Two Wrongs don't Make a Right

Two Wrongs don’t make a right

It wasn’t my fault, but through their eyes it was always going to be. They made the rules, the strait jacket of existence that coerced people into living a life that did just that and the only way of escape was to break the rules without being caught. I had toyed constantly with the concept of what distinguished right from wrong and sometimes you had to do what was wrong in order to get a just result. You’ve heard the saying two wrongs don’t make a right, well I’ll elaborate on that one. For example if your neighbour constantly litters your front garden, you might retaliate by allowing your dog to defecate on his. So you might think that the litter dropping would stop as a result prompting you to prevent your dog from fouling. Maybe the whole thing would escalate and get worse. Whichever, but in my case, there was no escape so I broke the rules.

I came from a very troubled family background, deprived in every sense of the word, no money, employment scarce, crime ridden neighbourhood, morally corrupt and so the list would go on. The odds were stacked against me, although I considered myself intelligent and capable. Maybe I used this as a means of getting what I wanted – drugs and what I could imagine myself to be when I was under. In my late teens I had hung out with a lot of students in shady bars, perhaps holding my own in academic dialogue and discussion as well as sharing the tongue loosener that came in the form of crack. I learnt a lot from them knowing full well that their way of life in this student city was only temporary and that they would progress onto top jobs while I languished towards my demise. And so I looked forward during my empty days to being a part of these nocturnal rendezvous filling up on mood enhancers in the form of rock, blow, crack, snow, stone and so forth.

I told you I broke the rules. It was bad enough being hooked, but my habit was making me a true law breaker. I had begun niftily to swipe items off supermarket shelves into a stiff unassuming canvas bag, before selling them off at a tidy little profit. My dependence situation was worsening and at first I didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt, not one iota. Manufacturers were also making vast profits, so why shouldn’t I, off their backs. You could say two wrongs don’t make a right in this instance so the very first thing I pinched was a bottle of vodka, which I easily sold on at twice the price. Not bad at a going rate of a hundred per cent return. I could thus purchase my own cache of crack without relying on the gifting of others and the coke rewarded me with a temporary euphoria that filled my otherwise miserable days, a way of life that was fast becoming a quagmire. I had lots of customers, who even began to put their orders in, while I, was fast developing speedy ways of gaining their requests without being spotted. I knew where the cameras were and from my observation of shop staff, savvy about their movements and how they worked. Some employees were extremely lax about security while others constantly on the lookout. Of course I always targeted the former businesses. They were a doddle. Anything for an easy life and I was fast making an underworld name for myself by helping these folk out. Even small shops were enlisting my services. I would filch items before systematically placing them into a non descript encasement. I was shown to the back of their premises in a hush, hush way where the deal was done. After all the goods were checked and payment made, I was off to get my next fix. I knew exactly where the dealers hung out and you’d be surprised who would be doing the queuing apart from me. Even professional people who were most probably looking for a means of escape from their situation. It led me to believe there was no division amongst the classes, that we were all basically the same.

The trouble was my habit was worsening and so was my health. The day I got well and truly caught had started badly. I awoke with a ding dong of a headache, a sore throat and an overwhelming tiredness. All in all I felt yuk and kind of staggery. The first thing I glanced was the list next to my doss hole. They wanted fetching by the end of the day, final and there was a lot. I had work to do and my habit to uphold.

Boy did I feel bad. I got away with the lifting of the first few items, but the bag was weighing heavy and my grasp weak and fumbly. The next thing I lifted caused me to have an inbalance and I wonked to the floor with a thud, the contents tumbling out and scattering.. I heard the whiskey bottle break then the leaking permeating a heady smell of strong alcohol and above all a voice sailing across the shop expanse.

“What’s wrong with that man?” The female assistant was rushing to my aid, as did customers alike. But, boy did I feel bad. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up. An ambulance was called and if I remember right there was police involvement. I was already sinking rapidly into a quagmire blissfully unaware of the commotion. That was the day I got caught.

The day of my interview by the press was a memorable one. They even filmed me as I took them round my old past haunts where I did business. I’ve shaken all that off now, but the memories are still rife and raw. It took some time for me to overcome the demon that had taken hold and I learnt a severe lesson by doing bird. Counselling helped as did conversations with like minded people who had also begun a new clean life. One thing was certain. I never ever want to experience the symptoms I had on the day I got caught.

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