Georgine cried for half an hour in my office after Patrick died, even though he had just gotten out of jail for beating her up. "I don't know why he wouldn't get out of the way of the train. Wonderful... bull-headed... idiot."
-----
Gary was the second person to almost die from a heroine overdose in the left stall of the bathroom. But through the climbing under the stall to get him out, the 9-1-1 call, the CPR, the AED, and the EMS team, Pete just kept washing his hands in the sink.
-----
(Pete has cancer, and has been dying for months. Dying with impeccable hygiene.)
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
31 December 2009
02 September 2009
Clean
Latisha is finally clean.
She has been clean from crack for 6 months;
clean from lying for at least 2.
"When you's addicated, you don't care about nothin but that crack. It's all your damn brain can think about. You's going to say anything, do anything to get more. You even surprise yourself sometimes. You look at yourself, what you're doing, what all's comin out of your mouth, and you do you best to pretend it's not even you, because if if is, you's in big trouble. 'Cause to get crack, you'll say the craziest things, you don't even know how you came up with it.
You'd say you had a newborn baby and no diapers jus' so you could get some cash from some lovin' person who thinks babies is important and special.
You'd say you had no food or water or anything, and you probably don't, and then when you get a dolla or two, you still don't have no food, but you don't care--you know that dolla ain't goin to buy no sandwich and chips.
You'd say you's stranded and you're whole family's dyin of some aweful disease over in Georgia and you really just want to make it back for their funeral--and you hope maybe they'll give you even part of the money for the ticket so you can be high for a night.
You'd even say that your six kids all have this vision problem where they can't see shit, but they all's want to go to school and make somethin of the world, and won't you support our country's suffering youth so they can get some education? Won't you jus' give some money to get them some glasses?
Sometimes, I'd walk around with that cash in my pocket, and get halfway to an eyeglass place, lookin' for my six kids before I realized I made it all up. Crack makes you crazy, Anna. It makes you downright nuts, and if anyone deserves a crazy check* the most but needs one the least its people like me.
I'm tellin you this so you can see how good'a lies are out there. Somehow, Anna, you gotta see the lies and love the person anyway. But that don't mean you give them no money. That means you love them best by givin them a firm smack in the face.
Anna, maybe you shouldn't smack em in the face after all. I don't want you to get hurt or nothin. But I'm just sayin. I know what I'm talkin about. I tol' ya, I havn't lied for two months."
She has been clean from crack for 6 months;
clean from lying for at least 2.
"When you's addicated, you don't care about nothin but that crack. It's all your damn brain can think about. You's going to say anything, do anything to get more. You even surprise yourself sometimes. You look at yourself, what you're doing, what all's comin out of your mouth, and you do you best to pretend it's not even you, because if if is, you's in big trouble. 'Cause to get crack, you'll say the craziest things, you don't even know how you came up with it.
You'd say you had a newborn baby and no diapers jus' so you could get some cash from some lovin' person who thinks babies is important and special.
You'd say you had no food or water or anything, and you probably don't, and then when you get a dolla or two, you still don't have no food, but you don't care--you know that dolla ain't goin to buy no sandwich and chips.
You'd say you's stranded and you're whole family's dyin of some aweful disease over in Georgia and you really just want to make it back for their funeral--and you hope maybe they'll give you even part of the money for the ticket so you can be high for a night.
You'd even say that your six kids all have this vision problem where they can't see shit, but they all's want to go to school and make somethin of the world, and won't you support our country's suffering youth so they can get some education? Won't you jus' give some money to get them some glasses?
Sometimes, I'd walk around with that cash in my pocket, and get halfway to an eyeglass place, lookin' for my six kids before I realized I made it all up. Crack makes you crazy, Anna. It makes you downright nuts, and if anyone deserves a crazy check* the most but needs one the least its people like me.
I'm tellin you this so you can see how good'a lies are out there. Somehow, Anna, you gotta see the lies and love the person anyway. But that don't mean you give them no money. That means you love them best by givin them a firm smack in the face.
Anna, maybe you shouldn't smack em in the face after all. I don't want you to get hurt or nothin. But I'm just sayin. I know what I'm talkin about. I tol' ya, I havn't lied for two months."
31 July 2009
Ricky's 50-Cent Story
I paid 50 cents for the rights to this story (my standard story-rate, unless it's really good, impressively animated, or props and costumes are involved) so I thought I might as well share it.
Story Status: True, Semi-Recent
Body Language: Limited arm movements, some raising of eyebrows, occasional tip back in the chair.
Tone of Voice: Soft, smooth, slow, barely audible at times.
Time: 8:50 A.M.
