Whirl

I saw Dreadlock Junkie last night. At least I think it was him. I didn’t try to get close enough to confirm. Maybe because he was looking better, filled out, healthy—basically, a junkie no more. It seemed a lot easier to keep my distance and think this healthy kid across the restaurant was the same kid I saw a year ago, on the street in front of the methadone clinic.

At that time, he was skinny, dirty and mal-nourished. Though unkempt, his dreads still held together. He wore that same messenger bag I’d seen him carry on the bus a dozen times. But it was torn now, as though he’d been dragging it on the concrete. A year ago, I felt he didn’t have a lot of time left in this world.

There is something about this kid that I am emotionally drawn to. No, let me rephrase that, there is something about the obvious tragedy this young man represents that I am drawn to. The notion that any of us, no matter the safeguards, no matter the fortune of birth, could end up in a similar circumstance. How far is the fall from suburban comfort to downtown methadone clinic? And why are we more drawn to the stories of those who fall far, than we are to the stories of those who never had the chance to climb in the first place?

I cling to the idea that we can pull ourselves out of any quagmire. It’s a myth that is central to our culture and a pretty useful scapegoat for my own inaction. And so last night, it felt pretty good to put a happy ending to the story of Dreadlock Junkie. It proved my working theory and I never once had to dirty my hands.

But if it was him, if his story is one of triumph, there’s a pretty good chance it is not a tale of simple individual will. Chances are Dreadlock Junkie-No-More succeeded by depending on the good will and comfort of others—public and private. Chances are his struggle is going to go on the remainder of his life. And to thrive, he will need each and every one of the friends gathered around his table last night. Chances are if over these last two years, I were less the fascinated observer and more the helping neighbor I could have joined him at the table in celebration.

But if the opposite is true, if the stranger I saw last night was not Dreadlock Junkie. And if the odds caught up with him and now the story is a tragedy concluded.  Then in my shame I’m thankful he will never know my hand was one of thousands never extended.

© 2009 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.