Bradley Tucker
The Lost Adult Child

The urgency of each day is extreme. I’m stuck in a twenty-four hour loop of insanity. It’s like having a bomb inside me that resets each morning, I wake and the countdown begins. I’m constantly aware of my last dose, frantically searching for a way to stop the clock, a way to prevent the sickness. I have no more than eight hours to find money and get to Detroit, eight hours until my insides explode.

The days of no bills, straight A’s and a smooth path to college graduation are so far in the rear view, it’s as if it were another man’s life. Today is the same as the rest in my short-term memory. I wake up, inhale last night’s leftovers, then determine how to get more. No directions needed for my prescription, I simply repeat as needed.

Lighting up a smoke, I plan out my day. To get cash, I’ve often lied to friends and family, or switched the price tags on expensive items at Meijer or Wal-Mart. Today though, I have money, enough to keep me feeling normal at least. I hop in my loud rusty Pathfinder, and floor it to the projects. My suspended license barely registers in my brain, as I’ve become accustom to dodging the police. I have no choice, I’m no longer in control – My health, safety, and future constantly take a back seat to the immediate pressures of today.

I make my daily trips to Detroit, but avoid Rad at all costs. I owe him thirty bucks, and if he sees me he’ll definitely expect his money. The simple solution is to pay the man, but I’m on a tight budget. I can’t afford to miss out on thirty dollars, I might get sick. I often owe money in the projects, but dope boys keep the debt to a minimum and always take collateral. They know all too well, what an addict is capable of. My suspended license and thirty-dollar debt don’t deter me or stop the clock. Time ticks away regardless.

I speed to Detroit, arriving in twenty minutes. The projects are right off the service drive, making my escape route home quick and easy. I park on the curb, and walk into the pile of tightly packed apartments. Walking in is much safer, since cops rarely enter the complex, opting to patrol the perimeter for suburbanites like me. If a cop sees me in this area, I’m definitely getting arrested.

The sale of drugs is a twenty-four hour business around here. These guys are intelligent, and motivated. Their system is well organized. Lookouts are paid to signal when police are around. They even alternate shifts to provide this service all day, every day. It’s like 7-Eleven, without the lines or hassle; I can be in and out with everything I need in less than two minutes.

It’s late morning. The air is hot and the projects are hopping. The dope boys are at their usual corner. Kids play on the sidewalk, and adults sit on the porch. The constant flow of drugs, has worn a path into the grass. I stop and grab some dope from the Holla Back Boys, then round the corner. I go to the third door and knock. It creeks open slightly. A young kid stares at me for a moment, then lets me in. I don’t know him, but he knows me.

I enter the dingy barren apartment. Weed smoke lingers in the air. Two guys sit on a rickety metal futon, playing Madden football. The kid who let me in, passes me a thinly rolled blunt. I gave up pot the second heroin entered my system, but don’t want to be rude, so I puff it a couple times and pass it on.

One of the guys glances at me, and grumbles, “Well, whatchu want?”

“Just a twenty,” I quickly reply.

He sighs, then pauses the game to get my drugs. I follow him into the faux kitchen, with empty cupboards, no fridge, no oven, and no microwave. Instead, two plastic chairs are tucked into a small crack covered table. He grabs a large rock, shaves pieces off with a razorblade, and tosses the bag in my direction. I put the bag away and head for the door.

A spades game starts in the short time it took to get my meds. A card table and lawn chairs sit on the dirt outside the crack house. Four men play, while a congregation of twenty others bullshit, watch the game, or harass passersby. They are all black men, anywhere from sixteen to fifty years old. I spot Rad out of the corner of my eye. Shit, what do I do? My hygiene has gone out the window over the past few months. My beard is a mess, and my sunglasses and hat cover the rest of my face. Maybe my disguise will be enough to avoid the inevitable confrontation. I put my head down, look away from the group, and walk to the Pathfinder.

