Knockings at My Door

At different times in our lives, we all

need some help. It’s only natural, you

may be thinking. Shit happens to the

best and worst of us occasionally.

On the verge of making or breaking,

we teeter at times on the jagged edge

between life and death. Yes, it can be

that serious, I tell you.

That’s what drugs and alcohol will

do to one when gripped in the jaws

of addiction. With nowhere else to

go, Luis knocked at my door one day

asking me for a place to stay.

Then one night he drank his chance

away. So, next day I made him a couple

of sandwiches, slipped him a couple of

bucks, and sent him packing. (Couldn’t

threaten my own sobriety again.)

Robert was another who staggered to

my door in the middle of the night

slurring his words, pleading, Can you

give me a place to stay for a few days?

The wife kicked him out. Said she

just couldn’t take it anymore.

I shook my head, reluctant to endure

his intoxicated crap, yet sympathetic to

his situation. That lasted all of two days

before he bought his next bottle, and I

had to sweep him out the door.

A time later, I did give Jimmy a chance

for he had a bad leg. And for a week or

so, I took him in until he could be treated

for his injury. Down on his luck, poor

Jimmy had nowhere else to go. Opioids

turned out to be his game—bought ‘em,

sold ‘em and took ‘em by the dozen every

day. Damn near burned down my apartment

when he passed out while cooking dinner in

a drug-induced stupor.

Goodbye, Jimmy! Farewell, good luck,

goodbye! I had to let him go. Two weeks

later word came from a mutual acquain-

tance that outside a fleebag motel on

the Lower Eastside, Jimmy overdosed

and died.

Three lost souls, the frequent knockings

at my door. I have become wise to the

failings in my own life. And now I realize,

with Death’s shadow lurking on the other

side, my own life is on the line. And cling-

ing to the fragile thread of my sobriety,

I refuse to answer.

Chris Hanch 10-14-19