American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  Robert pulled me aside and asked, “Can you tell me what exactly I’m spending $200 on?”

  I explained its purpose, but I don’t think he got it. Nonetheless, he plopped the money on the counter and bought it. A month later, my video game was complete. At 12 years old, I had a skill that, at the time, most people didn’t know existed, one which would be in high demand in the future. Today, my name should be immortalized in the pantheon of technology giants, like Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. But I chose a different path.

  During my visits to Ft. Lauderdale, I noticed a minor peculiarity in Bea’s behavior. One morning, I woke up early and walked into the kitchen. She was sitting at the dining room table looking tired and disheveled, an unusual look for her. “Please stay in your room until I finish my coffee, darling,” she mumbled. I had few rules to follow at Bea’s house, so abiding by this one wasn’t a problem. After she had finished her “coffee,” she was her normal upbeat and cheerful self.

  Bea never uttered a single cross word to me when I was young. As I grew older, however, I noticed a tension between her and Robert. The two never openly fought in front of me, but they made snide comments or passively criticized one another. Mom explained to me that Bea was cruel to Robert when he was young. She was highly critical of him and exhibited unpredictable mood swings. Bea and Jack divorced when Robert was young, and he was used as a bargaining chip. To make matters worse, Robert had to announce in court which parent he wanted to live with. He knew no matter what decision he made, he would upset someone he loved, an unwinnable situation.

  Mom then used a label I had never contemplated before. “Bea is an alcoholic.” The term “alcoholic” is one of those words whose definition has a depth only people affected by it can appreciate. I soon became one of those people.

  The day of my high school graduation was a happy one. The ceremony was held at the Pensacola Civic Center, followed by “Beach Week,” which was a celebration at Pensacola Beach. The festive day began with my girlfriend, Adrianne, Memaw, and Pawpaw arriving at my parent’s house for food and pictures. Afterward, my parents, Adrianne and I went to the Hilton, located next to the Civic Center, to meet Bea and Jack, one of the few times I saw them together. Bea poured everyone a glass of champagne and proposed a toast to my successful future. Toasting my success with alcohol. Oh, the irony. After more pictures, we walked to the Civic Center, and, after enduring some long speeches, I walked across the stage. After the ceremony, I met everyone in the parking lot. Bea wanted us to go back to the Hilton, but Adrianne wanted to go to Beach Week, which meant drinking, drugs, and lots of sex. You can probably guess who I followed.

  After Beach Week, I received a call from Bea. “I want you to know how hurt I was that you left me after your graduation.” I had never heard that tone in her voice.

  “I’m sorry about that. Adrianne wanted to go to the beach and I—”

  “So Adrianne is more important to you than your own grandmother?”

  “Uh… no.”

  “Ya’ know, you’re just like your father. Always trying to hurt me.” Her voice was getting louder.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a selfish, inconsiderate asshole! You hear me. You’re just like your father. A hateful fucking asshole! After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. The venom spewing from her mouth was something I was completely unprepared for. I started crying and dropped the receiver. Mom grabbed it, yelled some obscenities at Bea and hung up. The phone instantly rang, but we didn’t answer.

  Once I was calm, Mom revealed a dynamic to our family I was unaware of. Bea did love me, but the kindness she bestowed had a hidden motivation. She was aware of the tenuous relationship I had with Robert and taunted him with it. To Bea, love was a competition, a bloodsport with only one winner. Much in the same way Bea used Robert to cause Jack pain, she used me to cause Robert pain.

  My relationship with Bea was never the same after that phone call. A few days later, she called and started her verbal assault again.

  “You’re drunk,” I stated.

  “Fuck you, asshole! Who tha’ hell—”

  “I know when I’m talking to a drunk person and you’re drunk. Call me when you’re sober.” I hung up. Bea never called back, and I never spoke to her again.

  Beatrice died on January 11, 1999. As I stood over her coffin, I noticed, even in death, she was unusually beautiful. I realized at that moment how someone’s preoccupation with external appearances can be hiding something unattractive on the inside.

  That deserves repeating.

  Shit I Know To Be True

  1. Don’t give tube socks to children for Christmas… EVER

  2. A preoccupation with external appearances is sometimes used to hide something unattractive on the inside

  I also realized my first experiences with death involved relationships surrounding Bea. She owned a friendly, energetic poodle named Fancy. I enjoyed playing with the dog and considered her part of the family. When I was eight, Mom sat me down and told me Fancy had died. That was my first experience with the fluidity of life. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?

  I’ve often pondered the cause of grief. Am I sad over the absence of someone who brought joy to my life or the confrontation with my own mortality? Am I mourning another’s loss or my own inevitable loss? Is grief selfless or selfish?

  Soon after Fancy died, Russell passed away. His death marked the first funeral I ever attended. I never got to thank him for the positive way he impacted my life. Perhaps grief is spawned from regret over missed opportunities which are now forever unavailable.

