And it’s the middle of the day, she thought.
“So Jumper there,” Bones went on, “he works the system. He’s a dealer. Those young mothers? They bring rubber gloves and a jar to collect the used needles from the park so their kids don’t get stuck by them. Some mothers will just toss the jar of dirty needles in the trash can. But Jumper will buy them.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because he knows that the free clinic will swap old needles for new sterile ones. Sometimes he’ll do the needle exchange when our mobile clinic van comes by. But if he goes to the actual clinic, where we offer counseling and free medical care, he can get the doc to prescribe Sub.”
“Suboxone? The methadone-like pill?”
“Yeah, for fighting the symptoms of withdrawal from the opiate. Jumper can get a three-month supply, then sell the pills on the street for ten or so bucks each, pocketing about a grand. And for those doing dope, he sells ‘the works’-the sterile needles-for a buck each.”
Piper shook her head.
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“The addicts are too lazy to do it themselves. Or too fucked up-pardon my language.”
She waved her hand.
“No worries. I’ve heard the word a couple times. It seems appropriate here, I guess. But they could get their needles for free.”
“Sure they could,” Bones said. “But Jumper provides a service. Sells the smack for ten bucks, then the needle for another buck. Kinda like, You want fries with that? Capitalism at its best.”
Piper Ann grunted derisively.
“Maybe I’ll bring the needles,” she said, “and give them away.”
“Uh, I wouldn’t do anything until you learn more. Depending on the person you’re cutting out, doing that could get you killed.”
Piper Ann met Bones’s eyes, made a face, then nodded.
“Like I said,” Bones went on, “the park’s not anywhere near perfect, but it’s better than it was.” He motioned at the SEPTA station. “Used to be, just to avoid the drug-dealing and drug-using there at Somerset Station, people would walk the dozen or so blocks to the two other nearest stations, Huntington and Allegheny.” He chuckled. “Hookers are a big problem at Huntington, but I guess that’s easier to deal with.”
“What’s going on with Amy?”
Bones looked toward the park bench. He saw that Bud just sat there. But Amy was now awake and clearly trying to hold her head upright. She was unsuccessful. Her chin dropped to her chest, and then she did not move.
“What do you mean?”
“Is she hypoglycemic?” Piper Ann said.
“That’s not a diabetic shock. She’s been doing it almost ten minutes. And look at Bud. He’s not worried. If it was suddenly something new she was suffering-and there’s a lot of that these days-he’d be screaming bloody murder.”
“Then what?”
“Doper dip. Heroin nod.”
“Oh my God. She’s so young.”
“Your other clue is her hair, her clothes-she’s a mess.” He looked at Piper Ann. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You said there’s a lot of suddenly new stuff?”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
As Bones led Piper Ann to the rear of the Free Library, she looked around and realized that she was really not all that surprised at what she saw.
It reminded her of another mission trip she had taken, to New Orleans to help rebuild homes. She found the misery in that southern city-the poverty, the drugs, the crime-was not at all unlike what she had learned existed in clear view in Philly.
And, when her classmates had gone to the jazz clubs on Frenchman Street, which was in a rough section just outside the French Quarter, they’d heard Glen David Andrews and his high-energy brass band perform. Andrews, who talked about being in rehab for his heroin addiction, was a champion for rising above. And his songs carried the message. In one tune, “Bury the Hatchet,” with a trio of trumpets backing him on his trombone, he sang: “How come children know how to work a nine-millimeter but can’t work a geometry problem? Illiteracy is not cool. .”
It’s like everyone knows this is going on, she thought. One big dirty secret. . but it’s hardly a secret.
–
Near a bench on the backside of the Free Library, Bones bent to the ground and picked up one of the thirty or more discarded plastic pouches that lay in a pile.
Piper Ann saw that they were colorful, and, surprising her, looked kid-friendly. The big yellow letters read ROCK CANDY.
“You’re familiar with MDMA?” Bones said.
“A little.”
“In large part due to it being illegal, MDMA is dropping in popularity,” Bones said, then gestured with the brightly colored pouch. “The other reason is that these designer drugs are taking its place.”
“Designer drugs?”
“MDMA is short for methylenedioxy methamphetamine. Better known as Molly or Ecstasy. The meth creates euphoria by messing with the serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain. Dopamine affects the reward centers of the brain. You know, like when you feel pleasure.”
“Like booze?”
Bones nodded. “Alcohol produces, say, a hundred or two hundred units of dopamine. Cocaine takes it up to three-fifty. And meth creates extreme euphoria-in excess of a thousand units. Small wonder folks get addicted. Lord knows I did. You just want more and more.”
After a moment she said, “What about Spice? Is there much here?”
Bones raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve never used,” she said. “Not after the stories I heard.”
“Smart girl,” Bones said. “Spice I hope is on its way out. Dealers bought the synthetic marijuana in powder form, mixed it with rubbing alcohol or, preferably, acetone, because it evaporates rapidly, then sprayed it on tobacco or some other leafy material, like herbs, with a bit of spearmint added for smell and flavor.
“What’s dangerous about Spice, as well as most street drugs, is there’s no quality control-could be a little of the drug, could be a lot-so users never know exactly what they’re ingesting. It was flying off the shelves in head shops, even online, for thirty-five bucks for three grams. But now the DEA has labeled the five active chemicals in it as Schedule One controlled substances.”
“Then what’s all that?” she said, pointing at the bags on the ground.
“So now along come these new ones. They’re synthetic versions of cathinones, which occur naturally in the khat plant. They can be swallowed, smoked, snorted, injected. They’re so new-Chinese ‘design’ them as variants to older ones, which is why they’re called ‘designer’-that laws can’t keep up with the changing chemical makeup. Like the ones they called ‘bath salts’ and ‘potpourri,’ these make folks paranoid. They hallucinate. But what’s worse is that they can cause the user to get hyperthermia-their body temperature soars over a hundred degrees.”
He held up the Rock Candy packet.
“This is it. Also called Grrr-ravel. And other names. It looks like tiny rocks.”
“But the package label says Not for Human Consumption,” she said.
“It’s an attempt to get around the law. They did the same with bath salts-which were made from a cathinone derivative called MDPV, now banned-but despite the warning, everyone knew their real purpose. It damn sure wasn’t bathing. Gravel is in the same cathinone family, but the alpha-PVP isn’t-yet-illegal.”
He paused.
“They should just call it Guinea Pig. It’s anyone’s guess what’s in it, and what it’s going to do. So every time a user takes it, they’re turning themselves into a guinea pig. I heard someone, not exactly kindly, call them a new kind of reverse eugenics.”
She shook her head.
“Darwin’s survival of the fittest.”
He nodded, then added, “Cruel, but in many cases not entirely wrong. Their life expectancy is tragically short. I got lucky I got clean.”
“Where do they get these?”
“The better question might be, ‘Where can you not get these?’ They’re everywhere, because they’re legal. China, and increasingly Pakistan-they’re creating ones so fast that there’s not a scientific name for them.