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Science or Heroin?

Drew Marshall

    My first science class in junior high school was taught by Martin Meyers. Broad shouldered, standing at least six foot, five inches, he towered over his students.
    The man was built like a linebacker, make that, two linebackers.
    Science, the study of the physical and natural world around us. Math and science were not my favorite subjects then. I wasn’t the only disinterested student in this room filled with over thirty kids. My public-school teacher was definitely in his own world. Always busy writing equations on the board as we entered, seldom did he bother taking attendance.
    The greying at the temples, sad eyed Mister Meyers, couldn’t wait to get started. One couldn’t deny that our educator was passionate about his field. Yet sadly, this giant of a man was probably one of the worst teachers I ever had.
    He meant well, his heart was in the right place. You knew he was a kind and decent person. A late middle-aged man who cared about imparting his knowledge to us.
    He was someone who desperately wanted to believe that we found the subject as fascinating as he did. Many of my classmates would ignore him, engaging in the usual adolescent chatter about dating, movies, television shows, and the latest hit records. During these interruptions, the teacher would stop his lecture or chalkboard scribblings and literally beg us to be quiet.
    “Please, please stop talking. You can see your friends after school. What I’m showing you is important and you need to know this. Can’t you understand? Please be quiet and listen, I beg of you.” was a typical refrain by Mister Meyers. A pathetic sight to be sure. How could anyone respect this person, let alone a group of kids barely past puberty. He sounded like a whining crybaby. It seemed beyond his comprehension the effect he was having on us.
    Either this type of dialogue was interspersed several time during the class, or he gave up for the moment, ignored us and continued droning on despite the noise we produced. We know nothing about him. Was he married with kids of his own? A widow perhaps? He seemed not to exist outside the classroom. Between classes or after hours, he could be seen alone in the room, reading or marking papers. He marked on a curve and I usually got by with a barely passing grade of sixty-six.
    This was bad enough but I also faced the dilemma of sitting in the back row and behind Tommy Abruzzi. Tommy obviously have been left back more than once. He was probably the best-looking guy at Cunningham Junior High, with bright blue eyes, dark blonde hair, and a smooth, olive complexion. Tommy was not some black leather jacket clad, inarticulate punk. Quite the opposite. He
dressed in the latest mod fashions, was bright, friendly and very self-aware. This charismatic youngster was comfortable in his own skin. Being older and not at all awkward, he stood apart from the rest of us.
    He always wore long sleeve shirts. Once a week, on Monday mornings, Tommy would turn to me and relate his experiences about shooting heroin.

    At first I thought he was pulling my leg, until slowly and calmly Tommy unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolled the sleeves up to his shoulder, and proudly displayed the holes in his skin. There was a story behind each puncture wound for both arms. The kid with the movie star good looks was quick to point out that he wasn’t hooked.
    Tommy only “chipped” on the weekends. I caught glimpses of other students looking at Tommy arms, but they never said anything about it in my presence. I however, was his captive audience. If there were any ill effects to this habit, Tommy kept silent on the topic. What Meyers perceived about any of this was only speculation. He never ventured beyond his desk to gain a more intimate look at his pupils.
    It was the fall of nineteen sixty-eight, and all I knew about drugs like heroin were from the news, TV shows and movies. It was bad, evil and to be avoided at all costs. Drugs destroyed people’s lives. Yet I found Tommy’s lighthearted anecdotes more interesting than what was on the blackboard. At the same time, I was scared to be close to someone who lived in a dangerous world that I knew nothing about. He could have made a great living as a salesman. Only on the last day of class did he offer to “turn me on”. I threw him a quick “No thanks.” and bolted out of my seat to the exit.

***

    I was stuck with Meyers again the following term. Tommy was nowhere to be seen. Rumors were flying. He had been found unconscious with a needle in his arm in the boys bathroom. Tommy was pronounced dead on arrival at Coney Island Hospital. Another story floating around was that the cops were after him for something and Tommy was forced to flee from his parents’ home in Brooklyn. Tommy’s current whereabouts were unknown. The most believable story came from Tommy’s younger cousin, Victor. The teenage junkie had become of legal age and simply dropped out of the public school system. He was working at a warehouse in lower Manhattan.
    It would be several more years before I dropped out of high school and drifted into the world of drink and recreational drugs, like so many of my peers. Though I always steered clear of heroin, I often wondered what happened to Tommy Abruzzi.
    If only Meyers could have found a way to express the joy he had for science the way Tommy had for smack, my attitude might have been different, and he could have connected to his pupils. Instead, I learned nothing. My indifference towards the scientific world around me continued though my college years. When I finally realized it’s significance and what I had been lacking, I wanted to point my finger at someone. Who could I blame for my loss, Tommy, Meyers or myself?

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