This was Lethe’s first crack house. He had never been to a crack house before. He was still a virgin to the degrading, soulless substratum of crack and its defenders. It wasn’t the type of place he ever thought he would have the opportunity to know first-hand.

The screen door slapped shut on his finger, cracking like a whip. “Ouch!” Lethe squealed. The rusty wire had pierced through his flesh, and he cussed at the door for being so disrespectful. Then a thread of blood trickled down his injured hand. Lethe soured his face in disappointment, appearing to be terribly hurt.

“Close the door.” A voice called out from the shadows.

The door was closed.

“The other door.”

He shut the front door, barely on its hinges, and a stench assaulted his nostrils.

There were three torn-up couches staggered against the walls and half a dozen people lying helplessly on the floor. From a certain angle, it looked like they were kneeling in prayer. From another angle, their jaws stood open and their eyes stared fixedly into space. The rest of the people in the room were propped up against the furniture like stuffed dolls. These people were only half-alive, and their looks gave Lethe an eerie, despondent chill up his spine.

First of all, who were they? Second, why did they choose to make this home their living grave?

Luckily, nobody recognized him. Meaning, nobody recognized his presence in the room. They were perfectly unaware, and yet they clung to the slightest thread of human life. Lethe grew fascinated with the band of addicts. It was like being in a room of the famous Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. They seemed human. Lethe envisioned a name-plate above the exhibit: “The dreary row of misfits.” Their clothing exuded a rancid, smoky stench.

Out of nervousness, he lit up a Camel cigarette and one of the bodies on the floor twisted itself up his leg. He gave the open hand a cigarette, and after it got its light, the body melted back into the floor.

There were two children also in this room who separated themselves from the crackheads by their endless source of uncontrollable energy. They kicked, swatted, and wrestled each other while also hitting the buttons on the controllers and gaping at the TV screen. Lethe attempted to talk to them. He would have liked some information, a clue about their forsaken world. “Why are all of these ghosts in your house?” for example; or “Does your mommy know you’re here?” But they ignored Lethe.

Lethe studied the crackheads with academic curiosity. He’d gotten as far as his junior year in college and knew how to observe a specimen. You had to detach yourself from the experiment; you had to escape into impersonality. There were remarkable similarities between the kids playing video games, the addicts smoking crack, and the elderly playing slots at the 7/11. The trance was nearly the same; the absorbed state; the greedy cravings. Hmmmmmmm . . . Maybe they’re all infected with the same disease. They can’t stop doing whatever it is they are doing. They’re mesmerized by the object of their attention and they can’t let go.

In the main room, the wallpaper was peeling. Through a hole, Lethe could see a narrow, tilted bedroom. A plastic mattress, pushed to the back, also appeared at an angle. A pile of broken junk lay scattered, DVDs, electronics, children’s toys. Amid the heaps, two sunken eyes stared calmly at Lethe. Startled, he jumped back from the wall.

The screen door cracked its high, sharp whip, and Lethe jumped from the couch for a second time. A thug busted into the room with a lumbering gait. His clothing hung off him like loose tissue paper. He circled Lethe and leered at him with his rigid jaw and maniacal eyes.

The thug shouted: “Give me your money.”

“I don’t have any money. I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Ain’t no friends of yours ‘round here. This is the house of Mammon.”

Jelly laughter erupted from the pathetic crowd. The thug continued to jig and taunt. As he circled Lethe, his white basketball shoes squeaked out tiny, high-pitched cries on the plastic tile. He repeated his threat:

“You better have money.”

“I told you I’m waiting for a friend. Sonny told me to wait here-”

“You friend’s with Sonny?” He asked, lowering his tone.

“Yes, is that so hard to believe?”

Then Sonny appeared. “He’s with me,” he said. “Leave him alone.”

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