It was the late 80's, and I was in a bad way as usual. I was in the habit of hanging out in Balboa park for nefarious reasons, and had a few scams to get me by. The last week had been a bad one for me. They were all bad, but I discovered two friends of mine, as real of freinds as one could have under the circumstances of drug addiction, had come down with Aids. In those days, it was a death sentence, especially if you didn't have the money for the newest class of drugs on the market. In those days, there was no compassion for people afflicted; you were either gay or a junkie, or both, and most people just didn't give a fuck whether a person in those categories lived or died. Some cheered for their deaths. Now, I wasn't born gay or a junkie, but did work my way into it ( the junkie part) and I didn't feel like a bad person who needed to die. I had freinds who were obviously gay and born that way- how could someone wish them to die? It wasn't their fault, and others needed medical care for thier drug addiction, and many wished them dead, as they had "brought it on themselves". Such was the attitude of the day.
I was shooting dope in a hotel room with a friend of mine when, as we loaded our hits, he began to cry softly. He was a hard man, and not in the habit of breaking down publicly.I asked him what the problem was, and he said " I got it man, I'm positive. I got the aids". What a bummer. he said "I'll be dead soon, my t cell count is real low". I didn't know what to say. I liked this guy- if it weren't for the drugs, we both would have been decent human beings. Of course, I immediately took my rig and marked it, got my own water and spoon. I didn't want to treat him like a leper, but he saw what I was feeling, he said, "it's OK bro, I don't want you to get sick". You don't have to share rigs, if you rinse your works in the same glass of water, your done. High as I was, I didn't want to make a mistake. Then later that week another friend anounced he was sick as well. Why all the good guys? Why not some of these other no-good, ripoff pieces of shit? Where was God? Why didn't he punish those more guilty? These questions wieghed heavily on my mind as I roamed to and fro in search of more drugs to ruin myself with. Then as the weekend approached, I saw a dude I used to know, but he had dissapeared. I barely recognized him as he shuffled by, disheveled and pushing a shopping cart full of trash, muttering incoherently. Last time I saw him, he was not in this condition. I spoke to him, but he did not answer, at least in an intelligible way. What happened? The answer came, as an aquaintence told me he caught aids, and came down with toxo. Toxpoplasmosis is a sort of parasitic infestation of the brain that causes dementia- it's common, but people with weakened immune systems can't shrug it off. That was it for me, I fell into a dispare- all my friends were dying, and I was undoubtedly on the reapers gathering list of pathetic losers who would soon be purchasing a ride across the river styx. I did not have the courage to test myself, but I redoubled my attempts to not infect myself. I even tried to get clean, but beds in rehab were for the wealthy. Beds were always available in jail for me, though. Apparently, the legislators making these assinine drug policies never considered that if I didn't stay clean, I might have sex with one of thier daughters, and bring the misery to their home, then thier policies would come home to roost.
But anyways, I was currently involved in my latest scam: Parking boxes. I would walk up from downtown on 4th or 5th street, with a pair of hemostats. I would approach a parking box and shine a light quickly into the area where the dollar bills go. I previously cut off the chain and poker that people use to stuff the dollars all the way in, so there was always a couple that were slightly sticking out. Then I used the hemos to remove them. I walked up to hillcrest, couple miles, 2 or 3 i guess, repeating the process. When I got to the top of the hill, if I had over $20, i would spend it on beer if I was thirsty. then I would walk back towards downtown, picking up the money (which I stashed away from the box in case of a bust, I would not have torn dollar bills on me). This particular night I had been up for days, it was about 3 AM. I was hallucinating a bit as one does from lack of sleep, basically amphetamine psychosis. I was feeling really down, and very mortal. As I passed Balboa park ( I had gotten a ride from someone) I witnessed the most horrible vision- I thought I had really lost it. I look out into the grassy area of the park and I saw thousands of gravestones, floating through the fog that hung low on the ground. I knew right then and there I was done for. It was the most haunting, spooky feeling I have ever had. I was already dead, just a Ghost in the Ruins.
I went downtown, scored, got high and in the morning walked back up to the park to face my fate, another score, or my doom, I didn't know which. I got to the park in the morning, and I have never been more relieved about anything as I was when I witnessed this: Thousands of gravestones! They were real! Not a figment of my imagination or some sort of prophesy. They were made of paper, each inscribed with the name of someone who had recently died of aids. They were put there as a temporary monument. What a wake up call for me. I still havn't figured out where God was, whether he was watching me, helping or damning, I don't know. I like to think he was with me, but truth is, I don't know, can't know, cos I'm just human. Better human than a Ghost in the Ruins.