Red Converse

“Do you want to send that priority, or first class?” the man asked me.

I asked what the difference in time was. 

“Priority will get it there fastest.  Course, you pay more.  Depends on how valuable it is.”

I’m pretty sure it was mostly just clothes, maybe a couple pairs of shoes and a few personal items.  But somewhere in those bags there was also a pair of kids’ red Converse tennis shoes.  And I think those were really pretty important.

“Priority,” I answered.

I’d gotten the call Saturday evening.  Someone had died.  No one knew the cause.  The police were there now. 

I hung up the phone and told my husband Geoff that he’d have to make dinner.  I had to go.  Then I slipped on my shoes and headed out.

I spent the next several hours visiting with the folks who’d been on site. 

“What happened?”  Their question. Not mine. 

“I just wish I would’ve known…..” their voices would trail off.  Not really sure what they could have done.  Had they only known.  Known what?  We still didn’t know what had happened. What was it that no one had known?

Sadness and grief gave way to anger and betrayal once police confirmed that the death was drug-related.  And then everything went numb.  This group had already experienced enough loss in their lifetimes.  What’s one more?  Just one more loss washing over the brain.  Mercifully numbing everything.

Their friend had died.  So together we sat vigil waiting for the police to finish their job.  Waiting for the coroner to come and take the body.  Waiting for feeling to return.  Waiting for everything to become real again. 

We all knew that addiction had just won. Again. Another victory claimed. Another life taken. And more lives left to simmer in pain and disbelief.

“Does anybody know if he got those shoes today?” one of the men asked, breaking the silence.

No one actually made eye contact.  We were all just sitting, staring blindly toward the center of the space.

“Yeah,” someone else confirmed flatly.

“What shoes?” a woman asked without emotion.

“The Converse.  He wanted to get those for his kid.”

Everyone nodded. 

“What color?” someone else asked after a moment or two, still staring toward the center space. 

“Red.”

“Very cool.” 

Others nodded. 

“Yeah.  Red Converse are the best,” another agreed.

“Well good,” someone else replied.  “He really wanted to get those for his kid.”

More silence followed as we sat together just trying to be present in the events of the evening.   

Then another voice broke the silence, “Oh man.  How’s that gonna work?”

And no one answered. 

I asked if they knew how old their friend’s son was.  They said he was nine. 

I said that the way it was going to work was that somewhere there was an 9-year-old boy whose dad had just died from drugs.  And that at some point in the next few days that boy was going to get a pair of red Converse tennis shoes.  And he was probably going to be told that his dad had purchased those shoes for him on the day that his dad had died.  And as the boy grows up those shoes are probably going to become more important to him than “just another pair of shoes.”

Everyone nodded.  Still with vacant expressions.  Yeah, they all agreed that made sense.  That’s probably how it would go.

And the tidal wave crashed over us all again.

We talked about addiction.  I said what I usually say.  That I really hate addiction.  That I hate it when people talk about their “right” to use substances, as though that’s a benign decision.  That I hate how much we protect the use of substances, and even addiction itself, instead of protecting the people struggling with addiction. 

I looked around the room and talked about how addiction had won tonight.  And that I hoped that maybe one of the ripples from tonight might be that just one more addict could win their battle with the disease which was determined to kill them.  That maybe just one more kid could be raised by a parent in recovery, instead of another orphaned kid growing up knowing by heart the story of how their parent had overdosed and died. That maybe just one more kid could grow up having a parent, instead of owning a pair of shoes which held way too much significance.

They all stared at me, I think desperately hoping to hear something that made sense.  Some nodded.  I don’t know that any of them really heard.  Shock is a pretty effective sound barrier.

Eventually we said our goodnights, and everyone headed off to a sleepless night.  Their friend had just died.  And the reality was suffocating.

So today I shipped off the personal belongings to family.  A lifetime’s possessions in three tattered bags.  And somewhere in those bags was a pair of kids’ red Converse tennis shoes.  The final gift for an 9-year-old kid, from his dad.  

And I hope that when the shoes are given to him he’ll be told how much his dad had loved him.  I hope he’ll be told that his dad had wanted to give him those shoes in person when he got home.  Clean and sober.  I hope he’ll be told how much he mattered to his dad.  And that it wasn’t that his dad hadn’t tried in his fight against addiction.  Because he did try.  He just didn’t win. 

I hope the boy will be told all of those things.  While he tries on his new shoes.  Shoes which, I think, are probably going to become really pretty important in the days to come.