The last day of our acquaintance

I'll meet you later at somebody's funeral.

When old friends meet after not seeing each other for a long while, it’s treated like a joyous occasion. So happy to have run into you!

When crack smoking friends run into each other after some time apart — typically due to illness or prison — there’s no such pretence.

That’s because crack smokers can’t follow the same script that regular people do. They can’t lead with, “You look amazing!” Because that’s such a fat and grotesque lie, even their formidable powers of deceit would be of no avail.

No crack smoker ever looks better than they did yesterday.

Nor can they follow up with the standard, “What have you been up to lately?”

Regular people will say all kinds of things: Just got back from a golf tournament, bought a timeshare in Yucatan, daughter is getting married.

Crack smoking is the entirety of an existence.

But what really guarantees that a reunion of old crack smoking friends will be joyless is the part where normal people get to ask questions about mutual associates. Like, “Have you seen Frenchie lately? Wonder what he’s up to.” And “I saw Amanda Bell at Whole Foods the other day. She still looks amazing!”

Crack smokers don’t like asking those kinds of questions because Frenchie probably died of an overdose a month ago. And Amanda Bell is working out of an alley downtown.

As a result, crack smokers spend a lot of time when they meet staring dumbly at each other with very little to say. Neither dares ask how the other is doing. Both know the answer would be long and terrible: the rash is spreading, a couple of new parasites picked up, kicked by a drunken kid on the sidewalk — so hard you can’t hear out of that one ear. It’s always tempting, of course, because crack smokers have so few opportunities for conversation. But they usually refrain out of respect for their old acquaintance. Think of it as mutually assured destruction. Both parties know that listing their miseries would take the better part of the day and completely obliterate the other’s spirit.

Pleasantries are not exchanged. Neither party has any of those to give. And, if they did have one, they sure as hell wouldn’t trade it away.

That’s why reunions between old crack-smoking friends are often brief. Anything they say to each other will only add to the world of misery they already carry. Usually, they’ll just share a street-savvy tip — “Stay away from Gord’s tent. He’s getting paranoid and violent. Maybe they’ll also exchange notes on which dealer has the best dope at the moment, before parting ways.

There’s a third kind of reunion that has a much more profound impact. It happens when an ex-crack smoker bumps into someone they used to smoke crack with on the street.

It happened to me the other day. Her name is Sabrina. She used to be a writer. The rent hasn’t been paid on her apartment in a long time, but at least she’s got a place to sleep. She wraps each of her old comic books in plastic to keep the cockroaches out. Someday, she’s always telling people, they will be worth something. Her collection is the only thing she hasn’t sold yet for dope. Even her body went first.

I ran into her on a downtown street.

“You look great,” she said. And I believed her, only because the last time she saw me, it would be impossible to imagine going anywhere but up from there. Or dead.

“How long have you been clean?” she asked.

“About a year and a half,” I said, with as little enthusiasm as I could possibly muster. I’m careful not to come off as a Mormon, preaching the gospel of recovery to addicts. No one wants to be saved by some grinning, true-believing, 12-step zealot.

Crack smokers and ex-crack smokers get to follow some of the script normal people use.

“How’s everything going?” I asked, making sure I didn’t have to be anywhere for a while.

But Sabrina kept it mercifully short.

“You know, I’m still going to NA meetings. And I’m still fucking up.”

“I get it,” I said. Really.

“Lacey’s gone. She smoked something off the sidewalk.”

“Oh.”

“James died too.”

“Fat James? I asked. “Or Skinny James?”

“Black James.”

“Oh,” I replied. “He was my favorite James.”

“Mad Dog got evicted,” Sabrina added.

“Oh. That sucks. I hope she’s okay. And the cat. I love that cat!”

“Bella!” she exclaimed, laughing. “The best!”

She didn’t ask for it. But I gave her a little bit of my very little bit of money. She’d use it to buy a rock, and that’s what I’d have done too. The gift of numbness can be just as kind as a sandwich.

After we hugged, she faded down the sidewalk, her squeaking stroller, brimming with things we’ll always be too young to understand.

I wonder if we’ll have another reunion. Or maybe if the next crack smoker I bump into will tell me she’s been added to the list. Either way, this is probably the last day of our acquaintance.

It’s like that every time an ex-crack smoker runs into a crack smoker. Not a lot is said. But a great deal is conveyed. The addict is a reminder of what life used to be like.

The ex-addict is a reminder of what it can still be like — that it’s never truly too late to change course.