[Hpn] online article

joe reynolds jos_reyn@yahoo.com
Fri, 5 Sep 2003 21:23:11 -0700 (PDT)


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Jellybeans For A Soldier
By Judith Moriarty 
NoahsHouse@adelphia.net
9-3-3 


Another dreaded trip to the hospital, another person dying. I felt that my job as an advocate/activist to the homeless had turned into that of an official mourner, or a sentinel of death. Many never reached this corridor of sterile indifference; they died outside in makeshift tents, beaten or burned to death. A majority are involved in drugs (not the legal prescribed drugs of proper society), alcohol, some have AIDS, a great number have mental health problems. With the institutions closing throughout the 70s and 80s through deinstituionalization (to save money), most end up on the streets, or our newest facilities for the mentally-ill, prisons. Most of the homeless with their multiplicity of problems, don't meet the criteria for the few programs available. Being poor, an individual is severely limited to choices. Approximately 74% of welfare monies..now mostly non-existent..goes to administrative costs not to those in need. 
 
 
You go because beneath all the grime and filth, beneath all the traumas, abuses or wrong choices that have brought them to this end, is a lonely human being afraid. Most feel trapped, hopeless and beyond caring. Like the lepers of Biblical times, their presence in a community, marring our manicured-satiated-materialistic lives, disturbs us. The unvoiced fear; has us perhaps repulsed at the homelessness that exists within us all. Devoid of compassion--empathy--kindness or concern, we are much like the scarred and haunted countenances we see before us. 
 
If for a moment in time, our hidden jealousies, anger, rage, indifference, abuses, arrogance, perversions, sniffed superiority, selfishness and egotistical narcissism could be seen outwardly; we would be just as filthy and wretched. Thankfully, our designer clothes, designer cars, designer lifestyles, protect us from this scrutiny. Easy to judge from a pedestal life of luxury--warmth--credentials--wealth--and a circle of like-minded friends; who don't present us with the more sordid, distasteful things of life. We care; feebly, from a distance. 
 
 
You go because they can't undo the choices; things have gone past the point of return. 
 
 
I enter the small, sterile, colorless room. The curtainless window overlooks the shimmering asphalt rooftop of another section of the hospital. Through the distorted haze you see the crowded parking lot beyond. "A nice serene view in your last hours," I tell myself silently. 
 
Don starts his litany of requests immediately, "Jelly-beans, can you get me some jelly beans, and chocolate, I'm so hungry for chocolate. What about magazines? Damn this pain. Jesus, I can't take it. They only give me something every few hours, afraid I'll get addicted. Isn't that some shit?" 
 
I open the bag which I've brought, while Don goes on. He needs to talk, I can sense his fear. We both know that this is the end. I spill out the brightly colored jelly-beans into a bowl and set out the chocolate bars, magazines and bouquet of flowers. He starts to cry and says, "You shouldn't have brought a bowl from home." I tell him it's OK. He reads the card attached to the bag slowly, almost with reverence. He looks up and says, "I can tell you put a lot of time into finding just the right card.". I tell him, "Yes, it had to be special." He asks me to tape it to the wall. It looks so forlorn, that dumb card hanging there in this death chamber. I wondered silently if he was expecting lots more, like the people in nearby rooms, who had walls covered from their family and friends. 
 
 
He mumbles something, I ask him to repeat it. He states, "Mark hasn't been here, not once." I sat on the edge of the bed and held his hand. I replied, "Don, I'm not making excuses for Mark, but some people can't take this, it hits too close to home. Mark won't come, you already know that." Note: Mark and Don were close buddies and had gone canning together for a bit of money. 
 
