Waiting to give the man your soul

By Steve Wildsmith

It's ironic, almost, that The Velvet Underground's "Waiting for the Man" comes on my iPod when I pull into the convenience store off Alcoa Highway on a Thursday night.

It's late -- my girl just got home from work, and we wanted something sweet to enjoy while we watched the night's episode of "Lost," TiVo'ed for our convenience. At the corner of the building, he sits in his car, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, eyes glued to the rearview mirror, neck craning to get a good look at every vehicle that pulls in.

I know him, because I used to be him. I go inside, complete my purchase and come back out just in time to see the transaction go down. The man, his man, pulls up beside him, a girl hanging out the passenger's side window, foggy-eyed and staring. He leaps from his car, scurrying around to the driver's side. He glances around, briefly -- our eyes meet -- but he doesn't care. He sees no badge, no cop car, and the beast inside is too hungry to care who else might see.

He slips a hand full of bills in the window, palming whatever is handed back. The man glances around casually -- cool, nonchalant, watching as his customer almost trips to get back to the other car. He leans over his girl and says, "Call me when you're ready for more!"

The guy doesn't glance up. He slides into his vehicle, hands shaking, starting her up and practically peeling out of the parking garage. The man shakes his head as I climb in my own car, gets out and walks toward the doors of the store. He nods and smiles -- he's not stupid, and he sees that I know.

But I'm not a cop; just a guy with a couple of candy bars and a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He's the man -- the guy with a pocket full of cash, something to go in someone's veins or nose or mouth and a metaphorical bag full of souls slung over his shoulder. He's the man, and he's got what his customers need.

Not want; most of them are beyond simply "wanting" it. He's got what they need, what every fiber of their sick bodies and diseased minds crave, what they chase even in their dreams. He's the one they call in the middle of the day, in the dark of night, any time the cries of their addiction rise above a low hum. He's the one their desperate eyes seek out in every headlight, the one they sell their souls to, the one they despise with all that they are and the one they worship just as fervently.

He's not the cause of their addiction -- he feeds it, yes, but the choices they've made have led them to seek him, and his product, out. He doesn't hold a gun to their head and force them to buy it. He doesn't tell them who to rob, what to pawn, who to rip off. He doesn't really care where the money comes from, as long as you're willing to pay. In other words, he's a business man -- but what he sells carries a much higher price than mere cash.

He's not a friend, but he'll pretend to be. He's not a buddy, but he'll act like one. He's not the devil, though he gets cursed as such. He's not to blame, although when the fire of withdrawal burns through your body, it's easy to cast it on him.

He's just the man.

As I pulled out, I thought about his customer -- all of his customers -- and said a little prayer that somehow, some way, some day -- they all learn, as I had to, that there's a better way. I hope they learn that he's just a man; he's not the man, and they don't need what he's selling.

Some of them will, as I did. But he'll always be in business, and there will always be customers, because ... well, just because. That's the way it works, the way it is. But it's not the way it has to be. All those customers ... all those addicts ... have a choice. And maybe one day, each will make the one that matters.

Steve Wildsmith is a recovering addict and the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.