“Well then, it looks to me you have two options. One, you can pack your shit up and catch the next bus to Fayette and Patterson, or two, make a decision right now to clean up your life, and mean it.”
I say nothing.
“You ready? Let’s go.” He stands.
“Go? Where?” I ask.
“To the visiting center.”
“You mean she’s here? Now?”
Soon, I’m face to face with my mother, who, only a few days earlier, I had hurt so deeply. When she sees me, she breaks down in tears. I look at Guy, as if to beg, “Please get me out of this!” But he’s nothing but a third party in my bad dream.
“Stop crying, Mom, please. I’m sorry, I never wanted to hurt you. Come on, Mom, stop crying. Mom, I love you. I want you to know I didn’t even want anyone to tell you I was here. I’m so tired of hurting you.”
I help my mother to a chair. She sits, motionless, as one tear after another falls. She gathers the strength to ask, “What did I do wrong, Brandon? Please let me know, please for the love of God, tell me and let me know.”
“Mom,” I answer, “you did nothing wrong. You’re not accountable for this. You did everything possible to help me. Unfortunately, in the end, I chose this life. The only one who is responsible for my actions is me. Mom, I love you more than life itself! This is why I am telling you, don’t get your hopes up, or believe in me. I wanna show you instead of tell you how I’m gonna stay clean. They’re teaching me to be honest, Mom. I’m not gonna lie this time around, so I’m gonna start with the truth. I’m a drug addict. I’m jobless, homeless, friendless, and probably every word that ends with ‘less.’ They just told me I have hepatitis, and to top it off, there are a few hours in every day that I would go back to shooting Dope if it was available. For those few hours a day, my mind goes through a process of rationalization, as I think of reasons to get high.”
This is not what my mother is used to hearing from me. What I usually deliver is a conniving, well-delivered speech that’s laced with quotes memorized from NA meetings, calculated to convince her that I am recovered, I will never use again, and I deserve one more chance.
My mother wipes the next tear from beneath her gorgeous blue eyes, which are bloodshot. I continue. “Mom, it really feels horrible to be so brutally honest with you when I say that I have doubts. I love and respect you more than anything in the world, but I guess it’s better for me to be honest now than build up your hopes with lies. Although I have to tell you, truly in my heart, this time I feel different. I can’t find the right words to explain it; I just feel it in the pit of my stomach. But I can’t and I won’t even bother explaining this to you, because this time, I’m handling it differently. I refuse to run my mouth anymore. No more words, I would rather just show you with my actions. There. That’s what I have to say. Now, it’s time for me to go.”
I take two steps forward. In my mind, I picture a scene that had taken place over twenty years ago, when a little boy named Brandon Novak took his first two steps and almost fell, only to be caught in the soft, loving warmth of his mother’s arms. It feels so good to be held by this woman, the only person in the world whose bond for me is so strong that she refuses to give up on my recovery. Thank you, God. Thank you for my mother.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too, Brandon,” she whispers in her sweet voice that has the power to take away my pain.
I wipe away my tears, take a deep breath, and go back into the hallway, where I become one of thirty-five junkies on their way to lunch.
Again, the lunch line. An overweight cafeteria worker serves me a meagerly portioned plate holding two hot dogs, withered and overcooked, limp French fries, and carrot “chunks,” that resemble wrinkled-up orange plastic.
Although I should be grateful for this meal, for this lunch line, for this place, I feel humiliated. Why do I feel this way? For Christ’s sake, I have been living like an animal for the past few months.
I begin to see a pattern. This is my way of rationalizing and creating reasons to justify returning to my old life. These negative thoughts and feelings are my dark side calling me, begging for me to give in. Trying to shake it off, I take my two shriveled hot dogs to the empty seat across from Dane, Toby, and Sean Williams.
I sit and begin eating. Dane senses my turmoil. “What’s wrong, nephew?”
“Nothing,” I reply, trying to hold the tear dripping from the corner of my eye.
“Nephew, don’t even think of taking another bite of that food until you tell me the problem!”
