Winter 1993

Vincent and I would drive around the island in his pickup. He, dropping off bags of weed here and there, me, along for the ride. We enjoyed each other’s company. He would get extra food when we’d order out, when I couldn’t afford it, because he felt I was losing too much weight.

Which, in reality, I was. I was not taking care of myself, working too much, and constantly popping ephedrine tablets. Ephedrine is one chemical ion away from being classified as a meth-amphetamine. Did you know that?

I only found that out a few years ago, and not when I lived in Key West. I’m a little hyper anyway, and being strung out on ephedrine and caffeine did make me lose weight. “Eat! Eat! You’re a growing boy!” He would say, making me finish whatever he had ordered, taking care to insure I lost no more weight. He was very nurturing of me.

He was the first one at work to offer a friendly hand. That meant so much, as I was intimidated by the unfamiliarity of my new workplace. I was there as an apprentice. If I showed any promise or talent, my boss would hire me on. Which he eventually did, but at first, there was no such guarantee. But none of that mattered to Vincent.

I worked in silence those first couple of weeks, learning the photo-stat machine, how to use an exacto-knife, how to cut a rubylyth, and how to typeset. Simple procedures to someone skilled in graphics, but unfamiliar and difficult for me. So I worked quietly, doing what was asked, timid and unsure, praying for patient responses to the inevitable mistakes I kept making. He responded to every mistake and question with a smile.

He sold me weed. He kept me fed. He was patient and helpful. He was actively concerned about my well being. He came along at just the right time.

My dealer became my friend.