Well, my ten-year journey in higher education is over. I graduated from Purdue University Northwest, formerly Purdue North Central, with a Bachelor of Arts. I majored in history and minored in English, specifically, Creative and Professional Writing. My final GPA was 3.91, pretty decent I’m told, enough so that had I participated in commencement I’d have worn the “gold cord of distinction.” Big deal. I was also inducted into a history honor society, in abstention I might add.
If you get the impression I’m not totally enthralled with what I just finished, you’re on the mark. To be sure, there were benefits. The ten stories I’ve published in Rider Magazine would not have been possible without the care and instruction of some dedicated professors in the Modern Language Department. Had a writing major been offered at the extensions as with the Mother Ship in West Lafayette, I’d have gone with it. As it stood, I picked history because it offers ample opportunity to hone writing and research skills. As an aside, the editor occasionally admonishes me “more on the road, less on the history.” Now we know where the tendency stems from.
Which brings up another point. When he sent an email the day before finals requesting me to rush captions back for my upcoming Flint Hills feature, he was unaware I was even in school. He graciously gave me a day to cram for the tests. But the fact is, in the motorcycle adventure genre a degree isn’t necessary. The main thrust is the stories must be interesting and well-written. Bottom line: they need to help sell magazines.
I enrolled at PNC on a lark. I’d just returned from my first Alaska ride in 2008 and found that people liked hearing my road tales. I wondered if I could write about my experiences. Problem was, the sterling 1.67 GPA I graduated from Valparaiso High School with carries all the competence one would expect. I knew I needed training if I were to aspire to a writing career. My idea was to take a couple of English classes at the local Ivy Tech extension and be done with it. My wife pointed out since the mill I work at has a generous tuition payment program, why not give Purdue a shot “. . .you know, in case you decide to go for a four-year degree.” Famous last words.
So here I am at Steak and Shake penning what I hope to be the first of many post-university blog posts. I just coughed up thirty-nine bucks for a spam filter on this already expensive page. The junk replies are a large part of why I’ve posted infrequently over the last few years. That and school. Well, those excuses are gone. The subject of the heroin recovery book I started as my English capstone recently contacted me. She wants to get it done. So, do I. It’s a story that needs to be told. Time to hit the keyboard.
After they settled into the paddy wagon, Brenda and her companions were securely shackled hand and foot. An expanded metal divider separated low, hard benches which were arranged length wise along the van’s walls. A small window in the rear door was the only connection to the outside world. In contrast to the celebratory mood of a few minutes earlier, the girl’s outlooks had deteriorated considerably. Gloom pushed anticipation aside. Brenda looked at Liza through the mesh. Neither felt like talking.
Officer Malvey secured his seat belt, checked his mirrors, and then gave a nod. The sally port’s garage door began its laborious assent. Once open, it revealed an ominous sky replete with thunderheads and flashes of lightning. Brenda assumed they would head south, as the two DOC women’s facilities were located in Indianapolis and Rockville respectively-each about three hours away. It was going to be a long ride. Nothing was set in stone, but since Rockville was a designated intake facility, Brenda guessed that was their destination. Soon, the wagon was lashed with sheets of pounding rain.
Logistics of transporting eight anxious women were simple: keep driving until you get to the destination. No stopping to stretch. No bathroom breaks. Any variation posed a security risk. After a couple of hours of riding there was little frame of reference when unfamiliar structures appeared out of the mist in the rear portal. Brenda had no idea what they were, or even where they were.
What the hell are those things? They’re so huge. They’re kind of freaking me out. They look like . . . aliens. I’m scared. Man I hope we don’t hang around here very long.
The windmills of Fowler Ridge performed escort duty for many miles. Once they were gone, an even more disquieting sight seized Brenda’s attention. Malvey had driven off the main highway and stopped at what Brenda assumed to be some sort of a gate due to the muffled voices that filtered into the prisoner compartment.Then, he drove a short distance, ground the transmission into reverse which gave a high-pitched wail as the van lurched backwards. His dazed passengers got the first glimpse of their new home. Through the portal Brenda saw the sun breaking across the clouds as it glinted off of the razor wire of Rockville Women’s Prison. Even in this place of sadness, the rays of light gave her hope.
