Ian enjoys driving with me on my delivery route some nights, and when he is particularly open, the evenings can present some very compelling insights on the dead. One trip comes to mind where I needed to make a dropoff at a hotel in the most dangerous area of town.
The delivery app GPS sent me to a wrong driveway, which brought me to an empty lot on the opposite side of a fence where I was supposed to be. It was about the time of day I call “patina”, which is a momentary space between when the sun has dipped behind the horizon and before nightfall and darkness sets in. The lot we found ourselves in was littered with dirty discarded food containers and debris, the concrete walls of nearby buildings stained by years of graffiti. Amber streetlights in the lot were beginning to wake, some sputtering brightness in an unsteady blinking from the low-contrast transition to evening, while others lagged behind and remained dark, bulbs still not quite ready to give up on the day.
“Oh, crap,” I exclaimed. “I think we needed to take the next driveway!” I don’t like unexpected detours, especially in areas of blight and high crime. The area I was guided to is dubbed “murder row”, and for good reason. The homicide, crime and addiction rate is exponentially higher than any other area in town, with gunshots heard regularly by residents and the effects of the fentanyl epidemic visible on every corner. One thing I was grateful for was the absence of suspicious individuals in this particular lot right now, as I just needed to turn around and get back on track without any issues. But Ian was seeing something vastly different than I was, however.
“It’s like The Walking Dead back here!” he said. “There are people everywhere…“
I performed the u-turn and headed back down the pothole ridden driveway, car bobbing and swaying. I didn’t want to see what my husband was witnessing, and it’s times like this I am glad to not have his abilities. He was describing in detail the lost souls meandering about us as I exited the lot: literally hundreds of dead, trapped in the throes of addiction and despair, some slumped over, while others staggered like zombies in a horror film. There were suicides, overdose deaths and victims of murders and violence milling about in their own personal limbo. No joy or communication, love or peace. Just lost spirits creating a paranormal snapshot of the people who lost their lives on this street and in its seedy, drug-ridden hellhole motels.
We arrived just a couple minutes later to the correct hotel entrance, and I went in to make the delivery to the front desk as requested by the customer, notified them of the successful delivery via the app, then got back into the driver’s seat to take us to the next pickup destination.
The description of the severity of the despair in this neighborhood as evidenced by the presence of the dead stuck with me, though. While we see the effects of addiction and crime on the living all around us with the fentanyl epidemic in America, it is even more tragic that many cannot find peace or freedom in death, either. I have begun to pray each night for the souls of those experiencing addiction and violence, both living and dead, and that our blessed Lord will have mercy on them, and free them from this eternal torment and sadness. The choices we make in this life will affect what happens afterwards—I feel very blessed that I have love and joy in my world, and thank God for these gifts every day.