1ST-PERSON WITNESSING OF DRUG ACTIVITY

The following account is based on two days the reporter spent witnessing
activities at one city street corner.

BRIDGEPORT - A young woman sits under a shade tree beside an empty tennis
court. With temperatures in the low 70s and sunshine, it's the perfect June
day to enjoy the outdoors.

But Tata doesn't seem to notice much of anything as she takes a clear
plastic strip, ties it around her forearm and sticks a needle into her vein.

Neither the two police cars that pass by nor the young children getting off
the bus nearby seem to pay much mind to Tata. The grandmotherly woman
pushing a stroller, less than 3 feet away, briefly looks in Tata's
direction, then goes on her way. It's apparent that such a scene isn't
shocking in this neighborhood.

And then I look again at Tata and realize that even as she uses her drugs
out in the open, she is just an anonymous addict to most people.

It's just another day at the corner of Wordin Avenue and Bird Street.

A brand-new, shiny, black Audi stops at the same intersection. Without an
exchange of words, a man nearby saunters over to the car. In a matter of
seconds, the man outside the car hands something to the driver, who hands
back cash, along with a sandwich. The two shake hands and the Audi drives off.

Moments later, a red BMW pulls up, and after a similar transaction, the
middle-aged blonde woman driving the car is gone.

Both drug transactions took under a minute.

Just after noon one day, some heroin addicts at the corner are telling me
to watch as a scenario they've already described unfolds.

In a parking lot across the street, I watch a man I guess to be in his late
30s or early 40s, wearing dress slacks and a tie talking to two women who
earlier stopped by to pick up condoms and exchange needles at the
Bridgeport Needle Exchange van. The three briefly huddle together, then the
women walk off as the man leans against a 2000 silver pickup truck.

"He's called out," the addicts tell me, laughing. When I still don't
understand, they explain the man is afraid to go into the housing project
to buy his drugs, so he's cut a deal with the two women. He gave them $40
to buy four bags of heroin, and when they return, he promises to give them
money. In other words, the women have promised to "cop" drugs for him, the
addicts tell me. But the women have another plan.

Soon, the man realizes the women won't be coming back. They have hopped
into a passing car.

A few hours later, I drive back through the area surrounding the P.T.
Barnum housing project in the city's West End. School is letting out and
dozens of parents are picking their children up at bus stops while crossing
guards keep watch. Kids are running through the playground, jumping on
swings and sliding down slides. For the first time, I notice a convent and
a nursery school across the street.

At this moment, the housing project - which at least looks relatively clean
and safe compared to the others I've visited - looks almost like a typical
neighborhood. My brief thought that maybe some of these families can live
normal lives despite what I've seen is soon shattered.

Within 5 minutes, I see a man slap a woman across the face, grab her purse
and take money from it. Moments later, I see two little girls, maybe 5 or 6
years old, holding hands and running down the sidewalk - they quickly
swerve to the left to avoid a man who is passed out, and continue skipping
along.

I wonder: Can there be normalcy amid such an environment?

Lisa Hurt, assistant Fairfield County editor, can be reached at 330-6225.