Useless Junk of the Day

My story - Part 2

City Boys

I remember as a child how when we first moved to Grace St. (AKA suitcase alley) in downtown Richmond in 74. I thought that I had been dropped of in hell! The rows and rows of mid 19th century brick houses that were converted into flop houses and low rent flats all had this insidious smell the never leaves you. It was a combination of roach dung, insecticide, old wood, urine, beer, vomit and human stench that fill the halls of EVERY apartment I visited. The halls were filled with the ever present echoes of shouting and fights.

All of my friends had parent (s) who were either prostitutes, drug users, winos, physically abused or all of the above. I remember often roaming the cobble stone alleys or playing stick ball (with a rock) and stumbling on someone’s dad sleeping on some cardboard.

There were times we went days without a decent meal and we had no TV or car. Yet, I always thought we (my mother and I) were well off because we had love, stability and sanity my friends never had. It gave me a real sense of security in an island of chaos and insanity.

The eye of the storm.

Due to this tenuous sense of stability my mother  provided, I always felt like an observer in life. It was like being an outsider to this life of poverty and deviancy. I stopped short of many of the petty criminal acts my friends would do, on moral grounds. Unfortunately, I all but dropped-out of school for a while in 4th grade and did take to weed by 14-15.

Most of my friends never made it to high school. Who could blame them? 25 years before Columbine, we had random acts of violence EVERY DAY that never made the local news.

More gritty details

It’s no wonder these kids turned to drugs for escape. Their lives needed some kind of escape. Drugs were everywhere in our neighborhood. Often, one wouldn’t need to leave their own apartment building to score.

As an example of how pervasive drugs were in that culture; we (at the tender age of 10) would search up and down the alleys amongst the trash cans and evicted furniture in the dirt covers of back yards, to find hypodermic needles. We would break the needles off and use hypos as squirt guns for fun in the scorching sticky southern summers. No one had air conditioning, and a fan was a luxury.

My feelings.

No, I didn’t feel like “cream” has risen to the top. I feel my friends were never given a fighting chance in life. While we all had the same opportunities (or lack thereof), I feel my parents middle class values gave me the edge.

All my friends were born into a family cycle and culture of poverty, I on the other hand, was born into it a circumstance. My parents grew up in the burbs and through a series of incidences and poor choices we ended up in suitcase alley¨ (read skid row). This background is what I believe gives me my unique perspective and empathy for those less fortunate. Without this unique perspective, I would not be able to share and relate this shadowing world with you all.

Reminder Indeed

Drugs in moderation? Sure, but don’t kid yourself. Been there done that. I moderated 13 years of my own life away. It’s the exception and not the rule people are able to moderate their behavior in such a way. It’s a slippery slope and once you start down that path, you don’t see your side often until you are at the bottom. Natural is the way to go, being high is a false reality and will never serve your real interest.

Project updates

How is my pet project? Which one? The more I get involved in the folks form the old neighborhood, the more I take on. The guy I took to NA (Jr.) is doing well. He has not used in over 20 days and is really looking forward to getter his 30 day key chain! I am worried about him getting his tax return though. Money is a big trigger for addicts and they can go off and smoke $900 and not eat for a week in a heart beat.

He still refuses to clean his one room flat though. I wouldnt let a farm animal live in that filth. I promise you, you will never see or small anything like it no matter how bad you college roommate can be. He is still in love with a prostitute who is really bad for him though. She is 8 months pregnant with some John’s baby and shooting up! She comes over to his place and begs him to smoke rock too. He thinks he is cured, I think he is a man on the edge.

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Wednesday, March 19th, 2008 Filed under drugs, story |