Author's Note: This one is rated heavy T for candid discussion of illegal drugs and some profanity. My motto is to know about dope, accept that it's a part of American life…but never, ever do it!

#60 – Trapped

The junkie spotted a Latino kid cutting through the park all alone. He checked out the kid's sneakers – Wal-Mart brand. The junkie knew that you could tell almost everything worth knowing about a man (or boy, in this case,) by looking at their shoes…and this pair of sneaks was telling him one thing. He wasn't going to get any cash out of this one. He wasn't going to get any cash…but he was going to ask for it anyway. Because you just never knew.

The junkie felt a welling of shame fill his chest as the kid's dark eyes flicked to him and he immediately started veering off to avoid close contact. Not a good start. The junkie wanted to leave the kid alone. The screaming addiction that lived in his very soul wouldn't allow it. If he could scrounge three more bucks, he could get a bump of horse. Not the good shit, not the China White…but the brown crap they called Panama Paradise? The stuff that was probably more D-Con than heroin? Yeah, he could get a bump of that, and it would keep him from getting sick for a few hours. Hell, might even get him high, if he got lucky and scored a good end of the cut. But he needed the three dollars first.

"Hey kid," the junkie called, loud enough to be certain he was heard, but not so loud as to seem threatening or crazy. "Listen, man, I'm sick. I need to get on a bus to see the doctor, but I need three bucks for a pass. Think you can help me out?"

To his surprise, the kid actually stopped. He gave the junkie a once-over with cool brown eyes, eyes that seemed to see way too much to belong to a boy of maybe fourteen. He stared at him for a length of time that made the addict feel uncomfortable, but he stood fast and tried not to scratch the inside of his arm.

Finally, the kid spoke. "If you're going to see the doctor, I'm Dean Martin. And I can't sing." The junkie grinned ruefully; it wasn't the first time he'd been called out on a panhandling story, and it wouldn't be the last. The kid smiled back, hesitantly, and said, "I've got a dollar fifty. Come clean with me, and it's yours."

Halfway there was better than nothing. "What do you want to know?"

"What are you on?"

"Horse. Heroin," he clarified, feeling both uncomfortable and elated at telling the truth.

"I know what horse is. I live in Marceyville." The junkie knew the government-assisted apartment complex well; his old dealer had slung out of there.

"Marcey's rough," the junkie sympathized. And even though he wanted the money in the kid's pocket – needed the money – he made what amounted to a decent decision. He decided he wouldn't take a dime from this kid. He'd make it happen – he always did – but he wouldn't make it happen off of this cool kid's nickel. "Keep your dough, bro. And stay off of the shit. It's no way to live, trust me."

"Maybe. Maybe not," the kid mused. "You're a slave; I'm not telling you anything by saying that. The dope's got you by the short hairs. Am I right or am I right?"

"You're right," the junkie agreed, not the least bit put out by this bold statement. It was true, after all.

"But you're a slave who makes your own decisions. For the most part," he amended. "You decide when to eat. You decide where to sleep. You decide who you ask for money. That's something, isn't it?"

The junkie was a little freaked out. It sounded like the little man was already on something; acid, maybe. Maybe just some really good weed. "I guess it is something, dude. I guess it is. I'm trapped, but I'm free. I feel you. I get it."

The kid shook his head. "No, you don't get it. You don't understand. But that's a good thing. Trust me on that – you don't ever want to know what I'm babbling about." The kid fished in the pocket of his jeans and came out with a bill and some shrapnel. He pushed it into the junkie's hand.

"Hey, no man, I can't," he protested even as he counted it. A dollar eighty-five.

The kid smiled at him. "Enjoy yourself. Try to, anyway. Because even though you got a rusty fishhook in your balls called heroin, you're still making your own decisions. Just don't ever stoop to hurting anybody, okay? Don't ever victimize people. There's enough of that going on already." And without a word of explanation, the kid walked off. The junkie stared at the money in his hand and tried to decide if the kid was high himself, or if he was some kind of genius.

The hell of it was he just couldn't decide.