One person's thoughts may change the world
I write this blog with a little trepidation. Now, first and foremost, I’m officially dropping the slogan I use for Detroit, which is, “The late great Detroit, the arsenal of Democracy”. From now on, it’s “Detroit is The Center of the Universe”. I’m going to blog about that in the future, but, in this particular episode of my blogs, this is about a ghost. Not the Casper type, and not the CGI special effects type that now fill the theatres. This ghost may be similar to the ones who visited Ebenezer Scrooge, except there may be no real redemption for the ghost. This ghost is real, and it’s called, “The ghost of Heroin’s past”.
I’m going to elaborate on an instance, told to me by a good friend, whom I will not mention by name, that ghosts are coming to their door. Most of these ghosts they know, but, these ghosts are stuck in a time zone it seems. Sort of like how you would describe a ghost, something that’s trapped between here and the afterworld, somehow having to achieve some unknown penitence, before moving on to one of the following:
Allah’s Apostle (The blessing and peace of Allah be upon him) said: “In Paradise there is a pavilion made of a single hollow pearl sixty miles wide, in each corner of which there are wives who will not see those in the other corners; and the believers will visit and enjoy them.”
Pearly gates and streets of gold and a life of eternity.
How about the combination of Confucianism, Islam and Daoism, that doesn’t speak to a heavenly place at all, but rather how to achieve a more gratifying life and the constant re-creation of oneself.
These ghosts are of a period of 20 year before, perhaps even more, trying to relive something that they inexplicably destroyed years ago. If you’ve been reading my blogs there is one specific that refers to heroin being a city killer. Well, these ghosts are the city killer’s helpers. Sort of like satan’s helpers, ones who did his biddings. They are the ones who did not die, the ones who peddled drugs, the ones who lived the “life” and even tried, and I mean tried to write about it. That worthless piece of words put into a book that were sewn together by Butch Jones, of YBI ( Young Boys Incorporated ), which tried to tell a tale of drugs, money, and popularity. It was an over the top misuse of the English language, told in first person, trying to falsely produce something similar to the Miles Davis book, “Miles”. After YBI’s take down, others popped up, ”Best Friends”, “Pony Down”, “Black Mafia Family”, etc., using YBI’s model as a template. These dealers, who had white overlords in the background spread this death and destruction to several major cities across the country. In Detroit, their money making estimates ranged to 250,000 a day, in Boston it was 50,000.00 a day. That was a lot of freakin’ money. Now as a side note, these organizations are like terrorist groups. Destroy one, another pops up, more ruthless that their predecessor.
Some have died, most have gone to jail, done their time, and being released to an area they once knew, and helped destroy. Who remained and stayed drug free are those who kept their property or inherited from their parents, family members, and in some cases, still live there. My friend is one of them. Wanting to get out. They saw the transformation of a neighborhood and a city. Thy have had enough, and now these drug peddlers are back as ghosts, and their mere presence alone is pushing them out.
They are ghost because, they have run past their prime. Big money, fancy cars, slinging drugs, baby making, selling to anyone and anybody, and now in search of a hook up, and somehow, get back into “the game”. Trying to get back into a game that has long since gone past them. It belongs to a younger crew, and a different neighborhood. Sort of like the NFL… It’s a younger man’s game. But like ghosts they are caught between two worlds, purgatory, and have nowhere else to go.
Knock, Knock. The ghost raps on the door.
“Who is it?” my friend says.
“Hey, XA, it’s me, I’m looking for your brother XB, have you seen him?” the ghost says.
“No, I have not, he has not been here for years, what do you want with him”, my friend says.
“Well tell him to hit me up when you can, I’m back in the hood, he can ask around for me… Oh, by the way, can you spare a few dollars for old time sake?” the ghost asks.
Now XA is weary of the ghost, they go to get their trash and hands it to the ghost along with 5 dollars. “Take this out for me, and here is 5 for you”, XA says to the ghost.
“Awe cool XA I really appreciate that, I’ll look out for you”, the ghost says. “Remember back in the day….”, the ghost begins to say before XA cuts him off.
“Hey, I would really like to talk, but I have to go, take care”, my friend says to the ghost.
“OK XA thanks”, and with that, the ghost soon disappears.
The next night, another ghost comes to the door, one that my friend does not know. “Knock, knock” the ghost raps on the door.
It’s 2am, and my friend comes to the door with a .38. “Knock Knock”, the ghost raps on the door, a little harder the second time. My friend peers through eyepiece of the door, not recognizing this ghost.
“Who are you and why are you knocking at my door?” my friend says.
“Sorry, I’m looking for XB, is he here?” the ghost says.
“No, and please do not come back to my door, I don’t know you, and I will call the police if I see you again”, my friend says.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I won’t bother you, can you spare some change”, the ghost says. My friend is wary again, but will not fall for opening the door that late to a stranger.
“Last chance, get off my porch”, my friend says, the safety is now off and ready to pull the trigger on the weapon. “Sorry, I’m going”, the ghost says. And with that, the ghost disappears into the night, never to be seen again.
So there you have it, the tale of two ghosts, who reappeared from the past, still in the clothes of the past, trying to get back into a game that has long since passed them. Nothing to look forward to but odd jobs, two dollar liquor swigs, loosy cigarettes, stealing copper pipe out of abandoned houses, and a robbery or two before being caught and brought back to the real world, only to be extracted from a society that has no use for them, and one which they never made a legal way for themselves. Some had no choice as to the life they have lived. Others had a chance, but decided to go for fast money. Some got hook on their own smack and died. Others died in a blaze of glory, or at the hands of a rival. And others have been transformed into ghost of a past of ill-gotten gains, and a future of nothing more than purgatory. To my friend, get out, and save yourself the anguish….Detroit is the center of the universe, but, sadly, this isn’t one of them…
Peace Mickey Fickey….