Just Another Overdose at Clinton Triangle

By Arron Magar

Arron with a copy of his book How Long is Five Minutes? which he wrote while in prison about his life growing up as a Portland street kid. The following story is part of a new series Arron is writing about his current life experiences since his release.

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I’m working with addicts and people experiencing homelessness at a tiny house compound. Guess my title would just be simply “swing shift staff.” I do more though. I came from these streets. Around here and in downtown Portland. It’s kind of personal for me. These are still my people in a way. Though I’ve moved on.

Anyways, I’m working over here near Powell. Lots of history in this area. There’s the Original Hotcake House where I’d buy a meal and charge up all my devices in a booth. They never told me to scurry off…good people in there. Good food also. Then there’s that Jack in the Box across the street where the graveyard manager used to hook us up with meals in exchange for a little dope…way back in the day. Funny stuff. Also, there’s the Motel Six just up the way with the multiple WIFI options. One free and one you had to pay for. Both shitty. And with passwords so long and jumbled your eyes would cross trying to add them to all your devices.

OK, OK I digress. So here I am at work walking around daydreaming, just thinking to myself how it’s funny it is when you start looking around your old neighborhood with a sober mind. Like did I really grow up here or not?

I’m doing an outside perimeter check, well actually just finished with it, and I’m heading towards the front gate when I see this disheveled man with scars and tattoos with a week-old beard run by in a hurry.

“What the heck?” I’m thinking.

Then I see one of my co-workers running also. I naturally grab my radio walkie talkie not knowing what’s going on. My co-worker runs by with a spare glance at me and a half smile. He’s not as urgently running as the disheveled man before him.

“What’s up?” I holler.

I get no answer.

Maybe the disheveled guy stole something. Maybe my coworker is about to lose his job. But if the disheveled guy stole something from my coworker and he’s chasing it down, he doesn’t seem too serious about actually catching him. I’m unsure.

I’m standing there watching trying to figure out what’s going on when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around. Another coworker is walking towards me. Or towards the running parties perhaps.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, overdose,” he mutters as he walks past me.

Suddenly it makes sense. In a hurry I turn around again and start to move in that direction. Then it hits me. Someone’s dyeing. I begin to run as I feel in the pockets of my vest for my Narcan. It’s there. I really start to run now. My shoes slap the pavement as my eyes tell me that there’s a small car ahead. The disheveled man and my first coworker are standing around it. Hovering near the front door. The second coworker begins to run with me. He quickly falls behind though.

I pull my AirPods out of my ears and put them in their case as I finally arrive at the car. I ran about two blocks maybe. I see a man leaning back in the front seat not moving. He looks comfortable and asleep. The disheveled man is slapping his face lightly through the open driver’s side window. My first co-worker is holding a Narcan device looking at me like he’s not sure what to do.

I’m full-bore, not paying the dude no mind. I run around the car, tear my backpack off, throw it down and grab the passenger side door handle. It opens easily. I jump in and reach across the man to pull the recline lever on his seat. It doesn’t recline. I’m looking at his face. He smells. He’s greasy. I can tell he’s not breathing. I don’t think about it. I pull my phone out of my pocket and tell Siri to call 911. It begins to ring. I reach for the lever again and this time I pull harder. It releases.

The seat falls backward a bit but there’s a lot of junk and clothes behind it in the way and there’s also a dog. He’s a big boy, but just kinda looks at me in a sleepy way. He’s not worried about anything going on. I’m taken aback. I get a Narcan in my hand and push it into the guy’s nostril and press the plunger. It goes off. I discard the spent device. He doesn’t react. He’s wearing black cargo pants and a torn Metallica shirt. My second co-worker bursts his arms through the driver’s side window with a Narcan heading towards the man’s face. I grab it out of his hand.

“Every two to three minutes,” I tell him while pocketing the device.

“Right,” he says.

“Chest compressions!” I say out loud to no one in particular. Pushing the seat back just a little bit more. I’m wishing I could have the man completely flattened out, but it’s just not gonna be like that today.

Palms down I press into his chest. His body accepts the pressure. I do it again.

He is absolutely not breathing. The phone has stopped ringing and is now reciting a recorded message informing me that dispatchers are busy and I need to stay on the line or lose my place. I’ve heard it before. The recorded message. During another overdose a couple months ago. There’s no telling when I’ll get through to a dispatcher. In the heat of a crises waiting isn’t easy.

I’m doing chest compressions and the man’s face just seems extremely pale. I can’t really explain how I know, but it feels like the chest compressions are enabling movement in some kind of way through the man’s body.

He has some stubble and growth on his face.

