It was another warm night. Not unlike any other summer night in east Texas. I’ve only been here a few weeks and tonight I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a beat up, rust engulfed, maroon colored truck. The wet heat doesn’t help the pungent smell of the rottwieler that usually occupies this spot. The tan upholstery is colored brown from dirt and grease. It is torn and withered letting the filthy foam innards peek its head out like a ground hog in the first few weeks of spring. The A/C doesn’t work and the crank arm to the manual window is broken off. Letting my fingers cut through the air like a hot knife cuts through a stick of butter and feeling a breeze down my arm and up through my shirt is not going to be an option tonight.
Sitting next to me is a man I hardly know. The similarities in our facial structure, even with me being only eleven years old, are so close its hard not to know we are related. The man wears big, tan, steel-toed work boots and his pants are faded with holes in the knees. On his back is a five-dollar shirt he probably got at the local 7-11 station. His hands are rough and his knuckles are covered in scabs from working construction. His eyes are dark blue and tonight they have a glossy red glaze. As he exhales, the aroma of beer fills the cabin. There is a small, gray, electronic box underneath a cigarette filled ashtray. The box is connected to the ignition by a few different colored wires. There is a straw like tube that hangs off the side of this device that this man asked me to blow in before I hear the engine rev.
As we start to drive away, the neon beer signs inside the V.F.W start to fade in the distance. I focus my ears on the static pouring out from the blown speakers and focus my eyes past the dry spots and bird shit covering the passenger window. I mimic the wave like motion of the power lines as we coast down this dark, rural road. The trees pass with such grace as the truck swerves back and fourth over the yellow shoulder lines.
When the truck pulls to a stop we are on a street between two identical rows of ten to twelve houses. They all have exactly the same detail. The houses are small and dinghy. The siding was falling off of some, while shingles were missing from others. A few of the windows are broken out and have plywood protecting them from the forces of nature. There is no grass between the row of houses and the sidewalks. Just dirt. It looks like a tornado has hit this place and the community has given up reconstruction. I have never seen such a poverty stricken area.
I see a grungy, black man stumble over to the driver side of the truck. He has no shoes on and the cloud of dust from the dirt makes his feet a different color than the rest of his body. His pants drag against the ground and are stiff from the dirt. His pupils are wide and he is missing a few teeth. As my dark passenger rolls down his window, the black man sniffles and says “How much you looking for?” My fearless leader responds “Just a twenty.”
While he slips him a twenty-dollar bill from his now empty wallet, the black man returns the generous donation with a small plastic bag possessing two small rocks inside. “You going to let me borrow your pipe real fast?” he asks the black man desperately. “Nope.” He nonchalantly replies as he hobbles away dragging one foot behind the other and disappears into the slum of darkness. Meanwhile in the truck the search begins for what seems like the Holy Grail… an aluminum Budweiser can he finds underneath his seat. I sit there in confusion. This stranger of a man takes the can between both hands and crushes it in the middle. He takes the keys from the ignition and pokes two or three small holes in the center of the can. He grabs for the plastic bag and pinches the corners to open it. My young brain, too nervous to say anything, finally builds up enough courage to simply ask, “What is that?” “Crack.” he mumbles back. “Can I see it?” I ask curiously. “Sure.” He answers, without even second-guessing his actions.
Flash forward seven years to the first time I held my own personal bag of meth… and how I thought of you.
Flash back to the beat up truck and its tiny passenger.
He hands me this tiny yellowish-brownish rock and I place it between my 5th grade fingers. I bring it up eye level to a street lamp and squint one eye. I sit there and peer at this pinky nail sized rock as I hear a lighter spark and a strong sucking sound. I turn my head and watch in pure innocence as this man inhales a large cloud of smoke from the open tab part of the can. The little yellow rock is bright red from the heat of the lighters flame.
Flash-forward to the first time my lips pressed against that glass pipe and fired up the torch to smoke my own personal bowl of meth… and how I thought of you.
Flash back to that night when a little boy’s innocence was taken away.
The smoke pours thick from his mouth as his eyes roll back into his head. I sit there with this pebble-sized rock between two of my fingers… and wait. When he finally comes to, his jaw is moving back and fourth as he asks me to hand him back his other rock. I hand him his life back and he places it back into its little plastic home and from there he bends down to his ankles and puts the bag into his sock.
Flash forward to me living in the darkest hours of my addiction… and how I thought of you.
Flash back…
Flash forward to me blaming my addiction on you… and how although you weren’t ever there… for some reason…i thought of you.
Flash back…
Flash sideways to the idea of a different life…one where I never saw you doing that in front of me…one where I never thought of you.
Flash back to reality.
I didn’t stay in east Texas much longer, another week or so at the most. I had seen something that I kept to myself for the most part. Something I honestly believe has changed my life. I’ve been clean for over four years now and just recently had a baby boy. The majority of my youth I believed that we are merely products of the environment we grow up in. Although I don’t totally disagree with that, I do know now without a doubt that just because we are our Fathers sons, it doesn’t mean that that will determine who we can become. I am a father. I will never be a stranger to my son. I am the father you never were.