I’m not ready

I work at a rehab in East Harlem as a recovery coach. I perform a good amount of outreach in the community and I recognize familiar faces in the neighborhood.

I took a liking to this person, whom, I’ve secretly named Mr. Snuki. On average I see him 3x a week and without a doubt it is always under the same circumstance. I’ll be out and about in the community engaging with someone about addiction, narcan, or simply out for a walk during my break.

Even though I think about the Snukes a good amount of time, on and off the job, I only see him when he’s not on my mind.

As usual, I’ll be going about my business and then, something not out of the unusual catches my eye. It’s not like Mr. Snukes is the only homeless heroin addict in Harlem. They’re everywhere, but Mr. Snukes, sticks out in my mind like a pink elephant. I always see him out in the distance, 100 feet out, chilling on something, like a snail.

Mr. Snuki, is always holding onto something for dear life. It’s usually fire hydrants because the Snukes is a small person who is a heroin addict and when he does heroin he leans over like he’s touching his toes and I guess the fire hydrant is a good sized thing to keep his balance on.

Like I said, this same thing happens to me 3x a week. Snukes just appears out of nowhere. I don’t see him ever getting anywhere... I only see him at destinations, never en route, on journey.

I don’t know why but I’ve found this to be very amusing. It’s particular. He has a walker. Maybe that’s why I see him stationary, because he’s probably relaxing more than he’s not.

This has been going on for about 5 to 6 months. We never speak and he has no idea how obsessed I am with him.

At work, I call everybody Snuki and now everybody calls each other Snuki but no one has any idea where the name originated from.

Whenever I’ve walked by Mr. Snukes, I make eye contact with him and I mumble “Hey Mr. Snuki/Snukes.” I’m partially ashamed because he doesn’t deserve some asshole making nicknames up for him. I came up with the name Mr.Snuki the same second I saw him. It was like a revelation. A new phenomenon had been recognized for the very first time—an act that, in itself, solidified its place as an independent declaration of recognition within the fabric of existence.

I don’t know how this happens but upon reflection I was naming his energy. Kind of like a child recognizing an object like an “apple” for the first time. Eventually, they point and say “apple” as if they’ve known it all along. I named him Mr. Snuki because of his energy. Snuki, is like snail. Snail is the root of Snuki. And then Snuki is his personal energy derived from snail. He is cute and elusive like a little Snukester. Also, his clothes and face resemble a Snuki. His clothes are loose fitting, usually sweat pants, and his face is relaxed, cute, and youthful, even though he is 66.

Usually he lifts his head up, to acknowledge me, and mumbles something back when I say hi. It’s funny because he’s on heroin so he has an excuse to mumble. I’m sober but I like getting on his level. I love being around addicts because I miss the trance of being in between awake and asleep.

For some reason, I think he will understand me when I call him Mr. Snuki. In my mind he is the embodiment of a Mr. Snuki although I didn’t know what a Mr. Snuki was until I saw him. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy but for some reason I expect him to receive my nickname for him like it’s his actual name because of how suiting it is for him.

Yesterday, I looked out of my office window- I’m on the ground floor, and I saw the Snukester right in front of the rehab I work at. This has never happened before. Guess what he was hanging onto? A fire hydrant.

I was in shock. It was like seeing a super model or a super hero as a kid. He’s a celebrity in my mind. I’d rather break bread with this man than some other famous Snuki.

I told myself, this isn’t about my stupid shit anymore, let’s actually meet this guy on a genuine level.

I just said Hi... No Mr. Snuki… I asked what his name was. Then I asked where he was from. “Puerto Rico.” Then I asked how old he was. “66.”

His body was broken down. He smelt of urine. I was looking inside his mouth and it didn’t look great. He had an infection in it. He looked very unhealthy to say the least. But my God, he has such a cute face and demeanor. I wanted to hug him. Show him some love and care.

A minute or so went by with out talking. Kind of took in the reality of this mans life. A bit of sympathy, care, compassion and reality washed through me. The reality, the truth, of this mans life was suffering, and a deep acceptance of it.

You can’t do much with this, except accept it yourself. This acceptance is firm. It’s knowing what you are and what your life is. It’s directly staring death in the face and saying “what else you got mother fucker.” There’s no bullshit. It’s raw. It’s about the thing we are all running from- suffering. If you don’t believe it, imagine yourself a homeless addict pissing on yourself with no friends or family. Poor, not knowing where your next meal’s coming from. Biggy knows. RIP.

If that’s something we’d like to avoid, it’s because its essence is suffering displayed outwardly.

I knew the answer but I casually threw the hail Marry up. I love hail marry’s because you never know what’s going to happen but you’ll never know unless you throw it up, and you might just get something you weren’t expecting…

“Want to come inside for treatment?”

Without hesitation he looked up at me, locked eyes, and with a calm resonance said, “I’m not ready.”