It’s getting dark I start to realize. I continue doing chest compressions. I begin to pray aloud as I press into the lifeless body.

“Jesus, be with this man. Jesus, save this man. Show me what to do. Jesus, he needs you. Jesus…”

My coworkers are talking with the disheveled man:

“I don’t know I was walking by, and I noticed this guy not moving so…”

“Can you guys stop talking? I need to listen for his breath,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, we gotta be quiet,” says the disheveled guy.

I lean in close to the Metallica guy’s face. There’s nothing. I pull out another Narcan but before I can get it into his nose the first coworker reaches back through the window and pushes the plunger of his Narcan.

I continue the chest compressions. I’m pushing hard enough for the man’s chest to cave inwards just slightly. Releasing after a press you can see the body react and return to a restful sleeping posture. Pushing on a person’s chest and releasing mimics breathing. You can tell as you’re doing it.

The reason for doing that is because a body sometimes doesn’t breathe for itself. At least not during an overdosed. In that small window of time the body is actually dead. The Narcan device has this plunger that releases a small forceful spray of the drug. Mix that with the mechanics of the chest compressions and the hope is to get the Narcan into the body, which will then get the original drugs out of the system.

I don’t know the science of how it works, but it can be a very fast reaction. Enough Narcan administered fast after the overdose can get rid of the drugs and save a life.

My biggest hope is that this man wakes up, that the Narcan and the chest compresses will work. It’s a sad and scary thing to be doing. My heart is heavy as I press again and wonder how long it’s been, and how long before the recorded message stops and puts us through to the operator.

It’s not working though. The compressions. I stop again to listen for a breath. I don’t hear anything. The man does somehow seem better though…I can’t explain why. I sit back a bit exasperated. My only option left is the mouth-to-mouth device.

“Does anyone have a mouth-to-mouth thing?” I say.

“Yeah,” one of my co-workers hands me one.

I open it up and spread it out. It’s basically a piece of plastic with an opening that keeps the blower from having to actually kiss the overdosed party. You just use it to make sure that air is flowing enough for the Narcan to get into the overdosed person’s system. The problem with just doing it without the mouth device is that drugs nowadays are so potent you really have to protect yourself from inadvertent exposure. Especially on your skin. But I’ve never used one before.

I set it in front of me on the man’s mid-section. It’s a tough thing to admit, but I should just place it over the man’s face and blow into his mouth. I don’t because he is greasy and sweaty, and I know fentanyl or heroin can come out of a person’s pores to some degree.

I continue the chest compressions but change my mind and decide to Narcan the man one more time.

No reaction.

I can’t tell if he’s breathing but, if I’m not wrong, I think he does look a little less pale. I don’t really know for sure though. I do some more chest compressions. I sit back exasperated again and wonder if the man is already dead. I’ve heard of a few deaths from overdoses. Well, a lot actually. But I’ve also heard about and seen a lot more revivals.

Then the disheveled man opens the driver’s door and lunges at the overdosed man’s face. He blows hard into his mouth with no device.

The overdosed man’s chest heaves and rises, his whole body does, and then he takes a huge audible breath! He’s alive! He came back to life! I can’t believe it. I felt like it wasn’t going to happen.

I look at the man and see he’s still out of it though. My coworkers ask him if he’s OK?

“I’m OK,” he says.

He’s not though. He falls into that eyes closed relaxed nod of a fentanyl addict. He stops responding to our questions.

“We gotta get him up,” the disheveled guy says.

Metallica comes back to awareness as the disheveled guy pulls his arm and lifts him into a sitting position.

“I’m calling the ambulance,” I inform Metallica.

“No please!” he says to me.

“No bro, you’re not good,” I say to him, “we are calling the ambulance.”

“No, no,” he says.

Then Metallica gets out of the car. I grab my phone and follow him.

“If you call them, I’ll leave,” he says.

I hang up the phone.

“I’ve overdosed twenty-seven times,” he says, “I’m OK.”

I talk to the guy some more and look at his dog. His dog is laying still looking around, not too concerned. I’m a bit blown away by it all. I talk to the guy some more and try to tell him that the Narcan will wear off and he might need some more on hand. He seems uninterested.

The disheveled guy gives him a Narcan. I guess he had a spare. The situation seems to have resolved itself and left me feeling kind of hopeless. I know from experience that the drug can come back in full effect anytime. I saw a guy puking not even fifteen minutes after he was revived. Puking is often a tell-tale sign of overuse and comes either when a person is really really high or when overdose is eminent. For an addict it’s also their favorite place to be. Right there on the precipice of death, gliding on the winds of a very intense high.

I walk away and head back into the compound…just another day serving people experiencing houselessness.