No. 236 - Six Bucks Before Eight

I parked in an old downtown Atlanta garage. I think it cost me six bucks if I got in before eight. The garage looked like it was from the industrial ruins of the Rust Belt. Cracked cement, peeling paint, deathly lonely.

There wasn’t an elevator, just stairs that stunk of urine. Anyone with more coin in their pocket parked in a safer garage. But I was young and figured I could fend off trouble if it found me. Besides, the junkies were long asleep by the time I arrived.

On this particular day I chose to park on the top because I enjoyed the views. I locked my Jeep and headed to the staircase, but something caught my eye.

Next to my shoe was a needle. It lay on the dirty cement, a touch of blood still inside. I couldn’t help but stop and stare at it.

The razor-sharp tip had slid out of someone’s vein before I found it. And it hurt me.

How lonely was this person, shooting up in a downtown garage, alone, several flights up? Did he have siblings? Did they know where their brother was — that the blood they share with him was inside a needle next to my shoe?

My heart broke for this guy. Maybe it was a woman…someone’s little girl who used to wear bows in her hair.

That two-inch piece of steel hijacked my morning. I’d ruminate on it all day. Picturing an awful sadness in his eyes, tracks on his arm, stumbling down the stairs.

I was overwhelmed with empathy for a stranger. But he wasn’t a stranger. No one can be when you’ve seen their blood.

Twenty years ago…and it still haunts me.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA