By Ethan Holfeld

WHO AM I? The concept of ‘time’ when the clock ticks, and ticks, and ticks, and ticks, controlling the schedule that keeps boundaries for everyone’s life, was lost somewhere in the foggy night. An abandoned house left unchecked for years on the corner of 16th and 4th street with vines wrapping and weaving around the homestead like boa constrictors suffocating their prey was where I spent most of my time. Most houses in the area were similar. Everywhere you walked you had to be careful not to step on glass from the broken windows mockingly lining the street, staring at you and saying; 

‘What a dump this neighbourhood is.’ 

I didn’t know if those windows were really mocking me or if I was on another level of high, like Seth Rogan from Pineapple Express kind of high. Flicking the lighter on with the sparks shooting through the smoky air like fireflies drifting through the breeze used to light the natural-smelling herbs that I inhaled with a slow-drawn ‘hit’ down my chalky throat, gave me the feeling of being out of my own skin.

Every morning I wake up somewhere new. Some nights I am slumped on my friend’s couch in his musty living room, waiting to be awakened by his mother barking at me, “Why are you over here again?” Some nights I am back at ‘home,’ curled up and squished beside the warm heater. The ice-cold frost swarming every square inch of the street from the lamp posts to the rusted cars made north-west Baltimore feel like a frozen tundra. The dark and frigid season further clouded my vision and more blocked off than ever before, with no hope of ever seeing a potential gleaming future. 

The former resident of the house on the corner of 16th and 4th, a factory worker, had died from an overdose of white lightning, better known as bath salts. The air was musty and riddled with smoke from all the people like me, appearing, disappearing, and reappearing like ghosts. Every day, I saw the same types of people around the house in big puffy coats, hiding their skeletal frame, and beaten down pants with black burn holes all over like a dirty dalmatian below their coats, and snapback hats primarily with the Ravens logo giving them a sense of belonging or attachment to something that won’t leave or die. I wasn’t much different; I was like them.

Where I come from, not many people go to school, especially the boys. The boys want to go to school and potentially go to college if possible, but they can’t. They see the hungry faces of their moms, dads, or siblings like hyenas when they don’t eat for days. So boys work instead, whether that is working at a grocery store or selling anything they can get their dirty hands on. Most of the girls go to school, as they have nothing better to do. It is definitely safer for them to go to school than to hang out in the neighbourhood. I don’t go to school. I don’t work. Instead, I spend my time with my friends: weed, molly, white lightning, ecstasy, and whoever else is bumming around that day. 

Every day I spent my time by the house on the corner of 16th and 4th street, even in the winter abyss, huddled around a crackling fire watching her door. My eyes were glued to the door waiting for her to appear and head off to school. When she came out on the doorstep, my heart would leap. Her wavy hair was like water washing up on a beach not minding the cold and her cheerful smile showing when she said goodbye to her mother. I imagine under the endless layers of clothing keeping herself warm from the cold, sharp wind was a smooth and flawless figure. I walked to the edge of the sidewalk with my toes floating over the street, balancing on my heels to not embarrassingly tip over onto the road, and gazing at her as she walked down the street one foot in front of the other walking at a fast pace as if she just stole something but didn’t want to look too suspicious by running. I had never spoken to her, and her name was still unknown to me.

Her image preoccupied me wherever I went and whatever I took. 

One morning as the sun shone bright, she appeared on her doorstep, which was odd as it was the weekend. She didn’t have school. She was wearing tight blue jeans which wrapped her legs and bottom beautifully. I was sitting on the steps of the house on the corner of 16th and 4th street, taking in the crystal blue sky where the glimmer from the sun reflected off the deep sheeted ice on the pavement. The girl did not make a right and headed down her usual path; instead, she made a direct path to me. As she was walking towards me, my hands were getting clammy, my legs felt stiff and weak, and my heart raced as if I was overdosing. She stopped at the bottom step so close I could touch her. She was standing upright with her hands in her jacket pockets.

‘I see that you’re always hanging around here and staring at me when I walk to school. How about we chill sometime soon?’ she suggested. 

I was stunned. Like are you kidding me? This girl who I have been fantasizing and obsessing over wants to chill with me? Me? I tried to get the courage to raise my voice and sound excited but mellow at the same time, to act ‘chill’. As I opened my mouth, nothing came out. No words. No sounds. No thoughts. Nothing. I couldn’t speak to this stunning girl. Finally, after about 20 seconds of me trying to find the word ‘sure’ in my vocabulary, I was able to spit it out.

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘So when are you free?’ she insisted.

‘I’m free tonight.’ my mind still racing. ‘Do you bowl?’ I wondered.

‘I do,’ she cheerfully said.

‘I know a great place near the corner of 13th and 6th street,’ I replied.

‘Sure, that sounds great! I’ll see you at my place around 7 o’clock’ she proposed.

As I finished talking to the girl, a middle-aged man walked by me with confusion and concern in his dark eyes, looking at me as if I was Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. 

What innumerable thoughts chattered in my head during that day. The day went by so slowly, time dragging until the clock struck 7. It felt as if I had seen the world age a thousand generations from the morning when we had our first conversation to now. She was fortunate enough to use her parent’s car that evening. We drove to the bowling alley. Her name was Ashley.

Two weeks had passed, and Ashley and I were enjoying time together whenever we could hangout. The only time we couldn’t was when she was at school. When I was with her, she gave me warmth and comfort as if I was being cuddled by a massive, fluffy teddy bear. I started spending less time by the house on the corner of 16th and 4th street and began to see the gleaming lights of Baltimore. She gave me a feeling that I never had before. It was indescribable. 

One day Ashley was at school, so I decided to head over to the house on the corner of 16th and 4th street and chill with my friends. Although I got introduced to these friends from a different guy, I was sure they were still cool. I opened the pack, poured out a small white pill, one of my best friends that gave me a feeling similar to when I was with Ashley. I launched it into my scratchy throat and swallowed it. I felt my body shaking like an earthquake, my bones vibrating like tracks waiting for the approaching train, my brain getting lighter and lighter and lighter and ligtehruil…….

I woke up with a light shining in my eyes, sitting on a bed that felt like a cloud, and surrounded by a bunch of people dressed in gowns. One of the people in a gown walked up to me, checked the vials and screen display beside my bed and asked me if I remembered anything from last night.

‘I was at the house on the corner of 16th and 4th street, waiting for my girlfriend to get home from school,’ I responded.

‘We found fentanyl in your system, and you’re lucky to be alive,’ he replied.

I guess my new friends weren’t entirely safe after all. I checked my phone assuming that Ashley has been worried about me. By calling or texting me. To my surprise, there was nothing. Nothing at all. I decided to call her and let her know what happened. I was feeling awful about what I must have put her through. Dialling the numbers felt foreign to my fingertips. She picked up the phone. I was relieved to hear her voice. I explained everything. 

‘I’m sorry to hear, but I think you have the wrong number,’ she cooly said.

It was as if she didn’t know it was me. It was as if we weren’t real.

From that day on, I vowed no matter what to never end up like my dad, my dad who was the owner of the house at the corner of 16th and 4th street. WHO AM I?