“I wish there was something we could have done to help him.”

That’s what the neighbor who told me about Matthew said. A perfunctory line and it sounded pretty hollow. She had been busting to be the first to tell people why the meatwagon had come around last night with their police escort. It was just gossip, and then a declarative statement to show she was sympathetic.

Whatever.

Matthew is dead. The ambulance came before the fireworks last night and it was parked out front for a while. The police stayed long after it left so it was pretty damn sure there was a body. I was curious for sure, but I knew someone would tell me at some point.

A call.

A text.

Not even specifically about him but it would be an appendix, or a by the way.

He and I weren’t friends. The only conversation we ever had was him asking me about the dog and admonishing me that she is overweight, and that isn’t any more healthy for dogs than it is humans. He was annoying. My thoughts were simply, well going for days without any sustenance but beer isn’t such a great fucking idea either, you saggy fuck. Mind your business and keep it moving. But I made small talk for a bit, and I fucking hate small talk. Then he asked to borrow a few dollars and that pretty much confirmed my suspicions anyway. He just needed an intro to ask for money. A guy who is about to ask a stranger for money has a special smell about them, or a look, but it’s almost a smell. Need has a smell. Desperation has a smell.

I didn’t give him shit. “Lending” money to someone you see every day is a bad habit to get into. A few dollars turns to quite a few and then they start to avoid you, and feelings get hurt and so on. It’s just not where you want to start off with neighbors. I just said dude I got nothing. Is it cruel to deny a human when you’re feeding a dog? Some might think so. I think it’s okay to deny a habit when you’re just barely taking care of your own shit.

And your dog.

I didn’t even know Matthew really. He was just a guy in the building who shuffled back and forth to the corner every so often to re-up his liquid fortification. Don’t know if he had any interests at all, or any family. Knew nothing about him except I watched him inch closer to the long-term dirt nap. Weight dropped off. Belt got longer. Clothes picked up new stains on top of old stains. His body sagged closer and closer to the sidewalk. Last time I saw him, maybe yesterday morning or the morning before, he had gone more yellow than the time I saw him before that. He was little more than a fading life-support system for a shit habit. May The Universe-at-Large forgive me but all I could think… all I could fucking think…

You’re next, pal.

Aannnd?

He was. Sometimes it doesn’t feel so damn good to be right. What’s to do though? Chatty Cathy, the neighbor who told me said the words I wish there was something, but even were they sincere there isn’t a whole lot. Homeboy was pretty much cooked when I moved in back in 2015. Sure there are guys as bad off who made their way back but they took the first steps themselves. I got the impression that Matthew no longer gave a fuck and had no more survival instinct that might have driven those first steps. He was only still a man in the most reaching sense of the word. An addiction will do that. It will reduce an adult human to their most reptilian base-level form. Cognitive function gives way to a slowly failing motor function that really only has a primary purpose and that’s to feed the hole. Even those with a healthy amount of compassion and empathy are going to have to struggle to find something worth saving. I think that’s why people often have such unkind words for addicts. It’s not that they hate the addict so much as that they hate themselves for not being able to muster sympathy.

But I digress…

The meatwagon came and went last night, concluding another story that it doesn’t seem anyone knew. I fucking hate addiction. Everyone’s story should be known by somebody, right? I just fucking hate addiction. It erases people.