I want to tell him so bad, but something is holding me back. Finally I find the strength to speak. “My fucking counselor just surprised me with a visit from my mother.”
“Well, how’d it go?” His brow wrinkles in sympathy, and I know that it was Dane who told Guy that I needed to face my mother. Somehow, Dane understood that if I looked my mother in the eye and told her the truth, I might gain strength.
I am flooded with gratefulness. I’m grateful to be alive, to have clean clothes, and a clean body, to be surrounded by people who care. Although I am in a constant struggle against my compulsions, I am progressing in my recovery. I’ve just had my greatest victory: facing myself and telling my mother the truth.
The next morning, I am shaken awake by Dane. The force of his grip on my arms expresses the seriousness of the situation. “What’s up Dane, what’s wrong?”
“Toby’s gone, nephew! He’s gone!”
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
Toby’s bed is empty. His dresser drawers are open, also empty. Toby has gone A.M.A., against medical advice.
Dane sits on his bed, crying, as if at the loss of a son. “Late last night, I heard him get up from his bed. I opened up my eyes, and he told me he was just going to the bathroom, and I should go back to sleep. Well, for some reason, I got a bad feeling, and then I had a dream about him.”
Dane was in a state that, for such a man, I had not imagined possible. He was the one with the cool head. He was the one with the ability to calm us down. I tried to offer consolation. “Dane, Toby’s gone, I guess, but he’s not dead.”
“No, I’m telling you, he’s dead! In my dream, I watched him leave the Tuerk House. I could see him leave the building. And in real life, you can’t deny he’s gone, right?”
“Yeah, he’s gone. And you dreamed he left,” I agree.
“Not only could I see him leave in my dream, I saw what he did the whole night. He walked away, feeling alone and beaten by life. He was angry and discouraged, so he felt he deserved a treat, seeing how he did stay clean for a week. I watched him as he bought a bag of raw Dope and decided to experiment with the needle.”
As Dane fights to control his emotions, I become afraid to hear the ending of the story.
“Toby went to his girl’s house, where she was asleep. He sat in her living room, as quietly as he could so as not to wake her up. In the dream, I watched Toby from above the room, floating—like a spirit or a ghost. I screamed, I begged for him to stop, but he couldn’t hear me. Then he put the dope in the cooker. As a matter of fact, he put in the whole bag of powerful raw Dope. My dream ended as Toby laid back, dying, and his spirit left his body, and finally he could see me; we were both spirits. We hugged, and he cried, ‘I’m sorry, Dane, I’m sorry.’ White boy, I’m telling you, Toby’s gone, nothing but a fucking memory. Such a waste! Such a fucking waste!”
chapter thirty-two
It’s All Over—or Is It?
A week and a half later, razor-blade-winged butterflies are fluttering through my stomach, slowly slicing their way through my body. My mind is torn by conflicting emotions. I have serious doubts about my recovery. This is the day of my discharge, and yet I feel the same way I’ve felt each day of my struggle through rehab: I want to use, yet I am not using.
Today is the final judgment. My fate is still pending. I have interviewed for several recovery houses but haven’t received an answer from any of them yet
. Please, God, let one of them accept me. If they don’t, I have nowhere to go and no backup plan. At this point I am not sure of much but I do know that there’s no way I can sleep on the streets without shooting Dope. I need direction and guidance. Rehab has taught me that I have lost the ability to make healthy decisions on my own. My mind needs to be remolded, like an incomplete clay sculpture that isn’t turning out as the artist had intended.
My bedroom door swings open. It’s Sean Williams and Dane.
“I’m sure gonna miss you,” Sean Williams says. “Here’s my number. When you get situated, the three of us are gonna go play some golf!”
Dane chimes in, “Shit, white boy, the only thing me and him know about golf is how much the clubs are worth and who will give us the most cash for a stolen set.” We all laugh, and I take comfort in the presence of true friends. While everyone is still smiling, I take one last mental picture. I want to remember this place, the room, bed number 361 B that took me to hell and back, the cold floor I laid on when I was going through withdrawal, and that goddamn window we weren’t supposed to look out of.