"I was in Mt. Pleasant, you know, and out of all the nights that I played the slots with the quarters I found under tables and bars, I won a ton of money that night. Came out to about $20,000. I thought about what I wanted to do with it, and decided I wanted to get the hell out of here, maybe go to Puerto Rico, where they make the rum, you know? So I bought a plane ticket out of Detroit to Puerto Rico, and got on a Greyhound from Mt. Pleasant to Detroit. I was drinking a lot on the bus, you know how I am, and I met this guy in the back of the Greyhound bus. He was a black guy, and he said that he was a truck driver coming back from up north, going back home to Detroit. We were drinking and everything, and he told me I could stay at his place until my flight the next day. He seemed pretty alright, which is what I needed, since I was carrying a couple thousand dollars in my duffel bag. Problem was I couldn't remember if I told him that, I was drinking, you know, so I can't remember what I talked about or what we said to each other. I have a feeling he knew about what was in my bag but what the hell did I care, I was so wasted. We got to his place, and he said we should go to his friend's house, hang out and party and all that. I said I'd go, and I tell you this was no "friend's house". This was an abandoned building that was taken over by some crack dealers, and I tell you Anna I was the only white guy there. That didn't bother me too much, and I was pretty loose at this point, so I started getting it on with all the guys, got into the stuff, you know, the crack and everything. Then they were all going into rooms with the girls, and I got up there and the girl was there with me and I sat there a while thinking about what the hell I was doing here, and I told the girl I didn't want to do it, I was so drunk, and I gave her some money and told her not to feel bad, I was just too drunk.
Well, when I went back downstairs, they guy I came with, he was gone. He left while I was in with the girl. I looked at all these guys by the door, and I looked at the door, and I saw that this door, it had about four padlocks on it and 2x4's in front of it, blocking the door and all. All the windows were covered too, and I started realizing where I was. There was two guys and they had their arms crossed and everything, but I was drunk so I just went up to them and told them that the guy I cam with, I had to go back with him, that I was staying with him. They looked at me for like an hour, then they nodded at each other and opened all those deadbolts for me.
Somehow, even though I couldn't walk straight, I caught up with the other guy in his car. That doesn't make sense now, but I know that's how it was. He was with his wife, and she was cool. I got in and he said he would just bring me straight to the airport. I told him no, because my stuff was at his house, and then he got really mad, and now I knew he was onto what was in it. His wife, though, she understood, and she brought me back to the house for my bag. He was getting kind of excited, now, kind of mean and getting loud, so somehow that wife, she knew what to do, and she left him there, and made me quick get in the car. She brought me to the airport and I got out with my duffel bag safe and everything. I was going to go to Puerto Rico and get away from all this crazy stuff.
But then Anna, I tell you, I saw this firetruck. And then I saw a couple more, and they were all around this plane. And Anna, I couldn't get on a plane after that. I couldn't do it. So I just went to the airport hotel in Detroit and had my own Puerto Rico. I drank and watched movies, and that was my vacation. That was my Casino winning vacation. And I tell you, Anna, at that hotel, they treated me really nice. Real nice."
Story Status: True, Semi-Recent
Body Language: Limited arm movements, some raising of eyebrows, occasional tip back in the chair.
Tone of Voice: Soft, smooth, slow, barely audible at times.
Time: 8:50 A.M.
"I was in Mt. Pleasant, you know, and out of all the nights that I played the slots with the quarters I found under tables and bars, I won a ton of money that night. Came out to about $20,000. I thought about what I wanted to do with it, and decided I wanted to get the hell out of here, maybe go to Puerto Rico, where they make the rum, you know? So I bought a plane ticket out of Detroit to Puerto Rico, and got on a Greyhound from Mt. Pleasant to Detroit. I was drinking a lot on the bus, you know how I am, and I met this guy in the back of the Greyhound bus. He was a black guy, and he said that he was a truck driver coming back from up north, going back home to Detroit. We were drinking and everything, and he told me I could stay at his place until my flight the next day. He seemed pretty alright, which is what I needed, since I was carrying a couple thousand dollars in my duffel bag. Problem was I couldn't remember if I told him that, I was drinking, you know, so I can't remember what I talked about or what we said to each other. I have a feeling he knew about what was in my bag but what the hell did I care, I was so wasted. We got to his place, and he said we should go to his friend's house, hang out and party and all that. I said I'd go, and I tell you this was no "friend's house". This was an abandoned building that was taken over by some crack dealers, and I tell you Anna I was the only white guy there. That didn't bother me too much, and I was pretty loose at this point, so I started getting it on with all the guys, got into the stuff, you know, the crack and everything. Then they were all going into rooms with the girls, and I got up there and the girl was there with me and I sat there a while thinking about what the hell I was doing here, and I told the girl I didn't want to do it, I was so drunk, and I gave her some money and told her not to feel bad, I was just too drunk.
Well, when I went back downstairs, they guy I came with, he was gone. He left while I was in with the girl. I looked at all these guys by the door, and I looked at the door, and I saw that this door, it had about four padlocks on it and 2x4's in front of it, blocking the door and all. All the windows were covered too, and I started realizing where I was. There was two guys and they had their arms crossed and everything, but I was drunk so I just went up to them and told them that the guy I cam with, I had to go back with him, that I was staying with him. They looked at me for like an hour, then they nodded at each other and opened all those deadbolts for me.