“Hey,” I hear a young voice call from over my shoulder.

Like an elevator shooting me down to the next floor, my stomach sinks. It’s Rad’s voice, I can tell. Run. No, don’t. They might just shoot. Maybe sweet talk will deflect his anger. I exhale then slowly turn to face Rad and my thirty-dollar debt.

Unsure what to expect, I cautiously walk toward the group. Rad steps to the front and shouts, “Don’t you owe me money?”

I can tell by the look on his face and his lack of conviction that he is not positive. Everyone knows everyone in the ghetto, and I am the only white guy around. Still, I look left then right, acting confused, and instinctively respond, “Who, me?” Shaking my head, I add, “You must have me confused with another white boy.”

I do my best to remain calm. My drugs are more important than my safety, plus physical harm seems unlikely for thirty bucks. Hoping my response satisfied Rad and his crew, I turn away, and walk towards my ride.

A voice yells as I turn, “Hey, hey, where you going dog? Get back here.”

That’s not Rad. His crew is involved. Fuck . . . Here we go. I quickly analyze what happened. Did I turn back too soon? I must have looked guilty. Did my body language or weak voice give me away? I am no longer calm. My heart starts firing and I can feel my legs shaking. I reluctantly comply.

Still capable of acting cool, I continue with the ignorant fool routine. I lean against a porch, and light up a cigarette. My casual demeanor diffuses the moment, and half the group goes back to watching spades, while the rest eavesdrop on our conversation.

This time Rad is more specific, “Don’t you owe me thirty bucks?” He eyes me, then continues, “Don’t I have your wallet?”

Damn it, the wallet. My ID. It’s as if I am watching his brain connect the dots. He knows. He knows who I am. He knows I’m lying. My escape is not looking good, but I can’t stop the lie. I’m too far in.

I reply in an agitated tone, “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is John,” I roll my eyes, “I come here all the time.”

Rad gains more confidence with each passing second. He tells his boys to make sure I stay put. I nervously light another smoke, while my thoughts drift to the dope in my pocket. It sucks having to wait; I want to get fucked up. These days, everything makes me want to use, sunny, raining, good news, or bad. Minutes later, Rad comes jogging back, wallet in hand.

As Rad opens the wallet he asks, “What did you say your name was?”

Standing tall, I confidently say “My name’s John, John Jacobs.”

He holds up my ID, looks at me, then back at the photo. After a few seconds comparing, he still can’t commit. His crew thinks it’s funny, and starts passing the ID, comparing it to me. Unable to know for sure, the guys laugh and joke how white people all look alike.

An older man reads my physicals stats out loud, “Six foot two, brown hair, blue eyes.” A fairly accurate description, I sarcastically say to myself. Pointing at me, he continues, “It sure looks like him, but I don’t know dog.”

This whole time my peripheral vision is locked on Rad. He isn’t amused by the guessing games. I accidentally make eye contact with him, and see a light go off in his brain.

He gestures toward the license, “If this isn’t you, where’s your ID?”

Valid question, I think to myself. Actually, it’s a killer. I pause, giving my desperate dope mind time to formulate another escape. I reach to my back pocket, and make a confused face, then continue to fumble around. As convincing as possible, I raise my pointer finger, and shout, “My car,” I point to the curb, “my wallet’s in my car.” Flicking my smoke to the ground, I say over my shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

I only get two steps away, before Rad jogs up beside me. His crew trails behind us. Damn it! Dope brain recalculates. This kid’s only seventeen-years-old. Knock his ass out and make a run for it. I’ve never seen Rad with a gun, but what if? Plus this is my spot. I know how things work here. I might get ripped off ten times before I find another hook up. I stop, face Rad, and tell him the truth.

My voice shrinks, “Enough dude, it’s me. It’s my ID,” I quickly justify my lie, “I was scared man. Didn’t want to get jumped.”