 
I watch as he fumbles around, trying to pour some milk into a cardboard carton of cereal. I fix it for him asking why the hell they're giving him skim milk? I remark, "Jeez Don, it's not like you have to watch your calories!" He says they ran out of regular milk. He plays with the cereal, not eating, and the johnny-coat slips off of his skeletal frame. He smells of death and decay. His body is shriveled down to a heap of bones, the ochre colored skin around his bones sagging, loose or gone. His stringy blond hair is dry and dead. The great running tracks on his arms show icy blue veins used up. He is as pale as death, his body trembles, he does things slowly. He is turned inward with impossible pain. His drawn gray face, looks grave, sad and even a little confused, but mostly just terribly tired. He pushes the now soggy container of uneaten cereal towards me and asks me to throw it out. 
 
I am numb with anger, grief and rage. I scream inside. I wonder if I'm losing my mind? This man is dying and all I can focus on is the cardboard box. I am enraged that he doesn't have a real bowl, a real spoon and real milk. Somehow the splash of bright colors from the jelly-beans and flowers makes the scene surreal. Jelly-beans and flowers are signs of spring, and all I feel is the winter chill of death that permeates the plaster and marrow of my bones. 
 
I sit again and we talk. We talk of stupid things like the Gulf War, and the price of gas, as if it really matters. He tries to get comfortable, he can't. His left arm is packed with mounds of bandages. Somehow the blood has managed to seep through and the outer ace bandage is caked. The tips of his fingers are grayish blue and swollen like spoiled sausages. He tells me they are thinking of cutting his arm off to control the massive infection. I know they won't. "He'll be dead first", I tell myself silently. 
 
 
There are two tubes coming out from the packing of bandages on his chest. Yesterday there was one. He tells me they were going to operate, but instead they just put another tube in to drain the putrid fluid. I am morbidly fascinated by the size of the clear plastic tubing that leads to two huge containers at the side of the bed. They look more like hoses that should be in a car engine, not embedded in someone's emaciated chest wall. The tubes are clogged and the containers half-filled with a sickly brown and greenish bile colored liquids. I feel sick and wonder how all of this could come out of one skinny body, or how he managed to breath at all? He coughs and spits up yellow phlegm constantly. I keep telling myself not to throw-up. Not here. 
 
He talks of the pain, the unrelenting pain, as he fingers the numerous medals hanging around his thin neck. I feel such a terrible anguish watching him clutching at those cheap, tarnished medals as if to ward off some unknown evil that he feels lurking, waiting to consume him. I sense his overwhelming loneliness and fear, and ask him if he wants me to pray? He bows his head and says, "Please there's not much time". He makes the sign of the cross when I finish. I sense a peace and a tremendous love for this man in his extreme suffering. He seems relieved that someone didn't see him as beyond prayer. 
 
 
I give him a hug and kiss good-bye. My staying won't stop his dying. He died two days later, the jelly-beans eaten, the magazines unread; this soft-spoken, once upon a time, fireman and soldier. Don had returned from Vietnam, like many a veteran addicted to drugs. Drugs that helped kill the horror the stench of napalm, the bark melting from trees from Agent Orange, his buddies blown apart, villages burning. The young of one land trained to kill his fellow human-being in another. A youngster sent to war amidst such inhumanity is forever changed, should he return. Wars have long echoes and these echoes live under bridges, in abandoned cars and alleyways. So much for supporting the troops. Robert McNamara, Defense Secretary at this time, did write a few years back, that Vietnam was a mistake. Tell that to the Wall and those forever haunted. 
 
For months, I tried to get Don to see a doctor, or let me take him to the clinic. He'd have no part of it. He knew he was dying, he just didn't want a name to it. Three years before, his best friend Mike was diagnosed with AIDS. Mike was dark haired, tall, handsome only in his mid-twenties. He was the son of well-to-do parents in New York City. Mike went fast. His entire body became covered in purple lesions and he needed a cane to walk just a few labored steps. I got Mike home to his anxious mother, who had no idea of where he had disappeared to. He died a month later. Not in a gutter thank goodness. 
 
