Free Low Road by Jr. Eddie B. Allen

one misleading, fucked-up fad. In truth, the musicians had spent plenty of sober hours honing their crafts. If they still carried those devastating tunes when they were high, it was because they were on autopilot. The legendary Charlie “Bird” Parker was a good example. A magnificent saxophonist, his beginnings resembled Donnie’s in some striking ways. Parker dropped out of school, like Donnie, at age fifteen. And the musician had also answered the call of heroin when he was still traversing through adolescence. As he rose through the ranks as a top-flight artist, his addiction became a hindrance, as would the habit of his band mate, trumpeter Miles Davis, who played in Bird’s quintet. Bird was idolized, nonetheless. It made little difference to his admirers that years of heroin and alcohol were helping to bring about his death. Who could know the numbers of others affected as destructively by the trend?
    Though no one could be sure what kind of music was playing in Donnie’s head, it was soon apparent that he had a problem. In fact, he probably didn’t make much of an effort to hide it. The cravings and the urgency to use were unlike any that healthy young people could have experienced, save hunger and the need to use the restroom. Donnie’s very blood had developed a dependency on the substance that held in its powdery components the powers to bring pleasure and pain. More than a few soldiers had become addicted to medications that numbed them to their physical discomforts. In civilian life, drug abuse became as normal to Donnie as waking up in the morning. As the weeks and months got behind him, his habit remained a companion. At some point, though, he recognized that the addiction was a destructive one. He approached his mother and Joanie, now an older child, with sincerity. Donnie believed he could kick his habit with just a little help and support. It wouldn’t be a simple challenge, but he felt capable of meeting it. Donnie asked Myrtle and Joanie to lock him in his bedroom. He anticipated how the withdrawal symptoms might cause him to react. They would have to promise, Donnie told them, that no matter how he persisted—ranting, raving, crying or pleading—not to let him out until he had completely rid his body of reliance on the smack that he pumped through his system. Myrtle had never imagined that she would be frightened of her special boy. But the reality of the screams and curses that eventually came from behind the locked door were chilling. Myrtle and Joanie could only listen. If there had been any temptation to free him from his self-imposed solitary confinement, his aggressive reactions to being suddenly without drugs at his disposal removed them.
    â€œOpen this goddamn door!”
    Donnie was like a man possessed. And this was exorcism.
    â€œLet me live my own life!” he screamed. “Aaaaah! Goddammit! Mind your own damned business!”
    Under ordinary circumstances he never spoke to his mother or baby sister this way. Now, he was a person they didn’t recognize. Intense chills, nausea, and cramps could leave a junkie with feelings of sickness that no visit to the pharmacy would be able to cure. It was simply more of a monster than Donnie could handle. Ultimately, he escaped from his prison, and did so repeatedly after any number of similar attempts. He might be reduced to groveling like a pitiful child one day, asking “ Please, Mama,” or muster all his might and fury to break the door down the next. Whether he had to beg and plead, tear loose hinges, or tunnel through the floor to the ground outside, he was determined to get a fix. Once he had found his medicine, he returned home content, as if he had not felt near the verge of death just a few hours earlier. His efforts were honest ones; his opponent more worthy than he’d imagined. Myrtle and Joanie kept trying, despite the terror it brought them. After all, they loved