Damaged Done With The Needle In My Arm

After the Viet-Nam War wounded veterans deadened their pain by shooting heroin. It was cheap and available. A knife, a fork, a needle, and a cork was the way Rastas spelled New York, the smack capitol of the USA and the other night my friends were telling me about this opium they smoked in New Jersey.

"Opium?" I haven't seen opium in Thailand for at least fifteen years. "That ain't no opium. That's black tar heroin from Mexico."

"No, it isn't." They were proud of their source and I asked them to show me the shit.

I dipped my finger into the goo.

"Heroin." I knew the difference and I was feeling woozy. "Strong too, but better than that OxyContin shit those crackers are downing to deal with the pain of being nothing or the troops coming home and finding out the VA wants them to pray to God to stop the pain."

"I done Oxys once. It's fucked up." The Jersey boy didn't believe in Pharms. "Two of my friends ODed on that shit and the rest of them are robbing to get that shit. They shot it or snort it."

"And you think that your opium doesn't have it in it?" I don't trust any drugs. Only beer and wine.

"I don't know, you wanna give it a try?"

"No, I'm good." I wish I could have said yes, but I've seen the damaged done back in the 70s and we ain't seen nothing yet.

The Miracle Of Unconsciousness

Sunday morning Camp and I left his house for breakfast. His daughter was in the back seat. On the way down the dirt drive to the main road we passed the wreck of a Nissan sedan. The chassis was bent in a U and the front end twisted by the accident's centrifugal forces. Tangled wires and strips of metal tailed off the body in all directions. The rear was the only intact part of the car. "That looks like a John Chamberlain sculpture." The American sculptor was famous for his auto-shop masterpieces. "My next-door neighbor had an accident." Camp rode past the totaled vehicle without a glance. "With what? A tank." I looked back at the ruined car. "No, the car went off the road and fell into a ditch." "That's all." I'd never seen a car that destroyed before. "He didn't live, did he?" "He was stuck in the car six hours before anyone found him." "Dead?" "No, not a scratch on him." Camp checked both directions before turning left toward the bakery. "What time was this accident?" I figured midnight after a lot to drink. "No, noon time." Camp kept the car to the speed limit. He had two tickets awaiting judgment at the local traffic court. "Noon? He didn't go to sleep. He was on oxycondins and passed out. He probably had no idea what happened to him until he came out of his stupor." It was the only way that the driver could survive the crash. "How old is he?" "23." "I rest my case." Anyone sober would have died in that wreck once more that if there is a God, then he loves a down freak more than a drunk.