IF YOU'RE THINKING OF TRYING HEROIN, THINK AGAIN

Because I faintly remember being young and foolish myself, I know that
for many kids, the decision to try "cheese" boils down to four
cavalier little words:

"Oh, what the hell?"

In answer, I would invite them along for an early-morning glimpse into
that hell.

In the muddy light of dawn, I arrived at the West Texas Counseling &
Rehabilitation Program of Dallas. Everyone simply calls it "the free
methadone clinic."

Heroin addicts trying to kick their habit come here daily for a dose
of the synthetic opiate. Some have been coming for years.

The bustling place already had been open more than an hour. A line of
jostling, miserable addicts usually waits at the door well before the
5:30 a.m. opening.

The clinic is on Maple Avenue, south of Inwood Road. When I arrived,
eight or nine people stood around outside, already dosed, now
socializing and smoking.

The Route 29 bus stops right in front of the clinic, and each bus
brings a few more customers.

Inside, a dozen people sat on hard benches in the small waiting room.
As I looked around, a sleepy-eyed woman helpfully pointed me to a
small window. "You have to check in there," she said.

It tells you something about drug addiction that a middle-aged man in
khakis and a starched shirt could just as easily be assumed in search
of methadone as those there in thrift-store castoffs.

I sat down beside the helpful woman, thanked her and explained that I
was there only in search of insight. I asked what she would tell a
young person contemplating that first snort of the heroin mix called
"cheese."

"Ooh," she said, as if she'd relish the chance. "I'd tell 'em, 'Don't
be no damn fool!' "

She began telling me about her 20-year struggle with heroin. But then
her number was called and she shot off the bench, heading for one of
the tiny dispensing rooms. There, a little cup of pink liquid is
swigged and the clawing beast is quieted for one more day.

Others in the waiting room had heard my question by then and were
happy to offer their own warnings to kids.

"They don't know what they're messin' with," said Tony D., a
sunglasses-wearing heroin addict of 11 years. "They think it's like
marijuana and you can just leave it alone when you want to."

Morgan laughed in bitter agreement with that. He's 42 and looks 72 -
gaunt and toothless after a lifetime of heroin addiction. "They think
you can take it or leave it, but it's just the opposite. It takes
you," he said.

"It's the biggest mistake in my life," he went on. "If I got three
wishes, I wouldn't wish for a million dollars. It would be that I
never tried heroin that first time."

A young man in a backward cap, who gave his name as Gaara, chimed in,
"I have told my parents that very same thing. If I had one wish in
this world, it would be that I had never even heard the word 'heroin.'"

As we talked, a leathery woman in a faded flannel shirt walked
through. "Anyone got a cigarette for a quarter?" she asked, holding
the coin aloft.

"Here, you can have this," Gaara said, fishing out a half-smoked
cigarette. The woman gladly took his gift and headed outside.

Later, the woman and I talked. Carla, 52, readily confessed that she
uses methadone but also buys drugs outside the clinic. "There's more
dope up here than at the dope houses," she whispered.

She's homeless, sometimes prostitutes herself for fixes and said,
"Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd end up like this."

She said heroin is so cruel. "When you get that first high, you think,
'Oh, man, this is what I've been looking for all my life.' "

But the highs soon fade and only the raw, relentless, bottomless
cravings remain.

I asked Carla to describe heroin addiction. She thought a moment and
said simply, "Hell."

She considered her answer, nodded and said it again.
"Hell."

As in "Oh, what the ..."