After the death of Mike, Don finally got his own room in a local crack house, the only place available. It, like many of the other slum apartment buildings and homes, in the impossible side of town, was owned by a local politician. The building was a piss-hole, a sewer. It was absurd to call it a place to live. The house was dank with disease and despair, littered with discarded bottles, trash, candy bar wrappers, needles and crack vials. 
 
Don had one small 8X10 room, insufferably dark with virtually no ventilation. The linoleum was creased and cracked with dirt ground into the cracks. Four hundred dollars a month for this claustrophobic, wretched room. Everything he possessed was stuffed in corners or under the bed, including treasured hordes of canned goods I had given him. No thought of leaving anything in the common kitchen. Junkies would steal pennies off a dead man's eyes and the place was full of them. Night of the Living Dead..that's how I thought about it. 
 
 
The last time I was there, was a hot night in July. Don had come to my office, his arm a running, swollen mass of pus and blood. He'd cut it scrounging through a dumpster of an upscale restaurant for theater goers. He wouldn't let me take him to the hospital. According to him, junkies didn't fare will in local emergency rooms. He didn't need the humiliation. Once, he'd gone back to visit a nearby exclusive town where he'd grown up and the police followed him the entire time. I didn't have the supplies in the office, so I went down that night and sat on the front steps, cleaning and bandaging it the best I could. 
 
I was used to this place, everyone knew me, and soon the porch was filled with those anxious for a bit of talk. It's not like they got much normal company (not that I claimed to be). Jean brings me a glass of ice water. Rose grins ear to ear when I compliment her on how homey she fixed the porch. She tells me she hasn't had a fix in a month. I give her a hug and tell her I know she'll make it. 
 
A fancy black sports car pulls up. A young kid dressed in designer clothes and gold chains hops out. The music blares forth, money furtively changes hands and he's gone. I continue bandaging. I hear a scuffle, screams and look up. A man is being chased. They (the living dead) throw him to the street, punch and rob him. Nobody says anything, we pretend not to notice. Rose whispers, "He tried to rip them off." 
 
I go because Don is dying. I go because there's nothing else I can do. Mark comes out, he hugs me. Young Mark, junkie Mark, now he'd dying, I can feel it. I felt utterly useless and hopeless watching this disintegration. Drugs turns a person into a craving animal. Every moment is focused on the next hit. Personhood is gone, and in its place is this craven, grotesque, hungering zombie never at rest, never at peace. 
 
They die with their throats slit, their hearts cut out, alone in despair, eating out of dumpsters, that's repulsive. I see a women I've hugged; slept outdoors with, begged shelter for, lying in a pile of dead leaves, beaten to death---her head swollen three times its normal size; purple, green bloated and monstrous. Lying there with her grimy hands crossed over her chest, dead in my clothes. I didn't feel wonderful or caring, I felt empty and terribly sad, just terribly sad. 
 
There's not much sympathy from the community in going out to a bunch of dying junkies. "Let'em die, it's their own fault, they asked for it, they're nothing but a bunch of thieves, liars and stinking filth. Someone should line them all up and shoot them. What are you wasting your time for?" These are some of the kinder remarks you hear. My feelings are; that there are lots of thieves, liars and filth in the more proper circles of society. A politician, his kids, movie stars, sports star, music idols etc., get caught up in this world of insanity, and no one is demanding they be lined up and shot! Privilege keeps them from the crack houses, living under a bridge, or scrounging in a dumpster for food. No jail time for them, but instead some private--exclusive clinic. Next thing you know they're (well not them) writing a book or making a movie. You go out, because to do nothing is worse. You go out because love hopes all things. 
 
Don did leave a message. Shortly before he was hospitalized and died, he saw me organizing some materials for a school presentation. He said, "I'd go with you if I wasn't such a filthy bum. I'd show them what drugs really do. You go, you tell them there's no high, no nothing worth ending your life like an animal, a stinking junkie animal. Tell them I said so. Tell them you got a junkie friend who's dying because of the shit, and I can't stop." 


