Beggars. Vagabonds. Cardboard homes around Union Square. Men and women sleeping on park benches, day and night, twenty-four hours a day. People who gave up on hope. Dreams vanished.

Frank had good intentions. He wanted to do good. A few things got in the way. Dollars and cents are hard to find. Everywhere in New York, Frank saw the rich and the poor co-existing. Walking side by side on Lexington, 8th Avenue, Greenwich Village, Washington Square Park, Columbus Circle, everywhere walking suits with perfectly combed hair, women dressed to the nines, and guys like himself, in need of a shower, clean clothes, a decent meal. The sights and sounds turn good men into bad. Turns purity and innocence into madness. Souls lost.

He was seventeen when he got his first taste up on Hunts Point in the Bronx. He retreated there at night time after taking the number 6 train back and forth all day. All those junkies, crackheads, whores, people in need of salvation made him feel at home. It’s where he met Meg and Ben.

It was like having a father. A dad with a crack pipe always burning. Half filled bottles of vodka, beer, and cheap gin within reach whenever he wanted.

Ben gave him his first hit. He sucked in the white smoke like a pro.

You like this? Ben asked.

Yeah.

You want more?

Not sure. It’s too good. Gotta be a catch.

There is. Soon, you’ll be working for it instead of it working for you.  He laughed. It gets you where you need to go, Ben told him. You forget about loneliness, despair,  being hungry, you just think about crack. Now. You want some more?

Frank looked at the older man. What’s your story? Frank asked. How did you wind up here?

The same way everyone else does. It was my destiny, he smiled. I’ll teach you the ropes kid. Where to get food stamps. What hospital to go to when you need a break. How to work the system.

The system?

Welfare. Money. Hustling. How to survive.

Yeah?

Yeah.  

What are you? Some kind of teacher?

You could say that.