Dane gives me a firm hug. “You got my number. Use it day or night, rain or snow, just please use it.”
Sean Williams lets Dane know they have to be getting back to class. They say their good-byes and I watch them walk out the door.
As I am packing, Guy Leeper enters with his hands on his hips. “Well, now it’s time for the real work to begin. You ready for this, Brandon?”
“To be honest, Guy, I’m scared as hell.”
“Well, you don’t have to be. I just got the call: you’ve been accepted to Our House. They have a great recovery program; the success rate from Our House is exceptionally high. You’ll go there and for the first thirty days you will be on what’s called a ‘black out.’ That means you can’t leave the house by yourself for any reason at all. If you do leave Our House, it can only be with a supervisor and you’re only permitted to go to a meeting then directly back. This is what you need, a guiding hand to help you resist temptation.”
Out loud I answer, “Great, that’s fine with me.” But my head is somehow filled with doubts.
Guy asks, “Do you have a ride there or do we need to have someone take you?”
And, in that instant, my head, flushed with adrenaline and endorphins, unfolds a plan before me—a way to buy time in order to score Dope. If I leave this rehab alone, it will be a few hours before they will start asking questions about me at Our House. It’s still early, and there are plenty of tourists at the port and museum area. I’m sure I can sell a few dreams that will convince people to give me a few dollars. After all, I’m smart and cunning. And look at me! Clean, with new clothes, respectable looking enough…. As a matter of fact, I’ll use the time to test my abilities to hustle. I bet I can bum twenty bucks in an hour. That will leave me plenty of time to score! I mean, I’m going to be on lockdown for thirty days, so I should have a little freedom before I enter this place. After all, I’ve done so well in the last two weeks, hell, I deserve one last high!
Without blinking, I respond, “No thanks, Guy, I have a ride already. My mother is picking me up.”
Guy tells me, “Okay. I wrote my phone number on the back of your discharge papers. Brandon, if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thanks, Guy, thanks for everything.”
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you out to your mother’s car.”
I make up a lie. “I told her I’d call her when it was time to leave. Can I use the lobby phone?”
“Absolutely,” Guy replies.
I sit in the waiting room of the room in which I was inducted.
Guy looks at his watch, puts his arm on my shoulder, and tells me, “I have a session waiting, so I have to go. This is where we part ways. Good luck, Brandon. I have a feeling about you.” We hug one last time and he walks into the counseling office.
Great! I think. Now all I have to do is wait to use the phone. I’ll act like I’m dialing and talking to my mother, walk out of here, pull a hustle, get myself a bag of Dope, and make it to Our House in time for dinner. Anticipation surges through my mind and veins.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask the receptionist.
We are interrupted as two monitors enter through the front doors, carrying a young black girl of twenty, who is obviously trying to deal with Heroin withdrawal. She’s pissing her pants, throwing up, crying, gasping for air, shaking, and sweating. My heart goes out to this poor girl. She screams over and over, “Lord, why me? Please let it stop!”
The receptionist answers me. “Excuse me, I’m going to need this phone for another few minutes. If you like, you are welcome to wait in the other room.”
The receptionist is trying to be considerate, attempting to spare me from this horrible sight. “No thanks, that’s okay.” Actually, I want to watch. This is exactly what I need to see right now. I watch this poor girl as she slides off her chair and onto the floor. Her pants are soaked with piss, her shirt covered in throw up, the back of her pants seeping feces. Her eyes roll up into her head. This is a human being I’m looking at. This poor, sweet, innocent young girl, living in the hell she created for herself.
“Okay, young man, I’m off the phone,” the receptionist tells me.
I stop and think.
epilogue
My Friend Scott
Those who have followed my career know where I ended up. They know I didn’t stop using.
