Looking back, on the track for a little green bag.
It all started with a man running.
His feet carried him with such speed, the knees keeping him upright nearly buckled beneath him.
But he has to.
Without this cantering, he'd be made minced meat by the police chasing so obnoxiously behind him.
Converses were scuffed, almost torn at the cheap seams. Of course they weren't real brand. Nothing was real when you were on smack.
Spare money was used to put your head out of reality again. You didn't need food. Of course you needed it, but who had it?
This was the 80s, nobody has enough. Not enough money, not enough sex and certainly not enough drugs.
The man in question, you're probably wondering who he was.
A loser.
A nobody.
Somebody not worth a word on the page. Why would he have a name on a page?
He wasn't visible to anybody apart from the police and the occasional house mate (who I may add were probably crippled to subconsciousness on the arms of sofas or the floor).
The man in question reached a footpath at the end of the road. And thankfully so. The sirens were booming from behind him but were no longer be able to proceed after him as if an raven seeking a worm.
"Let off free." He assured himself, his hands finding his knees as he bent over in a fit of breath.
Drugs never did your breathing any good which is ironic as they were the only reason he ever ran.
And you may be wondering who this mysterious hoodlum was.
He was me.
And I'm Gordie.
_
After slamming the door open I was greeted with the yell of another house mate. Probably Tracy.
She always yelled at loud noises. After four years of spending time close to her it was easy to get used to it though.
At first, when I made residence here, it was off putting to hear her screaming whenever somebody turned on the radio or opened the door too loud, but I put it behind me and just saw it as an aspect of life now.
Without her screaming something would be different.
I carried my weight through the door, entering a room full of passed out bodies, blunts, and people objecting themselves with hopefully clean needles. Again, littered around them was trash, old meals on moulding plates along with damp on the walls.
The room was worse than the streets aside from slight warmth and security from the enemy known as weather.
"I have the gear." My voice broke the numbing silence and almost as soon as the words slipped from my mouth, like a curse to pull them from their trances, eyes were on me.
