The boy with the Blue Hat grabbed his floppy book bag, and, heaving a tired sigh, threw it over his shoulder. He proceeded out of the classroom into the slamming lockers and yelling of a raucous, high school hallway. He relaxed a little upon seeing the girl with the Glasses. They smiled at each other and he gave her a gentle one-arm hug. But it was quick and fraternal; their group didn’t take much interest in romance. The boy with the shock of White Hair walked up hastily with his nerves on edge, as usual when he hadn’t smoked in a couple hours. "C’mon," he said, "Let’s go outside."

"You nickin’ out again, man?" asked the Blue Hat, squinting in the gloomy afternoon sunlight. The girl chuckled as the White Hair gave her a cigarette. "So where we goin’ tonight?" asked the Glasses, "I hear some priest found one of your needles behind the church the other day, and they’re gonna try an’ catch people out there." She looked cynically at the White Hair.

He was about to retort back with something about never leaving his needles when the Blue Hat interrupted him. "I took care of that this afternoon. There’s a basement - under the old apartment building on third and main - that’ll be great, except we might have to give a few old drunks the boot."

"Sounds good to me," said the girl.

It was ten o’clock on a typical night in the old basement. The Glasses was sprawled on an old rocking chair in the corner of the basement, humming in some silly manner to herself. About a dozen other kids lay strewn about the room. There was the boy with the Brown T-shirt, and the twins with the Green Hair, all happily staring at the ceiling. The White Hair sniffed a few times, wiped his nose, and looked up lazily at the Blue Hat across the table. "Ya’ know," he began, pausing to wipe his nose in a considerably more relaxed mode than earlier that afternoon, "I been thinking; we ain’t got it so bad. I love all you guys." He stood up and yelled a little louder, "I love all you guys! You’re the best Losers I know!" With a loud, quick, "Whoop!" he fell on the floor and laughed stupidly. The Blue Hat just looked at him disconnectedly.

No one was offended by the term, "Losers." It was their name. Some people had other names for them, like "druggies," or "freaks;" but no other name embodied their reputation with the other kids at school like "Losers." So, more than just a title, it was the very epitome of their identity, encouraging and inspiring each of it’s owners to believe in a secret happiness, buried somewhere deep inside, that would arise if they could just feed it enough drugs. The Losers had staked everything on their name and no one could take away that pride.

The Blue Hat was the informal leader of the Losers, a mentor of sorts. No one really knew any reasons why, just that he had always found the places to go on Friday nights, and he had always supplied the weed. But over the last few months, Friday nights had hardly become the only times when a place to go was needed, and weed was no longer the only drug of choice. As the other kids at school increasingly held the group in disdain, it turned more and more inward for support and morale. It was, of course, that turning that fashioned and hardened "Losers" into a title proudly worn, instead of just another label.

With some shadow of these thoughts on his mind, the White Hair began again. "Ya’ know," he slurred, with as much pompous gentility as he could muster, "If not for you Losers, I don’t know where I’d be, but I wouldn’t be a shadow of the man I am!" He smiled loudly and fell on his face, though not terribly hard. He tried to say a weak "Ouch," but the dumb smile wouldn’t let it out.

There are some things that everyone, even the craziest of us, know are stupid. The Losers were no different. But after a while, marijuana had just not been fun enough. So one day, the Green Hairs had introduced cocaine. On another occasion, the Glasses had brought in the first hits of acid. Hence, no one had thought too much when the White Hair started doing heroin. Soon, however, he was doing it more than just once in a while, and leaving an the proverbial "needle behind the church" became the least of his problems. It was with this understanding that the other Losers watched like headlight-stunned deer as their comrade became increasingly dependent on daily, sometimes twice daily, injections. Like the deer, they could stare at their own doom, in the form of the smiling heap of White Hair on the floor, and not see it. He was still a Loser, they told themselves. They could laugh it off, could forget about it, couldn’t they? Hadn’t they all done just as bad? And weren’t they far happier than any of those other kids at school? Everything would be all right. Surely the funny and scared looks they increasingly got in the school hallways were out of jealousy, weren’t they? Several faces in the basement smiled, reassured by these unspoken arguments. But just as the Glasses’ acid trips to Eden were occasionally smashed by the Serpents of bad trips, the Losers knew deep inside that the pseudo-paradise they had created and believed in couldn’t last forever. Still, they couldn’t stop telling themselves to believe. Their name had taken on power. "Losers" owned their souls and there was no turning back. So, instead of fighting, they sought comfort in their own slow death. A martyr from their own was only a matter of time.

