“It’s going to take them a while to get through the meal,” he commented with a grin.
I looked over at the couple he had indicated: A male and female in their mid-twenties, both tattooed and pierced – typical Haight fare. They sat opposite each other with hands resting on the table cluttered with uneaten plates of assorted breakfast fare. Their eyes were closed.
“Oh, they’re saying Grace,” I mused internally. Because where I live these days aka Holy Land Central or Israel, that type of thing is plausible. Heck, I’ve seen groups of German tourists on a busy Tel Aviv street corner holding hands with heads bowed praying for…Well I have no idea, actually. A break in traffic? Good beach weather? Ideal photographic lighting conditions? I dunno.
Then I peered more closely at the couple, their heads lolling. Oh Wow! the realization dawned. They’ve dosed on heroin.
It’s been years since I’ve lived in close proximity to the urban drug culture and all it entails: addicts sprawled in doorways, eyes at half mast as the heroin high hits, crack fiends pacing nervously, their movements disjointed and stiff, wayward alcoholics with red faces and crusty clothing rambling incoherently from front stoops.
My stomach dropped and I felt nauseous. This is insane. We’re sitting in a restaurant and they’re dosing. My San Francisco dwelling companions snickered and rolled their eyes in a sort of Oh God, the neighbors misbehaving AGAIN sort of way. I forced myself not to stare.
Later, my brother confided: That was gross, man. Totally sick.