The Mayor of Crackville

Crack Lives Matter.

“If ever tears and pleadings have served the weak to fight the strong, let them do so now!”
― Thomas Hardy, The Mayor of Casterbridge

Are you on crack?

How I loathed that question. Especially when it came from a close friend. Of course, it checked out. I’d often run out of the house with mismatched socks or the most bizarre color clashes, deeply wrinkled shirts, random stains — and what is up with those socks?

Wearing pants backward would come later.

The thing is my friend had no idea that I was, in fact, on crack.

Still, it didn’t keep me from bristling at what she considered a light-hearted jab.

And you know what I despised even more? ‘Crackhead’. I was forever explaining to friends and family who used it casually that it really was a terrible slur. Hurtful. Degrading. Dehumanizing. Of course, no one was at all suspicious of why I was suddenly so sensitive to the term.

I started taking these issues seriously, fancying myself a champion for crack smoker’s rights. After all, if I didn’t do it, who would? There’s no Crack Lives Matter Movement. No one converges on City Hall to demand dignity for these lowest of addicts. And don’t get me started on police brutality. I’ve seen the liberties cops take with crack smokers firsthand. Their reputation as random, unpredictable subhumans has so permeated society, they’re basically the new young person of color in a hoodie.

Cops could get away with any ridiculous narrative — he pulled a knife! — to excuse their own villainy. Crack smokers were the punching bags of society — and particularly of frustrated law enforcement.

Besides, I seemed divinely ordained for the task. Have you ever heard of a ‘daywalker’? That’s a kind of vampire that doesn't fear daylight.

Well, that must have been me — a crack smoker who could blend seamlessly into the worlds of Gonzo and Normal. I really did start talking up the movement at various drug dens — ‘we need to organize!’ — to great curiosity, mild amusement and scant encouragement.

Someday, maybe they’d even build a statue of me in the downtown square. The Mayor of Crackville!

It turns out everyone was right. I was indeed on crack.

You see, my addiction didn’t soften my ego, but rather inflated it to monumental proportions. I was a crack-smoking human cocktail of delusion, self-importance and boundless Narcissism.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much of a chance to rally the denizens of the local dens before unforeseen events forced me to surrender my Daywalker’s Membership Card.

First, there was the aforementioned incident with the backwards pants — which I managed to, literally, take in stride.

Then there was the incident at the donut shop. It was late and I was buying a round of sugary beverages for friends at the drive-through. I was pretty high. My passengers were constantly interrupting — “And a rainbow sprinkle.. No! Apple fritter! Do they have smoothies?” Still, I managed to distil the chaos into a coherent order with my customary aplomb.

In our brief time over the radio, the drive-through person and I developed a comfortable rapport.

“Oh, and also a Strawberry Shortcake Creamy Ch—”

“Sir,” she interrupted. “Would you mind coming inside the store for this order? We’re a little short-staffed today and quite bus—”

“Of course, of course!” I replied. How rude of me. There were quite a few cars lined up behind me.

So, I parked the car and stepped into the building. The lone employee was there behind the counter, looking flustered and a little overwhelmed. Poor thing.

When she saw me, the professional twinkle in her eye evaporated. It was like a switch.

“We’re closed, sir.,” she says, her face in shut-down mode.

“But we were just talking at the drive-through. You asked me to come inside.”

“We’re closed, sir.”

She was looking particularly anxious. Like, maybe call-for-help anxious. Did I really look that crack-y?

At first, I was indignant: “This is discrimina — oh, fuck it.”

The incident at the donut shop rattled me. Had I really lost my touch with the Normals?

Not long after that, it became pretty obvious. My family moved out. My dog too. I was left alone. Just me and my shadow.

My mayoral ambitions faded into the night too. Trouble blending with Normals was too terminal.

I was getting called a crackhead much too often to convince myself otherwise. Still, I'm pretty sure I was the last person in the world to realize that I was, in fact, one.

So I fell into the more traditional behaviours of my kind — slinking from dusk to dusk, avoiding the light of day as best I could.

It wasn’t until I surrendered my Crack Smoker’s Card too — and entered a recovery program — that I was able to see my old self a little more clearly.

As an addict, I was insufferable. My habit had probably exaggerated qualities that I already had in abundance.

A funny thing happened, though, while I was gleefully trying to murder my own ego. I got my Daywalker Membership Card back.

This time, I read the terms of membership on the back. A daywalker isn’t someone who pretends to straddle two worlds — that person will always fall into the cracks between. A daywalker is a savior to no one but himself.

Indeed, I know who I am — and who I’ve been. That grants me the best kind of duality: an understanding of both worlds. And that’s left me with a compassion for addicts that I likely would never have known if not for walking in those shoes.

But it’s quiet compassion. The best kind.

Today, you won't find me preaching the Gospel of Recovery to addicts at the local encampment — like some Mormon yammering on about how good things are on Team Jesus.

But you might find me sharing a smoke and a couple of stories. And you definitely won't hear me using that other word that starts with a ‘C’.