It finally happened on a Saturday night. The White Hair had been increasing his dosages. This night, he went too far. The Blue Hat was in a fog. He knew he must have called 911, for the ambulance had come. Crying profusely, one of the Green Hairs could barely breathe; until someone later explained the evening’s events, the other one had no idea what had happened The Glasses couldn’t see - not directly, anyway - but was aware of the events around her. As the ambulance left, she saw the White Hair’s placid face surrounded by the rushing, friendly colors she had come to know on her especially good trips. This time, however, she couldn’t stop screaming at them.

The Blue Hat was confused. He had ridden in the ambulance with the White Hair, but his memory was a Jackson Pollock splatter-painting, leaving him only random shards of the events which had taken place over the last twelve hours. He hadn’t been on any really heavy drugs when it happened, but the combination of marijuana, second hand cigarette smoke, a strange form of shock, and an already-fried brain had taken their toll on his psyche. The first thing he could remember since arriving at the hospital in the night was looking up at the digital clock on the wall and seeing that it was 10:30 a.m. Groggy from his stupor, he pulled back the curtains of a big window which comprised the wall behind him, and sunlight strained to break into the confines of the room. Normally, he hated sunlight, but today it just made him sick to the stomach, without any accompanying emotions. He looked around the room a little more. He was sitting in a semi-comfortable chair, with no arm rests, and a small coffee table next to it. Supposing the lukewarm cup of coffee sitting on it to be his own, he took a sip. The walls of the room had an off-white, but very sterile fabric wallpaper. The large window, blanketed by heavy curtains, enthroned him directly across from the door to the room.

Between him and the door, in a comfortable but very clean bed, lay the White Hair. He had something on his mouth which seemed to be pushing air into him very much against the will of the smoke-satiated lungs receiving it. IVs and electrodes traced intricate paths through his body, and a machine at the end of the bed beeped out his stuttering heartbeat. The Blue Hat stared at the soft breathing and beeping for hours. During those hours, the other Losers arrived, one by one. The one Green Hair twin was still crying.

The Glasses finally broke the silence, though her eyes told everyone that she had intended to speak only to herself, and maybe to the White Hair. "It’s okay. You’re a Loser. It’ll be all right. You’ll be fine. Everyone’s jealous of us Losers." The stark silence wasn’t broken again, except by the Green Hair’s crying, until something started beeping loud and long. The White Hair was gasping. Several nurses rushed in, pushing the Brown T-shirt out of the way. The beeping stopped after the hurried motions of CPR had done their task, the murmuring heartbeat restored.

The Blue Hat heard two male voices in the hallway. One sounded very professional, maybe a doctor. "Yes, we just brought him in last night. Overdose on heroin. What? Yes, I agree. Very sad. Well, some of his friends are here too; we’re just letting them be for now."

The other voice was softer, yet strong as well. "These poor addicts, such losers. Shame, shame, shame." The second voice faded as it appeared in the doorway, wearing the black robes of a priest. The doctor followed closely. The Blue Hat hardly noticed the man, though; the word had captured him: "Addict." It had a disgusting ring about it; not something you would get angry at, mind you, but something that you would find terrifying and wholly sickening nonetheless. The priest spoke a few words with the Green Hairs; the crying one relaxed, and even smiled a bit. As he was asking the group to bow their heads in, "Holy prayers to our Father," the beeping started again. This time the hurried motions of the nurses slowed before it quieted. The White Hair was dead.

The funeral was simple. The Losers stood by quietly, and, afterwards, went outside to calm their nerves with a few cigarettes. They had all heard the retched word at the hospital, and all carried the same nasty sensation of it, still fresh on the clay of their hearts. Finally the Blue Hat spoke.

"That’s so gross. That priest called us, uh I - I mean, him a - an addict!! He said addicts are losers! Does that mean Losers are addicts?" He was talking quite loud and fast, accenting the nasty word with disdain.

