Living on the streets isn't as hard as people make it out to be. Well, at least, not when your so high that everything around you is flying. That's how I spent five years of my life. I went from drug to drug without even thinking about quitting or slowing down. I just didn't care.

My only thoughts were on how to get money for my next fix? Work was out of the question. So I reverted to the age old career of stealing. It was the easiest and not to mention quickest way to get the money that I needed to support my addiction.

I used to live in the subway terminal under a pile of boxes and garbage. It wasn't much but it kept me semi warm from the brutal New York cold. And during the summer months I slept in doorways at night and left before the inhabitant could find me and shoo me off with a broom. Those things do hurt. I used to because I had been living in a small slum apartment in Spanish Harlem.

I can already imagine that you doing the math. I did say that I spent five years high without one single day of being down to earth. So that means that I was 10 when I started? Sorry but that is incorrect. Jumping to conclusions without all the facts isn't a wise course of action. So I guess I'll just have to fill you in.

My life didn't start out on the streets like most of you are assuming. See, there you go again with making conclusions without all the details. Anyways. I wasn't born to a junkie mom or a gang running dad. But lets leave that for last. Now where was I? Oh ya. I was going to fill you in. I was eight when I got my first taste of drugs. It was heroin and it was completely by accident.

I had just ran away from home, very intent on returning after I was sure that they worried about me. They would by my dad and new step mom. But upon my venture into the wondrous city of New York I happened upon a murder in progress. Two drug dealers were shooting at each other until finally one ran out of bullets. I don't have to tell you which one survived. That is something that you can assume. I shouldn't of stuck around but I was to terrified to move. Shell shocked at what I had just seen so when the man approached me it was clear that I had witnessed it all. So he was kind enough to introduce me to my new best friend, heroin. And not only did I get the addiction but I got the man to. He took me under his wing to make sure that I never accidently let it slip about what he had done. Because kids are really lose in the jaw when they want to be.

I didn't have to worry about Mellow T for to long. That's the name of the dealer that took me under his wing. I would later find out that the man that he killed was Gator, his partner turned squealer for the cops. As I was saying, I was under his wing for maybe a year and a half before he was gunned down by those who were loyal to Gator. Luckily I escaped from that battle with only a flesh wound to my leg. It hurt like hell but I managed to get it healed without going to a hospital. I couldn't go to the hospital. Not in my condition. I was still flying high from a earlier fix. One that Mellow T gave me right before he was killed. And if anyone at a hospital saw a nine year old kid like that...questions would of been asked. Questions that I didn't want to answer, right now.

Can you actually imagine that I grieved for Mellow. Not because he was such a good care giver but because I was an addict who until that moment was receiving free heroin to keep his mouth shut. I knew that the stuff was expensive to buy so I went to work. Here I was at nine years old and already breaking into cars and stealing old ladies purses. It lasted for about 2 years until people started to get smart and getting those new security systems put on their cars and old ladies never walked around alone. So that ended my addiction to heroin for awhile. At least until I could score some more money.

The first few days of withdraw was nothing like anyone could imagine unless they had physically experienced it. I walked around the streets in a daze with my eyes glazed over. I would start screaming for no apparent reason except for the fact that my blood felt on fire. People would try and help me but I ran. I knew where to hide so that they wouldn't find me.

It's the fifth day of withdrawal that I remember the clearest. I had been walking down by the piers just thinking about what I had become when I ran into a man. He was well dressed but acted like most of Mellow T's friends, jumpy. We got to talking, not like I had to fear strangers anymore. Who would want to kidnap a eleven year old junkie? He said his name was Thomas Copack but everyone called him Cola. Like I said, we got to talking. He could clearly see that I was having a tough time so he helped me. Turns out that Cola was a marijuana supplier and I had ran into him on the day that he was bringing a shipment into New York via boat from South America. He offered me a job said that kids were the easiest dealers since they were so small and could easily slip undetected into areas. In return for my services he would pay me $10.00 a delivery with free marijuana to numb the pains of my withdrawal. It worked. The longing and need for heroin was still there but once I took a couple of puffs of a joint, the need seemed to slip away. Slip away with my sense of reality.

I became known as Theory to those that I delivered to. They said that whoever came up with the theory that kids were easier dealers must of been a genius. They never asked who I worked for and when they asked me my name...Theory popped into my head.

So for another two years I made a name for myself. Theory became one of the most wanted dealers of marijuana on the streets of New York. Everyone wanted me. But everyone isn't always good. Soon I became a household name in many of the police precincts around the city. But they didn't have a clue to what I looked like or even my age. I surely had changed looks from when I was eight. I now walked with a limp, thanks to my old flesh wound. I carried a 9mm pistol that had been specially made for me by one of more well-known buyers, Tommy Cretan. Tommy was the one that informed me of my status amongst the police. And numerous scars marked my once boyish face. Some from fights and others from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I even looked older than thirteen. Most said that I had to be at least eighteen maybe sixteen at the youngest. But I never verified nor denied their claims. And they never pressed it. I guess we had an understanding. I didn't ask any questions so they would return the favor. I greatly appreciated it. It made it easier to forget what I was doing.

Now we must take another look at Tommy. I thought he was a friend. I thought we saw eye to eye. But I should of figured something was wrong when only he knew of my celebrity status amongst the cops. But I never thought that Tommy would go squealing to the police about me.

I guess thought wrong because for my thirteenth birthday he delivered a big mouthed detective to my door step. I had been living in a small apartment in Spanish Harlem. The perfect place to lay low. He beat down my door and came barging in never even noticed me on the ratty looking couch until he searched the kitchen, bathroom and my bedroom. His search came to a end in my small living room. I could tell by his face that he knew I was the one he was looking for but he couldn't believe that his sources had been right about me. Now since I had been living in a building and neighborhood full of nothing but Spanish speaking people, I picked bits and pieces up. So when he started to speak, I started to ramble on and on in Spanish. Repeating the terms that I knew over and over again. I knew by the impatient look on his face that he wasn't buying it so I fell silent and just watched him. I knew him. How could I not. It was his face that had been plaguing my nightmares for the past five years. I scanned his face before turning my gaze to his hand. He still wore a wedding band which meant that he was still married. No surprise there. But when my eyes moved back to his face it was the look in his eyes that made my blood run cold. There was nothing but hatred and contempt there. Hatred of me. When I didn't move at his command I knew that the blow was coming. Even he couldn't look past my dealings to see the terrified thirteen year old boy. He only scum that needed to be off the street. I felt the blood when it began to trickle down from my nose and I knew that my eye would be swollen shut before long. I was stunned for a moment but that was enough time for him to slap handcuffs on me and hauls me into his car. I couldn't help but feel a touch of gratitude towards my neighbors who all booed and threw garbage at the detective as he was taking me out.

His partner was waiting inside with a amused little smile on his face. Like he knew what went on but would have sudden amnesia if I pressed any charges. That's how things are inside a precinct. They all stick up for each other. I would stay quiet for now. Just thinking about the last five years of my life and what would of been different if I had only stayed home that night? Or if I would of ran when I saw Mellow T kill Gator? I wouldn't be sitting in the back of this unmarked squad car, that's for sure.