He had no compassion for crackheads, no feelings for dope fiends, but through life on the bitter harsh network of streets on Galveston, Forrester and Wheeler, he knew them suckers well, knew them well because he was once part of the gang.
By age 20, Jeff was buying and selling crack on the dark and dungy streets of Atlantic and Third, on the back alleys of South Capitol and Martin Luther King, in the stairwell of Frederick Douglas on Alabama -- some of the worst housing projects this nation has ever seen.
And he smoked it too. Smoked it constantly as if every single toke was going to be his very last. Every waking minute he thought about the intensity of the high. The excitement and euphoria and how it made him feel on top of the world and the depression and irritability afterwards which was easily wiped away by inhaling more vapor, more crack.
Fortunately, he was clean now. The sleepiness, the paranoia was long gone. The all night crack binge where you would smoke until all your resources were gone, then you would find a way to appropriate more resources that could be bartered for more crack. Whether you would break into people's cars and steal the loose change from the glove compartment or steal copper wiring and plumbing to buy another bag – all this and more was now a distant and forlorn memory of the past, just like the memories of Anacostia was fading away and dissipating.
For Jeff today could claim victory—no crack, no booze, no crime-- proud to claim that he is now a recovering addict going on for 8 years plus and counting. Never to look back again at the dark and dungy streets of crack cocaine.
But the sad truth of crack/cocaine was the bitter toll of what 15 years of continual drug use had taken on his mind and body. Jeff had used PCP so much, that it destroyed his brain cells. From time to time, he couldn’t remember things, events, that his daughters would mention. Even his parents, both in their 70’s now, seemed to have a better memory than Jeff.
But there was one thing that Jeff was extremely sharp and proficient --and that was in the business of home improvement, particularly plumbing and piping.
Then there was the incarceration at Hagerstown for five years. He shaped up in prison and was eligible for early parole in three years, but his early freedom was taken away and he served another two because he was caught right in the middle of a nasty prison riot—or more like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Hagerstown Correctional Facility, MD
In the early 80s, Jeff for the most part used and sold PCP, was just a boozer and smoked weed after work. But he did not use crack until a girlfriend got him started one long night in her house.
But even when he was in High School in Maryland, Jeff knew that he would be smoking crack one day. People all around him did it. It was the natural thing to do as if he was ordained to smoke. So when an opportunity roared its ugly head in the form of a curvy, full-figured women, he got totally onboard for a very long cruise.
Patricia Davis was smoking crack, chasing the dragon and flying high like a kite over the Washington Monument and above tall buildings in Manhattan.
Jeff, only 18 and making money hand over fist selling PCP wasn’t interested in trying out a new drug. Tonight he just wanted to be with his girl and hopefully he might even get lucky.
He tried to kiss her. She refused at first. Then she succumed putting down her pipe and giving him a huge lip lock, blowing a lungful of smoke down his throat.
Jeff dropped to the floor. He coughed so loud then his mind starting spinning. He had inhaled the vapor so quickly, that he began to choke uncontrollably.
“No, not like that,” she said. “Like this,” she showed him as she took a long toke of the glass pipe with the rock placed at the end. She inhaled the smoke deeply and methodically. It flowed in gently and smoothly like textured silk.
Then Jeff tried it and within a mere seconds the crack entered his bloodstream and rushed up into his brain, making him feel like he was on top of the world. “This is fantastic,” Jeff said. The rest was history.
He was strong, zestful and was just 18. He had money at his disposal because he bought and sold. But PCP was not as addictive, was not as powerful and came nowhere near the damage that crack cocaine would do.
He started using it right away, and before he even realized it, had become his Lord. He got addicted right away and it got progressively worse and worse.
When Jeff started using, he worked at the local Pizza Hut on Oxon Hill Drive. The job was decent—not backbreaking--but the pay did not make ends meet, and he usually blew his entire week’s earnings within a few days, not on food, clothing or other necessities. But to satisfy his habit – his new habit. That left him the whole entire week flat broke and without pay.
But as an enterprising businessman, Jeff found a way to buy drugs on credit. He would buy crack with a promise to pay.
But he couldn’t last until payday. He would already be suffering from withdrawal, and then would blow all his money in a matter of days.
It was then, that the collectors started looking for him. Came out with a vengence on payday. The dealers would visit the Pizza Hut store, not looking for a meal but for a pay up, interest included. “Not here,” his coworker would say. He left work an hour ago.” Meanwhile, Jeff would still be at work, but in the back breakroom hiding, closely listening to footsteps or to signs from his coworkers that it was all clear.
The dealers would patrol the streets of MLK and look up and down the back alleys. Sometimes, they would drive through the alleys, with the high beams turned on looking for any signs of Jeff, interrogating even the winos on the corner of MLK and Mellon if there were any signs of him passing.
But Jeff was good at hiding. Perhaps it was his sneakiness. Cunning like a fox. Bent to the ancient of business of survivial. He had the stamina and the instinct to keep on keeping on.
“Look, I know my checkered past makes you very uncomfortable, but don’t worry about it you hear.” “You don’t have to worry about a thing Man. I gotcha covered.”
For all things, Jeff was an entrepreneur.
Jeff also found a way to make pizzas and deliver them for crack. He would make about 5 or 6 pizzas and sell them for $10-$20 worth of crack.
But crack wasn’t the only thing, Jeff was after. Some times, he would even sell pizza for a lapdance from a showgirl working in Clancy’s on Alabama and Good Hope or for something more in a back alley by South Capitol or Savannah Street.
These were the things he enjoyed, the things he lusted for. But nothing was ever close to the satisfaction he got and the desire for more crack.
Before crack hit the town with a vengeance, there was PCP – a sedative -- which the users colloquially called dope.
Dope was a downer. Only big time druggies used it and it was controlled. Unlike crack, an addict knew when to stop. Usually $20 was enough to get a guy high. Any more and you would start to hallucinate and have seizures and could find yourself in an emergency room due to overdose.
Cocaine was also a powerful stimulant that was sold and used in that neighborhood. The buzz created a sense of well being and users felt strong and invisible and wiped out any fear they had of the cops. Now all things seem possible, even things that are superhuman. But the high lasts as little as 10 minutes. Crack users find themselves chasing this high by repeating again and again until it ravages out of control. It is a vicious cycle that just eats you away.
Here is a video posted by Alexis on her channel: Trashwire from the corner of 7th and E Streets, NW, Washington DC.
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