THE HOBO: Black Fields is asked
“What led you to drugs?” 

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Previously, we met Black Fields as he panhandled. The woman, Harriet, whose attention he had caught, seemed genuinely interested in helping him and said she would return regularly to where they met and check on Fields. This is one of their next encounters…

“So let me ask you a question. You don’t have to answer, but if you do, don’t lie because you’ll only be lying to yourself.”  

Harriet gave him a moment for that to register, then she asked, “How long you been getting high?” 

“Huh?” he exhaled.  Black was caught off guard by her directness. For a moment his mind went blank and he was speechless. The only response he could come up with was, “What makes you think I get high?”  

“Young man–I don’t mean no harm, but look at you,” she said, waving her arm as if she were giving him a display of the surrounding scenery. Then she smiled, “When I was in treatment, we used to say…Man, he greasy as a pork chop.” 

Then she stepped closer to him and they locked eyes, “You are far from mentally ill son. So what’s your deal?” 

Once again, Harriet had him cornered. He gravely wished that something would suddenly pull her away from him so that he could elude her interrogation. Then, something inside him said, ‘What you got to be afraid of?’  

“It’s a long story, but the abridged version is that the crew I was hanging with in college got into a beef with some guys from New York, I got stabbed, and I just couldn’t keep my mind on studies. I’m blessed to be here though. The same guys rushed the dorm and shot my man Gerard in the head…”  

Twenty-five years later he still got choked up at the mention of his dorm-mate.  

“He was always cool, calm, and collected. We on the other hand were rowdy-rowdy. We were from D.C., listened to go-go music, wore Polo, and had something to prove,” Black said. “Gerard didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, talked about world peace and Black pride, and was the only person that the wayward group interacted with that was in school to get an actual education, and not down there to escape their demons.”  

The course of events would forever remain etched into his memory.  

It was college night at this skating rink in Richmond- Broad Street to be exact. Gerard was in his room studying when Black and the others got into a fight with the crew from New York over some girls from Richmond, who they had never seen before and never would again.  

Gerard had nothing to do with that beef, or the numerous others his acquaintances had caused. He would tag along with them from time to time because they all were from the same hometown. That’s about the only thing he had in common with them. 

Black looked off into the horizon as he began to speak, “Dealing with the trauma that surrounded Gerard’s death, and my subsequent stabbing, sent me down a fork in the road, so to speak.” 

His expression was apologetic as he conjured up images of his past.  

“I had always said, ‘I ain’t never smoking nothing!’ I had never saw a need for it. I had been around weed plenty of times and didn’t understand the concept,” Black explained. “But after everything that happened, I just seemed to thoughtlessly gravitate towards it. I had never even given a second thought to the stoners that congregated in the lobby of the dorm. But within hours of being released from the hospital, I was out on the stoop smoking blunts with them.” 

Black began to be overcome with emotion. This was the first time in years that he had discussed his experiences. He had never before made the connection between the tragic events he had endured and his path towards addiction.  

He was suddenly deluged by recollections. Harriet just listened as he continued. 

“Now that I look back on it, within a week, the crowd I hung around with changed dramatically. They went from straight-laced to thugged out,” Black said. “I lost interest with everyone whose life wasn’t focused on debauchery. I would later in life hear a rock and roll song that I found very exemplary of my behavior called, ‘Running with the Devil’. That’s exactly the way I’ve lived most of my years. 

“When I first began to dabble with weed, I was focused and determined that it would remain an activity of leisure and that I would only partake of it on weekends. Of course my new friends found this very laughable. In less than a month I was smoking daily.” 

“That’s how it usually works,” Harriet interjected. “Addiction is very progressive.” 

Black found her statement profound. It made him feel as if his issues were more pervasive than personal. This lifted his spirits and softened his feelings of isolation. “I can’t agree with you more. It crept up on me like a thief in the night,” Black said. “I started off drinking cheap wine and malt liqueur. Next thing I know, I dippin’ my cigarettes in nut juice (PCP). For all these years, my motivations have mystified me.” 

“Why is it a mystery?” Harriet asked. “You know all the answers. Whether or not you want to acknowledge them is a decision only you can make.” 

“Are you a therapist or something?” he asked suspiciously.  

“Oh no — I’m speaking from wisdom gained through personal experience. We are more alike than different,” she said with a gentle smile. 

Black decided to continue. “All my life, I’ve felt as if I had a void that needed to be filled. I’ve tried a variety of methods or material items to obtain fulfillment and peace of mind. When I was a child it was toys and video games. Then during my teens it was shoes, clothes, food, and girls.” 

She laid her hand on his shoulder and cut in, “Don’t feel ashamed. People have been attempting to fill that spiritual void you speak of with tangible items since the beginning of time. There is only one road to inner peace. So if you’re not walking with Jesus–you better detour…or your behind will be eternally sorry.” 


To be continued. This is an excerpt of Duane Foster’s manuscript “The Black Fields Chronicles: THE HOBO.”

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