American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  I hate hackneyed expressions, but here goes. I was a real Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  Or better yet, a real Dr. Brettles and Mr. Hide-The-Sausage.

  I kill me.

  The following song describes the life of a crackhead better than I possibly could.

  Down in a Rabbit Hole

  by

  Bright Eyes

  I heard you fell into a rabbit hole

  Covered yourself up with snow

  Baby, tell me where’d you go

  For days and days

  Did they make you stay up all night?

  Did they paint your face that pasty white?

  You're thirsty, but your appetite is chased away

  The sun turns us to stone

  It's a cloudy day

  But we still can't go

  Open our back cellar door

  Till we see the moon

  We're invisible

  No one ever takes the garbage out

  A kid gets dared to touch the house

  He runs back only to announce, there's no one there

  Does he paint the foil with a flame?

  Smell the soda, taste butane

  For every fear that can't be named to calm you down

  Your heart starts skipping steps

  So you're farther gone

  Then you might expect

  If your thoughts should turn to death

  Got to stomp them out

  Like cigarettes

  You may be thinking, Driving a nice car into a ghetto with a fist full of money and purchasing crack from a heavily armed black guy whom I’ve never met nor will ever see again sounds easy. I think I’ll try that. Well, as difficult as this may be to fathom, some pitfalls to this scenario exist. After reading this page, please remove it from the book and wring out the sarcasm.

  Let me list some of the pitfalls I’ve personally experienced.

  1) Purchasing pieces of soap, wax, rocks, and other things that weren’t crack.

  2) My driver side window was smashed out, my car keys stolen, and I was robbed.

  3) A screwdriver was pushed against my neck, and I was robbed.

  4) A razorblade was pushed against my neck until it drew blood, and I was robbed.

  5) A gun was stuck to my head, and I was robbed. Two weeks later, a young man pawned a miter saw at our store. One week after that, an older man came into the store and wanted to retrieve it. I informed him only the person who pawned the item could pick it up. He produced a death certificate and explained his son had pawned the saw, went to Escambia Arms to buy crack, and was shot and killed, the same place I had a gun put to my head three weeks prior.

  But the crazy part, that’s right, you haven’t heard the crazy part yet, is every time I had my life threatened and was robbed, I immediately got more money and went back to the same spot. Death was a reasonable risk.

  I hid my new habit from Paula. At least for the time being.

  I have a vision of Jeff Foxworthy performing a version of his famous routine. Imagine his voice. “If you drive back to the same spot to score crack after being robbed at gunpoint, you might be an addict.”

  Duke

  Instead of buying coke from Keith, I started dealing with his supplier, Sherri’s boyfriend, Duke. Unlike most of my male friends, he had a lot in common with me. We both came from affluent families, were heterosexual, and loved to party. He was in better physical shape than I, a result of my affinity for inertia, and was better looking than me, not a high hurdle.

  Duke had one characteristic I didn’t envy - cocaine caused him to have seizures. Since our illicit activities were financed by him selling the drug, they became a problem. After one particular weekend of heavy partying, Duke had to spend several days in the hospital. By happenstance, Paula was at her Army Reserve camp. I found myself at Duke’s house with his friend, Tom, and several ounces of cocaine, with no girlfriend or homeowner to contend with.

  Tom taught me how to reduce cocaine to a smokable form using ammonia and a coffee filter, a process I will not divulge. We freebased coke for three days, never leaving the house. Afterward, I was quite horny, so I went to Micki’s to relieve the tension. She told me she wasn’t interested; she thought I was using her for sex, a point I thought was understood from the beginning.

  Paula eventually discovered the truth about my infidelity, although I denied the obvious, a coping mechanism I frequently used. The last time I saw Micki was when Paula beat the shit out of her. My relationships usually end in this ungracious manner, if you haven’t noticed.

  I eventually smoked crack with Paula, although she wasn’t as enthusiastic about it as I. Since I could cook my own dope, I said goodbye to the black guys in the projects, although it wasn’t face-to-face. I also said goodbye to the needles, although it was more of a ‘see ya’ later.'

  Allison

  Of all Paula’s friends, the one I disliked and, for some reason, spent the most time with, was Allison. I didn’t always feel such animosity toward her. Once, Paula, Allison and I had a threesome. My feelings were an acquired hatred. She had long, straight, blonde hair and an odd figure. Imagine an egg with two toothpicks for legs and feet positioned like Charlie Chaplin. Her face reminded me of trailer park fodder. Yes, Paula and I had sex with this woman.

  My negative feelings toward Allison started the night we had to take her back to our apartment early in the evening because she drank too much, a common occurrence for her. Donna had claimed the only bedroom, so Paula and I slept on a mattress in the living room. We laid Allison down and went back out. Several hours later, we returned to find she had pissed in our only bed. I was furious. “What the fuck are we supposed to sleep on, you stupid bitch?!”

  “Brett, calm down. Just drive her back to her car,” Paula said.

