UNIONIZING CHRONIC DRUG USERS

On a Thursday afternoon in early February, Louie Jones strolls
through the courtyard of the Gowanus Houses, a public housing project
in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn. As he moves, Jones--40 years old, gaunt and
relentlessly outgoing--sizes up each passerby. Jones is a recruiter
of sorts, and every week at this time he is out pounding the
pavement, in part, to find new enlistees. He's not scouting for the
military or for a church, but rather for his fledging organization,
called VOCAL NY, User's Union--the only group in New York solely
dedicated to organizing the city's legions of drug addicts. Jones is
looking for a few good users.

At around 2:30 p.m., Jones spots a man in a puffy jacket, leaning
against a fence.

"Condoms," Jones calls out. "Free condoms?"

The man declines. "Still working on the last batch, y'all gave me."

Jones keeps walking. At the center of the courtyard, a team of city
workers is picking up trash. Jones takes a long look at the cop car
idling nearby. "It's going to be a slow day," says Jones. "Slow, slow, slow."

Thanks to the police presence the dealers are scarce, and so too are
the users. The regular hotspots--the corner outside the bodega, a
service ramp disappearing into one of the tall brick towers--are empty.

As he continues his walk, Jones explains the philosophy behind the
user's union. The notion isn't new; it and has been employed to great
effect in cities like Amsterdam and Vancouver, Jones says. The
essential idea is to get chronic drug users to take responsibility
for their health, not in some ideal version of the future when
they've kicked their habit, but in the present imperfect moment while
they continue to use drugs. The union, says Jones, is an effective
way of bringing addicts together and encouraging them to begin
helping each other "peer to peer."

Jones has been a heroin addict for several decades, and argues that
the current state of drug treatment in New York City is too much of a
binary process. Some users remain in recovery and have access to many
avenues for self-improvement from therapy to health care to volunteer
opportunities; others still use, and have access to nothing. "We're
interested in the middle path," says Jones. "No abstinence required."

VOCAL's current 20 to 30 dues-paying members (Jones isn't sure about
the exact number) meet regularly at the headquarters of the New York
City AIDS Housing Network on Fourth Avenue in south Brooklyn. There,
VOCAL members can attend support groups, sign up for volunteer
activities, help plan demonstrations aimed at improving how the city
caters services to them, and strategize on how to combat what Jones
calls "addict-o-phobia"--that is, society's stigmatization of
addiction, which Jones believes often scares users into lying about
their condition.

"You think of a group of users and you think of chaos," says Jones.
"It's not chaos. It's about the concept of harm reduction. I
practice. We all practice. It's what binds us together."

That said, Jones would be the first to admit that organizing drug
addicts is a bit more complicated than unionizing, say, journalists.
Would-be members regularly drop out because of health or legal
problems. Others might disappear on a binge. There's also the tricky
issue of funding. How do you get charitable organizations or city
administrators to hand over money to a group of individuals who admit
to regularly snorting cocaine or injecting heroin? Jones is still
working out the details. But for the time being, VOCAL is surviving
by forming partnerships with other sympathetic nonprofits in the
area, such as the Harm Reduction Coalition and the Injection Drug
Users Health Alliance.

In the meantime, Jones who is HIV- and Hepatitis C-positive, is out
on the streets doing what he can to help reduce transmission of the
viruses among his fellow Brooklyn addicts--one condom, one unsoiled
syringe, and one pristine crack pipe at a time. On this Thursday
afternoon, as he makes the rounds, Jones is accompanied by Michael
Duncan, a physician assistant who works for various syringe-exchange
programs throughout the city, and by a VOCAL volunteer.

At around 3 p.m., the team spots a potential peer member, a haggard,
middle-aged woman, in neon-green gloves and a corduroy hat, who is
standing out in the cold at the projects entrance, restlessly
shifting from foot to foot. After a round of introductions, Duncan
removes a crumpled brown paper bag from his overstuffed messenger's
backpack and hands it to the woman. Inside, there are alcohol swipes,
a kit for disposing of used needles, packets of sterile water, a
metal mixing cap, a cotton swab, and 10 clean syringes.

For the next few minutes, everyone stands around chatting, sharing
gossip, advice, and war stories. Eventually, the physician's
assistant hands the woman a business card for a doctor who
specializes in helping people overcome heroin addiction, using the
prescription drug Suboxone. She listens as he explains the potential
pros and cons of the treatment versus methadone. Finally, Jones
reaches out and hands the woman a flyer. "VOCAL is the union of drug
users and our allies," reads the pamphlet. "We drug users and our
allies need to be involved when drug-related policies are being discussed."

Jones invites her to the next group meeting. Membership costs $20.