My first interaction with Paula was more of an impulse. As she walked by carrying a tray of empty dishes, I stuck my foot out and tripped her. Her fall caused laughter and applause from the patrons at the bar. She smiled and took the incident in good spirits, although I was concerned I had upset her. I soon discovered my fears were unfounded.
Several days later, Paula and some friends were eating dinner in my section, which was a row of booths with a narrow exit consisting of three small steps which lead to the main floor. As I whizzed by her table carrying a stack of dishes, Paula stuck her foot out, causing me to fall down the steps and land flat on my face. I looked at her and quoted Bugs Bunny. “Of course you know, this means war.” Paula just smiled. The battle had begun, and I was certain I would prevail.
Each waiter at Applebee’s kept a Styrofoam cup on a shelf above the soda dispensers. To differentiate drinks, each waiter would write their name on the cup. After a few days, I poured salt in Paula’s soda. By pure luck, I got to witness her drink it. She knew I was the culprit but never said a word about it. The next day, I drank my iced tea with Tabasco sauce. This exchange went back and forth for a while, but she got the last laugh.
Paula introduced me to her friend, Cassie, who was visiting from Great Britain. She was slightly thicker and shorter than Paula, with dark blonde hair and average looks. Her British accent made up for any physical deficiencies. The three of us went to a party, and, while Paula mingled, I talked to Cassie, asking her about life in England, Monty Python, the Royal Family, and her opinion of America. She was happy to answer my questions and seemed to like me. At the end of the evening, I asked to see her again, but she said she would have to go back to England soon.
The next time I saw Paula, I asked about Cassie. Her response let me know I wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
“Cassie went to high school with me,” Paula explained, a devious grin adorning her face. “She has never been to England. She doesn’t even have a British accent.”
I must admit, her response caught me completely off guard. I looked like a fool in front of her friends. I had been out-maneuvered.
Victor Sherrod’s
While Paula and I were spiking each other’s drinks, Sherri and Lisa introduced me to a nightclub in Fort Walton Beach called Victor Sherrod’s, which was a 45-minute drive from Pensacola. The club was large with an expansive dance floor on the lowest level surrounded by an equally large area with tables and chairs. In front of the dance floor was a bar, and behind it was the DJ booth. Past the bar was a series of steps which ran the length of the club, leading up to another bar and some pool tables. The DJ played techno, industrial, and hip-hop, a most enjoyable mix.
Of course, what made Victor’s special wasn’t the layout or the music. The club was special because this is where I was introduced to a new drug, unlike anything I had ever experienced before.
Ecstasy
Ecstasy comes in pill form, and the active ingredient, MDMA, is a compound which creates an intense euphoria which lasts four to eight hours. If you’ve never taken it before, just imagine an orgasm which doesn’t fade for several hours. Sherri gave me my first hit, and within thirty minutes, I was in love with everyone in the bar and could dance endlessly. I was hooked.
Every Friday and Saturday night started with a trip to Victor’s and a hit of ecstasy, and ended with a marathon dance session, interspersed with countless group hugs and slurred proclamations of our love for each other.
Paula was not included in our group. Lisa and Sherri were very protective of me, and they usually didn’t approve of any female I demonstrated an interest in. I would rather be their friend than someone else’s boyfriend. One evening as I drove a young lady to a party, the car behind us started flashing its headlights. When I pulled over, I discovered Sherri and Lisa in the car, imploring me to go to Victor’s with them. I abandoned my date at a convenience store and followed them to Fort Walton Beach. Needless to say, I never heard from that young lady again.
The Sobriety Test
One afternoon, Paula asked if I would like to go out with her and her boyfriend, Paul. Although we didn’t have a lot of money, Long Island Iced Teas were only $2 at McGuire’s. Upon arriving at Paula’s house, she led me to her parents’ bedroom, where her father kept a water jug full of change. We fished out quarters until we had enough money to get drunk. Her father had dropped a washer on the top of the change to discern if anyone had taken any money. We had to fish it out first, then carefully drop it back in its original position.
Flush with quarters, we headed to the cheap motel where her boyfriend was staying. Paul and Paula had been dating since high school, so I felt like a third wheel. She reassured me the three of us would have a good time.
At the motel, Paul jumped into the backseat behind Paula. I had not yet pulled out of the parking lot when an argument started between them. The disagreement escalated quickly. “Stop the car,” Paula barked. She jumped out and pushed the seat forward. “Get out!” she snarled.
Paul belligerently exited the car. Paula sat in the passenger seat, slammed the door shut and said, “Go!” I drove off, leaving him standing on the side of the road. Her quick temper surprised me. It seemed uncharacteristic of her.
Paula and I went to McGuire’s and had several Long Island Iced Teas. I had cocaine and needles with me, so I shot up in the bathroom in between drinks, a fact I didn’t share with her.
After getting drunk, we decided to go dancing at Seville. During the drive, I asked Paula what her attitude was concerning marijuana.
“I don’t smoke it, but I don’t care if you do.” Oh, be still my heart! A woman I could smoke weed around and didn’t have to share. I really liked Paula, but would never be presumptuous enough to tell her of my feelings. Anyway, what would Lisa and Sherri think? I got stoned.
