The way he held his body, the way droplets of sweat drizzled down his pale skin, told me how uncomfortable he was. Like an animal trying to hide how vulnerable it is, he held himself as still as possible. Utter immobility and flinching seemed to be his default settings.
Okay, I thought. I’m a librarian. I’ve got this.
I took my phone out, determined to find him a place where he could be safe for the night.
“Can I ask you something?” I scrolled through help lines that were little more than adverts for pricey and probably ineffective rehab centers.
“Do I have to answer?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Go on.” He splayed his hands on the table as though he might need to leap up and run.
“Do you have some kind of plan in mind for keeping yourself safe tonight?”
He shook his head. “Nobody’s going to take me like this.”
“That remains to be seen. If I can find you a bed somewhere safe, would you let me take you there?”
He eyed me critically. “Depends.”
“On what?” He didn’t look like he’d answer, but I had nothing to lose. “You overdosed today. Has that ever happened to you before?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I take it you’ve been using for a while?”
“Not... not this. Not injecting. That was… a mistake.”
“You checked yourself out AMA?”
“I’m strung out and uninsured. I don’t want to talk to shrinks or read pamphlets about twelve-step programs. My ‘higher power’ is obviously off the clock.”
“Twelve step isn’t the only game in town. Answer me this: Do you want to continue using?”
He sneered. “Is that a trick question?”
“No, I want an honest answer. Either way, you can figure out a safer plan. I might be able to help.”
“How could you help?” he asked.
My turn to frown. “Call it a hunch, but I doubt you want today’s events to reoccur.”
“Not really.”
“Thuong—”
“Why the fuck do you call me that? What did I say when I was coming around?”
“Nothing. As soon as the cops and EMTs showed up, they shoved me aside.”
“And?”
“You have a fake ID in the name Christopher Beckett. They called you that in the hospital.
His eyes widened.
“I didn’t correct them or anything.”
He tensed. “You call me Thuong.”
“Because it’s your name.”
He sat back with a thud. “Tug. No one calls me Thuong anymore.”
“Okay. I should call you Tug?” He nodded. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t want to use.” It shouldn’t have been so hard to look into his eyes, but it was. I hated the suffering painted there. “But I probably won’t ever stop.”
I took my time before replying. It helped that the waitress who came over brought coffee. The mug gave me something to hold. It kept my hands from trembling noticeably.
I’d done a small amount of crisis training when I got the Narcan. Behavioral health was my cousin Echo’s specialty, and she made me go over ways to talk to people having substance abuse issues. She’d expect me to begin a dialogue with Tug about whether he wanted help. But if I said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing—even if I failed to school my features perfectly—I could drive Tug away and into God knew what.
I ordered oatmeal and asked for chocolate milk for Tug.
“Hold on. Just ice water please,” he told her with a visible wince. “Nothing from a cow. Christ.”
After the waitress left, I turned back to see he’d picked up his napkin to use as a makeshift tissue.
“Here.” I pulled a travel pack of Kleenex from my belt bag and slid them to him. “If you’re going to keep using, look into harm reduction. Local needle exchange programs, for example, reduce the risk of blood borne illnesses. Test strips can detect fentanyl. If you’re going to use—”
“Wow. You’re a fountain of information,” he placed his hands on the table in preparation to stand.
“Wait. I’m not, but I can put you in touch with someone who is. She can help you, whatever you want to do. That’s her job. She works with Community Behavioral Health Services at the San Francisco Department of Health.”
He tilted his head in a calculating fashion. “Why don’t you just put me up until the worst passes?”
“That’s not possible.”
No way would Tug get near my place, or my parents, for that matter. They were soft touches—just naive enough to let him move in, whereas I didn’t trust addicts. I had compassion for them, but I would never let one close. The warning was right there in the DSM-5. People with substance use disorder will continue to use in spite of negative physical and emotional outcomes, meaning they don’t mind destroying relationships. They stole, lied, cheated—even killed family and other loved ones—to get what they needed.
“Will you talk to someone I know if I can get her on the phone?”
He didn’t move or speak. I wasn’t sure he could if he’d wanted to. I’d seen this before. People, stuck in a mess, who freeze while they consider all the ways everything can go wrong.
Instead of waiting for a reply, I called Echo for him.
“Hey, Captain Oblivious,” she answered. “It’s late, and some of us have lives.”
“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Make it up to Gayle. She’s the one who’s doing all the work.”
I winced. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“Hey, cuz.” Gayle’s shout was muffled. I pictured her crawling out from beneath the bed linens. God, I had the world’s worst timing.
“I have a guy named Tug here who needs answers.”
“Right now? Could this possibly wait until morning?”
“Special case. He OD’d in my library this afternoon. He’s pretty sick and very stuck right now. Night has fallen. I don’t know what to do.”
I let Tug hear every word. It would have been worse to let him think I’d talk behind his back.
“Figured I’d ask for help,” I said, “given the eight principles of—”
“I get it. Is he willing to talk to me?”
“Let me ask.” I held the phone out. “Are you willing to talk to my cousin Echo? She’s going to be nonjudgmental and noncoercive in helping you find the services you need. She will preserve your autonomy and your dignity. Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. The way he stared at the phone—as if he didn’t trust the instrument or the person on the other end—made the nerves in my fingers tingle. After some hesitation, Tug took the phone and the candy and headed for the parking lot.
I had a moment of real worry for my phone, but he sat on one of the planters under a security light where I could see him.
They talked while I ate oatmeal. I was going to need the coffee if I had to drive him somewhere. Beds were in short supply for the uninsured, good nonprofit programs notoriously difficult to get into.
Outside of a city like San Francisco, whose progressive social programs could be funded by the many major corporations that also spawned its biggest social problems, there was little chance of helping him out right away.