  Her car was at Applebee’s, which was more than ten miles away. I stomped to my car, sat behind the wheel and watched her slowly stagger into the passenger seat. I took one look at her trailer-park face and said, “I’m not driving you anywhere. Get the fuck out!” I watched her stumble into the darkness.

  I marched into the living room and dragged the damp mattress to the roadside next to our garbage can. Paula and I slept on a Papason pillow for the remainder of our stay in the purple apartment.

  Allison was humorous at times. She once climbed on a wooden carousel horse on display in Applebee’s and rode it like a bull rider. Mostly though, her antics turned my stomach. Can you imagine someone turning my stomach?

  I know you want an example.

  We took Allison to the Pensacola Interstate Fair. After several beers, she wanted some nachos. Once the chips were gone, she started eating the cheese sauce with her fingers.

  I know that doesn’t sound bad, so let me create a mental image for you. Imagine a crowded walkway at the fair. You turn around and see the drunk, egg-shaped woman who recently pissed in your bed, walking with her feet pointing in opposite directions and an “I’m too ignorant to know how ignorant I am” smile on her low-rent face, holding a paper nacho tray and running her index and middle finger through the cheese and licking it off. I think you understand now.

  I told her multiple times to wash her hands before she got in my car, which turned out to be the least of my concerns. When the fair closed, and people streamed into the parking lot, Allison dropped her pants and pissed in front of them all.

  After that incident, I refused to accompany Paula when she went out if Allison was with her.

  Nine Inch Nails

  I loved smoking crack while repeatedly listening to the song “Mr. Self-Destruct” by Nine Inch Nails, a band with only one member, Trent Reznor. He’s very open about his struggle with addiction, and his music articulates this despair brutally yet eloquently. No song exemplifies the insanity of drug use, specifically how it controls and destroys your life, better than “Mr. Self-Destruct.” As compelling as the lyrics are, the music expresses this insanity even stronger. In my opinion, it’s one of the greatest songs ever recorded
.

  Mr. Self-Destruct

  by

  Nine Inch Nails

  I am the voice inside your head

  (and I control you)

  I am the lover in your bed

  (and I control you)

  I am the sex that you denied

  (and I control you)

  I am the hate you try to hide

  (and I control you)

  I take you where you want to go

  I give you all you need to know

  I drag you down. I use you up.

  Mr. Self-Destruct

  I speak religion’s message clear

  (and I control you)

  I am denial, guilt, and fear

  (and I control you)

  I am the prayers of the naïve

  (and I control you)

  I am the lie that you believe

  (and I control you)

  I take you where you want to go

  I give you all you need to know

  I drag you down. I use you up.

  Mr. Self-Destruct

  You let me do this to you

  (I am the exit)

  You let me do this to you

  (I am the exit)

  I am the needle in the vein

  I am the high you can’t sustain

  I am the pusher. I am the whore

  I am the need you feel for more

  I am the bullet in the gun

  (and I control you)

  I am the truth from which you run

  (and I control you)

  I am the silencing machine

  (and I control you)

  I am the end of all your dreams

  (and I control you)

  I take you where you want to go

  I give you all you need to know

  I drag you down. I use you up.

  Mr. Self-Destruct

  I believe I’ve deciphered the meaning of the band’s name, although I’m postulating. I noticed a 1cc hypodermic syringe, when full, is about nine inches long from the tip of the needle to the end of the extended plunger. Well, that’s what I choose to believe.

  “Mr. Self-Destruct” is the opening track to the ground-breaking album The Downward Spiral, which was recorded in Sharon Tate’s living room before the house was demolished. In case you didn’t know, the Manson family murdered Ms. Tate and three other people in that very room. The darkness of that location permeates the entire album. It’s so dark, Spin magazine voted “The Downward Spiral” as the #1 album to commit suicide to. But I would choose a different Nine Inch Nails album.

  The Termites

  Besides the episode with Micki, my relationship with Paula was pleasantly exciting. The pawn shop continued to grow, and I did everything in my power to make it successful. In fact, it was so profitable, I took money from the drawer every day without anyone noticing. I never left home without hundreds of dollars in my pocket. Plus, Paula still worked at Applebee’s, bringing even more cash home. We seldom fought, and sex was at least once a day, if not more. We seemed compatible. Not to mention, I loved having a beauty like her on my arm when we went out.

  Yet, much like termites starting their assault on a home’s foundation, the minuscule fractures in our relationship were impossible to see. We both fulfilled unspoken needs for the other. I wanted a trophy girlfriend. Paula wanted financial security. Perhaps all relationships are superficial to a degree in the beginning, but drugs deaden feelings. Experiencing real emotions is hardly possible when you’re high. We operated on trivial impulses.

