American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  1) Getting stoned with Cheryl

  2) Having sex with Cheryl

  I simply didn’t think of anything else.

  I always had a bag of weed and rolling papers in the glove box of the Gremlin. After getting stoned, Cheryl and I would pull over and have sex where ever we happened to be: parking lots, vacant houses (a real estate agent walked up on us once), on the beach, and in front of churches.

  We had a ritual when it came to marijuana. After we smoked most of a joint, one of us would say, “Roach it.” Then, the other one extinguished it on an unblemished spot on the center console, which was covered with circular burn marks and had become a stoner scorecard of sorts. Afterward, Cheryl placed the unsmoked portion in a bag of roaches we kept in the glove box.

  Once, after smoking weed for hours, Cheryl unexpectedly said, “Roach it.” As instructed, I found a spot on the center console and extinguished the mostly unsmoked joint. A few minutes later, she looked at me with her beautiful, red, squinty eyes and asked, “Why did you put the joint out?”

  “Because you said ‘Roach it.’” That caused a long round of uncontrollable laughter, the type that hurts your sides and goes on so long you forgot why you were laughing.

  We now had a running joke. The next time we got stoned, Cheryl took two hits off the joint and said, “Roach it.” The time after that, I took one hit and said, “Roach it.” Next, I put the lighter to the joint without taking a hit and said, “Roach it.” And the time after that, I was rolling a joint when Cheryl knocked it out of my hands, flinging pot everywhere, and said, “Roach it.”

  One of our favorite stoned activities, other than reducing the mailbox population in Pensacola, was screaming at people. Cheryl saw an elderly man standing in his front yard, so she rolled down the window and hung her busty self out of the car. “Hi!” she yelled at the old man, smiling and waving at him in a friendly manner. When the man turned, smiled and waved back, Cheryl extended both of her middle fingers and screamed, “Fuck you, asshole!”

  The Three Mile Bridge, which leads to Pensacola Beach, had a fishing pier which ran alongside it. Every time we drove to the beach, Cheryl would hang out the window and scream at the people who were fishing, “Catch your fucking lunch, you broke motherfuckers!”

  Without a doubt, the best, or worst depending on how you look at it, example of this rather pointless behavior occurred when we drove past Truman Arms, the most dilapidated housing project in Pensacola. “Brett, pull in here.”

  “Why tha’ hell you wanna go in there?”

  “Just do it. It’ll be funny.”

  The purpose of our trip that evening was to purchase some weed, so Cheryl held our only twenty-dollar bill in her hand. As we drove through Pensacola’s worst ghetto, she leaned out the window and yelled, “Niggers suck! Fuck all niggers!” Black people started coming out of their houses. Cheryl continued, “That’s right, niggers. I’m talking to you. Fuck you!”

  She suddenly sat back in her seat. “Brett. Stop the car. I dropped the twenty.”

  “What the fuck were you holding the twenty for?”

  “Just stop.”

  I abruptly stopped the car and jumped out. I saw the twenty-dollar bill lying thirty yards behind our car, with a group of black guys running toward us not far behind. I ran toward the mob, grabbed the twenty, accidentally dropped it, turned and grabbed it again, jumped back in the car and quickly pulled away, just as the crowd reached us. We couldn’t laugh about the incident until we got stoned.

  My relationship with Cheryl was as fun and care-free as a love affair could possibly be. We had no previous relationships to haunt us, no preconceived notions to hinder us, and no responsibilities. Our love was shiny, new and unblemished, like the dinner plates on the Titanic. But as we all know…

  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

  4. Those things that make us different, make us better

  5. All good things go bad eventually

  The Condom

  Mom planned a trip to Vero Beach to see Dorothy and Harwell and wanted me to go. I dreaded being away from Cheryl. When we weren’t together, time seemed to crawl while I anxiously waited for the moment I could be by her side. The last time I endured this torture was when my parents took me to Dallas to spend a week with their friends, Kenneth and Phyllis. They had profited handsomely from the savings and loan scandal during the 80’s, and Robert wanted to visit them. One night, the adults went out for the evening, leaving me alone in Kenneth’s house. As soon as they pulled out of the driveway, I cranked up the hot tub, grabbed a bottle from the liquor cabinet, and had a drink. By the time I got in, I was drunk. I discovered what most seasoned drinkers already know. Whatever emotion I am feeling most acutely, even if I’m suppressing it, will be amplified by ingesting alcohol. I missed Cheryl in the worst way and openly wept the entire evening.

  The day before my departure to Vero Beach, Cheryl and I had sex. The session was a lively one because once we finished, I discovered the condom was ripped. Cheryl was visibly shaken by the idea of pregnancy. Although I was freaking out as well, I tried to keep a calm demeanor. “Forget about it for the next week. When I get home, we’ll decide what to do. We’ll face this together,” I said, feigning confidence.

  The next day, as we drove the seven-hour trip to Dorothy’s house, I imagined telling Robert about my predicament. I shook with fear at the thought; being honest with him was inconceivable. By the time we arrived at Vero Beach, I knew what I was going to do. I had recently read of a person who successfully committed suicide by swallowing an entire bottle of aspirin. I decided I would take my own life, with or without Cheryl.

