Heroin in the Hamper

I discovered a guy shooting up in the laundry room.  

About half an hour ago, I was switching the wash to the drier, when I heard someone moving around behind the wall.  "The wall" itself is a bit strange:  it's a huge slab of concrete that separates the large laundry room from a separate section of the room that is three feet wide by ten feet or so long.  This small sub-room has all the water/electric meters mounted on the wall and is often home to a handful of locked up bicycles. 

I heard the kind of tinkering that one strives for when they are hoping the person in the next room won't hear.  But I heard.  No ones moves that slow and quiet unless they are trying to hide something.  I assumed someone was stealing a bike or it's parts.    

I walked around the corner.  

"Hi."

"Uh, oh - hey!  What's up?

"What are you working on over here?"  There were no bicycles anywhere to be seen.

"Oh, nothing.  Just working on something."

He was putting some objects into a Crown Royal bag.  I recognized the purple velvet pouch immediately; I used one of those for a purse for awhile.  It looked a chemical experiment, complete with glass vials of translucent white liquid.  Then I noticed the long, thick rubber band, then the orange-capped insulin needles.

"You're shooting up.  Is that Heroin?" 

"Um, yeah."   At least he didn't try to cover it up.   The bent spoon and lighter quickly disappeared into the bag. 

"How long have you been doing that shit?  I mean you look like your "

"About a year and a half."

We continued to talk about his addiction and he informed me of his plans for recovery.  "I just need four days off in a row to go through detox, then I have this new medication and program to help me kick it, but I just can't ever get those days off."

"But really, it's not as bas as you think" he added.

"No, that's the whole problem:  you're not that bad yet.  That means you've got a few more years of wasting your life away doing this crap before all hell breaks loose, somebody dies and your living on the street.  And THEN it will be bad enough to really give it up.  It just might be too late.  Good luck.  Get help."

By this point I had escorted him out the back door of the building.  He left without another word.  I came upstairs to write this.

I forgot to put the quarters in and start my laundry.   Oops!  Gotta run!