There is an Ave Casualty that is on her second round on the street. Years ago she would frequent the bar, play pool, socialize. A very pretty young woman, she was outgoing, with a quick smile. Drama did not seem to circle her, like it does some young women. Drama chases some women; some invite it. For her it seemed to keep a respectable distance. Then she stopped coming inside the bar as much, but you would still see her on the street, outside, passing by. She had fallen in love with a Heroin Kid. Maybe she thought she could save him, I don't know. But of course it went the other way, like it usually does: she began to get thin, her eyes became dull, distant. Soon the quickest way to see her was to wander by the Heroin Kids in front of the Sporting Goods store, hoping for spare change from the random pedestrians who hadn't seen all of this before. Then she disappeared. Which often meant an overdose. However, the word was she left to go back home to the Midwest, to fami...

One of the nice things about the Ave during the Holidays: it doesn't change all that much. It's cold, so the Heroin Kids aren't out as much, which is nice. Still, if you are on the street having a cigarette you will still be asked for spare cigarettes or paper money, just like always. The Ragged Crazies are still there; their mumbled spiels and shouted non sequitirs usually don't involve anything about Christmas -- the voices in their heads are on their own calendar, which might have a thousand days, or maybe only one. One of the things that doesn't change much: shoppers. Not a lot of people go Christmas shopping on the Ave. The malls and downtown and University Village are jammed like a Tokyo subway train, but the Ave is not really a shopping destination. Unless you buy your Christmas gifts at the drug store. Or Seven-Eleven. Or the Retro Gaming shop. The University Bookstore gets crowded -- books and UW sweatshirts are easy gifts -- but otherwise, well: t...

During the Holidays the Ave used to put up shooting stars that arced above the street, white lights star, white lights trail. They looked like something from the early Sixties; maybe their original appearance coincided with the 1962 World Fair, which brought the Space Needle and the Monorail. This origin is just a guess, but I like it, so have no desire to research further. They were there last year. This year they are not there. Instead, there are a few trees wrapped with white lights. Generic. Could be anywhere. Maybe too expensive to run, maybe too expensive to maintain. Maybe they require a unique part that hasn't been made since 1972, and they don't have replacement parts anymore, and they don't have the people anymore who can even jury-rig something like that. The last of the people with those skills retired last year, maybe. Perhaps it coincides with the Last of the Television Repairmen. So the Ave becomes a little less special. Which is pretty much the Stor...

The older guys at the bar don't often play the jukebox; they remember when it took coins, not paper money. Every once in a while though, you'll see one punching in some selections, and some late-fifties or early-sixties music comes on; it is a welcome change of pace, and even some of the younger patrons find themselves bobbing their heads. One day a few years back an older gentleman played a nice selection. Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, a couple from Otis Redding. Then: Jim Croce, John Denver. Jim Croce and John Denver rarely get played at the bar -- they seem to now belong to The Forgotten Seventies. Maybe I'll go deeper into The Forgotten Seventies later, it is something I've been known to talk about from time to time. Anyway, I smiled at him, then went and played a song. Lynyrd Skynyrd. Not of the Forgotten Seventies, them: wherever there is a bar with a jukebox someone will eventually play "Free Bird". Because: America. Anyway, the older gentl...

There was a Dollar Store a few blocks down the Ave. Everything sold for a dollar, pretty much. Sure, there were some items for more than a dollar, but it was still cheap knock-off shit, so the store name was pretty fair overall. Except if you tried to pay with a dollar bill you couldn't get your item until you put out another dime for sales tax. But still: Dollar Store. In front of the store was a continuous encampment of Street Urchins and Heroin Kids. At times the sidewalk was difficult to pass: bodies sprawled, clusters of kids standing in groups with backs heavy with their belongings, the gauntlet of being asked for spare change or a cigarette or an offer to sell some grass.  A lot of people chose to walk by on the other side of the street. Especially the Asian students; they probably never factored this into their American University Experience. Not on the brochures I imagine. And there was a Bubble Tea place on that other side of the street. Which was convenient for ...

There were police cars and a fire truck down the street a week or so ago, lights flashing. Which probably meant another Heroin Kid OD'ed. If it were only police cars that would mean it was probably just an altercation that a bystander phoned in. The fire truck means someone was injured, and most of the injuries on the street are self-inflicted. Sometimes a civilian gets beaten, but most of the violence happens in the alleys, not the street. And that violence is usually the Heroin Kids settling beefs amongst themselves. They don't bother to call the cops when someone is suspected of, say, stealing something from their sleeping bag: they take care of it, themselves. It is not always the Heroin Kids, though. Sometimes it is an older homeless man -- or woman, they get homeless, too -- who is passed out drunk and blocking the sidewalk. Or one of the Ragged Crazies, who get belligerent with the Voices They Hear. And that civilian walking by fucking looks like the guy behind ...

In Seattle everyone hates the Nazis. Young, old -- even the pasty white cis-gender dudes -- they all hate the Nazis. Because they are Good People. And Good People hate Nazis. There are bumper stickers. So you know they are serious about this. And they know where all of those Nazis are. The Nazis and the White Supremacists live just on the other side of the Cascades. Eastern Washington. Republicans, Nazis: they are all practically at the door. Seattle will be vigilant. There is a church in the University District -- an old brick church where Seattle people no longer go to church -- that has a giant 'Black Lives Matter' banner hung above the front doors. Yes: vigilant. Nazis don't think black lives matter, obviously. There is a problem. It is capital 'R' and it rhymes with Racist. Well, actually, it is Racist. Nazis are Racist. Again: bumper stickers. The Coexist bumper sticker has symbols of all kinds, but no swastika: this is on purpose. On the side...

