“What’s an SRO?” Maddy asked me.
“Oh, it’s like transitional housing for homeless or addicts or whoever is hard up. Low income building where you live in a room and have shared bathrooms and stuff. It was decent enough. Well, it was probably pretty shitty, but I wasn’t shopping for high end wainscoting or drapes, let’s just say that. I passed out in the bed and had a mini fridge that worked. Until this day, I feel like I never even saw the real New York. Shot up in every borough, but never went to a museum, had a picnic in Central Park.”
“It sounds kind of sad and miserable.”
“Oh believe me, it was. I lost over twenty pounds. Had such dark circles under my eyes that it looked like I’d been punched in the face. I was always high, or at least using enough to not get sick. Like I said, I was lucky, I survived. My best friend in New York wasn’t so lucky. He overdosed and died.”
“Oh my God, Duke. I’m so sorry.”
I nodded and tried to hold my head high. I put the back of my fist to my mouth and intentionally slowed my breathing.
“I found him in the parking lot out behind the building after a late shift one night. It was January. He was frozen solid like a popsicle. He’d gone outside without his shoes on. Peter was his name. He’d overdosed on some of that dirty Fentanyl and I’d been rushing home from work to dive into the same stash.”
I turned to see Madison, her crackers and pepper spread now on the bleacher floor. Her body shivered and when her teeth chattered, she bit her bottom lip.
"Here, you must be cold. This may have been a bad idea." I took my jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "So when I found Pete, I called 911, but they showed up with the coroner. I kept thinking it was a crime or an emergency—call the cops, bring an ambulance, cry, scream—do something! But no, he was a nameless faceless addict. One they were probably glad to have off the streets. Put him on the gurney, covered him with a sheet. The end of a life, of a whole person reduced to a statistic. Tag on a toe for nobody to see.”
“Poor Peter. Poor you. Did he have a family?”
“They let me in his room and I went through his stuff, through his phone, everything and I couldn’t find any contacts besides a million hookups for drugs. Peter was funny and smart, he was a crazy talented tattooist himself. He was tall and skinny with these crazy blue eyes. Said he grew up in California. That’s all I ever knew. He kept some journals and they let me keep those. I always think that someday, when it’s far enough behind me, I’ll read them for clues and inform his family.”
“How’d you get out? Did you have to hit rock bottom?” Madison put her hand on my thigh and in that tiny little gesture, my heart took absolute comfort.
“Peter saved me. His death saved my life. I couldn’t call his mom, but I remembered I could call my own. I used a payphone in the lobby. They had those old glass ones, where you could close the door. My parents agreed to pay for treatment and wired me enough money to take the greyhound home. The last time I shot up was on the back of that bus.”
I waited a moment for her to say something but nothing came. We both watched the geese grub around and bump one another out of the way. A messy flock of house sparrows flew silently by. Her hand stilled on my thigh and I took it as a bad sign. I was sure she found me disgusting, unlovable. I wouldn't blame her. She was young, had her life together. Madison was beautiful. I was just a washed-up user.
"My mom was an addict," she whispered. I stared at her with my mouth agape. It wasn’t the response I was expecting.
"I tell people she died in a car crash. No, let me say that right. I lie to people. I lie and tell them that she died in a car crash. Because that’s an easier story to tell and it’s an easier story for them to hear. I don’t tell anyone about her habit because that story is ugly. You know how it goes. Small town girl meets small town boy, they fall in love. Have a baby girl, buy a house. Mom gets in a car accident. Not her fault and not that serious. Just threw her back out. Here, take a few of these and call me in the morning. Next morning, maybe she’s so fucked up she forgets to call. But she does remember when the little orange container goes empty. And they give her a prescription for more. And more. And more. Until she doesn’t know who she is anymore.”