We live in a world where seemingly unrelated actions can have implications far beyond their place of origin. Such is the case of the global heroin trade. An article from The Week, Why is heroin so cheap? brings up interesting points as to how a conflict in one region can affect the output and availability of a commodity such as heroin. The consequences can be unintended, or much more sinister. I’m reminded of another profit-centered drug, one that brought a major power to its knees. The Opium Wars of the 19th century were a direct attempt to wrest control of Chinese silver. The victorious British won the right to export opium sourced from their colony, India. The Americans for their part were not guiltless in the debacle, bringing in their own supply from Turkey. The net result: upwards of 10% of the Chinese population became hard-core addicts and totally nonfunctional as a result. This is something policy makers might want to consider when crafting a treatment strategy based on handing out drugs. Maybe the money would be better spent on recovery resources; a cure as opposed to a band aid.
I have to admit that on the subject of hard drugs and addiction I’m a total novice. Actually, for most of my life I lived in blissful ignorance. But news accounts of drug deaths across the nation, and even in the small town in which I live became hard to ignore. I began to wonder if there might be others like me, people that weren’t uncaring; they just didn’t realize the extent of the problem. I wondered if there was something I could do to help educate them, not from an expert’s point of view, but from that of a greenhorn.
The main impetus for this was my befriending a woman who turned out to be a recovering heroin addict. She was a regular person, a good person. She just made some poor choices. One day I offered to try and tell her story. When she accepted, I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into. But I did realize I’d need to do some research. With this in mind, I’d like to present some articles that have been helpful to me. Since death is something many addicts tempt daily, an excellent piece that recently ran on CNN, How heroin kills you seems as good place as any to start.
The woman driving the purple Saturn onto the Bishop Ford Freeway had not smiled in months. Her hair, wrapped into a bun, was the color of faded gold. It poked straw-like from the tie that tried to hold it back. Her high cheek bones sunk in. Gloss pasted a fake sheen on thin, hard lips. Gold embroidered script on her black apron recalled the name of a popular local restaurant. To most whom past that day, she seemed like just another waitress on her way to work.
Three o’clock traffic was heavy, but then, it is on this particular stretch of Interstate 94. The worst of rush hour was a couple of hours away. Brenda, the waitress, deftly maneuvered the non-descript sedan next to a huge red semi, its eighteen wheels kicked up clouds of dirty gray mist onto the windshield. Worn wipers struggled to clear a path doing more harm than good. The dreary September weather and enormous truck provided a rolling shield from eyes prying into the car.
Ten-month-old Justin cooed in his car seat, while five-year-old brother Tate made rapid fired questions to no one in particular as he peered out of the grimy window. Brenda desperately wanted her son to be quiet. Soon, her jaw tightened and sweat streaked her make-up. Tears clouded her eyes. Nausea welled up. All of these were familiar feelings, daily occurrences. More than anything, she longed to get better, if only one more time.
The daily, and at times, twice-per-day ritual runs into the city were worth the risk to Brenda because of higher quality merchandise. But who was she kidding; it was just a better grade of poison. The ache in her gut meanwhile was getting worse. She felt as if she’d puke at any second.
Maybe some music will take the edge off.
She punched the button. A favorite tune, “How to Save a Life” by the Fray filled the sedan’s interior. The ironic lyrics mixed with the innocence of her small children and the menacing moldiness of stale cooked drugs. She cried. A sense of urgency overtook her. She was unable and maybe even less willing to outrun it.
Tate babbled on. He couldn’t understand what was about to take place, yet sensed all was not right. Brenda rifled through her purse. A vital tool and constant companion was nowhere to be found.
