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Didn’t Refuse

Greg G. Zaino

    It was a miserably chillly and wet late winter morning, around 10:00am. That’s when I ran into a gal I dated in high school. Had been at over two decades since I’d last seen her.
    A lot had changed since. She had just exited the front door of the Providence city library, as I was going in to use the bathroom and shoot a couple bags of heroin. My sole intent and singular thought at that moment of collision, was to get off empty.
    ...
    In the city of Providence, the library was a regular stop for junkies to get off. Life at that time consisted of four things. Finding money, copping dope, eating at meal sites, and securing a warm place to lay my head at night. Shelters mostly.
    At times I’d get a late start to the shelter. It would normally be full and I’d be shutout. This happened during winter season mostly. The previous night was one of those times. I was forced to stay outdoors under a Route 95N overpass.
    A friend of mine, a junkie named Mark, had a camp set up. He was ‘the absolute’, best booster in the city. I’d never seen anything like it. But Mark was truly a friend. Had recently been released from Walpole after finishing up a 20-year bid for manslaughter. He’d plead self-defense; the court didn’t see it that way. So on getting out, he split Massachusetts, moved next door to RI, and Providence became his home. A ripe garden to pick clean.
    But I had a few bags of bomb diesel I’d shared with him for the welcomed spot. I kept some gear at Mark’s sanctuary and had stashed my sleeping bag there that afternoon.
    Each and every day, mostly the same routine. Greeted it dope sick because I didn’t have a wakeup bag of diesel. Sucked balls, so I’d have to trudge the streets, cop dope, find a spot to get off, eat, start the search for more money, get more drugs, and on it went. Walking death.
    Morning, afternoon, and night. It was a constant struggle. Maintaining a comfortable opiate level in the bloodstream took extreme effort. It’s not a labor for the lighthearted and ill equipped.
    There was no more getting high. Those days were long gone. It no longer gave comfort. Heroin addiction was a carnivorous beast. Didn’t think I’d ever be where I landed at that point in time, but there I was. I had graduated with high honors from Auburn university 2 years prior, gone through divorce, gave up my new home, daughter, dog, my fucking soul.
    Whatever my reasons for allowing it into my life; didn’t really matter. I was a junkie, suicidal at the time, thinking death the only escape hatch available to me, my true release. I was already dead inside, why the fuck not. I would have welcomed it. Tried and failed. But that’s part of another story.
    ...
    I recognized her right off. “Shit- fuck!” I cursed to myself. I began to turn away, but it was too late. She had already recognized me, called my name. It was more a question. “Greg?” I was trapped. She acted excited as I looked up, and perhaps was, but I watched her eyes as she quickly looked me up and down. I saw sadness.
    How uncomfortable... We got to talking about what and who had come and gone since last we saw one another. I simply wanted this going nowhere conversation over with. Jane was nervous. And when she became nervous, she fidgeted and talked a lot. A bunch of talk, pretty much about nothing relevant came from both our lips.
    I watched and listened as she went on- and on. Her eyes darted here and there, avoiding direct eye contact. She seemed the same girl I knew in high school. Jane was of Swedish heritage and had aged well. Five foot seven, blue eyes, thick blonde hair, proportioned well.
    In that particularly Scandinavian way, Jane was a strikingly good-looking young woman. Remembering my visit to Stockholm on picking up my new Volvo in ‘92, thought then and there, I was looking at her twin.
    So, on Jane went. I was getting annoyed. As with many folks from my hometown that I’d happen to run into now and then, conversation many times was the same obnoxious bullshit I’d heard in high school. Lives devoid of life and living, and that’s what I was getting from Jane.
    I had no room to criticize, what was my life at that moment? In the fucking toilet is where it was. She was obviously doing far better than I was financially. But I was sick, and that doesn’t go away because you happen to run into embarrassment.
    I needed to end this saying nothing, in the shitter conversation. Asked her, “Jane, so who are you now?” Puzzled, she tilted her head to the side, a weak grin crossed her lips. I didn’t know, but maybe she thought I was crazy or simply trying to be funny. I was serious.
    She went into a spiel about her job, her education, her newly found religious beliefs, and how she liked her new Mustang better than the Camaro she traded in.
    Jane continued on, telling me about all the losers she had dated, married and divorced. And again about the new fucking Mustang... Twice she’d been divorced. Told me she didn’t have to work, but did volunteer things, simply to have something to do.
    I smiled, stopped her dead. Asked once again, “But Jane, who the fuck are you though?” She looked into my eyes, a bit confused, looked down to her leather boots, squirming again. Looking back up into my eyes, she replied, “I don’t know, Greg.” Silence... she was vulnerable.
    I smiled. She was being honest. We both stood looking into one another’s eyes. Genuine smiles crossed both our lips. I gave Jane a hug. I thought she was going to cry. She asked me the same question. ‘And who are you now, Greg?” I sneered. My response, “I have no fucking idea, Jane.”
    I became emotional. My chin quivered, a tear formed, rolled off my cheek. Quickly, I wiped it away. After a deep breath, I regained something like composer. The dope in my pocket was calling me. I was nauseous but couldn’t just run off. Jane saw my expression, my unease.
    She looked concerned, wanted to know if she could help. I brushed it off, told her I had an appointment to keep. “I understand.” She said with a sigh, “So do I.”
    It would be our last encounter.
    We hugged once more, I kissed her cheek, squeezed her shoulders, pulled back, and once more looked into her eyes. Man, she was fucking pretty. I knew that I smelled bad, hadn’t showered in over a week, but it didn’t seem to matter to my one-time, backseat lover. “See you ’round Janey.”
    “Wait a minute” she said, reaching into her pocketbook. Jane dug around, taking out her wallet, came up with a few bills, stuck them in my greasy, threadbare, jean jacket’s top pocket. She nodded; chin spasming a bit, “See you ‘round Greg.”
    She’d given me three twenties. I didn’t refuse the money, instead, I turned in urgency and walked into the library, fingering my syringe.

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