  I was now looking at Bea lying in her coffin. When the service started, I was stunned to see Robert and I were the only people in attendance. None of her family or friends bothered to show up. Her burial place was a dingy, unkempt cemetery, something out of a horror movie. A sad ending to a sad life.

  As I drove home, I recalled Pawpaw’s funeral. Hundreds of people from five different states attended; the service was standing room only. The procession was over a mile long. Memaw’s funeral was similar. They were buried side by side in a beautiful cemetery, adorned with trees and flowers. The contrast was stark.

  I realized something else...

  Shit I Know To Be True

  1. Don’t give tube socks to children for Christmas… EVER

  2. A preoccupation with external appearances is sometimes used to hide something unattractive on the inside

  3. The closest we come to immortality is the positive legacy we are remembered by

  Joan

  Joan is my mom. Actually, that’s her middle name. Her first name is Tommie, a name I love but she despises. I wanted to name this chapter Tommie, but I’ve done enough to upset her. My daughter was almost named Tommie, but Mom vigorously objected. I suggested Jordan Tommie, but that idea was shot down as well.

  Joan is a special person. She inherited her parent’s kindness and love of family. Whenever one of my friends met her, they always said the same thing, “You have the nicest mom.”

  I have heard that statement so often, I’ve lost count. Every time my teenage friends and I crashed at my parents’ house late at night, Mom would wake up, come in the living room to say “Hello,” and then make us glasses of tea or something to eat. And when she went back to bed, I heard, “You have the nicest mom.”

  The only time I saw Mom’s dark side was when she was behind the wheel of a car. When someone was driving in a manner which was not to her liking, she sounded something like this, “Brett, first we’ll go swimming, then we’ll go to the souvenir shop if you want, and then… GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY, YOU FUCKING ROAD WHORE… and then we’ll have lunch. We’ll have a great time.”

  I spent most of my youth with Mom. Robert worked long hours, so I became a mama’s boy. She read me stories, helped with my Cub Scout group, organized my birth
day parties, celebrated my victories, and comforted me during my failures. She was always upbeat, smiling and positive, traits I have depended on my entire life.

  Mom was a stay-at-home parent, so I never had to attend daycare. Consequently, I was shy in social situations. One morning, she woke me up earlier than usual and said, “Time to get up. Today’s the first day of school.” I had no clue what she was talking about, but I got out of bed, put on the clothes we recently purchased, grabbed my lunchbox, and got on the school bus. Kindergarten was my first interaction with other children. Everyone seemed to understand what was going on except me. To make matters worse, I was reluctant to ask the scary black lady, Mrs. Pitts, my kindergarten teacher, any questions. A few weeks went by without incident.

  The Accident

  Robert loved to fish, and on one particular outing, he caught a large number of mullet. I helped him clean them, which consisted of removing the scales and internal organs. I noticed some of the mullet had an organ which the other ones didn’t. He explained it was an egg sack, called roe, and was good to eat.

  That night, he fried the roe, using a propane fryer on our back porch. I didn’t want to eat it, but Robert was insistent. Whenever I refused to eat something new, he always said the same thing, “How do you know you won’t like it unless you try it?”

  Fried mullet roe was delicious. I gorged myself and went to bed with an overly full stomach. The next morning on the school bus, I discovered roe has a laxative effect when consumed in excess. By the time I got to school, I had crapped in my pants but was too shy to inform Mrs. Pitts of my problem. So, I sat down and waited for the day to end. I had several more accidents, causing the other children to laugh and call me “stinky-butt.” I didn’t cry; I simply ignored them. When I finally got home, I ran into Mom’s arms, and six hours of tears fell out of me at once. She held me, calmed my anguish, cleaned me up, and promised everything would be all right. As with most things, Mom was correct. The next day at school, no one said a word about the incident.

  The Challenge

  Mom and I had a special routine at Christmas time. Every October, she handed me a Sears catalog. My task was to select what I wanted Santa Claus to deliver. The last twenty pages were toys. Four were for toddlers, and four more were devoted to girls, which left twelve glorious pages of the latest and greatest toys to ponder. Thus began an intense series of negotiations between Mom and me. I was instructed to mark the ones I wanted with a pen. Naturally, I went big by marking three-quarters of them. Mom then told me to cut the list in half.

  The annual Christmas challenge had begun. Every spare moment for two months I studied each picture, carefully read each description, and methodically weighed every option in the quest to correctly make the most important decision of my life. I resubmitted the list several more times until it was of an acceptable length.

  The last stage of the process was the most important. I had to inform Santa Claus of my decision. As I sat on his lap, I not only mentioned every toy on the edited list but recited verbatim the descriptions in the catalog; I had to make sure he didn’t screw up and bring me the wrong toys. The man pretending to be Santa was glad to be rid of me.

  On Christmas morning, everything on the list was sitting under the tree, plus a few surprises. I can’t recall ever requesting something and not getting it. After I became a parent, the bittersweet notion of Santa Claus became apparent. My parents worked for the money, purchased the toys, and assembled them while some imaginary man got all the credit.