I drove a Plymouth Horizon with a broken passenger door handle. As I was making a left turn, Paula fell out of the car and found herself lying in the road with the seat of her pants ripped, exposing most of her ass. I wish I could say I slammed on the brakes, quickly exited the car, and ran to her aid. But the truth is I stopped the car and laughed while Paula helped herself off the asphalt.
“Oh, by the way,” I told her between chuckles, “that door doesn’t close all the way.”
“Thanks, asshole.”
Sensing I was losing her, I straightened up. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I am. Let’s go dance.” I didn’t notice her ass was showing until after we left Seville, which would explain all the free drinks she received that night.
As I drove Paula back to her house, I saw blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I pulled over, and a police officer approached my window. “Would you please get out of the car?” I complied. “Where are you going?”
“To take my date home.”
“Where does she live?”
“About two blocks away.” She lived much further, but I was drunk, stoned and tweaking on cocaine; passing a sobriety test was doubtful. The cop looked in the car at Paula, then addressed me again. “Get back in the car.” I complied.
The cop walked around to the passenger side and asked Paula to exit the vehicle. I watched her perform a field sobriety test in the rearview mirror. After several minutes, she got back in the car, and the cop approached my window again. “Go straight to your girlfriend’s house and stay there.”
“Yes, sir.” I started driving. “What the fuck just happened? Did you blow that cop?”
“No.” Paula laughed. “Since when do you give the passenger a sobriety test?”
“He wanted to see your ass.”
“No. Ya’ think?”
“Do I have a DUI now?”
We drove to Paula’s parents’ house, but the front door was locked. She warned me not to tangle with her mom, who looks, sounds, and acts like Judge Judy. We drove back to my parents’ house and passed out on their couch.
The next morning, Mom cooked us breakfast. After we ate, I heard th
e usual, “You have the nicest mom.”
Paula, with her frizzy, matted hair, running Mascara and exposed ass, extended her hand and said hello to my mom for the first time.
And Mom shook her hand and said hello to her future daughter-in-law.
And now...
An Observation
The incident with the police officer was not the first, nor would it be the last, DUI I avoided when I deserved one. I have been pulled over four times in my life while intoxicated, twice failed a sobriety test, and, for whatever reason, been released. My daughter calls me “serpent tongue,” a reference to my innate ability to bullshit my way through any situation. I purposely dressed nice and kept my car clean so not to look the part of a junkie or drunk. This “false book cover” helped hide my secrets from everyone, including law enforcement. I felt impervious to trouble as if attaching calamity to me was like applying scotch tape to an oily surface. I depended on blind luck, believing I was too intelligent and crafty to pay the price for my behavior. I would soon learn that “luck” is like a natural resource. It eventually becomes depleted.
The Jacket
After the dinner rush one evening, I discovered a jacket hanging on the back of a chair and rummaged through the pockets, finding a driver’s license, military ID, and deposit ticket. I took all three items.
The next day, I went to the drive-thru of the bank indicated on the deposit ticket and, using the driver’s license, emptied the account. I committed identity theft years before the term would become commonplace. I left with over $800 and immediately drove to Keith’s house, spending it all on cocaine. Once I got home, I poured the ounce of coke on a mirror, marveling at my accomplishment. And the best part was I didn’t have to share.
I never pondered the plight of the man from whom I stole the money or considered if he would be able to pay his bills. My only thought was my gain. I had just ventured down the Dark Corridor, a place in everyone’s mind which houses those thoughts that should never be acted on, a mental dead zone which contains those ideas most people entertain briefly then discard just as fast. Everyone has thought of an audacious crime, whether it be stealing or harming someone they hate. In other words, everyone has glanced down the Dark Corridor but stopped. I didn’t.
I acquired some hypodermic needles and started the most intense drug use of my life. Had I continued my previous rate of use, that pile of dope should have lasted a month. Three days later, it was gone. I learned a few things about myself from that incident.
1) An increase in the amount of drugs won’t extend the length of time the session will last. Instead, my rate of consumption will increase.
2) Any action, no matter how deplorable, was acceptable if the goal was to acquire drugs.
3) I was becoming proficient at leading a double life. No one noticed the change in my behavior after shooting an ounce of coke in three days.
4) I didn’t give a fuck about consequences. Why should I? I never had any.
Sherri was very upset when she learned of my purchase, protesting to Keith, “Why did you sell him that? You know what he does with it.” I was angry with her for meddling in my affairs, confusing concern for interference.
Since the photo on the military ID was small and hard to see, I used it to get into nightclubs and purchase alcohol. I didn’t use the driver’s license because the man I lifted it from looked nothing like me. Each time, I got nervous, knowing if the ID was confiscated I would be linked to the theft. But that didn’t stop me. The allure of nightclubs overpowered any fear I had of legal entanglements. Not to mention, I never got in trouble.
My weekend itinerary varied little over the next year. I acquired cocaine on Friday morning and worked my shift. Afterward, Sherri, Lisa, Keith and I went to Victor’s and dropped ecstasy. Once every hour, I walked to my car in the parking lot and shot cocaine. After the bar had closed, we partied at Keith’s house until Saturday, then repeated the entire process. Life was grand.
