paradoxical
06-14-2012, 09:26 AM
Is There a Hungry Heart?
It's not real poverty, but close enough. Ashamed of your shabby clothes and bad teeth, walking across the Hawthorne Bridge to the eastside—hipsters riding by on Italian racing bikes, people on their way home from work, and lots of pretty girls out—best not to make eye contact. You're not really homeless, but you don't have a place to stay, either. Looking down at the pea green Willamette River—that’s the water I’m going to drown in, you think. You could head back home to your parent’s house in Beaumont anytime—they’d even wire you the money—but you’d rather die then go back. Nothing else is working anyway, and it seems like the best thing to do is just end it all.
On the other side of the river, you turn on the esplanade and walk to the underpass to meet Chandra.
"What'd you get?" she asks.
“A quarter.”
Chandra's wearing the same dirty green dress and red, low top Converse that she always wears. She says she has more clothes at the Joyce Hotel, but you never see her in anything else. She's sitting on a cut out piece of cardboard on the wet grass, her long curly hair pulled back and a smile on her face.
You take off your backpack, sit down next to her, and take out your glass pipe and lighter.
“Got any weed?” you ask.
“A little.”
“Then roll us a joint.”
You pull out a pack of papers and the small plastic bag of speed from your pocket. You toss Chandra the papers then drop some of the crystals into the bulb of the pipe. She starts breaking up weed on the cardboard while you put the lighter to the glass, making sure not to get the flame too close. White smoke fills the pipe and you take a deep pull, hold it, and then slowly exhale.
Nothing like that taste, you think, the explosion of pleasure in your brain coming on strong. You take one more hit and the meth begins to melt into a brownish puddle in the bowl and you rock it back and forth to let it crystallize again. The pipe is filled with thick white smoke and you hand it to Chandra then lie down with your head on the cardboard, looking up at the overpass. It all seems so perfect—you could stay in this moment forever.
Chandra takes two hits then puts the pipe down. She’s a tall, pretty girl—part black, white, and Latino—but you know what she does for money. It’s a turn off. You once spent the night together in a cheap motel room off Barbur Boulevard and that’s the only time you slept with her, neither one of you has mentioned it since, and now that’s she’s been kicked out of the Joyce, she’s always dirty. You look at the dirt on her face and caked around her ankles and know that you wouldn’t touch her again.
She finishes rolling the joint and hands it to you.
"After we smoke this I gotta go,” you say. “I have to be at the clinic at 3 o’clock."
“You’re walking all the way back?”
“Well, yea. They're not gonna let me ride the bus for free."
* * *
As you’re walking back across the bridge, a light rain starts to fall and you look downriver, but you can’t see the Fremont Bridge. That’s the bridge you’re going to jump from and you’re planning on climbing all the way to the top, no jumping off the railing—you want to make sure that it works—but it’s a hard thing to think about when you’re speeding and stoned and feeling so good.
Now you remember the clinic and the bad feelings start up again. What a load of ****, you think—all of these ****ing medications that don’t even work—and it’s a drag just going there, but it’s either that, or go back to the mental health unit.
On the other side of the river, you take 1st Street to Stark, heading toward the clinic. Once you’re there, it’s the same thing.
“Jeffery, you're a schizophrenic. Are you talking your medication? I'm going to send you back to the hospital if you don't take your medication." Just like last time.
“Are you taking drugs?”
“What? Oh, no sir. No sir.”
The doctor sends you to the pharmacy, and when you step outside you throw all the bottles of Haldol and Seroquel and Lamictal and everything else in a trash can. You sit down on the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do about your situation.
If you could just find your old roommate—she’s still in town, but you don't know where, and she doesn't have a phone. You know she would let you sleep on her couch for a few nights, maybe a week. And you need to go back and check with the temp agency, they said they may have something for you soon. Tonight, you’ll sleep under the bridge or in the park—there’s no way you're going to the shelter.
You stand up and walk to the bus mall downtown and start asking for change. All these people walking around—some carrying bags from expensive shops—but no one looks happy. They all seem sad and lost. You can see the pain in other people’s eyes. You’ve learned how to read people really well—it helps you survive. Soon you have enough money to buy more weed and you head down to Waterfront Park.
