Click for Part 1:In which I gave a guy named Bruce money to fill his Suboxone1 prescription and he immediately crossed the street to buy fentanyl from one of our town’s more widely-known street dealers.
When I saw Bruce2 approach Jimmy, all I could do was shake my head and yell, “Hey,” in a tone of disbelief and annoyance. I was tempted to go right up to them both and say, W-T-F! But that seemed ridiculously stupid, even for me. When I got to my car, however, I decided ignoring what happened was equally ridiculous. So, I pulled up alongside them, rolled down the passenger window and, as Jimmy handed something to Bruce, yelled, “Hey Bruce, W-T-F?” Jimmy barely glanced up. Bruce came over to the window shook his head, gave me a pained smile, and said, “Sorry man. Really really sorry. It won’t happen again.” I sighed and said that all I wanted was the truth. He repeated his apology. I repeated my sigh and drove away. I believed he was sorry. But I was pretty sure it would happen again.
The next day I found him sitting on his usual stoop. He looked up and, to my surprise, instead of asking for money, said again, “I’m really really sorry. I hate it. I hate having to do that.” I thanked him for saying it. Again, that all I wanted was the truth.
I walked away still not really expecting either the truth or that my confronting him had make any difference.
Two days later, I saw a local shopkeeper who was passing him on the sidewalk turn around to say, “Congratulations, that’s great!” I asked what was up. He said he’d gotten a job cleaning up at a place downtown and that he’d made an appointment at the Clinic in two days that a friend was taking him to.
I said something supportive and that I knew how hard it was. I also knew the business and the people he’d be working with, and it seemed like a good fit. Plus, the pay was decent.
I still had no expectations, but at least I had a little hope.
The next day I ran into him as I was walking up the sidewalk to the coffee shop. He looked tired so I offered to buy him a cup. Soon we were sitting outside. As I drank my coffee, he was wolfing down some cereal from one of those pre-packaged cups. I don’t think he drank coffee.
I got a little more of his life story. Grew up just across the river in New Hampshire. Didn’t graduate high school. Worked in restaurants most of his life. Looked like he was in his early thirties but actually was a decade older.
Eventually we got back to the real topic—how long he’d been using, when he’d tried to get off before, how he was ashamed at having to hustle all day just to get his fix.
How much is a hit? I asked. $10, he said. (I’d heard $10 or $15) And how many do you need a day? Three. Two at least.
I stopped. I couldn’t believe that 1) this kid was spending $20-$30 on opioids including fentanyl and 2) that he was able to hustle that much in a day while also managing to get food somewhere or other.
Where are you sleeping? On a bench at the park. But you got the job, right? Yeah, but it’s only part-time. Haven’t been paid yet. Maybe I can crash with someone when I have a little money.
Then, he admitted, he was worried how he’d make it through the day. What do you mean? (Like I didn’t know). Well, he said, I need enough for today to make it until my appointment at the Suboxone clinic tomorrow. Otherwise...
Otherwise, what?
I’ll start going into withdrawal and…
I had noticed he was shivering. but figured it was because he’d slept on a bench all night. Now, I realized it wasn’t just the cold.
If you could just give me some money…
Give you money to get drugs? You want me to give you money knowing you’re going to go use it to get a fix?
He nodded.
I didn’t know what to do.
Half of new subscriptions after Street Cred essays go to my friends on the street. [See note below.]
A note about this series: Street Cred began as a single post in Writing Asides, my essays about what writers do when they aren’t writing which, for me, includes hanging out with my friends who live on the street during the day and wherever they can at night. I’ve now written a dozen essays about them and, while I keep intending to move on to other projects, every time I walk out the door, I walk into another story.
I’m not writing about “the homeless,” “unhoused” or “unsheltered.” I’m not writing about some political, sociological, or addiction “problem.” I’m writing about my relationships with some very interesting people.
I have always carried around a little cash to give now and then to people who ask. Since the beginning of these essays, I’ve added half of new paid subscriptions to my “street fund.” That money has bought a sleeping bag, a new tent, two tickets to Burlington, VT, gas money for a young woman to see her grandfather dying in a hospital up north, a cheap cell phone so a guy can call home, and a lot of coffee and food, including a cupcake.
It would be disingenuous to pretend that some of this money doesn’t also end up buying heroin, fentanyl, crack and other dangerous drugs. Whether it’s my Co-op gift cards, the shelter’s vouchers for clothes, or even the food some restaurants give away free—when you’re “jonesing,” everything is coin. Anything can be sold to get money for drugs.
I’ve been surprised by how this additional money has made me feel more generous, open-hearted, and willing to take the time to talk to people on the street. The insights these conversations have given me (and I hope my readers) are no more or less valuable than any of our money I may give them. It’s an exchange between equals.
Suboxone is the brand name of a drug that helps reduce cravings in people trying to stop using addictive opioids including fentanyl and heroin. It contains two drugs: buprenorphine and naloxone. There are many websites with more information including NAMI and the National Institute of Drug Abuse.
Bruce is a pseudonym (as are most names in these posts). In his case, I also changed more details than usual. I’ve learned that people are recognizable from my descriptions regardless of what name I use. I do, at some point, let most of them know I’m writing about them, and they usually like having their stories told…and heard.
When I was a parole officer and one of my parolees begin to use (meaning that parole would be revoked), I was sometimes able to secure inpatient treatment as opposed to prison.
This meant the parolee would endure a lengthy bus ride, packed with strangers. They would have many miles and hours in which to change their mind.
I absolutely supported their choice to use before getting on that bus.
When I was a parole officer and one of my parolees begin to use (meaning that parole would be revoked), I was sometimes able to secure inpatient treatment as opposed to prison.
This meant the parolee would endure a lengthy bus ride, packed with strangers. They would have many miles and hours in which to change their mind.
I absolutely supported their choice to use before getting on that bus.