Somehow, even though I couldn't walk straight, I caught up with the other guy in his car. That doesn't make sense now, but I know that's how it was. He was with his wife, and she was cool. I got in and he said he would just bring me straight to the airport. I told him no, because my stuff was at his house, and then he got really mad, and now I knew he was onto what was in it. His wife, though, she understood, and she brought me back to the house for my bag. He was getting kind of excited, now, kind of mean and getting loud, so somehow that wife, she knew what to do, and she left him there, and made me quick get in the car. She brought me to the airport and I got out with my duffel bag safe and everything. I was going to go to Puerto Rico and get away from all this crazy stuff.
But then Anna, I tell you, I saw this firetruck. And then I saw a couple more, and they were all around this plane. And Anna, I couldn't get on a plane after that. I couldn't do it. So I just went to the airport hotel in Detroit and had my own Puerto Rico. I drank and watched movies, and that was my vacation. That was my Casino winning vacation. And I tell you, Anna, at that hotel, they treated me really nice. Real nice."
07 May 2009
Life and Death in the Men's Bathroom
On Tuesday, my supervisor walked into my office while I was meeting someone and asked me to follow her out into the hall.
"There is someone dying in the men's bathroom," she said, "I thought you might like to know."
There have been a number of dramatic death imitations in the past year (Robert slumped to the floor after repeatedly calling me a son of a bitch when I told him that we would not call 9-1-1 for him because there was nothing at all wrong with him (luckily, we have a previous paramedic on staff). He eventually got up and took the stairs out... "You sonofabitch!").
Because of this, I wasn't sure right away whether or not the situation was of an actual death.
You would think that I would be able to tell by my surroundings, right? By the behaviour of others on the floor, or the mood, or the feeling in the room, hushed whispers, somber faces, etc. etc.
But I couldn't. In fact, all of the surrounding evidence pointed to another theatrical display of false symptoms. Men were still going in and out of the bathroom, washing their hands, and glancing over the shoulder at the gentleman on the floor, in cardiac arrest. Another came around the corner to check and see if he was naked or not. He was not. It was a fully-clothed Joe, face blue, not responding, with a crack pipe to his left and a roach clip around his neck.
We kicked everyone off the floor, thinking that this might be the best way to preserve Joe's dignity and privacy since none of our verbal reprimands seemed to help. Some refused to leave "My laundry is done drying" and some complained "How will I do my chore?" They finally retreated as the paramedics arrived.
The only other times I have witnessed possibly the last minutes of someone's life were at the beach when I was in my younger teens, and a man drowned in Lake Michigan. I watched as they dragged his body from the water, and I swear the entire beach was still. I had always thought that the frailty of humanity was a significant to others as it was to me.
But living in the streets must be different, though I can't describe it, because things happen. People come, and people go, and people overdose, and others are jumped, and there's too much danger everywhere to be shocked by death. You have to live, instead.
As the staff prayed for Joe, we heard him revived by the Narcon he was given by the medics. They carried him out to the ambulance as we, as a staff, felt relief. I have to wonder whether or not Joe was also relieved.
"There is someone dying in the men's bathroom," she said, "I thought you might like to know."
There have been a number of dramatic death imitations in the past year (Robert slumped to the floor after repeatedly calling me a son of a bitch when I told him that we would not call 9-1-1 for him because there was nothing at all wrong with him (luckily, we have a previous paramedic on staff). He eventually got up and took the stairs out... "You sonofabitch!").
Because of this, I wasn't sure right away whether or not the situation was of an actual death.
You would think that I would be able to tell by my surroundings, right? By the behaviour of others on the floor, or the mood, or the feeling in the room, hushed whispers, somber faces, etc. etc.
But I couldn't. In fact, all of the surrounding evidence pointed to another theatrical display of false symptoms. Men were still going in and out of the bathroom, washing their hands, and glancing over the shoulder at the gentleman on the floor, in cardiac arrest. Another came around the corner to check and see if he was naked or not. He was not. It was a fully-clothed Joe, face blue, not responding, with a crack pipe to his left and a roach clip around his neck.
We kicked everyone off the floor, thinking that this might be the best way to preserve Joe's dignity and privacy since none of our verbal reprimands seemed to help. Some refused to leave "My laundry is done drying" and some complained "How will I do my chore?" They finally retreated as the paramedics arrived.
The only other times I have witnessed possibly the last minutes of someone's life were at the beach when I was in my younger teens, and a man drowned in Lake Michigan. I watched as they dragged his body from the water, and I swear the entire beach was still. I had always thought that the frailty of humanity was a significant to others as it was to me.
But living in the streets must be different, though I can't describe it, because things happen. People come, and people go, and people overdose, and others are jumped, and there's too much danger everywhere to be shocked by death. You have to live, instead.
As the staff prayed for Joe, we heard him revived by the Narcon he was given by the medics. They carried him out to the ambulance as we, as a staff, felt relief. I have to wonder whether or not Joe was also relieved.
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