When I was younger, we had this neighbor, Henrietta. She had a son, Damon, and husband, Robert. I have a vague memory of what Henrietta looked like. Robert even less and Damon could walk up to me and spit a bloody chunk in my eye and I wouldn’t know him. But if Henrietta spoke, I could pick her ass out of any line up.
Henrietta, for all I can remember was a sweet lady. She’d sit outside sometimes and watch us kids play–in the back yards. But again, if I saw her out, I would pass her on the street. Let her say something, I’d remember. Why? Because every sentence ended with, “Cus girl you know I got sugar.” And occasionally, when Damon wasn’t around, her sentences would end with, “Run on in the house and get me some water. Girl you know I got pressure.” I’d do it because kids listen to adults. Case closed. End of story! Then she’d reach into her purse and take her meds.
What’s with our people? We have a name for every disease. I went years into adulthood thinking this woman was sickly. She said she had sugar and pressure. Diabetes and high blood pressure?? Who knows. She always took pills and only sick people take pills?
Imagine my surprise when a few years ago I was remembering Henrietta with my mom. I was telling her about Henrietta’s pressure and sugar. My mother laughed and said, “Girl! She wasn’t sick. She was just popping pills. That’s why her and Robert split that one time. And then he up and moved her back down to Arkansas.” Imagine my surprise!!
We had an actual pill-head right next door? We had a Black pill head, right next door!? And I played with well-adjusted her son?! Pill poppers don’t live next door. They aren’t Black. Black people are supposed to just smoke weed and cocaine derived substances. I’m completely intrigued by this. I also feel cheated because I would have loved to knowingly observe her. How often do we run across a pill-head? One we can study? Did you say NEVER!? Correct!! Two points for you.
Growing up in Detroit, I’ve run across my share of crack and heroine addicts. We have one that’s a friend of the family and for the life of me, I don’t know why he isn’t dead. Love him to death but really! They aren’t supposed to hold a job, have a home, car, fancy I-Said-Je-Rome’s-In-The-House outfits! Daily heroine users are supposed to die. They are supposed to be found over-dosed and alone. Or at least that’s what happens in the movies.
Let my get’s-high-off-of-cold-medicine ass try a drug. I’d probably die at the first sign of enjoyment!
Our community doesn’t even have a name for pill addicts do we?? Is there some slang I’m unaware of?? Probably not because it’s not as wide-spread as it is, let’s say in the bleached suburbs. Speaking of slang, my girl shared this list of racial slurs. Just when I said I’d never been called a nigger to my face, this list got me to thinking that maybe I’ve been called something else and just didnd’t know it.
But back to Henrietta’s pressure, sugar, and pill popage. I was a pretty bright kid. I knew when a friend of the family got on crack. I was in fourth grade and I remember the day I knew. There was something in her eyes. And that was the last day we ever stopped to visit her on my way home from school. But a real life pill addict, right next door? How the hell could I have missed that? I picked up on Chappelle being high on the tv screen. But this woman was high right next door??
I think the thing with pill poppers is that maybe they don’t have the normal signs. No glazed over eyes. No big hands. No darkened lips. No far away look in their eyes. Nothing.
I’m tryna find a way to end this. But nothing’s coming to me. So, I can’t spot a pill head when one is right in front of me. THE END.
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