sometimes, I stop and think.
I was talking to one of my internet strangers about being in our 30s, and I just thought, “Shit, that’s older than I thought I’d ever get,” because it is. I never conducted myself like I was planning for any kind of longevity. I moved like a kamikaze crash test dummy. If you go read my stories, you’d likely be surprised I’m here, listening to Warren Zevon and Thin Lizzy on a phone that a stranger bought me, and typing away on a laptop that I got for free from the New York Urban League.
I’m not saying I have much, probably less than you, but it was all a gift. In August, I had nothing but dirty, piss-stinking baggy clothes and the lucky Adidas that I found on the sidewalk in Bed-Stuy. I have this knack for stumbling into unwarranted good fortune, despite myself. Look at me now, I have all these cool shirts and pants, numerous hats, and cool shoes. You’ve gotta have style in this city; I think I’ve cultivated myself a look.
I must be in good hands. I don’t know. I’m not a religious guy and always too cynical for a belief in any kind of power bigger than myself. That lack of faith has been the fatal flaw in my attempts at recovery through the usual 12-step model.
If I stop and think about it, there’s no way I can just ignore the insane amount of luck that placed me where I am today (maybe it’s the lucky Adidas). I’ve never had a plan, and I don’t have one now. It just seems like there is one for me. I don’t have a fraction of a clue of what it is. The trajectory is incomprehensible.
I was huffing air duster between hits of crack in parts of New York City that would scare most of you to death. I was sniffing fentanyl on 36th street, laid out on the sidewalk with all the other living corpses of the midtown shooting gallery formerly known as the Garment District.
Now… I’m singing my favorite songs in a film about the healing power of music that my mentor is making. I express myself every day. I’m decent at it, and my proficiency is improving.
I can play Street Fighter, watch The Sopranos, and listen to the Grateful Dead anytime I want to. The little things, man, it’s the little things.
None of that was on my bingo card when I was coming to from being narcanned on the sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan last summer.
It defies conventional logic. I don’t try to understand it much. I just try to float down the stream; that way, I don’t have to tread water. I’m not much of a swimmer anyway.
I don’t have any money, though…there’s that. I hate money, it’s too bad you need it.
