I left my last post abruptly for good cause, and I have a
two-hour window today due to a cancelled meeting to use as I see fit, so I thought I would try to hammer
out something more substantive with my newly found spare time. These unplanned
writing intervals usually lead to my best posts, so here goes.
The winter of 2001 was brutal for me. It wasn’t the snow,
the wind, or the cold; it was my helpless addiction to everything at once with
no source of income other than theft and swindle. I was living on the couch of
another addict—I’ve started many posts similarly. I had spent the previous three
weeks drifting in and out of blackout as a result of a 16-gallon keg out on the
side porch that had gone flat because of the freeze and thaw. I brought it
inside after finding out nobody else would drink from it, and I poured cup
after cup until oblivion overcame my already fractured mind and the demon took
over. It was in this condition that I made my brightest decisions both
morally and physically. This is when I would do what I needed to do to get my
drug of choice at the time, crack cocaine. Night after night, I would brave the cold in nothing more that a frayed and tattered hoodie, and ragged and ripped jeans.
Often I would go out at night searching unlocked garages for
gadgets or unlocked cars. Lawnmowers and snow blowers would frequently fetch me
$20 or the equivalent, and the occasional find of actual money in a car could
net even more.
One night, toward the end of winter, I was out looking for
trouble. I found a garage with an open door and spotted a snow blower inside. I
casually walked in and rolled it out, making as little noise as possible. I
walked it toward the end of the block and hid it behind a fence, where I would
pick it up later.
I walked back to my friend’s house and called around but
found no interest: all of the dealers had enough of me and my stolen goods. So,
I called my best friend Mack and told him I wanted to get out of the house for a
while and he agreed to come pick me up.
I had known Mack for a few years and we hit it off right away. When we met, we both smoked weed, and that was all. Over the years, my addiction grew, and our lives grew apart but we remained in communication, and on occasion, would get together and laugh about my life.
Twenty minutes later he was there and I got in. I told him
to drive to a specific location, and he shyly agreed. He was not privy to the situation,
although he knew my M.O. I told him to stop and he saw the snow blower and I asked
him to pop his trunk. I could tell he wasn’t happy, probably because he wasn’t
that kind of criminal. He liked to smoke weed, and that was it. He got out and
opened the hatchback and just then we heard screaming from the corner about a
hundred feet: the jig was up.
“Go, go, go!” I yelled.
I ran as fast as I could up the alley, but he just stayed
there. I knew he was going to get busted.
I ran through a park and anxiously dodged lights of regular
vehicles and cop cars, some of which by now were probably on the way to the
scene. I walked and I walked to his parent’s house where I knew I could safely
spend the night on a couch in his brother’s basement room.
The adrenaline left my body, and the alcohol lay me down to
rest. Several hours later I awoke to Mack with his fist in my face. He was
mad at me for some reason. He explained that the man yelling was informing him
that he had his license plate written down, so he couldn’t leave. He had to
wait for the police to arrive and when they did, they arrested him.
The police brought him downtown and interrogated him but he
did not give up my name. Since nobody actually saw a crime committed, there was
nothing they could do about it, and they released him without charge. But I was
still responsible for that incident.
A little over a year ago I saw him at a funeral for our
friend. He had recently had a child and was happy to see me doing well, and we
chatted for hours. He told me a story about when he went to Canada on a family
vacation and was denied entry because of an arrest in 2001 for which I was
responsible. And that is why I am writing this post.
That is one critical reason I still write this blog. I need to access the past and
jog my memories for amends that still need to be made, and that is a big one.
He said he was over it, but I am not. My actions from back then still influence
the lives of those involved now, and I need to fix what I have done. So, I will
type up a letter to him instead of writing my next blog post and as usual, I
will keep you posted.
I recently (about a month ago) wrote a letter of amends to The Bent
Wrench which was one of the resentments I had held on to for a little too
long. I haven’t heard back, but I did my part and maybe someday I will have the
chance to repair that damage.
This work I do is never over. I do things constantly that
let me live in harmony with my past, and I make great strides to ensure I do
not create any more harm. The road is long, and I need to keep in mind that no
matter how far along the path to recovery I have travelled, the ditch is just
as close to either side of me as when I started. It is up to me how much work I put into
myself to keep going straight.
