Chapter 1: A Picture-Perfect Neighborhood

In a pristine neighborhood where houses are valued at half a million dollars, surrounded by lush, green lawns as vibrant as a St. Patrick’s Day celebration, I found myself parked outside a residence. The swimming pools, glistening in the sunlight, seemed more like decorations than places for leisure. On this beautiful, warm spring day, not a soul was in sight. I reviewed my paperwork, noting yet another state-funded medical voucher intended for low-income individuals.

After several unanswered phone calls, I stepped out of my taxi and pressed the doorbell. Inside, dogs barked furiously, as if they were prepared to breach the door.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called.

Who else could it be? I thought, Maybe it's Elon Musk?

“Taxi!” I shouted back.

“I’ll be right out, sir!”

“Okay!”

“Is that Don?” she asked.

“It’s Matt!”

“Oh, hi Matt! You’re vaccinated, right Matt?”

“If not, I’d be six feet under!”

“Booster?”

“Absolutely!”

“Great. I thought you might be Don. He took me last week!”

“Don’s not exactly my favorite,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Can we just hurry this up?”

Twelve minutes later, she emerged, cursing at the dogs to keep their distance. A white woman in her thirties, masked twice, clearly struggling with opioid addiction. Some things money cannot conceal. She was in a wheelchair.

“I broke my ankle,” she explained. “The doctor suggested crutches, but forget that.”

Her frail frame and tear-stained skin told a story of neglect. Her arms, covered in red sores, were so thin they appeared to defy gravity. Once, she might have been stunning—perhaps too stunning. She seemed like one of countless individuals who had surrendered to despair, possibly justifiably so. I didn’t know, nor did I care.

“Forgive me, I’m weak,” she said. “Could you push me?”

I maneuvered her down the driveway to the taxi. She extended her arms, as if seeking a hug. I lifted her into the cab, our faces close together, her frail body pressing against mine. A scent of decay and entitlement enveloped me. I placed the wheelchair in the trunk.

During the ride to her doctor's office, she vented: the government took her children… her ex-husband was abusive… her mother was awful… strange bugs invaded her home at night… she once worked with Charles Barkley…

“What’s this about bugs?” I inquired.

“They crawl into bed and bite,” she replied. “But no one believes me.”

“Why not catch one in a jar? That’d be proof.”

“I tried, but they disintegrate when trapped.”

“Little pests,” I chuckled.

“I used to have so much money,” she reminisced. “I’d leave brand new cars on strangers’ driveways with big bows, no name attached.”

“You sound generous.”

“Now I’m broke,” she lamented. “You think you know broke? You have no idea.”

“I’m practically swimming in cash,” I joked.

Upon arriving at the doctor’s office, I retrieved her wheelchair and wheeled her inside. After only fifteen minutes, she called me to say she was ready to leave—barely enough time for a smoke outside. I wheeled her back down and lifted her into the taxi again.

Next, she needed to visit the pharmacy. Upon arrival, she exclaimed, “Ah, damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot! I switched pharmacies. The girl at this one is a total cow!”

We headed to another pharmacy—Tucson is filled with them. I lifted her from the taxi into the chair and pushed her inside.

While waiting for her prescription, she wanted to shop. I pushed her down the frozen food aisle as she loaded up on ice cream sandwiches, popsicles, a frozen cake, and cookie dough. I contemplated grabbing a case of beer but knew she would report me. After checking out, I held her bags while we retrieved her “medicine” from the sour-faced pharmacist.

Back on the road, she clutched her rattling bottle.

I couldn’t fathom how she began this journey or how she convinced her doctor to prescribe opioids repeatedly. Perhaps she complained of headaches or other ailments, or maybe her doctor suggested it. It’s often simpler than genuinely helping someone, and it keeps patients returning, allowing for overcharging insurance companies. Sometimes, I think doctors could be the true devils, with a sign above their practice reading, “Trust in science.”

“It makes me sad sometimes,” she said. “I hate these pills.”

Yet her eyes sparkled with ecstasy.

“I never did drugs before,” she continued. “I didn’t even drink! And weed? Forget it. I was pure, clean when I was young. But those doctors, those awful doctors! The pain is unbearable.”

“Yeah,” I replied, rubbing my forehead.

I recalled my previous passenger—a 24-year-old whose legs were amputated after a drunk driver hit him. He was on his way to physical therapy, refusing the pain pills and psychiatric medication his doctor pushed on him. Despite his situation, he spoke with wisdom, perspective, and kindness.

“I wrecked seven cars last year,” she shared. “I don’t drive anymore.”

“Smart move.”

“Thinking had nothing to do with it. They revoked my license.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“None of those accidents were my fault,” she insisted. “Except the last one. That one was partially on me.”

“Is that how you sprained your ankle?”

“No, that was something else,” she replied. “The doctor said it’s only a sprain. Doctors, right?”

I inhaled the warm desert air, letting it fill my lungs.

At her home, I opened the trunk and retrieved the wheelchair. I lifted her from the taxi and pushed her up the steep driveway. The sun glinted off the metal chair, and sweat dripped down my face. Just letting go would send her rolling backward into the street.

At the door, she hesitated, “Sir, could you…?”

The dogs barked inside, and a grim scene flashed in my mind: her lifeless body on the floor, the dogs fighting over her remains. Such morbid thoughts occasionally surfaced during long days. I let them come and go, hoping they wouldn’t return, and turned to walk away.

Chapter 2: The Reality of Addiction

In this video, country artist Jelly Roll speaks out about the fentanyl crisis, emphasizing the need for proactive measures to combat addiction and support those affected.

This video showcases the Hope Warriors of Blanchester, highlighting local addiction services and sharing their mission to help those struggling with substance abuse.