There’s no dealer around, just a bunch of tourists taking pictures and people out jogging. You walk to the Burnside Bridge and back, and then sit down on a bench to wait. A young guy with sandy blonde hair bounds up to you.
“Got bud?” he asks.
“No, I’m looking myself.”
“Cool, man. We can look together.”
“All right.”
“Hey, you want a beer?” He pulls two 24oz Natural Ice beers from his backup and offers you one.
“Sure,” you say, taking the beer and cracking it open. He downs his in two gulps.
“Yea,” he says, “I figure beer is about the ultimate sedative since people have been drinking it for thousands of years.” You don’t know what to say to that.
“Hey man, you do crystal?” he asks.
“Hell yea.”
He offers you a line and before long you’re tweaking really hard and he’s telling you how he just got out of jail—going on about his life and all. You finally spot a kid you know and you and the guy with the speed go in on a dime. He has a small metal pipe and the two of you smoke right there on the park bench. You’re wondering how you’re going to get rid of him when he stands up and says, “I gotta go. Nice meeting you, man.”
“You too,” you say, watching him march off.
The speed is coming on hard and you walk two blocks to the Max stop and take the Red Line all the way out to Gresham and back, just to have something to do—somewhere to put yourself. You take the train back to the Rose Quarter then catch the Yellow Line heading north. The mist is blowing in from the hills across the river—the sky overcast and dark. You can see the steel arch of the Fremont Bridge in the distance. That’s it, you decide. You’re going to jump tonight while you’re still high and have the courage.
When the train stops at Albina, you get off and start walking up the 405 to the bridge. What will it feel like when you’re in free fall? You wonder. Will you pass out before you hit the water? But you’re too high and before you get to the bridge, the meth is feeling so good that it seems pointless to kill yourself when you’re feeling like this. There’s always tomorrow. You turn around and take Mississippi Avenue to Alberta and keep walking. You have a vague memory of stopping in at some bar but you don’t remember the rest of the night. The next morning, you wake up in Overlook Park. Sober.
It's not real poverty, but close enough. Ashamed of your shabby clothes and bad teeth, walking across the Hawthorne Bridge to the eastside—hipsters riding by on Italian racing bikes, people on their way home from work, and lots of pretty girls out—best not to make eye contact. You're not really homeless, but you don't have a place to stay, either. Looking down at the pea green Willamette River—that’s the water I’m going to drown in, you think. You could head back home to your parent’s house in Beaumont anytime—they’d even wire you the money—but you’d rather die then go back. Nothing else is working anyway, and it seems like the best thing to do is just end it all.
On the other side of the river, you turn on the esplanade and walk to the underpass to meet Chandra.
"What'd you get?" she asks.
“A quarter.”
Chandra's wearing the same dirty green dress and red, low top Converse that she always wears. She says she has more clothes at the Joyce Hotel, but you never see her in anything else. She's sitting on a cut out piece of cardboard on the wet grass, her long curly hair pulled back and a smile on her face.
You take off your backpack, sit down next to her, and take out your glass pipe and lighter.
“Got any weed?” you ask.
“A little.”
“Then roll us a joint.”
You pull out a pack of papers and the small plastic bag of speed from your pocket. You toss Chandra the papers then drop some of the crystals into the bulb of the pipe. She starts breaking up weed on the cardboard while you put the lighter to the glass, making sure not to get the flame too close. White smoke fills the pipe and you take a deep pull, hold it, and then slowly exhale.
Nothing like that taste, you think, the explosion of pleasure in your brain coming on strong. You take one more hit and the meth begins to melt into a brownish puddle in the bowl and you rock it back and forth to let it crystallize again. The pipe is filled with thick white smoke and you hand it to Chandra then lie down with your head on the cardboard, looking up at the overpass. It all seems so perfect—you could stay in this moment forever.