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<DIV><BR><BR><B><FONT size=+4>Jellybeans For A Soldier</FONT></B><FONT size=+1><BR>By Judith Moriarty <BR>NoahsHouse@adelphia.net<BR>9-3-3 <BR><BR></FONT>
<TABLE height=127 cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width=551 border=0>
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top width="100%" height=126>
<DL>
<DT><FONT size=+1>Another dreaded trip to the hospital, another person dying. I felt that my job as an advocate/activist to the homeless had turned into that of an official mourner, or a sentinel of death. Many never reached this corridor of sterile indifference; they died outside in makeshift tents, beaten or burned to death. A majority are involved in drugs (not the legal prescribed drugs of proper society), alcohol, some have AIDS, a great number have mental health problems. With the institutions closing throughout the 70s and 80s through deinstituionalization (to save money), most end up on the streets, or our newest facilities for the mentally-ill, prisons. Most of the homeless with their multiplicity of problems, don't meet the criteria for the few programs available. Being poor, an individual is severely limited to choices. Approximately 74% of welfare monies..now mostly non-existent..goes to administrative costs not to those in need.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>You go because beneath all the grime and filth, beneath all the traumas, abuses or wrong choices that have brought them to this end, is a lonely human being afraid. Most feel trapped, hopeless and beyond caring. Like the lepers of Biblical times, their presence in a community, marring our manicured-satiated-materialistic lives, disturbs us. The unvoiced fear; has us perhaps repulsed at the homelessness that exists within us all. Devoid of compassion--empathy--kindness or concern, we are much like the scarred and haunted countenances we see before us.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>If for a moment in time, our hidden jealousies, anger, rage, indifference, abuses, arrogance, perversions, sniffed superiority, selfishness and egotistical narcissism could be seen outwardly; we would be just as filthy and wretched. Thankfully, our designer clothes, designer cars, designer lifestyles, protect us from this scrutiny. Easy to judge from a pedestal life of luxury--warmth--credentials--wealth--and a circle of like-minded friends; who don't present us with the more sordid, distasteful things of life. We care; feebly, from a distance.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>You go because they can't undo the choices; things have gone past the point of return.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I enter the small, sterile, colorless room. The curtainless window overlooks the shimmering asphalt rooftop of another section of the hospital. Through the distorted haze you see the crowded parking lot beyond. "A nice serene view in your last hours," I tell myself silently.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>Don starts his litany of requests immediately, "Jelly-beans, can you get me some jelly beans, and chocolate, I'm so hungry for chocolate. What about magazines? Damn this pain. Jesus, I can't take it. They only give me something every few hours, afraid I'll get addicted. Isn't that some shit?"</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I open the bag which I've brought, while Don goes on. He needs to talk, I can sense his fear. We both know that this is the end. I spill out the brightly colored jelly-beans into a bowl and set out the chocolate bars, magazines and bouquet of flowers. He starts to cry and says, "You shouldn't have brought a bowl from home." I tell him it's OK. He reads the card attached to the bag slowly, almost with reverence. He looks up and says, "I can tell you put a lot of time into finding just the right card.". I tell him, "Yes, it had to be special." He asks me to tape it to the wall. It looks so forlorn, that dumb card hanging there in this death chamber. I wondered silently if he was expecting lots more, like the people in nearby rooms, who had walls covered from their family and friends.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>He mumbles something, I ask him to repeat it. He states, "Mark hasn't been here, not once." I sat on the edge of the bed and held his hand. I replied, "Don, I'm not making excuses for Mark, but some people can't take this, it hits too close to home. Mark won't come, you already know that." Note: Mark and Don were close buddies and had gone canning together for a bit of money.