By Paul Martin
His name was Charlie. And I had no desire to speak with him. I had had a very long day of meetings in Santa Fe. But he insisted. He might have been drinking too many margaritas; I don’t know.
I had nearly just stayed in the hotel and passed out to chess videos. I find this guy Eric Rosen’s voice and demeanor almost soothing. So calm. And I’m an introvert. But I needed food. I walked over to Sazón, which was packed, so I sat at the bar. So, Charlie and his friend were having fun, giggling and laughing and anyone there would know how extroverted of a guy he was. He was to my left, and his friend was to his left. We were nearly rubbing shoulders. I could just tell he was the kind of guy that could slap me on my back any moment and ask, “So, where are you from?”
I could feel it coming, and, again, I wasn’t in the mood. I kept my body turned a bit away from him and his friend. I didn’t want to make my mood too obvious—didn’t want to be rude—so I just twisted to the one o’clock position. I’m staring at the mirror and the bottles and trying to make it look like I was reading my iPhone, and I kept staring at this photo.
Mexicans celebrate the holiday el Día de los Muertos, The Day of the Dead. It’s a day when families welcome back their deceased relatives’ souls for a brief reunion. Protestants cry heresy. But if souls are immaterial, they can’t be attached to a physical body—so the holiday makes some sense. If you believe in souls, you’ve already taken a big step in accepting the idea of spirits anyway.
Charlie pokes me on the arm, “Hey man, have you been here before?”
I was a bit shocked, but this guy was the type that was so alive and positive that his energy was something to admire. So, I gave him the rundown on the menu, then he asked a bunch of questions about New Mexico.
Of course, the question comes of my work, and I tell him about Española and fentanyl.
His face, the moment I said the word fentanyl, went funny. His mouth twitched. A half an hour later, he was still talking about his younger brother, whom he lost to an overdose a year earlier.
“He didn’t do drugs.”
“Everyone loved him. He was that guy that loved life and adventure.”
“The vape pen was laced with fentanyl. We found him at his desk, bent forward.”
He gave me his number and asked how he could help with United Against Fentanyl.
I left shortly after but took the photo to remind me of all those who died due to fentanyl poisoning.
At least in some sense, their spirits remain with us, especially their families.
