Visions of South Florida

Rehab clinic in West Palm Beach. I'm sitting outdoors with an acquiantance, totally intrigued by the pageant of humanity passing by.

“Who’s that?” I asked

“She’s a heroine addict whose parents are trying to put her in a psychiatric ward because she keeps cutting herself. A real basket case.”

“And who’s that one?”

“She’s a 34 year old woman from Boca who's facing twenty-to-life for stabbing her boyfriend twelve times while they were high on speed.”

“ What about him?”

“That’s Walter. He’s just an old junky who’s been trying to get clean for twenty years. I think his brains are fried because all he does all day is smoke cigarettes and mumble to himself about Jesus.”

“What about her?” I inquired, pointing to a quiet young girl sitting by herself, eating a hamburger and fries. “She seems fairly normal.”

“Are you kidding? She’s totally addicted to crystal meth and crack, and prostitutes herself every night to get money for drugs.”

“I can’t believe it,” I replied, now completely bewildered by the incredible disconnect between appearance and reality that I had observed since I arrived here.

“That’s not all…She’s totally bulimic…Eats food all the time and then pukes her guts out. Just wait until she’s finished with that burger and you’ll see her run to the bathroom.”

Sure enough, as soon as she took her last bite of food, she sprung up from the table and made a hasty retreat to the public restroom.

“Well, at least she has a nice looking body,” my friend commented, barely looking up from the issue of Cosmo she was reading. “In her line of work that’s very important.”

I was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in South Florida who was not an addict, a recovering addict, or a relapsed addict when across the street I saw a totally innocent looking young girl who looked no more than 18 years old. She was walking towards us, her blond ponytails bouncing with each step she took. When she passed us by she flashed a bright, angelic smile and wished us a pleasant day.

“Don’t tell me that there’s anything wrong with her?” I said with some degree of confidence.

“She’s the worst one of all,” my companion replied without skipping a beat.

“What’s her problem?” I asked.

“She thinks there’s nothing wrong with her.”

“And is there?”

“Of course there is,” she replied. “There’s something wrong with all of us. That’s why we’re here.” And with that she took a long drag on her cigarette and went back to reading her magazine.