You can see a documentary about my addiction in the “Making of” feature accompanying the film Haggard. I have had parts on MTV’s reality shows Viva La Bam, and Bam’s Unholy Union, as well as Jackass 2 and Jackass 2.5. I have a main role in Bam Margera’s film Minghags. I have made live appearances here and there and have been a regular personality on Bam’s Sirius Radio show. Through these films and programs, the fans have been able to catch glimpses into my life. They have seen my progress and regression, witnessed my promises and pitfalls, and shared in my happiness and misery. But what the fans might not truly understand, what it is most difficult for non-addicts to realize, is the feeling of temptation the addict faces on a daily basis.
November 2007, Mandy’s house.
It is a dark, strange, cold, sleeting day, and I find refuge under a thick down comforter as I sit on my couch with my beautiful pit bull, Diva.
Mandy, my girlfriend, is getting ready for work. She’s five-foot-six, with jet black hair and beautiful breasts. Unlike the other women I’ve been with, she’s not the pretty girl in the corner who keeps her opinions to herself. If I screw up, she tells me. When I backslide, she kicks me forward. I can hear her pacing the bedroom, throwing her clothes, cursing that she can’t find her bartending outfit and she’s going to be late for work. After a half hour of this, she has herself together and stops to give me and Diva a kiss. She murmurs into my ear, “I love you, babe,” and whisks out the door.
As is our custom when she works at the bar, she shoots me a text before the night rush filters in. Tonight at 10:30, her text reads, “I’m bored as hell! It’s dead in here!”
I’m surprised when she phones me at 11:34.
I answer, “Hey, babe, you that bored?”
My question is met with sobs and choking breaths. She gathers enough air to yell into the phone, “Babe! Babe! I’m coming home! Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
A series of nightmare situations flash through my mind in which Mandy has been violated physically or sexually.
“What’s wrong?!” I scream into the phone.
“I’m coming home! Just promise me, don’t leave the house. Okay?”
“But what—”
“Just promise, Brandon!”
I promise and she hangs up. I pace. Anxious. Afraid. From my body language, Diva senses something wrong.
Although falling sleet slicks the roads, Mandy makes the half hour drive in twenty minutes.
I open the door to see her face wet with tears. Red cheeks. A pain
ed look in her eyes. I grab her and hold her close, petting her hair in consolation for the unknown tragedy. Diva is sympathetically licking our hands, my bare feet, any bare skin her tongue can reach.
I break the embrace and hold her at arm’s length. “Mandy, please tell me.”
“Haven’t you heard? Has anyone called you?” Seeing my blank look, she sobs out, “Scott’s dead.”
I’m confused. “Scott who?”
“Who do you think?”
Scott, my sponsor. Scott, who is responsible for the fact that I am alive today. Without him, I would never have had the courage to go to the Tuerk House, to face my addiction, and to face myself.
Scott has manifested the true spirit of recovery. He overcame the greatest odds in coming to terms with his own addiction and went on to be more successful than any other addict I have ever known. After his recovery, he learned the business of real estate and construction and owned several recovery houses. He made it his personal business to help those who suffered from the sickness of drug addiction. Scott was kind, generous, and understanding. He was my sponsor, my best friend, my savior.
I’m in denial. “It can’t be true! Fuck you! Scott’s not dead!” I run to the phone and dial, but the call goes right to voice mail. Scott never allows his phone to go to voice mail. I drop to my knees and pray for God to have mercy on my friend’s soul.
Finally, I try to stand, my legs are so devoid of strength that I fall back down. Mandy rubs my neck and head, whispering, “Baby, it’s gonna be all right. You’re gonna make it. You can do it, babe. We’re gonna make it through this together.”
Questions filter through my sadness. I need to know when, where, and how. But as for the “why” of the matter, I already had some idea.
The trouble began about a year ago. A guy Scott was sponsoring had a wife who inherited a great deal of money. She was a recovered addict, but with more money than she had seen in her lifetime, she broke down and bought a large package of drugs. When her husband caught wind of this, he was afraid to return to his house until the package had been removed, in fear of his own weakness. He gave Scott the key to his house and begged him to take the drugs away. Scott obliged.
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