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I watch as he fumbles around, trying to pour some milk into a cardboard carton of cereal. I fix it for him asking why the hell they're giving him skim milk? I remark, "Jeez Don, it's not like you have to watch your calories!" He says they ran out of regular milk. He plays with the cereal, not eating, and the johnny-coat slips off of his skeletal frame. He smells of death and decay. His body is shriveled down to a heap of bones, the ochre colored skin around his bones sagging, loose or gone. His stringy blond hair is dry and dead. The great running tracks on his arms show icy blue veins used up. He is as pale as death, his body trembles, he does things slowly. He is turned inward with impossible pain. His drawn gray face, looks grave, sad and even a little confused, but mostly just terribly tired. He pushes the now soggy container of uneaten cereal towards me and asks me to throw it out.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I am numb with anger, grief and rage. I scream inside. I wonder if I'm losing my mind? This man is dying and all I can focus on is the cardboard box. I am enraged that he doesn't have a real bowl, a real spoon and real milk. Somehow the splash of bright colors from the jelly-beans and flowers makes the scene surreal. Jelly-beans and flowers are signs of spring, and all I feel is the winter chill of death that permeates the plaster and marrow of my bones.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I sit again and we talk. We talk of stupid things like the Gulf War, and the price of gas, as if it really matters. He tries to get comfortable, he can't. His left arm is packed with mounds of bandages. Somehow the blood has managed to seep through and the outer ace bandage is caked. The tips of his fingers are grayish blue and swollen like spoiled sausages. He tells me they are thinking of cutting his arm off to control the massive infection. I know they won't. "He'll be dead first", I tell myself silently.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>There are two tubes coming out from the packing of bandages on his chest. Yesterday there was one. He tells me they were going to operate, but instead they just put another tube in to drain the putrid fluid. I am morbidly fascinated by the size of the clear plastic tubing that leads to two huge containers at the side of the bed. They look more like hoses that should be in a car engine, not embedded in someone's emaciated chest wall. The tubes are clogged and the containers half-filled with a sickly brown and greenish bile colored liquids. I feel sick and wonder how all of this could come out of one skinny body, or how he managed to breath at all? He coughs and spits up yellow phlegm constantly. I keep telling myself not to throw-up. Not here.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>He talks of the pain, the unrelenting pain, as he fingers the numerous medals hanging around his thin neck. I feel such a terrible anguish watching him clutching at those cheap, tarnished medals as if to ward off some unknown evil that he feels lurking, waiting to consume him. I sense his overwhelming loneliness and fear, and ask him if he wants me to pray? He bows his head and says, "Please there's not much time". He makes the sign of the cross when I finish. I sense a peace and a tremendous love for this man in his extreme suffering. He seems relieved that someone didn't see him as beyond prayer.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I give him a hug and kiss good-bye. My staying won't stop his dying. He died two days later, the jelly-beans eaten, the magazines unread; this soft-spoken, once upon a time, fireman and soldier. Don had returned from Vietnam, like many a veteran addicted to drugs. Drugs that helped kill the horror the stench of napalm, the bark melting from trees from Agent Orange, his buddies blown apart, villages burning. The young of one land trained to kill his fellow human-being in another. A youngster sent to war amidst such inhumanity is forever changed, should he return. Wars have long echoes and these echoes live under bridges, in abandoned cars and alleyways. So much for supporting the troops. Robert McNamara, Defense Secretary at this time, did write a few years back, that Vietnam was a mistake. Tell that to the Wall and those forever haunted. </FONT>
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>For months, I tried to get Don to see a doctor, or let me take him to the clinic. He'd have no part of it. He knew he was dying, he just didn't want a name to it. Three years before, his best friend Mike was diagnosed with AIDS. Mike was dark haired, tall, handsome only in his mid-twenties. He was the son of well-to-do parents in New York City. Mike went fast. His entire body became covered in purple lesions and he needed a cane to walk just a few labored steps. I got Mike home to his anxious mother, who had no idea of where he had disappeared to. He died a month later. Not in a gutter thank goodness.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>After the death of Mike, Don finally got his own room in a local crack house, the only place available. It, like many of the other slum apartment buildings and homes, in the impossible side of town, was owned by a local politician. The building was a piss-hole, a sewer. It was absurd to call it a place to live. The house was dank with disease and despair, littered with discarded bottles, trash, candy bar wrappers, needles and crack vials.