  One year, I found a “Magic Hat” under the tree, which was a large, plastic top hat with a hidden door at the bottom to make items magically appear or disappear. My parents had some friends over for dinner Christmas night, and I wanted to perform a trick for everyone. I placed a stuffed rabbit in the trap door and started the illusion by tilting the hat forward, showing them it was empty. Mom told me to turn the hat upside down, which I did, causing the rabbit to fall out of the trap door. I ran out of the room. Mom followed me, apologizing profusely. Although I was embarrassed, I quickly forgot about the incident. But Karma played her hand anyway.

  A short time later, PJ, a good friend of Robert’s, called our house looking for him. Mom answered. “Hello?”

  “Is that any way to answer the phone?” PJ quipped. “I’m gonna’ call right back, and you better answer the phone right.” He was known to joke in this manner.

  Unbeknownst to Mom, I was down the street with my friend Shannon, who wanted me to spend the night. I picked up the phone and called her.

  Mom’s phone rang immediately after she hung up with PJ. She picked up the receiver and said, “Hey PJ, wanna fuck?” Mom heard silence. She later told me she instantly knew she had erred.

  “Mom?” I eventually said.

  “Brett! Come home right now!”

  “But Mom, Shannon—”

  “I SAID COME HOME RIGHT NOW!”

  I quickly rode my bike home. Mom sat me down and explained what I heard was just a joke. She was mortified, although I thought it was funny. To this day, she cringes whenever I bring up this story. She’ll be less than happy when she discovers I wrote about it.

  Mom and I have a special relationship. She is the only person who has stood by me despite my deplorable behavior, my deceptions, my betrayal of her trust, and the purposeful destruction of everything in my life. For some reason, she’s the only one who refused to believe nothing of value existed in my damaged soul. Mom stood by me when my wife, children, father, and friends had all turned their backs. When the dreaded day comes, and she leaves this world, I will truly be alone.

  Robert

  Robert is my father. Being a product of Bea and Jack, he is the antithesis of Mom. I don’t mean he doesn’t love me, rather his expression of love, acceptance, and even his presence in my life is as conditional as Mom’s love is unconditional. He has an unwavering opinion of right and wrong, success and failure, and how a man should behave. This belief is so rigid, I’ve always felt I wasn’t the type of person he wanted as a son.

  To be fair, living with me was no walk in the park. I recoiled when he attempted to be affectionate and resisted any attempts he made to get close to me, as feeble as they may have been. Much like a Terminator cyborg, not only did Robert not show emotions, he crushed other people’s feelings like the T-800 trampled human skulls.

  Robert isn’t smart in the academic sense. But he’s incredibly street-wise. He’s a hustler and isn’t interested in any endeavor that doesn’t have some potential monetary gain. His hobbies include pool, golf, poker, and watching professional football, but only when they involve the wager of money. Robert’s personal success solidified his rigid views on life, which left little room for those of us, that would be me, who didn’t share those views.

  Robert also uses money as a metric to measure the worthiness of others. He typically only befriends those he can benefit from financially. To be honest, I only associated with people who I could acquire drugs from. Friendship for personal gain. I guess I have more in common with Robert than I care to admit.

  My father possesses an incredible insight. His ability to predict the future is a trait I’ve always admired. One day, a large safe appeared in our garage. “What’s in tha’ safe?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “So, why do we have a safe?”

  “It’s going in my pawn shop.”

  “What pawn shop?”

  “The pawn shop I’m gonna’ own one day,” he said. I thought he was crazy. But I learned never to discount anything he said.

  Robert insisted I read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, one of the most well-known self-help books ever written. Although I told him I read it multiple times, he kept insisting I read it. I think he thought I was lying.

  He claimed to have read it as well. Judging by his attitude toward me, I guess I missed the chapters Influencing other’s behavior by nurturing their self-loathing and Making friends by telling them how wrong they are and F
eigning interest in others in the most disingenuous way possible. I guess his copy of the book was a later edition.

  My relationship with my father is an emotional topic, so I want to be fair and accurate when discussing it. I was not an abused child. I never missed a meal. I got any material thing I wanted and then some. I felt love and security from my family. The only deficiency I experienced during my childhood was the male archetype in my life was one I could never measure up to.

  For example, Robert believed boys should play sports, so he had me join a tee ball league. I imagine most boys watch baseball with their fathers; thus, they’re familiar with the rules. I never displayed any interest in sports, couldn’t throw or catch, nor did I have any clue as to how the game was played; but I muddled through the practices.

  Our first game was on a Saturday morning. I was placed on the pitcher’s mound during the first inning, although I had never played that position. I was the closest player to the batter, staring at a baseball sitting on a tee and a kid with a metal bat, who was about to hit the ball as hard as he could in my direction. And when he did, my survival instinct kicked in, and I hit the ground. The laughter from the bleachers told me my action wasn’t the correct one. Just the first of many times I disappointed Robert.

  Some fathers would have thought, My son doesn’t seem to be good at sports. Maybe we should try something else. But instead of Robert modifying his belief to fit reality, he tried to modify reality to fit his obstinate belief.