CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Cruz”

Episode from podcast The Fringe

Host of podcast, Jamal Whitaker

“Hello, welcome to The Fringe . Cruz. How are you?”

“Been better. Been worse.”

Jamal smiles. “Give me an example of each.”

The man leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks to be in his late twenties, his black hair cut short, tattoos peeking from the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. Cruz smiles, and a dimple appears in his cheek, making him look suddenly younger. “Better? The day I took my little sister to the pier and we watched the seals for hours. Just laughing, man. It was one of the only times I felt ... I don’t know, free. Yeah, that was a great day.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Worse? The day I killed my sister.”

Jamal raises his brows. “You killed your sister?”

“Might as well have. I couldn’t save her, and she died because of me.”

“How did she die?”

“Of an overdose.”

“You believe you’re responsible for your sister’s overdose?”

“Who else? I was the only person she had to look out for her.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“I was sixteen, doing time in juvie for some dumb shit. Acting up. If I’d have been out, she’d be alive. I would have made sure of it. I told her I’d always be there to protect her, and I failed. That’s it. She was fourteen years old, man. Fourteen. Some motherfucker got her high, and that was it. One time, and that was all it took.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nods, hangs his head for a minute before looking up.

“What was your home life like, Cruz?”

“Home? I never had a home. Me and Maria got sent to foster care in Arizona, where we’re originally from, when I was eight and she was six. Our mom ... well, I don’t talk about her anymore. Anyway, we got put in the system and then moved eleven times before we finally got split up.” He looks away for a moment before cursing under his breath. “I told myself I could handle anything—any shit those motherfuckers did to me—as long as I was there to keep my sister safe.”

“What types of things did you experience in foster care?”

He breathes out and sits back, looking off into the distance again. “What didn’t we experience? Some of them starved us. We stayed in this one place that actually put locks on the refrigerator. Been beat up, slapped around, tied up. There was this one ... this dude with these cigarettes ...” He zones out, then gives his head a small shake. “Anyway, I always felt like I had a purpose, you know, until Maria died.” He’s quiet for a minute. “After Maria died, I joined a gang. I’d steered clear, but after her overdose, I just had this rage inside, you know?” He brings his fist up and gives it a slight shake in front of his heart. “Like I just didn’t care about anything anymore.”

“Are you still in a gang?”

“Nah. That’s why I moved here to San Francisco. To get away from all that. But man, it’s true what they say—you can’t outrun yourself.”

“What’s your drug, Cruz?”

He hisses out a breath between his teeth. “Heroin, mostly.”

“Are you trying to get clean?”

“Sure. I’d like to get clean.” He’s silent a moment. “I’d like to make Maria proud. If she’s looking down on me, I’d like her to say, hey, that’s my brother, and he got his shit together. He did good.”

Cruz’s face contorts, and he puts his head in his hands. “Shut that shit off,” he says, waving his hand toward the camera. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this anymore.”