Ginger Baker

                When I was a teenager, if someone said the word “heroin,” the word association was “Ginger Baker.”

                That was before we knew Clapton did it too.

                Heroin was something exotic, out of our field of knowledge. We knew weed. We thought we knew weed, it was probably heavily cut with oregano. We knew beer. Well, we knew Gennessee Cream Ale because it was cheap.

                By college, we knew heroin was closer. And by closer, I mean a guy I dated was returning a pysch book to a friend and was greeted at the apartment door by the NYPD. He ended up handcuffed to a girl wearing a towel and a mechanic who rang the wrong doorbell. The cops dragged Eric into the living room and asked him if he knew his friend was selling pot. He figured if he acted stupid the cops would get pissed so he said yes. Then they pointed to some glassine envelopes on the coffee table. Eric said something to the effect of “Holy S___, is that H?” The police knew he couldn’t possibly fake that degree of shock and let him go, preserving in the process his fellowship to grad school at Tulane.

                Remember, this was New York City, weed was not a concern, even for the police.

                When I discovered a few years ago that my kids actually knew someone who used heroin, I was as floored as Eric when he saw the envelopes on the table. 

                This is East Bumbleputtz. Kids drink Sam Adams and smoke ganja.

                But now it really hits home. I know someone who overdosed.

                This was a young man who, were I asked his drug of choice, I would have said Jack Daniels. My son said perhaps an occasional joint. They worked together a few summers.

                A guy we didn’t know at all, obviously.

                Some people said his new girlfriend, who I hadn’t met, used drugs.

                So the question became why would he become involved with someone who used drugs. He had a good job, a loving family. Why would he become enticed into drugs?

                Of course, we’ll never know. There must be an allure that I don’t get. Caffeine is my drug of choice.

                And maybe it doesn’t matter. It is just so very sad.

                Especially for his daughter who will always remember the last words she said to him were in anger.

                This is not a blog with answers.