Six years ago, Jam sat strung out on heroin outside St. Bernard's church. It was cold, and the stone steps felt harder and sharper than usual. I brought out my sleeping bag to give away, and Jam was all about it.
I handed it to him, and he led me around the corner where he slept on the side stoop.
He asked for a ride, and I said no. Given his condition, I thought it best not to stick him in a van with some students.
He exploded with rage and shouted heroin-inspired insults.
I didn't know him like I do now. I was intimidated but stood my ground.
Horinger showed, and Jam softened.
"I like your hat," Jam told Horinger. "You're cool." He paused, "This guy," he said turning to me, his face morphing into a craggy image resembling the side of a rocky mountain, "this guy's a @#$$%$%^$%^@^$%&$%@@#$^."
Now, Jam is off heroin, has been for six years. Last night, we reminisced, smiled, and had a great time.