Heroin

You always rub up against people down on their luck when you walk around any downtown, Seattle included. This stark contrast between those in silk suits and those in grime is ever present. I find that an emotional hunk of me goes missing when I wonder too hard about their plight. If I really slip up, I'll start to imagine the events that might have brought them to this thin edge of living. Then I'll start the winless game of calculating how distant that edge is for me.

So no, I don't take heroin to cope. Yesterday, I was out on a sales call in downtown Seattle. Three wounded people- crippled, hollow and brittle -were walking in front of me. I could see them from just about all angles even though I was behind them because their various walking patterns swung their bodies wildly. I heard a lot of their conversation. It was about the pleasures of heroin.

I'm not going to relay the conversation but I was surprised with one snippet I heard. One of their tastings that drew universal acclaim had something to do with black tar heroin. They were as engaged in this conversation as any wine enthusiasts that I've met.

There must have been some thrill for me from eavesdropping. No visceral response, but I still spent time thinking about these men, how they wound up talking about heroin in the late summer sun.

The intrigue here was being present, seeing and hearing something foreign from real people, not a book, movie or NPR. It's the moment that a politican forgets that his microphone is live. It's that time that you catch your doctor smoking outside of a bar. It's when you visit someone and hear loud argument within their house before you enter. You witness and you move on briskly. That edge is somewhere nearby.