Do You Know The Meth-od Man? It's Three A.M.

A man nearly died on my driveway last night.

He’d done a huge amount of some naracotic then wandered the trailer park before ending up at my house at three a.m. 

The man fell against the front of my house then knocked on the window. I think he fell against my house while pissing on it, and then unable to pull his pants up, knocked three times—knock, knock, knock—before stumbling with his pants around his ankles into my driveway where he collapsed on his back beside my car, arms like Jesus-on-the-cross.

My car was unlocked, not usually something I do, and not something I realized until this morning, but it was unlocked. I believe the man was too far gone by then to try and get inside it, never mind trying to steal it.

I’d also left three windows of the house partially opened. Again, I doubt the man got any further than my driveway. What I mean to say is, I don’t believe he had enough faculties about him to wander the perimeter of my house in search of a way inside. Anyway, both my dogs barked soon as they heard him. I heard him too. I’d fallen asleep in the living room on the couch watching TV and soon as I heard those knocks I was awake. Wide awake, heart thumping. A rush of air in my ears. 

I remained on the couch at least a minute wondering if I’d imagined the knocks then lied still another minute listening. The dogs didn’t bark again. I didn’t hear anything.  I got up and went to my son’s room. He was asleep and fine. I moved about the house peering out windows. From my kitchen window I thought I saw something on my driveway. 

I grabbed my glasses then looked again. Yes. A man lied on his back in my driveway beside my car. Quickly, I got my phone then dialed 911. Soon as I explained my emergency to the dispatcher she told me not to go outside because the man may be trying to fool me into opening the front door or worse, step outside the house. 

“No problem,” I told her. “How fast will the police be here?”

The dispatcher said any minute and kept her voice calm and offered to stay on the line with me. I told her I didn’t think the man was moving, and so we disconnected. He was motionless on my driveway. I lifted my phone and switched to camera and then tried to get a picture of him through a space between the slats of my window blinds. It was too dark; the camera couldn’t see anything. I stood at the window shivering. The man didn’t move at all. 

Later one of the cops, a woman, told me, “If you hadn’t called he would have died.”

A man dying in my driveway.

My son and I could have woke to a dead man in front of our house the next morning. 

Maybe when he knocked three times it was please help me: knock, knock, knock.  

“He’s on something,” the cop told me. “Definite overdose.” 

But the cops weren’t sure what he’d taken. I just kept thinking meth. He was the Meth-od Man. The female cop couldn’t find his pulse, too weak, and he was unresponsive to their voices, even when they spoke loudly and into his face. They touched him with gloves on; they poked him, shook him, pushed his shirt back and touched him, nothing.

When the female cop lifted his eyelid then shone her flashlight into his eye, more nothing. 

I stood at the top of the driveway. Shiver after shiver after shiver. 

“Do you know him?” she asked.

The Meth-od Man wore a black tee shirt, blue boxer shorts, jeans around his ankles, and white socks with stains on the bottoms, no shoes. He had short dark hair. He was thin, pale, youngish. I noted a cut above his eye. One hand was bloody.

The cops noted bruises across his ribs and stomach. Maybe somebody had pounded him, and the blood on his hand meant he’d defended himself. They weren’t sure. All they felt sure of was he’d taken something, and he’d taken too much. 

“No,” I said.

“Have you seen him before?”

“No,” I said. And then I thought of my mother.

When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics did something that revived the Meth-od Man enough he became agitated. He groaned as he swung his arms. The cops got him on his stomach and cuffed him.  

The male cop grilled him. “Where do you live? Do you live around here? What are you doing here? Are you on something? What did you take? Tell me, listen, can you hear me? What did you take? Listen. What’s your name?”

Mumble. Mumble. Mumble. “Richie.”

He tried to fight again as they loaded him onto a stretcher. “Homeboys,” he said. “Don’t.”

Seven months ago, my mother killed herself with meth, an overdose. She died alone in her apartment. By then, we hadn’t spoken in years. She lived in Utah. I was embarrassed by her life choices and had separated myself from her completely. I didn’t want her or her red-eyed, toothless boyfriend anywhere near my son. Trash.

Three weeks ago, one of my neighbors informed me meth dealers rent one of the trailers up the street.  My son’s best friend lives catty-corner from us. A lot of children live in the trailer park. Elderly folks, Mexicans, Rednecks too. Other solo moms like me. Ladies and gentleman, behold my demographic. This is what I can afford. In graduate school I called my thesis, “With Love, From the Trailer Park Where I Live.”  Thirteen years I’ve lived in trailer parks, and I’ve never not felt safe. I anticipate the potential prejudice though. Trailer park trash. Hey, I’ve been judgmental. 

This morning, I walked the perimeter of my house and was meticulous about my search. No urine stains on the front skirt.  No dents or scratches to my car. Nothing out of place. All’s well in the trailer park. The Meth-od Man was a ghost.