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>Don had one small 8X10 room, insufferably dark with virtually no ventilation. The linoleum was creased and cracked with dirt ground into the cracks. Four hundred dollars a month for this claustrophobic, wretched room. Everything he possessed was stuffed in corners or under the bed, including treasured hordes of canned goods I had given him. No thought of leaving anything in the common kitchen. Junkies would steal pennies off a dead man's eyes and the place was full of them. Night of the Living Dead..that's how I thought about it.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>The last time I was there, was a hot night in July. Don had come to my office, his arm a running, swollen mass of pus and blood. He'd cut it scrounging through a dumpster of an upscale restaurant for theater goers. He wouldn't let me take him to the hospital. According to him, junkies didn't fare will in local emergency rooms. He didn't need the humiliation. Once, he'd gone back to visit a nearby exclusive town where he'd grown up and the police followed him the entire time. I didn't have the supplies in the office, so I went down that night and sat on the front steps, cleaning and bandaging it the best I could.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I was used to this place, everyone knew me, and soon the porch was filled with those anxious for a bit of talk. It's not like they got much normal company (not that I claimed to be). Jean brings me a glass of ice water. Rose grins ear to ear when I compliment her on how homey she fixed the porch. She tells me she hasn't had a fix in a month. I give her a hug and tell her I know she'll make it.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT><FONT size=+1>A fancy black sports car pulls up. A young kid dressed in designer clothes and gold chains hops out. The music blares forth, money furtively changes hands and he's gone. I continue bandaging. I hear a scuffle, screams and look up. A man is being chased. They (the living dead) throw him to the street, punch and rob him. Nobody says anything, we pretend not to notice. Rose whispers, "He tried to rip them off."</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>I go because Don is dying. I go because there's nothing else I can do. Mark comes out, he hugs me. Young Mark, junkie Mark, now he'd dying, I can feel it. I felt utterly useless and hopeless watching this disintegration. Drugs turns a person into a craving animal. Every moment is focused on the next hit. Personhood is gone, and in its place is this craven, grotesque, hungering zombie never at rest, never at peace.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>They die with their throats slit, their hearts cut out, alone in despair, eating out of dumpsters, that's repulsive. I see a women I've hugged; slept outdoors with, begged shelter for, lying in a pile of dead leaves, beaten to death---her head swollen three times its normal size; purple, green bloated and monstrous. Lying there with her grimy hands crossed over her chest, dead in my clothes. I didn't feel wonderful or caring, I felt empty and terribly sad, just terribly sad.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>There's not much sympathy from the community in going out to a bunch of dying junkies. "Let'em die, it's their own fault, they asked for it, they're nothing but a bunch of thieves, liars and stinking filth. Someone should line them all up and shoot them. What are you wasting your time for?" These are some of the kinder remarks you hear. My feelings are; that there are lots of thieves, liars and filth in the more proper circles of society. A politician, his kids, movie stars, sports star, music idols etc., get caught up in this world of insanity, and no one is demanding they be lined up and shot! Privilege keeps them from the crack houses, living under a bridge, or scrounging in a dumpster for food. No jail time for them, but instead some private--exclusive clinic. Next thing you know they're (well not them) writing a book or making a movie. You go out, because to do nothing is worse. You go out because love hopes all things.</FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1></FONT> 
<DT><FONT size=+1>Don did leave a message. Shortly before he was hospitalized and died, he saw me organizing some materials for a school presentation. He said, "I'd go with you if I wasn't such a filthy bum. I'd show them what drugs really do. You go, you tell them there's no high, no nothing worth ending your life like an animal, a stinking junkie animal. Tell them I said so. Tell them you got a junkie friend who's dying because of the shit, and I can't stop." </FONT></DT></DL></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></DIV><p><hr SIZE=1>
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