I don’t know where Duane got the sawed-off shotgun, but I let him put it in the trunk of my Ford Taurus – the one that I bought used with a broken ignition. All I needed to start that car was a screwdriver.
Duane was a year younger than I but had already spent years in juvenile detention for beating another kid nearly to death with a baseball bat. Duane said he had been taking acid and others in the room egged him on, saying the kid raped another friend of Duane’s.
We agreed to trade the weapon from Lord knows where to a cocaine dealer in New York City’s Washington Heights neighborhood. We did so, smoked the crack, and, when we returned for more drugs, the dealer gave the gun back. He didn’t want the hassle.
The police came to Duane’s house asking about recent crimes in the neighborhood; I don’t remember what if anything the authorities had on me, but I wound up under arrest when they found the weapon with the serial number scratched off.
When I refused to speak and asked for a lawyer, the cops looked at me like I’d watched too many episodes of “Law and Order,” but I remained silent.
They took me to juvenile detention and called my parents who had to pay $3,000 to hire a criminal attorney for their 17-year-old. Thank goodness I was still a minor in a state that didn’t charge me as an adult. I would have faced a mandatory minimum sentence of five years.
I returned home after what felt like a few weeks; I don’t remember, but it was the summer of 1996: The year I was supposed to graduate high school. I had to retake a geometry class that I’d failed before earning my diploma, which was printed in 1997 like a shame stain on my permanent record.
Before I began using illicit drugs as a teenager, I planned to attend college and work toward an advanced degree in psychology. I wanted to help people, but first I had to learn to regulate my emotions. My mental illness got the better of me and spun me off course for much of my twenties.
The summer of 1996 is my embarrassing secret, but I learned from it not to trust other people and not to chase the moment but to fully embrace and learn from it.
I will earn my MFA degree in 2026, and I will use my words to inform and help others as a health care reporter focused on addiction and mental health.