Recovered

by Robby Gallaty

  “Elliot. Look at my feet.”

  He gawked for a second, his mouth wide, and punched me in the shoulder. “You idiot!” he said. He used more colorful terminology. “Why didn’t you put it in your sock?”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t have a chance.”

  He just stared at me, but his anger quickly receded. “Well, I can’t get mad at you,” he said. “Because I ought to mention—I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  I glared back at him. “You idiot!” And I punched him in the shoulder.

  “I’m driving on a traffic ticket,” he explained. “They took my license in New Mexico for possession of marijuana.”

  How did they not check his license? It’s Traffic Stop 101, Police Academy, first year. If they’d just done that, we’d have both gone to the station. Then, after a more thorough search, we’d have been locked up for a long time.

  They’d missed the license. Then they’d missed the drugs. What are the chances of both happening?

  Even the way I was, even with my epic ignorance, I had a stray thought. Somebody’s watching out for me. There’s no other way to explain it.

  Then the thought escaped me. I snorted another line.

  Chapter 12

  Made New

  One step forward, two steps back.

  After several months of being clean and healthy, I was back on drugs and in way over my head. But this time there was a new twist—I was financed by a legal settlement. At the worst possible time, I was getting monthly checks that required nothing from me but retrieving and endorsing them. So I had all the money I needed and a terrible way to make it vanish.

  This went on from March to October of 2002. I was miserable. Meanwhile, I had a vague awareness that our nation wasn’t doing too well, either. The USA was coming to terms with a brand-new kind of war: one against terrorism. We were gearing up for war. The stock market took a roller coaster ride.

  For a while there, I’d been in Mobile, quietly rebuilding my life. But I picked up right where I’d left off in New Orleans. I worked in my dad’s shop and did my best impression of a drug-free personality. I could be pretty convincing; I’d learned how to live two lives.

  One Thursday night I was on the way home after playing pool with a few buddies at Buffalo’s Billiards. With me in the car was a nice supply of coke I’d scored at the pool hall.

  The night was dark and quiet. I had a normal route I used for driving home, making a turn onto a side street to beat the traffic light. I’d gone that way hundreds of times since I was sixteen. As I took a left, I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of a guy in the grass. My vague impression was that he was probably homeless, the type you’d see out late at night wandering around town. I recall there were papers in his hand.

  Suddenly he moved sharply into my field of vision, onto my right front fender. He had to have moved pretty quickly to get there. I didn’t feel any real impact, but I could see that his papers shot straight up in the air while he fell to the ground. I braked quickly as I watched the final page drifting to the pavement.

  I pulled up a few feet, opened my door, and stuck my head out to see if he was okay. The man scampered up and let out a torrent of cursing and fist shaking in my direction, but he didn’t look injured in any way—at least not judging from his movements.

  The right thing to do was to call the police and report it. Then I thought about the cocaine in my car. I closed my door and stomped on the gas pedal to get out of there.

  I was thinking there was no way this wasn’t a setup. He’d been standing there by the curb, waiting for me to pass by, and at the very last second, he’d thrown himself onto the side of my vehicle—not enough to get really hurt, but sufficient to set himself up as a victim.

  I wasn’t going to be set up by this guy. No, I’d race home, lie low, and take my chances.

  Which was a mistake, of course. The smart play (from the point of view of someone as lost as me at that time) would have been to ditch the drug discreetly and wait for the police to show up. I was neither smart nor honest in those days. I took a few back streets, pulled into our driveway, and walked through the house. I didn’t say a word to my parents, but I’ll admit to a pretty poor night of sleep that evening, with or without the assistance of medication.

  The next day I went to work as usual. During the lunch break, I was out in my car and on my way home, about to execute a turn from the middle lane, when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw, to my alarm, that a police officer wanted me to pull over. Maybe my turn signal was out. Maybe it was something trivial. I could only hope it wasn’t about the previous night.

  Immediately two policemen confronted me.

  “Sir, was your car involved in a hit-and-run last night?”

  So much for “trivial.”

  “No, sir.”

  They were watching my eyes, the way officers do. “We have a positive ID on a red Mustang, just like yours, sir. From last night.”

  “Sir, it couldn’t have been me. I was at home all evening. I live with my parents—they’ll tell you I was there.”

  The officer gave a noncommittal nod and handed me a card. “Robby, this investigator will come see you at five o’clock today. You need to be at home waiting for him to interview you.”

  As I climbed back into my car, a little shaken, I realized I needed to bring my dad up to speed on this one. And I really didn’t look forward to that. Back at work, I sat down with Dad and told him what had happened—how I was certain it was a setup, and the guy didn’t seem hurt at all.

  Dad sighed unhappily, thought it over, and said, “Son, you need to deny the whole thing. You don’t want something like this to escalate into a big mess. Late night, nobody around—it’s just going to be your word against his.”

  If all of these things happened today, of course, I’d handle it with full integrity, and so would Dad. But at this moment in 2002, we were willing to cut corners—anything to avoid the judgment and exposure that I subconsciously feared would one day come.

