Smokey
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Smokey- it sounds like the name for a pimp that chain smokes. Nope, he is just my little friend. Fourteen years ago, I was living in a clean and sober housing situation run by the Salvation Army. It was inside a single room occupancy hotel with around 100 units, some of which had been sectioned off for office use. My room was on the second floor. I was facing the street, overlooking the Tenderloin. I used to look at into the night sky and see reflections of myself in the shadows. I used to keep my milk on the ledge. I made instant coffee in the sink using barely hot water. I splurged on basic cable I watched on my tiny screen. My life was simple, easy, and full of fear. How could I ever get out of this place? How could I ever leave the only place I had known in my adult life where I could live and not stick needles in my arm. I would sign my boyfriend in for overnight visits.As we would lay in the glow of the streetlights outside, we talked of getting a place together. A few