Walk Down Misery Street

Gloomy people wander around with lost expressions, and the intoxicated homeless are laid out on benches. A luxury car makes way through all this squalor and misery. The dealer, draped in a leather jacket and gold chains, behind the wheel, is enjoying the comfort inside.

“People need you out there! They’re waiting for you! You know how much they need you there!” Terri said loudly. Tears shone in her eyes.

Then she began to pick flowers from her bouquet and gave them out to each of us.




“So, you graduated from school? Became a cool pro?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m done with school and got a diploma,” I answered. “I wouldn’t say I am pro just yet.”

“Then let’s drink to you becoming the best substance abuse counselor in New York!” She elegantly raised her glass of warm sake.

“Okay.” I supported her toast, raising my glass.

With my “dear aunt” in a sushi bar, we kept toasting my diploma.

She was about forty. She sat across from me at a table in a light-colored, décolleté dress, with beads on her tanned chest.

“You’ll be a good counselor, I’m sure. You have something special. You are interested in people; you are not indifferent to them,” she said.

“Good to hear this, thanks. But how can I get a job in my new profession? Everywhere they require experience. Tell me, how do I get this goddamn experience? I still work as a security guard, guarding that fucking trashcan every day!”