I found myself at a crossroads – not at an intersection but the grassy median dividing the north and south bound lanes of highway 29 in Greensboro, North Carolina.  It was summer, and though traffic was heavy that sunny Sunday morning, it flowed along at the marked 55 mph, and I stood beside the u-turn lane that cut into the median smacking the bottom end of a fresh pack of Marlboros into my palm, contemplating my life – and the possibility of ending it. Things can literally change overnight. 

At the time, my ex-girlfriend and I were expecting a baby, I was working long hours at a low wage job, and I didn’t have a place or a car of my own.  Though I’d bitten off more life than my eighteen-year-old self could chew, until that point I’d somehow managed.   But just the day before, I’d received a call from a friend I’d not heard from in over a year.  He wanted to hangout, so we drank beer and ate pizza at the nearby apartment he shared with his girlfriend.  It seemed like he was getting his life together, and it was good to catch up. 

Before long, his neighbor came over and we all talked for a while, the conversation eventually turning to drugs. The neighbor told of a crack dealer he knew who sold ‘double-ups’, meaning spend $20, get $40 worth of dope.  The conversation got me to thinking.  I needed more money than my paycheck brought in, and I knew a dope house in the trailer park where my mother lived.  I could buy $100 worth of crack, sell it in a couple hours and profit a hundred.  I was all in. 

The three of us drove to nearby project housing, and I handed the neighbor a Benjamin.  He disappeared inside, and upon his return he handed me a knotted sandwich bag with 10 small, yellowish rocks inside.  Feeling like I’d gotten a good deal, we returned to my friend’s apartment to finish our beer and pizza.  The neighbor asked if I minded breaking off a small piece of dope for him.  I gave him a rock figuring what the hell – I’d still make a $80 profit.  In the drug world, when someone scores for you, you turn them on.  He broke the rock into smaller pieces and after smoking one, placed another on his pipe and offered it to me.  That one rock turned into all ten, and soon we were on our way back to the dope man’s apartment. 

The process repeated itself all night until we were broke and discussing how we could come up with more money. The neighbor mentioned a 24-hour convenience store down the road, and driven by the overwhelming desire for more cocaine, we jumped into the car and sped past all common sense and logic.  After blowing through several moral stop signs, we pulled around back of the store and waited for the lone customer to leave before running inside and robbing the place of $43 and change.  We then drove around until sunrise looking to buy more drugs until my friend finally dropped me off at home.  Stepping from his car, I closed the door with a simple “alright,” wishing I’d never answered the phone and hoping I’d never see him again.

Hours later, I zigzagged across the busy highway to buy a pack of smokes, and that’s how I came to be in that grassy median, replaying the horrible things I’d done only hours before, not recognizing who I’d become.  Having made it across the few lanes of southbound traffic, I was unsure if I wanted to survive the northbound lanes. 

“Hey!” a loud voice interrupted my thoughts. There were no people in the middle of the highway so I was confused until I heard it again, “Hey man!” 

I turned to see a two-tone brown 280-Z stopped in the u-turn lane a couple feet away.  Worrying I would get something thrown at me or that the stranger was up to some other form of no-good, I cautiously leaned down to look into the car.  The driver was a Black man with a large bottle of beer in his hand.  I must’ve been giving off some strong suicidal vibes and had body language looking as low as I felt because he said, “Keep your head up.  Things are going to get better.” 

Stunned, I thanked him and right then he found a break in traffic, completed his u-turn, and headed north as nonchalantly as if he did that every day, driving around saving lives.  As his words seeped in, my chin lifted and my back straightened.  Finding my own break in traffic, I carefully made my way across the three lanes toward home. 

He was right.  Things did get better for a time, and in the 26 years since, whenever I’m feeling down and not sure I can go on, I remind myself of those words spoken by a stranger in a strange place, and I once again carefully navigate life’s traffic, determined to reach the other side.

ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first submission to WITS by Jason Hurst, and after reading this piece, my initial thoughts are that Jason has a natural creativity, articulating his experience in a descriptive way that feels natural and comfortable to the reader, not contrived or forced at all. I am glad he has chosen to submit to WITS and this body of work. Jason can be contacted at:

Jason Hurst #0509565
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com