Putting the pieces together
I've been deadeye, bull's-eye, dead center in the middle of the crisis long enough to read the two calls.
The second guy, the guy throwing the rocks, knew the first guy and was trying to wake him up without being next to him when the cops arrived. Either he was high himself or he didn't want to get involved because he definitely didn't want the cops in his apartment. Most likely, both things were true.
If anything convinced me that the guy throwing the rocks was a junkie, it's that he had rocks in his apartment.
You look around your house, and you may not have any rocks, but if you're in a junkie's house, there's likely to be 15 rocks in the closet, a dead cat in the bathtub and six defrosted, but uneaten, frozen dinners in the top drawer of the dresser.
The cops found the guy in the grass. The scanner said he was turning blue, but they hit him with the Narcan, and he lived to convulse another day. The guy in the apartment, they spoke to but did not arrest. Here, in the center of the opioid crisis, throwing rocks doesn't get you arrested, not unless you hit someone or break something.
I didn't write the story because as I once said to a youngish editor, "If I ran out of here every time the junkies did something crazy, I'd have the body of a marathon runner."
I'm like the cops now, overwhelmed enough by the misery that I do a kind of rough triage. Junkie robs a bank, I write. Junkie gets caught selling the stuff, they arrest. The rest of the time, the junked-up game show host just smiles with his purple rotted teeth and hands us the parting gift of apathy.
Of course, it's killing us all.
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, "The Land of Trumpin," is a collection of his columns just before, during and after the endless 2016 election. It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, iBooks and GooglePlay.