Walk Down Misery Street

Angrily I looked at the heavens and said:

“God, for his father’s sake, save him!”

A crowd of onlookers gathered around us.

I don’t know how much time passed until, finally, the police and ambulance sirens filled the air. Two paramedics carrying a stretcher and two policemen came up to us.

“What happened?” they asked me.

“Overdose,” I replied.

One of the paramedics squatted next to Frank, gave him an oxygen mask, and turned on a mobile air compressor.

“Do you know him? Who are you? Do you have ID? Did you inject him?” the policeman interrogated. He looked at me suspiciously, like I was a criminal. Or a drug addict.

“I gave him two capsules of Naltrexone. But it had no effect. I am a substance abuse counselor. I work in a hospital in the Bronx, and he is my former patient.”

Meanwhile, one of the paramedics put a rubber pillow under Frank’s head. The other paramedic injected his arm and tried to find the pulse on Frank’s wrist. They gave him CPR. The cop put on rubber gloves and pulled the wallet and cell phone out of Frank’s pockets.

I still couldn’t believe this was reality. Certain events disrupt the everyday course of our lives in such a way that our consciousness just cannot keep up; we need time to adapt and get used to them.

“We can`t do anything. It`s too late”, the paramedic said and sighed deeply.   


At night, Vicky and I were lying in bed together. Vicky fell asleep, but she slept anxiously, tossing and turning all the time from side to side and even talking during sleep, like she saw a nightmare. She couldn’t get quiet after what she had witnessed today on the beach.