”
Isaac replies, “Armed robbery.”
“What the fuck did you rob?”
“I’d been watchin’ this bank for two months. It was the perfect hit. As I went in to take care of business and get the money, there was an undercover cop depositin’ his check. Before I knew it, I had one of those cop-issued nine-millimeters pointed at the back of my head. But they only gave me eight because it was a fake gun I used, and I convinced the jury that I didn’t have the heart for pullin’ a trigger. So, as you can see by the looks of me, during my vacation, I lost it all. When I was released, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I couldn’t pay any bills or take care of any responsibilities while I was down. Lost my grandmother’s house, too.”
This made me feel even worse. Hell, I used to live there.
When I first met Isaac, I had been getting high for about two years and had already started with petty street scams. One day, I heard about a new grade of Dope circulating, rumored to be the best in Baltimore City. One catch: it was only sold in one Dope shop, which did not serve whites. This had nothing to do with racism, but a code of streets ethics, because if cops see a white person in an all-black neighborhood, all they have to do is follow him and he will lead them directly to the Dope shop. But being the Dope fiend that I am, and hearing that the best Dope in town existed in West Baltimore, I set out on a mission to see for myself if this rumor was really true.
After hours of searching the streets, I spot a forty-year-old lady who is obviously a junkie like me. “Sweetheart, where you hittin’ up here?” I ask.
“You police, white boy?”
“Nah, baby, just hard up. I’ll hit you off with a ten spot if you tell me.”
“Come on, white boy.” She brings me to a corner entrance of the shadiest alley in West Baltimore and points. “There you go, baby, now kick me down ten before I’m seen with you. You on your own now.” I hand her the ten bucks, pull my hood over my head, and turn the corner.
I have never seen so many customers in a Dope shop line. Kids, adults, teenagers, men, women. Parents with children. One is carrying a baby. One is in a wheelchair. Some are homeless, some are in three-piece suits. Some are beautiful, some are covered in open sores. But what these people do have in common is one distinguishing feature: they are all black. With my hood drawn to obscure my face, I join them hoping to score the best Dope in the city.
I study the operation and appreciate its efficiency. The dealers have a four-man team: the first takes the cash, the second hands out the bags, the third re-ups (is responsible for holding the quantities of both cash and Dope), and the fourth stands watch. In this way, they are able to serve one customer approximately every five seconds, and it takes me less than six minutes to reach the front of the line.
The Dope is sold in fifteen-dollar bags. With my sweatshirt sleeve pulled over my hand, I hand the first man sixty bucks and request four. He is so busy examining and counting the money that he does not even lift his head to see the color of my skin. I open my palm, and the second dealer is about to place this precious Dope in my hand, which he notices is white. He pulls back. “White boy, are you out of your mind? Get the fuck out of line! And you ain’t getting your money back, neither!” Now to a dope fiend like me, sixty bucks is equivalent to a million dollars, so there’s no way I’m stepping out of line without one of two things, my money or my four bags. I worked way too hard for this reward and I deserved it. At this point I’ll take a bullet over this. Sad, I know.
The dealers insist I leave; I insist I am not going anywhere empty-handed. As we argue back and forth, the people in the line are growing anxious, in fear of two possibilities. First, the dealers will have to resort to shooting or stabbing me. Not that anyone gives a shit, but this will mean that the Dope dealers will have to close shop. Second, the dealers will close shop and the customers of the Dope line will beat me down. Either way, this would mean that the remaining junkies would have to walk away without a score. So, after almost twenty seconds of my arguing with the dealers, a homeless woman at the end of the line screams, “Get the fuck out of line, white boy!”
A man in a business suit behind me yells, “Get out the neighborhood, white boy!”
The situation escalates, and there are now sixty people in an alley all against me. The Dope man repeats the same sentence over and over again. “You’re beat, white boy. You’re beat, white boy.” I continue to stand there like I’m deaf, hoping they just give me my bags to get me out of there.
Just as the situation is about to take a violent turn, this guy Isaac—then in his mid-40s, with black hair and a sparkle in his eyes—steps out of line and vouches for me. “Look, I brought him. He’s with me, he’s cool. Just hit him up this once, he won’t be back again.” This shows that Isaac has a lot of character and individuality, because a Dope fiend with the promise of a fix never steps out of line. But by this time, he was too late.
The dealer yells, “Then you both get the fuck out of line! You can come back tomorrow, but take this white piece of shit with you right now before he g
ets fucked up!” As we leave the rat-infested, piss-smelling alley, I thank him for his help, and tell him how much it meant to me.
Junkies usually do not express their feelings, but surprisingly Isaac did. He told me he had thirty bucks for Dope and was willing to split a score. My immediate reaction was “Hey, look, I’m no fucking faggot. Don’t expect no shit from me.”
Isaac says, “Look, white boy, I ain’t for that shit neither. You just look ill and I know what that shit feels like, so you can come with me if you want, you stubborn motherfucker, or you can go back there and try to get your sixty bucks back.”
Isaac and I continued on to another Dope shop, copped, and ended up at his grandmother’s house. Isaac’s grandmother was the sweetest, kindest lady. She fixed a meal, and Isaac allowed me to take a shower. From then on Isaac and I were running partners. We stole, pulled scams, and hustled together, and he and his grandmother graciously let me live at their house. My new living conditions were ideal: I now had a friend, and that friend had Dope dealers right outside his front door. The perfect relationship, sealed in Dope.
As the months passed, our friendship deepened. We had something rare among addicts, a relationship based on trust. Since we had lost almost everything else in our lives, we cherished this bond we had together, in our little end of the world, cooking up Junk in his grandmother’s basement.
At one time we ran a scam that entailed filling bank dime wrappers with sand and pebbles, leaving a few dimes on each end. When packed correctly and taped shut, behold, eight dimes appeared to be five dollars. In the beginning the scam worked well, but as time went on, other junkies started running with it. Soon banks were on the lookout for junkies trying to cash in dime wraps.