  I was on my way home at four, and I decided to stop by the Sno-Ball stand. This is a New Orleans specialty, shaved ice with cane syrup. I stood in line and placed my order. Six or seven people were standing behind me. The place was always packed. Suddenly a police car pulled up at the stand, then another one. Then it became clear something was going on with the police. A voice came from a megaphone: “Mr. Gallaty, please step away from the stand and walk toward this vehicle.”

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  Several policemen surrounded me and began firing questions at me. “Did you hit a pedestrian? Were you out that night in this car?” I vehemently insisted that I hadn’t done it. I’d been home. My parents were with me, and they’d swear to it.

  “Son, we know the truth. You need to go ahead and confess, or you’re going to jail.”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  I was placed in handcuffs. The officer said, “Okay, then, here’s what we’re going to do. We need you to stand here by this car facing the street. Two sets of witnesses will drive by and take a look at you. If they positively ID you, you’re going to jail. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Apparently, there was someone who watched the accident happen. Or claimed to be watching.

  The first car drove by slowly. It had tinted windows to protect the witness. A police radio nearby crackled, and I heard the words, “He says that’s him.”

  The officer got in my face and said, “Son, one more to go. If he says yes, you’ll be under arrest.”

  Just then yet another police car pulled up—and a friend stepped out. It was a buddy of mine who was an officer. He said, “I know Mr. Gallaty. Let me have him for a minute.”

  The others stepped aside, and my friend said, “Dude—what are you doing? You’re sending yourself to jail. They totally know you did this. Just admit
it and take a ticket. Then it’s a civil matter between you and the guy, see? So take the ticket, sleep in your own bed tonight, and let your insurance handle it, instead of turning it into a law enforcement matter. Because, let me tell you: it’s Friday afternoon. You check in tonight, you’ll be in custody all weekend.”

  I realized how clueless I was about this stuff. I quickly told the other policeman I was ready to admit to the incident. I took my ticket, drove home, and explained the situation to my parents. And the “victim” went on to sue the insurance company. It turned out I was right about his motives. He’d tried the same thing twice already, stepping in front of cars and cashing in on settlements. This time, he received a small check. I could have fought it, but I had other battles in my life.

  The real news was that I’d dodged a larger bullet, and I knew it. If I’d been caught with drugs in my car—on either day—there would have been no escaping a serious arrest. For a little while longer, I continued to beat the odds. And when I thought about it, I realized it was very odd indeed.

  I was miserable. I was deceiving my parents again. I’d escaped the prison I’d sentenced myself to, only to lock myself up again.

  Maybe I didn’t deserve a break.

  I couldn’t see any way out. The NAD treatment was expensive, and I couldn’t stand the shame of asking for help. Not a second time.

  One of the problems with nearly any kind of addiction is that your needs escalate. In the case of drugs, your system builds up a tolerance to the old dosage; it calls for a larger amount. In my case, I was supplementing drugs with alcohol, almost a fifth of Jack Daniels a day. The rest of the time I was going through one cigarette after another. At one point, I was smoking two and a half packs a day. My system was demanding any little spike it could get, and I was slave to those demands.

  My parents kept alcohol in their closet, and during those two months at home, I’d go in, drink the bottle, and replace the whiskey with water, so it wouldn’t look empty. Obviously this wasn’t going to work forever, but addicts never worry about tomorrow. They don’t have that luxury.

  During the summer, Dad surprised Mom and took her on a trip to Europe. Talk about a well-deserved break. He left me in charge of the shop, and I continued to drink, take drugs, and wonder how low I could sink.

  The day came when my parents returned. Not long afterward, Mom went into the closet, reached for a bottle, and found it filled with water. Then another bottle. Then another. Once again, the whole truth dawned on her. She was furious with me and dumbfounded that she and my dad had been fooled again. Knowing I was back on drugs, they were both furious and heartbroken, and I was even more furious and more heartbroken with myself.

  Like I said, 2002 wasn’t a happy year for anybody.

  Once I got to the middle of October, I realized I was at the breaking point. Fed up. No longer willing to put up with another day of this misery. The confrontation with my parents, whom I’ve always loved so deeply, broke through the haze of drugs and alcohol and made me face the truth. I was broken. I had failed, been rescued, then failed again. The shame was unbearable.

  Frankly I wasn’t sure whether my life was worth continuing. I thought about suicide. As I lay awake, I would think about the eight friends who had already died to alcohol- or drug-related deaths. Some died by car accidents, others by overdoses, and one by suicide. Any night could have been my last, given the amount of drugs I was consuming. I was one bad batch away from a grave myself.

  I thought about all of this and came to the decision that life would go on, but I had to detox myself. I knew that a trip to Tijuana was no longer necessary for the amino acid treatment. I could have it done at Paula’s clinic in Slidell, not far from home—it was now approved for the United States. And Paula said I didn’t need the full ten days of treatments. A three-day tweak, she believed, would get it done, and I’d be free again.

