The quasi-truce between the Israelis and militants in Lebanon takes effect this morning, and so far things seem to going reasonably well. We had a kind of unofficial lottery going at camp over how long the semi-peaceful situation will last. Enon, by far the most well read of all, is also the most skeptical, giving the end to quiet at no later than tomorrow morning.

“Somebody’s going to get antsy”, he said, but declining to speculate on which side will break the cease fire first.

The rest of us were about evenly divided between the Arabs and Jews. Kite suggested it would be ambiguous whenever it happened, with nobody being the clear violator. That to me was a safe opinion, but also a very good one as far as I was concerned. I myself imagined a scenario where the Arabs shoot first, but the Israelis “defend” themselves by killing a bunch more civilians, thereby prompting a resumption of rocket attacks into northern Israel, to which the Israelis will respond ten-fold. And on and on.

As usual, Skute had no valid opinion whatsoever. “We should just send a bunch of troops over there and kick *everybody’s* ass,” he said, as he dug around in his belongings, no doubt in search of something to get high on. I slapped him. He rubbed his cheek, looked at me briefly, and then resumed his search. Enon scolded me with his eyes. Kite giggled. Skute never had anything to get high on, and his display of desperate longing was merely a ploy to prompt somebody else to offer him some of their drugs. He would do this long enough for everybody to notice, and then wander off for another day of pan-handling quarters downtown where, conveniently, all the drugs happen to be. Skute took one last look around hoping somebody had something to offer, then headed off.

“What’s on the menu today?” I asked him as he was leaving. He scratched his head, further mussing his already unkempt hairdo. I could tell he was thinking that I expected him to bring us all lunch or something, and he was going over excuses in his mind about why he couldn’t do that. Actually he *could*, if he wanted, but was planning on engaging himself in the pursuit of illegal narcotics for most of the day, and would not have time to deliver lunch.

"Never mind," I told him, rolling my eyes.

I was only really curious about what kind of drugs he was looking for. Unlike most, Skute seemed to have no particular preference. Others tend to be a bit more specific, crack, crank, meth, synthetics, everybody seemed to have their favorites. But not skute. Anything will do, the stronger the better, the more the merrier.

“Pathetic,” I commented as he disappeared down the trail. Of course, I am no angel in that respect, having indulged in just about everything in the past. But the difference is that in my case, it is all in the past. Except pot. I like to smoke pot.

Kite is one of a handful of methadone junkies that I know. I try my best to keep her honest, but the truth of the matter is that methadone is really no better than heroin. You still stay just as addicted, the difference being that you are plugged into the system where I suppose the admins in the government think they have some kind of handle on your behavior. “Liquid handcuffs,” Kite calls it. Sad but true. She literally can’t go anywhere that takes her too far from her twice daily dose at the methadone clinic downtown. Otherwise she is back on the real stuff again, just that quick. And while there is some effort on the part of the clinic to treat the addiction by slowly reducing the dosages over time, I have personally never met a “former” junkie. I’m sure they exist somewhere. But not where I hang out. Nobody I know has any intention of quitting anything. Kite does the methadone because it’s free. Otherwise she would be panhandling and hooking for her drugs.

Enon is an anomaly in his own right. He prefers to drink, and on occasion will smoke a joint with me. Cheap whiskey is his poison. However he is somewhat settled about drinking, preferring to keep it in camp, rather than making a fool of himself in public places. Both Enon and I despise the public drunks. Especially the ones who make asses of themselves on the bus lines. They seem to be all over, expecting everybody to pardon them for being stupid and clumsy and appreciate them for the festive spirit they are in. Fat chance. They too are panhandlers, always bumming quarters for malt liquor.

They also spend an inordinate amount of time in jail, since it is not such an easy thing to play strait in public after you’ve downed two or three forties. Also, since the vast majority of them are homeless, they have no place to go where it is legal to drink. So they loiter in parks and at bus stops, stealing swigs from bottles cleverly disguised as brown paper bags. They have no clue what they look like, and probably wouldn’t care if they did.

The typical line the panhandlers use is for food. You are supposed to feel sorry for these guys because they haven’t eaten. Or bus fare. They have to be somewhere important. Both of those excuses seem real enough, except for the fact that both free food and bus passes are available, and everybody knows where to go to get that stuff. Of course, you have to be sober or you’ll just get the boot.

I myself would prefer it if all the panhandlers were just honest. “I’m trying to raise enough money to buy a forty of Old English 800.” I could almost appreciate that, though I still probably wouldn’t give them any money. Enon will ask me for money to buy whiskey, and I often give it to him because I know he will share it with me once he gets back to camp.

Our informal lottery went on to the condition we all expected Skute to be in when he returned later.

“Downers,” said Enon. “Really mellow, and then he’ll pass out.”

“Crystal,” said Kite. She stood up and imitated a series of spastic convulsions, wild-eyed and slapping herself in the head.

“Crack,” I speculated. "He’ll hang out for about five minutes the go back out looking for more."

I wondered about Skute, what kind of person he was before he got so screwed up on all those drugs, whether his apparent idiocy was a result of his years of drug abuse, or if he was always just a plain idiot. He certainly looked like an idiot, no matter what he did. Try as I might, I just couldn’t imagine him any other way. Did he *ever* have a regular job? A career? A family? No telling. And while I am somewhat curious, I am not curious enough to ask him. Likely I wouldn’t get a strait answer if I did ask.

I rolled a joint and handed it to Kite. She lit it, then we passed it around as we resumed our discussion on the Israelis and Arabs.