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*I wonder if I’ll make it to heaven. I live a good life. I don’t do anything thatwould constitute a terrible sin. At least, I wouldn’t think so.The urge to ask the man next to me his opinion takes me, however. As I look athim, he appears busy using his ATM card to pick his teeth. The card slips in-between thegaps removing old food particles that were probably hidden for days. This is somethinghe’s done in front of other people before, or at home in his spare time. The ATM card’sedges are worn away nubs, and he makes a satisfied expression as he seems to re-enjoysome of his findings.There are lots of things one can think about while waiting for a bus. It’s the freetime public transportation gives us. Currently my lungs are working to separate theoxygen from the rest of the guck in the air we breathe. Red blood cells, being the littlesponges they are, are low in oxygen so they happily absorb it from the lungs, then theyget to spend a few seconds with their coveted oxygen as they transport it to the muscle,around and around and around the body until they die. As I wait for the bus, I have plenty of time to reflect on the last year of my life and how it’s led me to this life that Ihave now. It all happened in a flash. I went from being in college and paying my tuition back, to renting an apartment and making pills to sell to people with incurable diseases.An any ol’ day argument with my now ex-girlfriend got me expelled. She’d toldcampus officials that I’d been selling drugs to students. In truth, I had been selling fakeoxycontin to classmates. Harmless. They paid 10 bucks a pill, and I paid my tuition.They were willing to believe it had an effect on them, and to pay for that effect over andover again.1
 
Of course, this didn’t sound like a believable story. Working against me was the fact thatone of the guys I had sold to decided to put ecstasy in one of my empty plastic bottles aswell. So a bunch of guys and I got expelled because of an argument, which for the life of me, I can’t even remember.I managed to avoid going to jail, but with no students to buy pills, I couldn’t finda way to pay bills, or the other debts I suddenly seem to have acquired. Sometimes people will say their life is falling apart. My life
actually
fell apart. Until I found myniche, my one shot at survival was the same thing that got me in this mess. I turned myattention toward the only people who were willing to try medication without caring aboutits legitimacy. My target demographic is the people who want to prolong their lives. Notto start all over again, but to continue messing up the same way they’d been doing to getthemselves in their current situations. I can justify ripping
those
people off.The lung cancer victim that continues to smoke in public, knowing they areexposing others to the same cancer that festers inside them.This is only for those people who have no regard for the well being of another human’s life. The person who despite having a positive HIV test continues to goclubbing for casual hook-ups and doesn’t warn others what can happen if they haveunprotected sex. The junky that needs a fix more than a solution, the person that willdestroy family and friends, so they don’t have to give up the chase of whatever invisiblemonster they might be after this week. I decided to meet these people. Not the ones whoare trying, that know what they’ve done, accepted it, and won’t let themselves hurt othersor make the same mistake. Unfortunately for humanity, but fortunately for me, I have no problem finding large amounts of people with weak morals.2
 
I discovered that my old way of life has to be my only way of life. Fixing peoplewith problems. People in need of hope. People who would continue to ruin their lives if they thought they had another shot. Finding people like that was relatively easy. I did itthe same way people do for garage sales, or to find their lost dog or cat. I put up fliers. I put mine up discreetly next to posters of some rapper with gold teeth trying with all of themight in his sold-out-soul to look intimidating. Next to the hand-drawn second comingof Christ warnings. My sign is a small piece of paper with a telephone number. Not mynumber. Just a number I can use. It changes week to week. Restaurants, hotel lobbies,coffee shops. I write on my little fliers a message to the desperate.The flier I put up reads,“AIDS???”Or whatever I’m curing that day, followed by the number I’m using.“Call Monday 2-5 p.m. ask for…” The name always changes, and it’s never actually my name, just a name.The flyer’s biggest selling point is the end, which reads:“there’s hope.”All lower case. When I look at it, I even consider calling the number myself.I target predominantly gay neighborhoods, African American neighborhoods, andupper-class neighborhoods. I never put up flyers in Asian or Mexican neighborhoods.Seems like they are immune. You rarely hear of Asians or Latinos dying of AIDS.Sadly, I have since learned that homosexual Hispanics make up 22% of the HIV population in America. Yet their fear of deportation silences them from getting help.3
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duponthumanite

At first I thought the man in the story was a drug dealer or drug addict. And good to see the revisions as well.

reply04 / 27 / 2010
Derek

Thank you very much for looking at it.

04 / 27 / 2010
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