On Their Own

Pressure had a way of finding him without support 
of any certainty at all. It moved up from 
a personal darkness, consuming half of everything 
he consumed. 

He had a running-headstart from it, his last 

year of high school, he thought. Someone 

had randomly gifted him the scant leftovers 

of a prescription (Vicodin, he thought, afterwards) 

and in their deep, intoxicating calm, he heard a voice 

he dearly wanted to be his own. 

There, of course, would be the predictable addiction to drugs. 

Spending time with the ne'er-do-wells. 

Bored thoughts. Empty chatter. The endless 

want for something steady or complete. 

He did that rare thing that is fall madly in love 

with a beautiful, sexy, relentless woman 

in his mid-twenties. 

She had the same pursuits that he had: 

speed, painkillers, marijuana, cheap wine and booze; 

no powders, no needles. 

They lived off the system for just over a year, doing 

the meetings and making out longterm plans for 

recovery with caseworkers and the like. 

(Late in the day you were only obligated to yourself.) 

She got pregnant. They talked about taking it easy. 

Forget their 12 Steps and just go straight on their own. 

(People have done it before.) 

Except there was never enough to do. Deadend soul-crushing jobs 

in restaurants, a couple factories that'd seize any chance to fire 

you after six months. Cleaning the house for the second time 

in the same day, he had a serious thought about a short-term 

career in burglary. 

Three months later, this idiot he went to the same high school 

as knocked on his door, inquiring for help, talking about a job. 

They robbed the idiot's sister's house -- got away with 

a thousand-plus dollars in cash, jewelry and electronics. 

A week later, the idiot's sister found a pair of her earrings 

in the idiot's utensil-drawer while checking up on him and 

poking around his apartment. 

The idiot turned him in for reduced time. 

She said she'd wait but it's hard to keep promises like that. 

He stepped back into freedom on a cool, autumn day. 

All of his possessions were in a durable brown paperbag. 

He tried remembering the name of his son. It was Luke. 

****