The Brown T-shirt tried to look stronger than he was, but it didn’t work. "We’re Losers, not Addicts. How could - I mean, he has to take it ba - is it true?" He looked around desperately.

The Glasses had been quiet, but finally spoke softly. "We’re Losers. The White Hair was a true Loser, a martyr. He was our best, cut down in his prime. He was everything we wanted to be." Her voice faltered in a funny sort of way. "He was a Loser. He was a - " She was shaking so hard the cigarette fell out of her mouth - "He was an Addict. We’re all Addicts."

The Blue Hat was definitely crying. "He’s gotta take it back, deny it, something!" No more had to be said. Running, as fast as their beleaguered bodies could, the Losers headed for the church, not to lose to needles in the grass, but to deal with that disgusting word.

The church was a copy of a famous gothic cathedral. It’s tall spires and pristine windows gave it a cool sense of power, and, as the Losers ran inside, they slowed suddenly, taken aback by the towering edifice. Rooted to the floor, the stood enamored with the high stone walls and windows. The Blue Hat eyed the stained-glass-colored sunlight with suspicion. A moment later, the priest came out of a side room, unnoticed until he had paused with a smile on his face. "Hello, there," he called pleasantly.

The Losers jumped, the echo of the voice adding to their start. They quickly rallied, however, and pressed in around the priest. The Blue Hat even kneeled and clasped his hands in a prayer-like position. "Please, sir, uh, I mean, father, I - oh please! Say it isn’t true! Are we addi - I mean, are we Losers, Addicts? Say no, say you didn’t mean it. Take it away, I…" He paused, then came back with more finality. "W-we’re Losers, not Addicts. Please take away that word." He raised his quivering voice. "I never wanted to be an addict." The priest just looked down at him.

Something was snapping in the Blue Hat’s temper. He knew what he had said. He didn’t want to be mean, but the priest was wrong. How could he say that just because someone was a Loser, he was an Addict? (The Blue Hat ignored his transposition of the priest’s words.) He had sold his soul to the Losers, not to the Addicts and who was this man in a black robe to allow Addiction to buy out the Losers? The Blue Hat’s logic began to struggle. He knew what he knew but it didn’t make sense anymore. Could the Addicts overtake the Losers, like one corporation another on the stock market? "The Losers must be lying to me!" he thought. Of course, he didn’t mean the people, but the title and its ideals; however, it was all the same right then. Now, he was most certainly confused. Perhaps that great glorious name was a sham. A pure, unholy, filthy sham. The thought made him feel smaller than he could have ever felt before. He had jumped out of the boat into an apparently peaceful, promising ocean of Loser-hood, but now the storms were overtaking him. He hadn’t bargained for them, but maybe it wasn’t just the priest’s fault they had come. Maybe, just maybe, being an Loser was synonymous with being an Addict. He realized he had been sweating and looked down at the beads that had rolled off his brow and onto the stone floor.

All the powerful finality had vacated his voice. "If that’s what being a Loser is, I - I don’t want to be a one anymore." All of the Losers were crying.

The priest smiled. "That you are Losers is not the sin." The Blue Hat looked up sharply. "Here, come with me," said the priest, leading the emotionally drained and confused group towards the front of the great sanctuary. As his audience, virtually deaf from shock, followed, he commented on the great windows and paintings of Christ in His suffering. He led them to the altar. The Losers stood reverently, but bewildered nonetheless.

Again the priest smiled, appearing strangely lost and transfigured in the stained-glass windows. "All true Losers must bend their knees here, at the foot of the cross," he began piously. "For only Losers can truly come, broken, to our blessed Savior. Only a Loser knows total dependence on the great grace our Savior gives, that grace that separates the Loser from his Addictions." He looked down at the Losers; though still transfigured, he took on a more earthy aura. "You have come here Addicts and Losers. It is here that you become the Loser your friend never was. Your loss to our great Savior is your truest victory." Each Loser glanced around nervously and, at the priest’s beckoning, bowed his or her head, slowly listening and repeating the priest’s prayers. The Blue Hat came off his head. The Glasses came off her face. And, seeing the tears on her cheeks, he pulled her close and cradled her gently in something that, while not sensual, was certainly more than fraternal. He kissed her gently on the forehead.

The End