Rad reaches out, unimpressed, and says, “Thirty bucks, yo.”

My shoulders slouch, “I don’t have any.”

“Didn’t you just get a rock?” He snaps.

His boys are officially on the scene, and their demeanor is on the verge of rowdy. The jokes are over. Someone loudly affirms Rad’s question, “Yeah, he’s holding, I sold it to him.”

Rad more serious now, demands, “Gimme the rock.”

“Come on bro, I drove all the way out here,” I state desperately. “I will get you next time, I swear.”

He steps closer and repeats himself, “Gimme the fucking rock.”

A sane person would gladly submit to the demand, but I am far from sane. My anger and frustration grow. Rad’s crew urges on the confrontation. He now stands inches away from my face. I reach into my pocket and reluctantly take out the rock. Rad extends his hand again. I glare at him furiously. Pinching the baggie between my pointer finger and thumb, I flick the rock off his chest, and say, “Fuck you!”

Almost immediately, my head jerks to the right, pulling my face with it. For a split second, I see black. My sunglasses fall to the concrete, but I stay standing. Dazed by the right hook, I shake my head, and regain my footing. My brain screams, Attack the little fuck, but my life depends on my non-aggressive reaction. I fight off the urge to charge, knowing that with twenty guys beating me, yelling uncle isn’t an option. Rad swipes the bag from the ground, and his crew follows him back to the projects.

Just before Rad is out of sight, he hollers, “You still owe me thirty bucks muthafucker.”

Sitting in my car, I try to compose myself. A minute or so passes, when I remember the five dollars in the glove box. It’s for food, but I need a rock right now. I grab the money, and go back into the ghetto. I quickly, quietly, sneak over to Jackie’s, the only decent person in this shit hole.

She answers the door. Her smile turns upside down, the moment she sees my eye. “Oh honey, what happened?” she asks, inviting me in. Jackie’s not like the others in the projects. She shows compassion and concern. She always offers me whatever she has, typically a hit from the pipe or a glass of water. I can feel my left eye tightening, and as minutes pass, it gets harder to see. Jackie’s kind nature makes it easy to open up, so I tell her the story.

Jackie jumps, “Rad!? Rad’s my nephew,” she shouts. “Nope, No way,” Shaking her head, she goes on. “He should not be treatin’ you like that.” Jackie puts her hand on my knee and smiles, “I’ll talk to him for ya.”

Sniffling like a baby, I whine, “He took my rock and all I have is five bucks.” I plea unnecessarily, “Can you please get me a $5 rock? Please.”

“Sure honey,” she says, “I’ll be right back.”

Jackie shoots outside, leaving me with three random junkies. Two short skinny guys, wearing wife beaters, bounce left then right, as if they are moving to a beat I can’t hear. A fat guy sits lifelessly on the couch, and hasn’t moved since I entered. Two minutes later, Jackie whips open the door, hands me her pipe and a rock.

I take it down in one hit, and hold it in as long as possible. Instantly, I’m high as a kite. I smirk at Jackie, and slur, “Thank you sooo much.” Laughing at my voice, she nods, “No problem sweetie.”

Out of nowhere, one of the bouncing guys starts rapping out loud, “Yo, yo, yo, should ice that eye, gettin’ kinda swole.”

I nod with a half-smile, and exit. Emotionlessly, I stumble through the projects. I jump in my car, open two packs of dope, and snort them down. Usually I escape the ghetto with no visible marks of being there. This time the evidence is written all over my face. Before I complete my thought, the heroin slides down my throat. I gag slightly, but hold back the vomit. The ticking clock stops, the bomb is defused, and a comfortable peace washes over me, until tomorrow.

_ _

Bradley Tucker earned a degree in mathematics from Eastern Michigan University. He’s spent the last seven years documenting his struggles with drug addiction in order to positively influence America’s youth. His work can also be seen in Inscape Magazine (2012).

>> Back to Issue 18, 2015