Where is that damn lighter?
“Mommy are you okay?”
God I wish my kids didn’t have to see me like this.
“Mommy will be better soon Tate.” The words rang hollow.
There it is. Thank God. Her trembling fingers wrapped around the plastic cylinder. It felt cool to the touch, familiar, yet repulsive at the same time.
“Yes, Tate. . . Mommy is going to be better soon.”
Brenda opened the console and retrieved a purple Crown Royal bag. Its contents: bottle of water, hypo, miniature baggie, not unlike one a jeweler might place precious gems in, cotton and soup spoon were dumped into the apron. The spoon had been swiped from work. It jarred her back to reality.
The spoon, damn it, I’d better hurry up. Don’t want to be late.
She pushed the accelerator harder. Switching hands on the wheel, Brenda popped the cap off the needle and dropped it into her lap. The water bottle was likewise opened and 10ccs drawn with practiced precision. The baggie was torn with her teeth. An acidic combination of plastic and gas irritated her tongue. Its contents were emptied into the spoon now grasped between the thumb and forefinger of her steering hand. Water was injected. Next the lighter flicked. The blue flame danced on the scorched stainless steel while the mixture popped and fizzed. Elapsed time: about fifteen seconds or another a quarter mile down the road to nowhere.
Cotton, a short piece of cigarette filter actually, was dropped into the mixture. The idea was to filter out dirt and debris. If only it were that easy. The needle plunged into the concoction which leisurely climbed up the tube. Panic engulfed Brenda.
Come on be steady. For God’s sake don’t spill it.
Overhead sign: Indiana Two Miles. The Bishop Ford morphed into the Borman Expressway. Another hand switch at the wheel; she could only get high in her right arm.
Tie off with the apron. That thing gets quite a workout. Jab the needle in the forearm.
Pay attention . . . watch for blood in the tube. Ah, there it is, just a bit of red, a connection. Now push slowly. Men have it easier: bigger veins.
Another quarter mile and the state line crossed. A warm sensation, sweats, shakes, nausea, and cramps all dumped at the border. Soon an unfamiliar feeling reared its head.
What am I doing? I’m not in control.
What was that? Where’d it come from . . . maybe it’s the meetings?
There’s no power to stop. There’s no way out.
At the time, Brenda had been going to Narcotics Anonyms meetings in an effort to get clean. She began to feel as though she had a foot in two different worlds: one life, the other death.But unlike the concrete line that separated Illinois from Indiana, this one couldn’t be straddled. It was an illusion. She wasn’t going to be okay.
I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. I look in the mirror and hate what I see. This is so far from who I was . . . I wasn’t brought up to be a cheat, a thief and a liar, a junkie. This can’t go on forever . . . something’s got to give. God help me, it better happen soon.
Brenda managed to get into town just in time for her four-to-close shift but still had to drop the kids off at her mom’s house where they’d been living. A girl named Nina had also been staying there and offered to take her to work. Nina then asked to borrow the Saturn for a run into the city. Brenda agreed, knowing she’d need a boost later. The first few hours of her shift flew by, but by 9:30, the high was wearing off.
Nina finally got back to the restaurant around ten and was waiting in the parking lot. Her haunts were in a different neighborhood, one with a dealer unfamiliar to Brenda. Brenda’s craving was getting bad. She asked the manager if she could go out for a smoke, a ruse. Nina passed the Crown bag through the driver’s window.
Back in the restaurant, Brenda grabbed yet another soup spoon out of the bucket and retreated to the handicap stall, her sanctuary. After going through the drill for the umpteenth time, the apron again earning its keep-something wasn’t right. An understatement if there ever was one.
Soon Brenda’s drug arm, the one that carried a broken off needle, a souvenir of what she’d become- turned splotchy, hived and itchy. A bad batch of smack, maybe, but otherwise, a normal high. Brenda brushed off the odd effects and went back to work. Later, almost as an aside, Nina mentioned she had used the needle from the Crown bag. Sort of an “oops” moment to Brenda, but at this point, she didn’t care anymore. Brenda credits a later diagnosis of Hepatitis B to that accidental co-mingling of body fluids.
