My Neighbor, Mark Harold Page #3

I wrote this story in honor of a big brother figure of mine who fell into the "War on Drugs" trap.

• Short story

								


Although Mark never once blamed his parents for his addiction progression, I could tell the thought flowed just under his dirty, shoeless feet.  When I asked if he had been in touch with his parents, he told me that his father wanted nothing to do with him and that he couldn’t come over to the house, but his mother would meet him in various locations near the mall and give him cash on the sly every so often, against his father’s will, of course.  His father viewed any sort of cash help where Mark was concerned as nothing more than enabling him to continue stewing in his self-destructive behavior.  And his father was correct, of course, but what’s a mother to do?  Especially a mother who most likely felt guilty about how it all turned out?

And sure, again, maybe Mark would have headed down that dark and lonely road of meth addiction anyway, but I don’t think he would have surrounded himself with those types of people.  Again, Mark was sort of a loner.  Other than a couple of friends from high school who weren't tweakers, he stayed in his room, reading his MAD magazines, drawing, writing, and playing guitar.  The only other drugs I could see Mark experimenting with would have been either LSD or mushrooms.  Yeah, sure, some people’s reflexes would think those two drugs are just as bad or even worse than meth, but those people would be dead wrong.

From experience, trust me, it’s the difference between being eaten by a lion or scratched by a common house cat.  I’ve done all three of those drugs, and I’m alive to report to everyone that meth is the worst scourge our world could ever encounter, again, right next to crack cocaine and probably heroin.  Oh, and alcohol.  I forgot about that one.  Mainly because it’s socially acceptable, sold on every street corner, and yes, even near schools. Its ubiquity can be consumed every weekend on television sets all around the country during the fall and winter months and in between first downs and touchdowns.

It’s usually the smiling face that cuts your throat just before you know what hits you.

When we finished with our lunch and a somewhat painful conversation, I could tell Mark was itching to get going—literally.  I noticed his blackened from-street living arms possessed long scratch marks from his wrist to elbow whenever he lifted his Mexican-style poncho sleeves in an attempt at quelling his ongoing sickness.  

And that’s when he asked if I had a couple dollars I could spare.  We both knew what the money was going towards.  But I gave it to him anyway.  Hey, I was never as bad as he was then, but I had been there, nonetheless.  And I’d rather give him the money for his drug than see him resort to some drastic measure and either get hurt or harm someone else or end up in a jail cell, or worse.

When we climbed down from the truck, we walked over to a nearby ATM, and I withdrew some money and gave Mark some of it.  His eyes lit up like a Fourth of July fireworks show as he shoved it into his filthy pocket.  In return, he gave me a huge hug.  And I’ll never forget his final words to me: "Okay, Jimmy, thanks for everything, but I have a doctor’s appointment I have to get to!”  

And just like that, he sprinted off to his “doctor’s” office.

The Mark I grew up knowing wasn’t there any longer.  Well, maybe one percent of him was, I could still feel it in him when he spoke.  But even that portion was taking a huge beating.  That’s the last time I ever saw the guy.  I assume that he’s either dead or maybe, hopefully, found a glimmer of life still in him and decided to get clean again; I just don’t know.

Maybe I’ll take a trip south soon and find out.
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