A few weeks ago a Traffic Enforcement Officer was walking down the sidewalk, issuing tickets. The city needs to keep feeding the machine that is the city, fifty-ish dollars at a time. Recently they removed some parking spaces and replaced them with yellow curbs -- no doubt it has increased the volume of infractions. Sly, in a bureaucratic conniving way. The first car she tickets is a yellow Maserati. There are three Maseratis that occasionally park on this block of the street. All are driven by Japanese students. There is a Japanese karaoke club they frequent in a building upstairs; they wait outside and smoke until it opens in the evening. An expensive door fee to get in pretty much keeps everyone else out: if that is the plan then the plan is working. I think it is the plan.  On the street, it is surprising to see young men who do not affect the American gangsta stances and poses. Even here, they are on an island. They stand by an expensive car, flashy rims, but they do ...

I am hazy about how it started; alcohol was probably involved. I would walk past a group of heroin kids outside what was, at the time, the Big 5 Sporting Goods store. They typically had a cardboard sign on the sidewalk, asking for money. Sometimes the writing on the cardboard attempted to be clever, or funny, or appeal to emotion, with the occasional decorative squiggly lines or smiley face; sometimes it just simply asked. I was at the Bartell's Drugs on the corner, picking up a few items, of which I cannot remember. For some reason I also picked up several two-packs of hard-boiled eggs from the refrigerated section. Outside the store, as I approached the heroin kids, I took the eggs out of the bag, and then gave the packages to them. They were a bit baffled, but appreciative. Maybe a bit disappointed it wasn't just cash. I wasn't going to give them money which then would inevitably be used for drugs; I figured the eggs weren't worth selling for them, and h...

Every winter it seems there is a kid who comes into the bar, trying on some variation of the Bukowski lifestyle; usually he is wearing a thrift-shop pea coat, pretty much always with a Zippo lighter. Also: the ubiquitous wallet chain. It is obvious that the lifestyle is too big for him: figuratively he looks like an eight-year-old girl tottering in momma's heels and pearls, lipstick smeared on her face. Kid, you are too young for this. Your tattoos are new. You have no gravel: all of your disappointments in life have been small. There are guys here who will take your money, there are guys here who will break you out back by the dumpsters, just because that is what they do for fun. If a girl here picks you, she will be the one with herpes, and she will take your wallet, chain or no. Now, it is smart of you not to have hooked up with the heroin kids, so you obviously have some basic intelligence. Try a coffeeshop -- there's several along the street. Maybe try cha...

There was a heroin kid on the street who was quite a good piano player. He would walk the Ave carrying an electronic full-size keyboard, then sit and play. Mostly classical: I'm sure there is an interesting backstory from piano lessons to now. People walking by would toss spare change into whatever can he was using that day, the odd paper dollar or two. I bought him batteries from time to time -- the money he made never seemed to be for those.  One day he was walking by without his keyboard. I asked him what happened, and he said it was stolen. I interpreted 'stolen' as sold for drug money. Basically, he just shot up his seed corn into his arm. Later that day I walked down to the Goodwill store, and bought a cheap keyboard. He passed by later, and I gave it to him. He was effusive in his thanks, then went across the street and started playing. Beethoven mostly, but he would occasionally throw in a lick from an old Beatles song or such, then back to the Beethove...

There is a guy who shows up at the corner in front of the Wells Fargo every few months. He preaches fire and brimstone through a loudspeaker. Echoes off the buildings. There are usually a few guys with him holding up signboards. Some of the heroin kids inevitably wander over there to mock him and his sign carriers. Eventually the police come. I helped the guy out once. His sound system was feedbacking horribly, feedback and echoes of feedback, absolutely painful to listen to. So I went over to show him how to set his levels and position him out of the direct line of the speaker. He thanked me, then resumed his preaching. I think that was possibly a Christian act on my part, but I probably get points off for mostly wanting to stop the noise. -jj

I know a guy who is an evangelical Christian. Very nice. Sober because that's how he wants to be, not how he expects people want him to be. He doesn't try to evangelize me: he says that I'll know when the time will come. Not sure about that, but it's a good way to let that conversation lay. He volunteers at the mission a few blocks away. The heroin kids go there for a meal, then go get their fix. They are not allowed in if they are noticeably high, so their visits can be sparse. He says you can't save them all, but that saving one can be enough. I don't ask him how many kids he thinks he has saved, because I don't think the odds are very good. It seems like a lot of work. Hopefully he at least has one. -jj

I see a lot of the young heroin girls on the street outside the bar. They still think they have it under control. They don't notice the older women walking by that are thirty but look like death: they believe this won't happen to them. Many of these girls get into the drug because there is a hole in their soul or their psyche or their childhood somewhere. I'm not sure they would be happy as wives, even without the heroin. They'd probably make the wrong choice there, too. Some people just chase the toxins. -jj

Heroin doesn't seem to have made it inside the bar, which is good. It is rampant on the street outside. The police don't bother. Sure, they make a sweep before the University starts in fall, but that is to make the visiting parents think they are leaving their kids somewhere clean. Every once in a while you see one of the school kids on the street with one of the shady kids. This city has had an ongoing romance with heroin, but no one famous has died in awhile, so some kids want to dabble. It is true, Kurt Cobain didn't die of an overdose, but at some point you are just splitting hairs. So the kids dabble, and occasionally you see one cleaner than the rest passed out against the CVC storefront. Jarvis Cocker's Common People and all that. -jj

There's a girl from downtown I know who buys her heroin from various shady guys on the street. We were outside the bar having a cigarette when she offered to blow me for fifty bucks. I said no thanks and then she said forty bucks. I eventually bargained her down to ten dollars, but didn't actually want the blow job, so I just gave her two fives and went back inside the bar. She thinks the people at her work downtown don't suspect a thing about her habit. Sure. -jj