Title: Chicago Typewriter
Author: RealThomas777
Date: Thu, 03 Dec 2020 05:57:39 -0500
Link: https://realthomas777.substack.com/p/chicago-typewriter-534
 
Autumn, 2013. I was living in a hookers and handcuffs motel, of the sort that 
has permanent residents (other than roaches and bedbugs) being that it is the 
final way station en route to ultimate destination of a cardboard coffin (paid 
for by the City of Chicago) or a prison cell (paid for by the State of 
Illinois). In other words, I was very much existing on that unusual precipice 
between living and dying were one finds himself when what remains of his life is
in free fall. Its somewhat difficult to convey without appearing melodramatic 
but if one has ever found himself in these sorts of environs I would imagine its
not unlike living on Death Row - people come and go, they die regularly, their 
quarters are filled by others whom are virtually indistinguishable from their 
predecessors. 
 
It was in this place that I met Kevin - Kevin became my friend rather quickly, 
and that was remarkable because while I can (and do) speak with all sorts of 
people (this is the path of a Shaman) I have difficulty making friends. Kevin 
was a haunted individual, but he was taciturn and he never complained about his 
lot in life. He had a dignified air of resignation that about him that was 
neither contrived nor self pitying. He also bore a very strong resemblance to 
myself - and men and women instinctively relate to others on this basis, however
purportedly primitive. 
 
One day that Fall, Kevin arrived at the door to my room. He had lost the 
remainder of what he’d saved in a poker game that had apparently been underway 
for approximately the past 30 some hours. He was neither frantic nor beseeching 
when he told me that he had largely reached the end of his ability to manage his
circumstances. I gave him $40 because it was all I could part with and Kevin had
been more than willing to help me in the past - I never ask anyone for help, he 
just instinctively seemed to be able to discern when I was most in need due to 
my habit. Kevin nodded solemnly as I passed him two twenties and some 
cigarettes. He turned and left, returning about 90 minutes later. 
 
By the time Kevin returned, I was very much in a narcotic haze. I myself I 
believe was fairly close to dying at that point in time. I do not mean I was 
gravely ill or in any worse health than any other addict. What I mean is that my
addiction had reached such an intensity that the amount of poison I had to slam 
into my veins to stop being sick was such that when I’d finally get ‘‘right’’, I
could tell that I was on the cusp of fading away. There were regular instances 
during those weeks when I would load two to three bags of dope into a shot and 
slam it, then lie back and feel my respiration and heart rate slowing and would 
be forced to will myself back. 
 
It felt like sinking to the bottom of a lake or being dragged into ocean depths 
by undertow. I’d feel myself quite literally sinking until at some point a 
desperate fear, originating deep in my pre-rational consciousness would be 
triggered. Once I even thought I saw my deceased Mother in the room with me, 
weeping silently, behooving me to bring myself back to life. Such was my state 
of body and mind on that day that Kevin killed himself. 
 
I’d told him to feel free to let himself in, and he did. Lying in near-death 
repose on the bed I saw Kevin enter. His long hair still shined - it was 
positively glossy for an addict. He looked at me with an air of silent, subtle 
affection and the same quiet dignity with which he always seemed to carry 
himself. I remember in my fever-dream state thinking he looked strangely formal 
- not in appearance but in manner. It was as if, in hindsight, he discerned what
his inevitable fate was to be. Then he retreated into the bathroom. Kevin never 
shot up in front of anybody - it was a peculiar sort of modesty that I 
nevertheless appreciated because frankly, I never did either. That was the last 
time I saw Kevin alive. 
 
I came back to consciousness close to 5 hours later. The bathroom door remained 
closed. I thought nothing of it - until close to another hour later Kevin still 
had not emerged. I rose and approached the door, knowing full well what I would 
discover even before I entered. Kevin was seated on the floor, his back flush 
against the bathtub. His head was cocked severely to the right but his eyes were
closed. He looked to be asleep but for his Stygian pallor. There was a tiny 
blood trail on his right hand but otherwise no indication of what iteration of 
the great Reaper had trapped him. I felt his neck even though I already knew - 
his skin was cold. 
 
I wet a washcloth and I wiped the blood from Kevin’s hand. Then I wiped down his
face and folded his hands in his lap. I embraced him and stroked the back of his
head and told him that I was very sorry that I had not been a good friend and in
all probability had contributed to his demise. Then I told him that I loved him 
and said a prayer for the dead. 
 
I spent the night there in that room, with Kevin - and I am not going to lie, I 
did the rest of my dope and then I cleaned the room of contraband and figured 
out what I was going to tell the Police. I’m not going to relay what I told the 
Heat when they arrived - as they always do when EMTs are summoned - other than 
to say that when they saw I was awaiting sentencing on Felony drug charges they 
immediately detained me and then began accusing me of having murdered my friend.
Of course, there’s no way they’d have been able to charge me absent some sort of
grossly inculpatory statement from mine own lips or incontrovertible evidence 
that I had been the source of the product that had taken Kevin’s life. 
 
I realized, among other things, that day what the secondary function is of 
Policemen in GOD-less societies: They represent (albeit in a VERY punitively 
simplified capacity) the values of the dominant caste, and they’re supposed to 
shame you into submission at flaunting the values that you are availed to by 
accident of Fate. This is why - at least with male detainees - they all try to 
strike a Fatherly posture. Trouble is, if one actually fears GOD, knows he is 
likely DAMNED and holds the culture in which he is posited in resigned contempt,
this sort of cheap facsimile has no real effect. I’m a Haunted House and an 
irredeemable Sinner - but I’m very, very blessed to be here with all of you.