I play an early morning game of disc golf each weekend. I like to get out about sunrise and tromp through the wet grass. Sometimes I play with a friend, sometimes alone. I always have an ipod filled with an album or two. Today I played alone with Bad Religion as my musical guest.
I cleared the front nine without talking to another human. The squirrels and egrets were my only distractions. As I started in on the back nine I was disturbed by a man who wanted to join me. His name was Terry. He asked me what I was listening too, I handed him an ear bud. He screamed out these lyrics.
cockroach naps and rattling traps,
how many devils can you fit upon a match head?,
caringosity killed the Kerouac cat,
sometimes truth is stranger than fiction
Terry plays guitar in a band. He covers songs by Bad Religion and a wide variety of other bands. He makes a living from music. When he's not playing, he repairs guitars or acts as an extra in movies.
My new friend spent the rest of our game talking about his recovery from heroin addiction; he has been on methadone maintenance for 10 years, apparently with no hope of kicking the cure. During our game, I helped him count his throws. He could not seem to count past 2. He played poorly, but took great joy in the simplest improvements. I laughed a lot.
He talked in a stream of consciousness way about his life. In the end, I knew more about his life then I wanted to, but I was entertained. Addicts can be interesting people to spend time with.
Terry asked my name about ever 10 minutes. He got it right in the end. I handed him two discs as a gift because he had been plying with a borrowed disc. I know that giving anything of value to an addict is wrong, but a man should have his own discs. I am not so sure I will ever see him again. I hope I do.