This article was published in Scientific American’s former blog network and reflects the views of the author, not necessarily those of Scientific American
This post is part of a collaborative narrative series composed of my writing and Chris Arnade's photos exploring issues of addiction, poverty, prostitution and urban anthropology in Hunts Point, Bronx. For more on the series, look here.
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What is necessary, Hunts Point. Courtesy of Chris Arnade.
The man took the test in Rikers and learned that he has it. It. He has it.
The name is never said, but it doesn't need to be.
He goes away for drug charges (heroin) a few times per year. When did I get it?
He stares away while he speaks, sets his eyes on a point in the street ahead. Mid-afternoon in the summer, 18-wheelers drive by carrying produce. Mangoes rot in an adjacent dumpster.
Others call to him, men in cars and men walking who slow and gesture to do business somehow. Maybe drugs, maybe copping something from a metal yard. Maybe something else.
He waits for them in the lot of the gas station.
He doesn't tell them, doesn't tell anyone.
Hasn't told anyone, even the other men with whom he crashes beneath the hulk of trucks that line the still streets at night. A camaraderie under the metal frames that move at dawn to rouse those sleeping underneath into days of withdrawal, of stealing, selling, whatever to feel better. In this case, it means nothing.
He thinks he's depressed, doesn't know what to do. This is unnatural. Life, for him, often feels OK.
He's scared.
Do you know the prognosis? Do you know what to do? Where to go?
He didn't think it would happen. He's been living this life for so long.
What are the medications like?
Information is printed, then lost. Hand-copied, then lost. Hand-copied again.
Months pass there, immobile, lost.
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More Hunts Point Addiction Writing
Chris Arnade's Photos and his Facebook feed