syringe on the sidewalk

There is was. Like a casually tossed, barely burned cigarette. A syringe. I’ve known enough diabetics   people with deadly allergies to recognize an Epipen, those oddly oversized adrenaline injectors that look like huge, novelty ballpoints. This wasn’t one of those. No, this was a regular syringe. Like a medical professional uses to give you a flu shot.

Or a heroin addict uses to shoot up.

Considering where I saw it, this second possibility was intriguing to say the least.

Like many UM readers I’m sure, I work in a corporate office park. Sprawling, perfectly manicured multi-million dollar estates of suburban normalcy. Several smaller corporate ‘campuses’ of 4-5 story workplaces connected by a meandering ribbon of concrete. Usually, bordered by a golf course.

On this particular Wednesday, an unseasonably warm 61 degree afternoon found me spending lunch walking the path. The syringe lay in the shadows cast across a picturesque bridge spanning a small lake. There are no medical offices or labs of any kind in the vicinity. Having walked the path dozens of times before, I knew passersby were rare; solo office drones like myself out for a breath of fresh (or nicotine infused) air.

Seeing it immediately made me think of two Westword articles I quite enjoyed. The first, “72 Hour Party People“, was about the rising use of “Shabu” methamphetamine amongst the upper middle class. The second story, “The Chiva Game” focused on black tar heroin’s invasion of downtown Denver and the wide range of customers the dealers interviewed described.

Two very different drugs, one common theme: educated, wealthy corporate types using.

I’ve always been fascinated by dichotomy and vice. People are never quite what they seem, and everyone has their fixes (chocolate? pornography? crystal meth?). Most people go to great lengths to keep them hidden. This particular person wasn’t.

I like to imagine him as a higher ranking director somewhere. Someone whose secretary advised callers ’stepped out for a minute’. Someone whose afternoon included a board meeting and a huge presentation. A portrait of responsibility whose eyes rolled back as the rush flooded his bloodstream. Someone whose role, for a moment, in the corporate machinery was forgotten.

He’s the type of guy David Lynch or Quentin Tarantino might dramatize on film. An infinitely more interesting character than the pious teetotaler from marketing who insists ‘indulgence’ involves whole milk with their Starbucks order. Someone with stories.. their own philosophy.

I hope I work with him. I hope I can figure out who he is.