Occasionally, Paula invited me to go out with her and her new boyfriend, Richard, a forgettable man who would sit and pout while we danced. He was ten years older than Paula, which indicated a relationship of convenience. I noticed she never seemed happy or engaged with him. I made a mental note.
The Termination
Feeling cocky, I sat at the Applebee’s’ bar one evening and had a few drinks. The next day, Julie, a coworker, and I were the last two waiters on the floor. She asked if I had any pot, which was a silly question. We ran to my car and got stoned while on the clock. As soon as I walked back in the restaurant, the general manager, Bill, asked me to come to the office. I was worried he saw us smoking weed three minutes before. Instead, he asked to see my driver’s license. I immediately knew I had fucked up. Bill saw me drinking at the bar the night before and informed me I was fired.
I walked out the back door of the restaurant, trying to suppress my emotions. When I made it to my car, I bawled. The most enjoyable job I ever had or would ever have was over.
The Abortion Clinic
I felt lost. I tried to remain close to Keith, Sherri, and Lisa, but a chasm had developed between us, caused by my absence at Applebee’s. I valued their friendship almost as much as drugs. Actually, the two went hand-in-hand.
I got a job at McDonald’s. The vibe amongst the employees was not quite the same as it was at Applebee’s. Most of my coworkers were jock-assholes or cheerleader-types and very cliquish. Besides, I’ve always had trouble relating to ignorant people. But one female employee did become my friend, a short, butch lesbian, named Diane. Another gay person. Imagine that.
One particularly busy lunch rush, I was instructed by a manager, in a rather rude manner, to fill the soft-serve ice cream machine. I entered the walk-in cooler, filled the container with mix, and pissed in it. Since Diane was the only employee who didn’t annoy me, she was the only person I warned not to eat it. We traded evil grins every time someone ordered a dessert.
Diane introduced me to Jeanine, a new coworker who thought the ice cream incident was hilarious. The three of us started spending weekends drinking and getting stoned. Over the next year, Jeanine and I became inseparable. Our favorite topic of discussion was the sexual encounters we had with other people, much like two male friends. We were very close.
One night, Burgess and I picked up Jeanine. She suggested spending the evening with her friend, Bunny, whom I’d never met. Her apartment was located above the Pensacola Women’s Center, the infamous clinic which was the location of the nation’s first abortion doctor shooting. It normally had protestors picketing in the parking lot, but since we arrived in the evening, they were absent.
The three of us went upstairs to Bunny’s apartment. Cindy, who had purchased weed from me in middle school, was already there. The five of us got stoned and played a board game, called “Pass-Out.” After drinking all night, Bunny drove Cindy home, with her in the passenger seat and the rest of us crammed in the back. Once she exited the car, Jeanine and I jumped from the backseat in a frantic race to claim the shotgun position. I got it first.
“Hey! Let me sit there,” Jeanine protested.
“Fuck you,” I jokingly responded.
“Come on, Brett. Please.”
“No.”
“Pretty please. You know how much I love you.” She batted her eyes.
“Okay, God dammit.” I moved to the backseat as Jeanine slid into the front.
Thirty seconds later, as we left Cindy’s neighborhood, we pulled onto Spanish Trail Road and were hit by a car going 80 mph.
I have no recollection of the crash, other than the sound of helicopter blades.
My eyes opened. I was in a hospital room. Mom and Dad were solemnly sitting at the foot of the bed. I had sand in my mouth. My upper and lower teeth no longer lined up. My right thigh burned with pain. Mom approached my bed. “Brett?” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“Do you know what happened?”
I shook my head.
“You
were in a car accident. Life-Flight brought you here to the hospital.”
I stared forward, processing what I had just heard.
“Brett, look at me.”
I did.
“Your friend, Jeanine, died in the accident.”
A tear rolled down my cheek.
The Book
I spent several weeks in the hospital. The sand in my mouth was pulverized teeth. My jaw was fractured, requiring my mouth to be wired shut. My right femur was broken. To avoid a body cast, a metal rod was hammered through the center of my broken thigh bone, necessitating months of physical therapy. My therapist was a young lady who called me a “wimp” as I slowly learned to walk again. As much as I despised that woman, her demeaning method of motivation worked. I desperately tried to limp over to her so I could strangle her.
As I rested in my hospital room, I requested some non-fiction reading material. Mom went to the gift store and purchased a book titled Narco, a 1200-page account of the rise and fall of the three largest drug kingpins in America. I found it incredibly interesting. Sherri and Keith visited the next day and brought a splendid gift: two joints and a bag of cocaine. I hid the drugs in my drug book for three weeks until I got home.
My parents stayed by my side the entire time I was hospitalized. Once I got home, however, they wanted and deserved a night to themselves. Of course, I encouraged them to go, overriding Mom’s reservations over leaving me alone in the condition I was in. As soon as I was reasonably sure they were gone, I smoked one of the joints and injected the cocaine with a used needle I had stashed in my room. The experience was similar to the first gasp of oxygen after being submerged for weeks.
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