Chandra takes two hits then puts the pipe down. She’s a tall, pretty girl—part black, white, and Latino—but you know what she does for money. It’s a turn off. You once spent the night together in a cheap motel room off Barbur Boulevard and that’s the only time you slept with her, neither one of you has mentioned it since, and now that’s she’s been kicked out of the Joyce, she’s always dirty. You look at the dirt on her face and caked around her ankles and know that you wouldn’t touch her again.
She finishes rolling the joint and hands it to you.
"After we smoke this I gotta go,” you say. “I have to be at the clinic at 3 o’clock."
“You’re walking all the way back?”
“Well, yea. They're not gonna let me ride the bus for free."
* * *
As you’re walking back across the bridge, a light rain starts to fall and you look downriver, but you can’t see the Fremont Bridge. That’s the bridge you’re going to jump from and you’re planning on climbing all the way to the top, no jumping off the railing—you want to make sure that it works—but it’s a hard thing to think about when you’re speeding and stoned and feeling so good.
Now you remember the clinic and the bad feelings start up again. What a load of ****, you think—all of these ****ing medications that don’t even work—and it’s a drag just going there, but it’s either that, or go back to the mental health unit.
On the other side of the river, you take 1st Street to Stark, heading toward the clinic. Once you’re there, it’s the same thing.
“Jeffery, you're a schizophrenic. Are you talking your medication? I'm going to send you back to the hospital if you don't take your medication." Just like last time.
“Are you taking drugs?”
“What? Oh, no sir. No sir.”
The doctor sends you to the pharmacy, and when you step outside you throw all the bottles of Haldol and Seroquel and Lamictal and everything else in a trash can. You sit down on the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do about your situation.
If you could just find your old roommate—she’s still in town, but you don't know where, and she doesn't have a phone. You know she would let you sleep on her couch for a few nights, maybe a week. And you need to go back and check with the temp agency, they said they may have something for you soon. Tonight, you’ll sleep under the bridge or in the park—there’s no way you're going to the shelter.
You stand up and walk to the bus mall downtown and start asking for change. All these people walking around—some carrying bags from expensive shops—but no one looks happy. They all seem sad and lost. You can see the pain in other people’s eyes. You’ve learned how to read people really well—it helps you survive. Soon you have enough money to buy more weed and you head down to Waterfront Park.
There’s no dealer around, just a bunch of tourists taking pictures and people out jogging. You walk to the Burnside Bridge and back, and then sit down on a bench to wait. A young guy with sandy blonde hair bounds up to you.
“Got bud?” he asks.
“No, I’m looking myself.”
“Cool, man. We can look together.”
“All right.”
“Hey, you want a beer?” He pulls two 24oz Natural Ice beers from his backup and offers you one.
“Sure,” you say, taking the beer and cracking it open. He downs his in two gulps.
“Yea,” he says, “I figure beer is about the ultimate sedative since people have been drinking it for thousands of years.” You don’t know what to say to that.
“Hey man, you do crystal?” he asks.
“Hell yea.”
He offers you a line and before long you’re tweaking really hard and he’s telling you how he just got out of jail—going on about his life and all. You finally spot a kid you know and you and the guy with the speed go in on a dime. He has a small metal pipe and the two of you smoke right there on the park bench. You’re wondering how you’re going to get rid of him when he stands up and says, “I gotta go. Nice meeting you, man.”
“You too,” you say, watching him march off.
The speed is coming on hard and you walk two blocks to the Max stop and take the Red Line all the way out to Gresham and back, just to have something to do—somewhere to put yourself. You take the train back to the Rose Quarter then catch the Yellow Line heading north. The mist is blowing in from the hills across the river—the sky overcast and dark. You can see the steel arch of the Fremont Bridge in the distance. That’s it, you decide. You’re going to jump tonight while you’re still high and have the courage.
When the train stops at Albina, you get off and start walking up the 405 to the bridge. What will it feel like when you’re in free fall? You wonder. Will you pass out before you hit the water? But you’re too high and before you get to the bridge, the meth is feeling so good that it seems pointless to kill yourself when you’re feeling like this. There’s always tomorrow. You turn around and take Mississippi Avenue to Alberta and keep walking. You have a vague memory of stopping in at some bar but you don’t remember the rest of the night. The next morning, you wake up in Overlook Park. Sober.