Jeff Deeney, an addict-turned-social worker, returns for a visit:
The living room carpet was littered with used condoms, a sign that women had been tricking here for drug money. Upstairs, the toilet was overflowing with shit that had run all over the floor because the water got shut off, but they kept using it anyway. The place looked like it had been tossed; drawers were flung open and clothes had been thrown everywhere. I suspected robbery but it turned out later the DEA had recently raided the place. There were spoons still crusted with dried coke and blackened glass stems everywhere.
Needless to say, the scene didn’t tempt me to pick one up and hit it for old time’s sake. I don’t share these details in the spirit of moral judgment—it’s just the reality of what a crackhouse looks like in the clear light of day after the party’s over and everyone’s run from the Feds. Years ago, I would have had no qualms getting high here myself.
(Photo by Karen Apricot)
The Dish 