Tag: writing

42 Degrees in Fort Deposit, Alabama…

Going through withdrawals on this night, in the woods alongside Interstate 8; I was a whining, bleary-eyed mess. My boyfriend and fellow addict, Danny, had just stolen 2 cans of tuna from an old country store across the four-lane highway. Night was setting in as he stabbed the cans with his buck knife, spilling tuna juice on the upturned, anxious face of our boxer dog, Spice. She was as hungry as I was, as the kitten, Binky-Boots was. And as surely hungry as Danny was too at that moment.

We took turns, taking bites from the tuna can with our fingers; we each got two, the animals one apiece. Danny insisted we save the other can till morning, which seemed a freezing eternity away. Whether the longing to get high, the tightness in my stomach, or my freezing feet bothered me more I can’t recall. What I do remember is that dull ache in my feet soon became the most miserable as the temperature continued to drop.

The rash decision to leave southeast Florida had been made only 18 hours before. We had loaded my 1970 Mach One in a frenzy, stuffing duffle bags, dog and cat into the back seat, and placing electronics he had stolen gently into the trunk. I had given Danny an ultimatum, make up his mind whether to leave for the West Coast with me that very night, or never see me again.

I knew in my heart: if I didn’t leave Palm City that day, I wouldn’t live another. I had been an addict over a decade, only turning 23 a month before this crisis. In this span of time I my habit (and as of yet undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder) had resulted in a thirty day stint in a locked psych ward, a detox, a month in a Florida rehab and a year in the Martin County jail for Grand Theft. (The conviction stemmed from robbing the clothing store I managed in the Martin Square Mall. But I digress.)

Getting back to our present dilemma roadside, an Alabama State Trooper has unkindly relieved me of my beloved Mustang when it had died along the Interstate. Danny and I hadn’t been there more than two hours, hood up, debating our next move. We decided we would take the “kids” and hitch a ride to a phone booth. There I would plead with my Mom to Western Union me enough money to fix the car and rent a room till the car was fixed. I would never get that chance because the aforementioned State Trooper rolled up while we were unloading the dog.

“Looks like an abandoned vehicle to me” he stated, putting on his hat and rising to an impressive height. He continued, “Let me see some ID, the tow truck’s on it’s way.”

I started to give some lame explanation of my plan, but realized he meant business. In just a few more words he let us know that non-compliance would not only include my car being impounded, but also our arrest for vagrancy and seizing of Spice and Binky. I think he saw visions of himself cruising the town in his hopped-up Mach One with the Boss 302 engine under it’s hood.

Sigh…

There was nothing to do but let him tow the car, and within the hour it was hitched up. The driver was “kind” enough to give all four of us a lift to the impound yard where we now unloaded all we could carry under the hostile glare of four or five “good ole boys” sitting on a porch. My shorts felt very short under their gaze, and we shouldered our bags and walked haltingly down the shoulder of the road. I looked back a couple times, longingly, at my prized muscle car behind the 12 foot fence. It probably belongs to Mr. Trooper’s grandson now…

to be continued…