Ninth of December

I came home from work tonight, and the rooming house was quiet. Depressingly silent.

I stopped briefly as I walked through the front door. I looked to my right, where two guys were watching some type of action movie. Terminator, I think.

One of the fellas, he’s new, been here about a week, was lying on the couch looking at his phone and, every so often, shifting his eyes towards the television. The other guy, I don’t know his real name, but everyone in the house calls him Flames; he’s on the couch, left hand in his pants, vaping with his right and watching the movie with the look of a stoner who just took the bong hit that pushed him over the edge.

After observing them for a couple of minutes, I made my way into the kitchen.

As I turned the corner, I saw Noel washing his hair in the sink. I could hear the water streaming from the faucet as it mixed with the sound of his fingers scratching the shampoo into his scalp. It had a soothing, almost rhythmic beat to it, which brought me back.

During the height of my addiction, when I lived in Raleigh and was coked up night and day, I longed for affection. Affection from anyone, or anything, and anywhere. As a solution, I used to get high and go to get my haircut. There was a lovely woman named Dana that I went to over on Falls of Neuse Rd., a main drag that ran through North Raleigh.

Dana was a 5’4″, brunette with pearly white teeth and the cutest dimples. Dana also knew of my problems, and nonetheless, spoke with me softly and sweetly every single time I saw her. When it came time for the hair washing portion of the cut, she always fell silent.

Dana scrubbed my tired and overworked head with her finely manicured fingernails in a caring and nurturing manner. It was like she knew what I came for.

I walked down the dark hallway next. My room is the first door on the left.

I slowly opened it to see Rob sitting at his desk. He was watching old episodes of Cops on YouTube with headphones on as he read the King James version of The Bible, a book that usually sat next to his bed.

My roommate hadn’t noticed I walked in, and I didn’t want to disturb him. I watched for a few moments, and my head tilted up, away from his computer screen, and up towards the picture of him and his son, which sat on a shelf a foot above his head.

I found the scene very fitting of the house and of the circumstances, so I left it undisturbed. I came back out to the kitchen and took a seat at the butcher block island.

Earlier this week, we had 10 guys, the maximum, living in the house. A three-bedroom house with one working toilet. The guys sitting on the couch informed me that we are now down to nine.

They told me Moshe, the Israeli guy who spoke very little English, was missing and was also being accused by his employer of stealing a dump truck. They said an irate man came to the door that morning looking for him. Nobody knows where he is.

What struck me about this story, as it may seem kind of amusing, a crackhead stealing a dump truck and being on the run from the boss who is searching for him, was the fact that none of the three of us were laughing. It was like an unspoken statement, which we all knew and recognized. It was the desperation that seemingly led Moshe to this act. It’s like he ran out of choices and took the only one left, the one right in front of him.

I had been there before.

When the kids were little, Elliott around 9 and Cate 6, I used to ask them if they wanted to go see The Mexican Ice Cream Man.

What this really meant was I was seeking their approval to spend the afternoon stripping wires from the satellite trucks, then going to the metal scrapyard on the south side of downtown Raleigh to stand in line to get money for my next baggie of cocaine.

At that scrapyard, there was an ice cream truck where the operator only understood Spanish. I knew just enough to order the kids their treats.

It was a bribe I was trying to disguise as fun in order to get my next fix. But Elliott, he knew better and sheepishly went along with the outing each time, never smiling, even with the ice cream in hand. Cate, she was just too young to understand and enjoyed her cone, along with the novelty of ordering in an unknown tongue, each Saturday afternoon.

When choices run thin, it’s so hard to look past what’s in your immediate grasp, no matter the cost.

Moshe, if you’re out there, brother, I share your pain. Godspeed, my friend.