  I told Paula I was going to get that tweak soon; then I went home with a plan of my own. No way I was going to let myself off cheaply. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. The NAD treatment wasn’t punishing enough. The way I saw it, I’d done something terrible, I’d hurt my family, and I needed to pay.

  If there was one thing I could understand, it was that sin demanded payment. That’s why I was going to detox myself and take the full burden of my wrongdoing.

  I spent a week starving my system of those spikes it demanded. No drugs. No alcohol. No matter what. It was just as terrible as I knew it would be, and then some. This was the only way I felt I could really get clean—making it hurt.

  I realize now there was an element of self-loathing and masochism, but that’s where my head was in those days. There were about ten days of projectile vomiting and diarrhea; I was sick to my stomach and in despair of life. The human body wasn’t meant to endure that kind of pain.

  Worst of all, my parents had to watch. What could they do? I told them they couldn’t interfere—I’d brought this on myself and I shouldn’t be let off the hook. Today, as a parent myself, I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to watch one of your own children suffer like this.

  Finally the symptoms began to subside, my body got the message that no more drugs were coming, and the cravings leveled off. I felt the peace that comes after the storm, but no real sense of joy or fulfillment. Just emptiness.

  My body may have been free, but I still had no identity. Who was Robby Gallaty?

  On November 11, I drove to Slidell to receive treatment from Paula’s clinic, just to finish off the job and restore my system. I went again for the second of three days and reflected on the fact that I wasn’t feeling any better about any of it. I’d gritted out a detox, all by myself, and I should have felt the taste of victory, or even just a powerful sense of relief. I should have felt hopeful, if humbled.

  But all I felt was desolation.

  I had to admit it wasn’t just about drugs. Paula had been talking to me about all those roles I’d played, all those fake identities: Robby the basketball player, Robby the stockbroker, Robby the entertainer, Robby the magician. I was still looking in the mirror and seeing . . . nothing.

  I walked into our home that evening, had dinner with my parents, and went quietly to my room. At bedtime I couldn’t sleep, as usual. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for at least ten days. Something was getting under my skin, and at some point, I began to realize it was God.

  He was calling out to me, demanding my attention. It was something like becoming aware of distant music that was there all along, part of the background noise. Then you stopped and took notice.

  It happened for me because he had been on my mind lately. During the worst of my addiction, I’d fear for my life. I’d cry out to him, “Don’t send me to hell!” For me, God was merely the judge who rapped the gavel and declared your sentence, frown on his face. I viewed him as an authoritarian dictator out to chastise me every time I got out of line. That and nothing more.

  Now I knew he was someone who spoke—someone trying and trying to get through to me. He’d been doing it—well, maybe all my life. I just hadn’t stopped, tuned in, and let his voice come through. I’d been in too much of a hurry, too self-involved. If I didn’t know who I was, how could I know who he was?

  If he wanted so badly to get through to me, maybe he was more than a gavel-pounder. I wanted to know his message now—really know it.

  I felt him pouring all kinds of thoughts and feelings into my mind. He made me see my life for what it was. I was absolutely incapable of living the way I should, and sin has consequences—I believed that. I’d tried to carry the burden of my own sin through detox. But now I knew it was about more than the drugs in my system. It was about a deeper burden, one I couldn’t carry.

  Jeremy Brown, my old friend from college, came into my mind—Jeremy, who had loved me as a friend, then shared his faith with me in a way that actually made sense. Jeremy knew how to h
ear God’s voice. I’d tried to imitate his actions, but I hadn’t known his Lord. I couldn’t, because I had no conception of my sin in those days.

  Now I was broken. I knew what it meant to be overwhelmed by the darkness of my own heart. I had nothing to fall back on in this world, no place to find hope.

  Jeremy had asked me to pray with him, phrase by phrase, and he’d helped me understand what I was saying to God. But this was different—I was crying out in pain from the depth of my soul. My attitude with Jeremy had been, “Sure, okay, I’ll try this thing.” Back then, Jesus was an addition to my life, just one more color in the spectrum. He never became my life. Now I was utterly lost, desperate. Jeremy had said all of us are sinners, all of us are unworthy, and finally I felt the meaning of that. I owned it. And that was the greatest difference.

  Ever since that accident with my Mustang, when everything began to go wrong, I’d pointed my finger elsewhere. I’d blamed circumstances. I’d said, “If only this or that hadn’t happened, I’d have it all together right now; if only this person hadn’t done that, I’d have been fine.”

  The blame game didn’t work for me now. I owned my sinfulness, and because of that I experienced God as real, as a person and not a concept or abstraction. He was calling me home.

  He seemed more real than anything in the world at that moment. He was a loving Father who wouldn’t give up on me, who would go to any length to rescue me. I thought of my parents, watching me suffer through detox, wishing they could take my pain for me.

  Hadn’t God done something like that? Hadn’t he taken my pain? Didn’t he let his Son carry my burden on the cross?

  I let the tears flow as I thought about the idea of him loving me that much. Why had I only seen him as an angry judge?