  I was withdrawn and distant at Dorothy’s house, and my family noticed. I spent the entire week sulking in her living room, repeatedly listening to a song that reminded me of Cheryl. Every time I looked at any of my family members, I thought, This is the last time I’m going to see you. The visit was excruciating.

  Upon our return to Pensacola, I immediately ran to Cheryl’s house, mentally rehearsing the specific words I would use to explain the course of action I had decided to take. Yet, when I saw her, I noticed her beautiful smile and a complete lack of distress. “I had my period,” she said. I felt like I had just exhaled after holding my breath for a week. I never told her I had contemplated suicide. I wish I could say that was the only time I would ever consider it.

  The next day, Cheryl approached me, crying. “I need to tell you something. I can’t keep this secret from you anymore. I made out with Gene while you were gone.”

  Her revelation hit me hard. I couldn’t understand why she would betray me like that, especially with such a brainless douche. This book has no chapters titled Gene.

  Looking back, I should have recognized Cheryl’s feelings for me. She never had to tell me her secret, and I would have never known. Apparently, the deception was more than she could bear. That level of guilt only occurs when someone truly loves you. I wish I had realized that and been more forgiving.

  Cheryl and I drifted apart. She started dating my friend, Doug, and I started dating Adrianne. We made love one last time a few years later, then I never saw her again.

  I hope Cheryl reads these words one day. I want her to know my time with her was one of the best times of my life. Our love was the purest, uncluttered by past wreckage and unfettered by the static of the outside world or my own internal flaws.

  I almost forgot. One night, I saw Gene’s car on the side of the road. With a hammer, I smashed out the windows, and riddled the sides with dents and holes.

  he he he…

  Geoffrey

  Like Richie, I’ve known Geoff since kindergarten. I consider him the best friend I ever had, although we haven’t spoken in a whi
le. No matter what depth I sank to, he was always there for me. True friends are difficult to find.

  At school, Geoff was known as “The King of the Potheads.” I would imagine school today is not quite as self-segregated as it was in the 80’s. Back then, everyone separated into their own cliques. The groups were as follows:

  1) The Jocks (sports ass-wipes and the popular guys)

  2) The Ra-Ra’s (cheerleaders and the popular girls)

  3) The Preppies (now referred to as “metrosexuals”)

  4) The Potheads (self-explanatory)

  5) The Bro’s (today known as the Bra’s)

  6) The Nerds (smart kids, sci-fi dorks, gays, psychopaths, etc.) (This was my group.)

  The Muslim, Asian, and Latino kids were ignored.

  Geoff and I were walking home from school when he suddenly made a confession. “I slept with a man last night.”

  I had a mental image of two hot dogs bumping end to end. How do two men have sex? During the 70’s and 80’s, homosexuality was not as open as it is now. It was kept out of sight, a tendency that was slowly changing. During the 80’s, a situation comedy, called Soap, had the first openly gay character, played by Billy Crystal, to appear on television. I watched the show regularly and never noticed he was gay. But I didn’t realize The Village People were gay until the 90’s, so that’s not saying much. The show was quite controversial and came on later than most.

  My friends and I would call each other names like faggot, queer, dick-muncher, cock-bite and fucker of men’s assholes. Okay, that last one we never used. Yet, I never thought about what those words meant. When I called Richie a “faggot,” I didn’t believe he had sex with men. Males frequently use demeaning names to express friendship. When we played “Smear the Queer,” we never thought of the person with the football as a homosexual. When I called Geoffrey a “cock-bite,” I never considered him actually putting a cock in his mouth, although he probably would be open to the idea. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but Geoff’s revelation cured me of an intolerance which plagues some people to this day. Intelligence has a lot to do with it.

  Geoff asked me not to divulge his secret to the people at school, and I never did. We joked about how he should have been called, “The Queen of the Potheads.” If those Neanderthals at school had ever discovered the truth, they would have shit in their Wranglers.

  Geoff’s appetite for marijuana was rivaled only by mine and Cheryl’s. He benefitted immensely from my pre-inhale period, but welcomed a new member to the pothead group, although my Barry Manilow shirt prevented me from fitting in entirely. But Geoff had an appetite for something I never developed: alcohol. You thought I was going to say “penis,” didn’t you? Come on. Don’t lie. On more than one occasion, I was awakened by a drunken Geoff knocking on my bedroom window.

  “Hi,” he slurred.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he repeated.

  “What’s up?” I already knew the answer to that question.

  “I don’t know where my car is?”

  “Dude, it’s a school night.”

  “Can I crash here?” Geoff already knew the answer to that question.

  “Of course. But let’s go find your car first.”

  I got dressed, helped Geoff stagger to the Gremlin, smoked a joint with him, and searched for his car, which was never far away. Mom had grown accustomed to finding my friends passed out on our couch.

  I don’t mean to imply I never drank alcohol. I did. I just preferred marijuana. My parents went to see The Rolling Stones in New Orleans, which meant I had the house to myself for the weekend. Upon learning of my parents’ impending absence, Geoff said, “Let’s have a party.”