  Paula had a possessiveness I recoiled from. She didn’t like anything diverting my attention from her. I wanted to be part of Paula’s life. She wanted me to be her life. Keeping with the revelation I had after Adrianne’s departure, I made sure I was “one up” in our relationship in a big way. I controlled the money and the drugs. I went into the partnership partly detached as a way of maintaining the upper hand. I never displayed jealousy, even when the feeling was killing me. I purposely separated from her in social situations, causing her to pine for my attention much like a puppy following its mother. I would not allow myself to be “one-down.”

  When termites start their assault on a structure, it shows no discernable signs of instability. Much was our relationship. It appeared stable. We were two young people trying to secure our footing in a wild love affair. But, as we all know, ignoring termites never makes them go away.

  My Oldest Child

  Paula and I were partying and doing drugs when she became pregnant. Paula and her mother made the decision to have an abortion. I’m not saying we didn’t discuss it. But abortion seemed like a foregone conclusion.

  The rationalization for this decision was we were young, irresponsible and single. We wanted to spare the child from a life of dysfunction. I wish the real motivation were as benevolent. The unspoken reason was one of convenience. We didn’t want to change our lifestyle. If a dysfunctional home life were a concern, we never should have had any children.

  Years passed before I mentally visited this decision again. As I looked at a portrait of my family posing on Pensacola Beach, myself and Paula, Devin, who was eight years old, and Jordan, who was five, I imagined my oldest child standing behind me with their hand on my shoulder. My child would have been a teenager when that portrait was taken. I wondered which traits my child would have inherited. Would they have loved me like Jordan, or despised me like Devin? What would he or she have looked like? What would have been their interests, favorite foods, music, and movies?

  Of course, thinking of such things is like thinking about the winning lottery numbers I didn’t pick. What’s done is done. Up until that moment, I always considered myself pro-choice. Now, I’m not sure. As I write these words, I am openly weeping for my oldest child, whom I will never have the joy of meeting.

  The Blue and Red Marbles

  Paula and I moved out of the purple apartment and into Cordova Regency. For us, life was a long string of drug-laden parties, the current one being crazier than the last. We occasionally withdrew from our friends to smoke crack, but afterward, resumed our social drug use. Acid and ecstasy filled our weekends. For me, marijuana was a constant. I was known as a “wake-and-baker,” which was someone who got stoned as soon as they woke up and stayed stoned throughout the day until they went to sleep. I had not gone a single day without smoking pot since I was a teenager.

  Most weekends were spent at Victor’s, followed by an after-party, which lasted through the next day. Once, I purchased a large quantity of ecstasy to sell. I was the least successful drug dealer in history. Since I already had plenty of money, I didn’t do it for profit. I wanted to be the center of attention and have girls chase me down in front of Paula. But, most of all, I didn’t want to run out.

  Before we left for Fort Walton, Paula took several hits at once. Taking too much ecstasy causes the person to fall into a dream-like state, resulting in vivid, realistic visions. As I drove down Highway 98 moving at a brisk 60 mph, Paula, in this ecstasy-induced dream-state says, “Okay, I’m going to call Sharon.” She opened the car door. As she stepped out of the moving vehicle, I grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the seat.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!”

  Paula snapped back into reality. “Oh my God! I thought we were back home.” That was the first time I saved her life.

  On a typical evening at Victor’s, finding ecstasy was easy. Everyone sold it. But on this particular night, I was the only person holding. By midnight, I had sold most of my pills. As Paula and I danced on the steps overlooking the nightclub, I paused and looked out over the crowd. Everyone was dancing: on the dancefloor, on the tables, at the bar, and behind the DJ booth. That moment was a religious experience for me. I felt like God looking out over his creation.

  By the end of the evening, we were trolling, which is taking acid along with ecstasy, which enhances the euphoria. We were driving to an after-party with Sharon and her boyfriend, Troy, when I noticed something. “Oh my God! I’m s
eeing blue and red marbles bouncing on the road in front of us.”

  “Holy shit! I see them too!” Paula said as she peered out the windshield.

  Sharon and Troy leaned forward from the backseat and looked at the highway rushing in front of the car. “What the fuck? I see them,” Sharon laughed.

  “Me too,” Troy said.

  “Do you know what this means?” I asked in a serious tone. “We’re having a group hallucination.” We fell out laughing.

  Those days were a continuous string of intoxicated parties and drug-induced stupidity. Eventually, I turned twenty-one.

  The Birthday

  Keith, Sharon, Duke, Bill, Paula and I decided to celebrate my 21st birthday in New Orleans. Minutes before midnight, as we partied on the back patio of Pat O’Brien’s, I asked my crew to sit down at one of the tables and pulled an identification card from my pocket. “When I worked at Applebee’s, I found this military ID and a deposit ticket in a jacket that was left at table fifty-two.” Everyone took turns examining it. “Remember when I got that ounce of coke from you?”

  “Yes,” Keith reluctantly answered.

  “Well, right before I saw you that day, I went to this guy’s bank and emptied his account. I got his account number off the deposit ticket.”