Shoot em' up

Every once in a while, you're bound to have an unorthodox kind of day. It's probably the result of some cosmic lottery that we're too poor to buy tickets for, who knows, right? Anyway, yesterday was one of those days for me. For starters, it was my day off from work and like any American man, I had hoped to take care of some errands and then slay a bottle of something strong. My, how plans change I tell ya...

I got a telephone from one of the fabulous ladies that make up my department telling me that they were short staffed and asking if I could come in. Of course I gladly accepted because I have this really weird hyper-dedication thing when it comes to what I do for a living. Anyway, after being there for a little while, it seemed as though it would be a regular, run of the mill afternoon. That is until two representatives of the Worst Losers in America Club decided to make their afternoon mine.

Our first interaction was short, but poignant. There they were, prime examples of pure crust punk awkwardness in all of their barefoot glory. I had gotten word that there were people asking for money and as an earner of my money... I went to stop it. I approached them and explained that shoes were important and unless there was a pool, puddle, stream, river, ocean, masseuse, or foot worship convention within twenty five feet of our conversation... they'd have to be respectable, don some combat boots or whatever and not be barefoot in the lobby of an active building.

"I'm gonna be a rock star... rags to riches!" proclaimed the male crusty with his eyes almost closed and a sense of balance akin to one of those inflatable boxing clowns that never falls down. "Yeah!" said his female friend with similar eyes and teeth that would make a dentist faint because they can't possibly teach that shit in American dental schools. Regardless of the nonsensical answers they provided, they shuffled off looking high as hell. Also, they smelled like a dirty basement. Really... I used to have a basement and it was filthy so I know.

Now, before any defenders of crust punks hop out of the woodwork to stick up for freedom, punk rock, or anything else... just don't. I was homeless and on every drug the world has seen between the years of thirteen and sixteen and not once did I decide to fail as hard as these two.

Hours passed and then I got the 911 call. All I knew is that there was a man down. Nothing else. I responded as fast as I possibly could and upon my arrival I actually wasn't shocked to see the "rags to riches" kid laying unmoving on the floor, totally blue, not breathing, unmoving. Basically, for all intensive purposes... dead. His female tooth model friend was in hysterics, but obviously high out of her mind. To her credit, she did call 911, so that was impressive. As I walked toward the boy, she began to give him the most awkward CPR I'd ever seen. I was glad she was doing it though because anything helps I guess.

I got her out of the way and gave it all I had in me... but because these two looked so diseased and "AIDSY" I made her blow into his mouth while I did the chest compressions. This lasted over two and a half minutes, but it was worth it... I think.

Something told me that this kid was going to die soon whether or not it was with me in the room.

When he came to, the first thing he muttered was a quiet "fuck you" to me and then he mentioned to the arriving paramedics that he was "gonna be a rock star."

His girl was then arrested for possession and so was he after they were released from the hospital. Awesome times kids! Remember: drugs are super cool. They will make every minute of life appear more glamorous*

UPDATE 5/8/10:

I saw the OD kid on the train today while heading to work. As I sat there writing in my notebook (secret stuff about rockets and shit) I could feel him looking at me so I glanced in his direction. All I could see was hatred in his eyes. Pure, undiluted hate. I paid him no mind because I was done with him. I had already filed the incident away as all in a days work, but not him. Nope. It was obvious to me that he hated me because I let him live and now he had to live the same self imposed nightmare he'd been living prior to our chance meeting. As he stared I could feel his gaze, but instead of looking over and asking him what the fuck he was looking at, I just sat there writing in my book (again, super secret stuff about rockets and stuff)

Later in the day I thought about his angry, bloodshot eyes and you know what? If I see him again I think I'll ask him what the fuck he's looking at? If he's brave enough to answer, which I doubt... I'm going to make sure he never looks at me again because in my head, a guy like that with no hope on the horizon, could easily try to stab me or some shit. I haven't asked, but I'm pretty sure my two daughters would set fire to a major city if I was ever hurt. Love... it's stronger than dirt.