Looking for Loosies Fernando Quijano III (bio) "Anybody got a loose one?!" On the subway platform, waiting for the train at Mondawmin, histortured voice cuts through the typical murmurs that bleed overthe mechanical silence. "Loose ones! Looking for loose ones. Anybody got a loose one?" The call is just short of desperate. Granted, he's still high enoughto not sound desperate, yet. One murmur becomes clearly audible. "Damn, they out latetonight." There is no they, just one lone addict coming off his fix & lookingto feed a different craving: tobacco. They is a pejorative here. Theaddict is relegated to subhuman standards, not worthy of being anindividual. Everyone knows what he wants. No one offers. If you live close enough to Lexington Market, near downtownBaltimore, close enough to find yourself there often, you learn thelingo. If you wait for a bus on the corner of Howard & Saratogaenough times, you will inevitably be asked if you want to buy aloosy or have one to sell. You may be confused, at first, but when you finally see someonepop a cigarette out of a pack & exchange it for a few coins, it allbecomes clear. Microeconomics. The soft sell of a sole cigarette. "Anybody got a looose one?!" Now he was becoming more desperate. He had already made alap of the platform, and with no luck, his call had transformed [End Page 325] into a chant, an uncomfortable one with such energy, I could senseeveryone one on the platform recoil, gather tighter, try to shieldthemselves from the discordance. "Loose ones! Looking for loose ones! Anybody got a looose one?" I'm no better. As he approaches me, I try to avert his gaze. I'm nottrying to interact. I have my earbuds on, playing nothing—myshield against the world. But I also know better than to be completelyunguarded. I observe him peripherally, notice the staggeringcadence of his walk, his gray, unkempt crop. He looks old,but addicts can be deceiving. You never really know if one is old,or just prematurely aged from constantly poisoning himself. Helooks old, but mostly, he just looks hollow, like his soul has beeneaten away, leaving nothing but a drying husk. Shit! He's looking at me. Betrayed by my curiosity, I've inadvertentlymade eye contact. I don't know if I can handle this energy,now. I've just spent the past couple of hours consulting an oldfriend, being the ear she needed, offering a shoulder and a bit ofhope. I've had my fill of desperation for the day. Any more couldbe wounding, leave me so raw that I'll spend the next few days inself-induced solitary, hiding from the world in a bed I'll be unableto sleep in, just toss, pretending sleep will come, eventually. "Loose one?" he asks. Even his eyes are hollow, his gaze dying,not dead, not yet. I take a deep breath to steel myself. Before I can let it out, I hearsomeone say, "Hey brother, how's it going?" in a soothing baritone.An officer has made his way to the platform, has reached theaddict. There's no acrimony. There's no aggression. Just brother,from an MTA police officer whose build is as daunting as hisvoice. "Hello, officer. I obey the law, officer. I respect the law. I'm justlooking for a loose one." "That's fine," the officer says, "but I don't think you're going tofind one here. You might have better luck somewhere else." [End Page 326] By this point, they're both past me, the officer is herding theaddict towards the up escalator, his broad shoulders dwarfing thesmall, broken man. They continue in now inaudible conversation.The rest of the platform finally loosens up as the desperate energydissipates, like lungs after a fit of coughing. Everyone is free fromhaving to face their reflections in the eyes of a hollowed one.We all have hollows & hate to be reminded how close we are tobecoming completely, tragically empty, looking...