With the shift over, Brenda went home to get some sleep. She woke up sick, bad enough that she trusted Nina to make yet another run. The Saturn finally reappeared at three that afternoon bearing the ersatz-precious cargo of five ten-dollar bags. Brenda decided the late hour justified doing $20 worth, enough to “get the sick off.” Still, it was a far cry from her $200 days of just a few months prior.
Trouble comes to a junkie in many forms: little plastic bags, dirty needles, flashing blue lights. That sunny Friday in September, it came in the guise of a phone call at 3:45, just as Brenda was getting ready to go to work at the restaurant.
“Brenda, I need you to come in right now.” The firm, yet compassionate voice, belonged to Angela, her long-suffering probation officer. Brenda’s mind reeled. Did she find out about the runs to the city? Maybe it was the last test? What does it matter? I’m had.
She hugged Tate and Justin before she left. She looked each in the eyes and brushed her fingertips across their foreheads. “Mommy loves you.”
Then she turned to walk out the door not knowing this would be the last time she ever saw her younger sons. Her family was unable or unwilling to care for them. Child Protective Services took it from there. Her older two boys were already gone.
The Porter County Courthouse is prominently situated on the town square. An imposing structure, it is constructed of Indiana limestone. Its stark exterior, marble paved halls and high ceilings project an all-business attitude. Post-9/11 security measures rouse a mild prison-like impression once inside. Nina had offered to drive since Brenda was agitated. Brenda took one last drag from her cigarette and stared at the courthouse for a long minute. Then she turned to Nina: “If I don’t come out, take the car to my mom. But I’m probably not coming out.” With that she pulled the door handle, crushed the butt, and marched off to whatever fate had in store. She was so tired of running.
Brenda hesitated at the courthouse entrance to gather her composure. Then she crossed the threshold, two of the longest steps of her life. She made small talk with the guard at the security desk, as if lingering could delay the inevitable. After clearing the metal detector, she turned left and walked through as set of unmarked double-doors. Directly ahead was a single door, also unmarked. Protocol dictated taking a seat on one of the plain wooden benches flanking the hallway and settling in for a long wait. On this day however, she was ushered to Angela’s office within minutes.
“Do you have something you want to tell me?”
Angela’s words carried a mildly accusatory tone. Brenda knew from past experience not to tip her hand. After all, she didn’t know what they knew. She wasn’t ready to fess up, not just yet.
“No.”
Suddenly she reconsidered and blubbered: “Please don’t put me in jail.”
“I don’t know what else to do with you. You are going to die.”
Angela seemed to speak from genuine concern. In retrospect, Brenda credits her with saving her life. But then again, the train Brenda was riding on was full of rescuers; some of them just never received the credit due. Angela slapped a file on the desk, one that didn’t have to be read to know what it said: two failed tests, probation violation.
“Open your mouth.” As Angela swabbed, she asked the rhetorical question: “Are you going to fail this one too?”
“Yes.”
Oddly, the turn of events came as a relief. Brenda didn’t have to run anymore. She couldn’t if she wanted to. But unlike her prior arrests when she didn’t go peacefully, this time she was resigned to her fate. But more than anything, she just wanted someone to save her.
Valparaiso Police responded quickly. “Hands behind your back.” The cop towered over Brenda. He wasn’t exactly mean, but he wasn’t polite either. He’d been through this drill before. Cuffs were slapped on. Her arms were pulled high. And it hurt. She scanned the street as they marched to a waiting squad car. The purple Saturn was nowhere to be seen. It was probably halfway to the city. Ten minutes later, the waitress, still wearing her little black apron reported for her shift at the Porter County Jail. It was to be her home for the next thirteen months. The journey however, had just begun.
