I’m not having the best day, in terms of mood. I didn’t sleep well last night and woke up with a stuffy nose. Yesterday’s events probably contributed to my current state of mind.
Yesterday morning, I received a call from one of the housing counselors here at the program notifying me of a housing interview in Harlem. I quickly got ready and headed to Union Square to catch the 5 train uptown. The interview was scheduled on 121st between 2nd and 3rd, so I had to get off at 125th Street.
For those unfamiliar with New York City, let me give you a glimpse of the corner of Lexington and 125th Street in East Harlem. Having been all over New York, sometimes in search of illicit substances and the people who supply them, I can tell you that 125th and Lex is among the roughest spots in the city. It says a lot considering the places I’ve frequented (yes, Flatbush Junction, I’m looking at you). If you crave that “third world country” atmosphere combined with the gritty urban open-air drug market vibe from HBO’s ‘The Wire,’ you don’t need to go further than East Harlem. The only comparable place I’ve seen is Boston’s infamous “Methadone Mile” near Boston Medical Center.
What sets the intersection of 125th and Lexington apart from other rough spots is K2, also known as “Duece.” You might recall K2 as the synthetic cannabinoid mixture sold as potpourri in smoke shops and gas stations in the early 2010s before authorities made it illegal. Back in the day, I knew individuals on probation who smoked it when they couldn’t smoke weed due to drug testing. I tried it once in 2010 during my time at a sober house when I had no intention of staying sober. Let me tell you, if regular pot gives me anxiety (it does — don’t start with strain discussions), K2 was an entirely different level of smokable paranoia for no valid reason. It vanished from my radar until I found myself in an East Harlem treatment program in 2020 — unbelievably, it’s become an epidemic up there.
In my assessment, K2 comprises research chemical analogs of delta-9 THC sprayed onto dried leaves to make them smokeable. When one chemical gets flagged and controlled, they concoct another molecular cousin undetectable in drug tests. That might explain why people don’t stick to regular weed, even though you can’t walk a block in this city without being bombarded by weed from smoke shops plastered with Rick and Morty characters. Weed might be cheaper than when I paid $60 for an eighth in high school, but it’s far more expensive than K2, which is one reason it stays prevalent in the most impoverished neighborhoods of NYC. You could get five joints (“sticks”) of K2 for a fiver, roughly the price of loose Newport 100s.
If K2 were just a weed substitute, it might be relatively harmless. But K2 is far from harmless. Like any clandestine chemical, there’s no quality control or safety standard in its production and sale. Research chemicals are dodgy and untested even on their best days, let alone when adulterated. I’ve heard reports that some mimic PCP (“angel dust”), and there are cases of fatalities due to fentanyl overdose linked to K2. People lose complete control on this stuff, confirming all the horror stories you’ve heard about individuals losing it on PCP or bath salts. They strip naked in subfreezing February nights, randomly attack bystanders, injure themselves, and in severe cases, drop dead. 125th and Lex stand at the core of the NYC K2 epidemic, where people are just losing it left and right, with others sprawled out on the sidewalks while you hear the constant cries for “sticks” or “packs.”
Anyway, I took the subway up there yesterday, and the first thing that hit me upon stepping off the 5 train was the distinct burning paper/chemical odor of “Duece.” Not exactly an auspicious sign before a housing interview. It triggered memories of the times I went up there to sell my food stamps for crack during my homeless days.
Four blocks down, I arrived at the facility for my appointment and realized it wasn’t supportive housing but some kind of shelter program. My initial interaction with the woman conducting the interview was her evident surprise at my being white. She asked, “Listen, you’re not going to use the n word around here, are you?” I get it, white people have a track record, but it felt like a sweeping racial assumption.
I sat through the interview, even though I knew I wouldn’t consider moving there. She described it as a “two-year transitional housing program focusing on mental stability, not drug addiction, with shared two-man rooms and a curfew.” She showed me a tiny, freezing room with two beds and warned about locking up everything, including my phone, to prevent theft. The pervasive smell of K2 lingered in the building. I told her I was waiting to hear back from two recent housing interviews and would be in touch.
Needless to say, the experience dampened my spirits. It made me ponder if this was what life after rehab had in store for me — a shelter for the severely mentally ill in the ghetto. Fortunately, I’ve been approved to move into an actual shared apartment (with my own room), awaiting the specifics. Yet, my mind tends to skip over the positive aspects of reality.
I couldn’t wait to board the train out of East Harlem; I almost teared up on the way back. I’m aware of the immense challenges many face in this city. I had hoped the progress I’ve made over the past 14 months would spare me from residing in homeless shelter-like environments in neighborhoods where I shouldn’t tread. Unless I’m getting back to crack smoking, there’s absolutely no reason for me to be at 125th Street. If it ever came to considering something similar to what I saw yesterday, I believe law enforcement would have to forcibly remove me from the program I’m currently in, which, compared to the one on 121st Street between 2nd and 3rd in East Harlem, resembles a luxurious 5-star hotel. The literal point of going to rehab in the first place is to stay out of homeless shelters in places like E. Harlem.
