Students for a Free Tibet
Students for a Free Tibet headquarters were on the ground floor of a decrepit factory building on the north side of East Ninth St., closer to Avenue C. Inside, it looked like a time warp of '60s activism - cast-off furniture, posters on the wall, beer cans strewn about, squished chips on the floors, ashtrays overflowing. My first reaction was that it did not seem to be an ideal environment for a seventeen-year-old in recovery. The organization's soft-spoken executive director apologized for the mess when I arrived. He said there had been a staff party for Halloween. I told him why I had come. He had not heard from Carrick, he said.
Soon after, Carrick's direct supervisor arrived. I repeated my story; she was visibly upset. She told me Carrick had done a good job when she was around, but that she frequently had been absent, or often had not returned from lunch at Tompkins Square Park, where she had taken to hanging out. She also said that she thought she'd smelled alcohol one day when Carrick and Megan had returned from lunch and had challenged the girls. It turned out that Megan had just applied an alcohol-based perfume, she said, and she had apologized for questioning them. I thanked her for her diligence, and was reminded of the many times I'd thought I detected something suspicious but talked myself out of it, or let one of Carrick's convoluted explanations sway my common sense.
I sat down on a squishy couch, exhausted, as a couple of other staff members arrived. In a hushed voice, the supervisor filled them in on why I was there. Megan finally came through the door, later than I'd expected her. I introduced myself. She said she thought she knew where Carrick was, but she had to go to get her alone. About forty-five minutes later, she returned. She had not found Carrick, she said, but she told me there was someone who wanted to talk to me. He knew where Carrick was, but he was nervous. Would I meet him outside?
“Of course,” I said. “Is it Chaos?”
“No. His name is Champ,” she said.