  Initially, I rejected the idea. Having never thrown a party, I was concerned about my parents finding out as well as the condition of their house when they returned. Geoff reassured me I had nothing to worry about. Facebook didn’t exist, so we had to invite people to the party face-to-face. I call it Facelook. I invited a few friends from the neighborhood. He invited the entire school.

  In preparation, we moved anything that was at risk of being damaged or stolen from the living room to my bedroom. One of the items was a piece of artwork Mom had created. It consisted of a large piece of stained plywood surrounded by a wood frame. The wood had a series of nails driven into it, with yellow and orange yarn threaded around them, creating an intricate, three-dimensional star pattern. The art was definitely disco-era. My daughter would kill or die for that piece today.

  On the night of the party, the house quickly filled with people, most of whom I didn’t know. Luckily, they brought more liquor than we could possibly drink in one evening. As a bonus, someone noticed an eight-foot marijuana plant growing in Scotty’s backyard, which was quickly uprooted and shoved in our microwave to dry. We now had more pot than we could possibly smoke in one evening. The party was shaping up nicely.

  Mary Jane (not the drug, an actual person), was one of the first people to arrive, and quickly got sloppy drunk. Her father was a police officer and a good friend of my mom. So, Mary Jane lied to him about her plans for the evening. The phone rang and I, expecting someone I didn’t know asking for directions, answered. “Hello?”

  “Is this Brett?”

  “It sure is.”

  “This is Mary Jane’s father. Is she over there with you?”

  “Yeah, she’s right here.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “Sure.” Without placing my hand over the receiver, I said, “Hey Mary Jane, it’s your dad.”

  The entire room fell silent. Her face froze with fear. Suddenly, everyone started whispering, “Tell him she’s not here. Tell him she’s not here.”

  I know her father heard what was being said, but, with no better idea on how to proceed, I said, “Uh… She’s not here.” My response sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “You tell her to get her ass home right now, or I’m coming to get her.”

  The thought of a cop, who was also a friend of my mom, witnessing our debauchery was one I didn’t entertain for long. “Mary Jane, you’ve got to go home.” We gave her mints, toothpaste, and perfume to mask the smell of alcohol. But we couldn’t do much for her staggering and slurred speech.

  As the night progressed, a bottle of Seagram’s was dropped in the kitchen, stripping the wax from the tile and creating a large discolored spot on the floor. A fight broke out in the living room, ending with the entertainment center being destroyed. And if all this wasn’t enough, a couple had sex in my bedroom while lying on Mom’s artwork, stripping the yarn from the frame. How drunk and horny must you be to have sex on an actual bed of nails?

  Geoff informed me our friend, Erica, was passed out in my parent’s bedroom. I found her sprawled across the bed. I closed the door, leaned down and shook her until she stirred. She tried to kiss me, which I averted.

  “What time do you have to be home?”

  “Midnight, baby. I always thought you were cute,” she mumbled.

  “Okay, we’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  “Fuck it. Take my clothes off.”

  I had a decision to make. I could…

  a) Stand her up, get her as alert as possible, and help her home,

  or

  b) Strip her clothes off and go “John Holmes” on her ass.

  As hard as this may be to believe, I went with option a).

  With Erica’s arm around me, we left the party and started walking. Her house was several blocks away; making her curfew wouldn’t be a problem. She was quite inebriated; I struggled to keep her moving. But we finally made it to the edge of her yard. All the lights in her house were on.

  “Okay, we’re here. See ya’ later.” I turned to walk away.

  “No, Brett. Walk me to the porch.”

  Although it was only twelve steps away, the short walk would provide plenty of time for an angry father to emerge from the house with a double barrel shotgun and blow my head clean off my shoulders.
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  “Let’s go.” I put my arm around her and started what seemed like the mile-long trek to the porch, anticipating death at any moment. But we reached it intact.

  “Alright, Erica. I gotta go.”

  “No, Brett. Walk me to the door.”

  I guess I could use her body as a shield. I wished I had chosen option b). In three steps, we made it to the door.

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  “No, Brett. Walk me to my bedroom.”

  I once knew a joke that started like this. I opened the front door and pushed her in. I heard the thud of her body hitting the floor as I started to run, waiting for yells or shotgun blasts or a car running me down. But I made it back to the party in one piece.

  After everyone had left, the house and front yard were littered with trash and beer cans. Unsmoked marijuana was left in the microwave, the floor in the kitchen was ruined, the entertainment center was in pieces, and Mom’s artwork was destroyed. As promised, Geoff helped me pick up the trash, wax the kitchen tile and rebuild the entertainment center. Of course, we got stoned first.

  Lastly, we turned our attention to the piece of artwork in my bedroom. Luckily, only half of the star pattern was unraveled. All we had to do was restring the bottom half by following the pattern on the top. Four hours later, we were finished. It definitely didn’t look the same. The restrung yarn sagged as if the bottom half of the star was experiencing a greater force of gravity than the top. Nonetheless, the house was cleaner than it was when my parents left for New Orleans. I thought my bases were covered.