A Kalamazoo Story

Content Warning: Graphic description of a fentanyl overdose. I get my lunch from the same deli every day. Today, I step up to the counter, look straight into the face of the nice guy who weighs my hot bar container Monday through Friday (unless I get a tuna salad sandwich that week) and, my voice shaking, I ask, “Do you have Narcan?” He looks confused, probably because I’m way too intense. I know I’m too intense. I can feel it. I’m not masking. I’m not smiling. I’m not putting on the friendly Jenny affect. And I’m probably visibly trembling. “In the store. Do you have Narcan and do you know how to use it?” He’s not sure. He doesn’t think they do. Kalamazoo, Michigan, has a large homeless population. I say homeless, not houseless, because I interact with homeless people every day; they call themselves homeless. They erect their tents and string their tarps along the streets north of Kalamazoo Avenue, and along the Amtrak rails that run parallel to it. One such street on my daily…