CHICAGO, July 31, 2012 — She was in her mid thirties. The wig and make-up did nothing to enhance her looks. Her figure was still good, but she looked tired and worn.
You could see that just a few years ago she was a woman of stellar beauty. She came over to the booth where my partner and I were having lunch. She sat and talked about old times with him before sashaying off.
She had work to do.
She was a hooker, a whore, a prostitute. My partner, who came on the police department about ten years before I did, told me her story.
She was one of the few Westside ghetto success stories. A black beauty queen who was a high school and college cheerleader, got a Masters degree, and came back to the Lawndale neighborhood to teach.
He met her while handling assignments at the high school where she taught. It was one of the toughest, most dangerous schools in Chicago.
Somehow she fell in with the wrong crowd. She partied hard during the Disco era. She got hooked on heroin. Her downward spiral was slow but inexorable. She wound up trolling for drunks on weekends to support herself and her habit.
You can believe the war on drugs is a waste of time.
You will never convince me. Never is a long, long time.
I have five good reasons to disagree:
Tommy B* was one of the cool guys in the neighborhood. He was an only child whose father had a good job. He had all the goodies. He was smart and good looking. He was the guy we all wanted to hang around with because all the girls wanted to be near him.
He was the guy who died of a drug overdose at age 14.
Jerry D came from a good Irish Catholic family. His father was a cop. Jerry idolized his dad. His father found out Jerry was on drugs. Jerry killed himself with his father’s pistol. He was 15.
Frankie D was the neighborhood bully. He beat up anyone he thought he could. He was mean, nasty, and every mother hated him. A few fathers sent him home bruised, too.
He came back from Viet Nam a hippie. He was kind and polite. My own mother even remarked about the change in him. Frankie D died of heroin overdose combined with alcohol. He was 23.
One of my closest friends was Tommy O. Tommy was one of the really smart kids. So were all of his siblings. His father and mother were highly educated professionals. They found his brother, a really nice sweet kid, in a motel room. He was dead with a needle sticking out of his arm. He was 19.
Bobby D had the brain of an intellectual in grammar school. He never cracked a book through high school and managed to pull straight A’s. His brother was a cop who became an attorney. One hot summer day, about a year after I got on the police department, I saw him walking on air in an area infested by drug dealers.
He looked like a homeless bum and didn’t recognize me. My partner searched him. He had enough drugs to open his own pharmacy. After a few more arrests he eventually died in prison. He never saw 30.
People always ask me why I hate drugs and drug dealers. I always tell them there is a reason they call it dope. Only dopes use the stuff. It is also called junk for a reason. That is all it is. We had another name for it on the street, one I can’t print here.
Unlike some, I have no pity or mercy for those who knowingly and willingly take drugs, including those oh so beloved celebrity idols who die from overdoses or usage. My heart does not bleed for any of them. Even when I was a teenager we knew the risks and dangers. We knew there was a good chance of becoming addicted. We knew we could die of an overdose or get killed buying the stuff.
There was as much information in the 1960s about drugs as there is today, if not more.
The dope is still here. People still willingly choose to use it, knowing full well the risks. People still die from it in large numbers. All anyone cares about now are the health hazards of STDs and AIDS.
Go figure.
There is a term in the drug trade. It is not racist. It is a marketing and business term. It is “dead ni**ers”.
Whenever a new more potent source of heroin comes in, or a new enhancement to mix with it is tried, the dope is either given away or sold very cheap. The people who die of overdoses are referred to as “dead ni**ers”, no matter their race.
When word gets out to the junkies about all the dead people, the new product sells like there is no tomorrow.
As far as I am concerned drugs kill. Drug dealers are murderers. Life sentences are too short for them. You can die quick or you could die slowly from the physical toll the junk takes on your body. You can think whatever you want. You can have all the pity, mercy, or sympathy too.
You can even believe the war on drugs is a waste of time.
You will never convince me. Never is a long, long time.
*Names and nicknames were changed to protect any surviving family members.
Peter V. Bella is a retired Chicago Police Officer, freelance journalist and photojournalist, cook, and raconteur. He likes to be the irreverent sharp stick that pokes, prods, and annoys. His opinions are his and his alone. Mr. Bella is a member of the National Press Photographers Association and the Society for Professional Journalists.
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