American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  Stunned silence at the table. A few jaws hung open.

  “Since then, I have used this ID to get into clubs and buy liquor. For years, I held my breath every time I used it because I knew I risked being tied to the theft. I don’t even look like this faggot.” Laughter at the table. Good. My friends won’t disown me for being a royal douche.

  I dragged an ashtray across the table, positioning it in front of me. I pulled a lighter from my pocket and lit the corner of the ID. We watched it burn to ashes.

  “The days of me holding my breath are over,” I triumphantly announced. Another addition to my delusion of invincibility. To the man I stole the money from, I am truly sorry.

  The Throbbing Asshole

  After the wonderful weekend in New Orleans, the carefree party seemed to darken. One typical evening at Victor’s, a girl who was trolling with us collapsed. I watched her eyes roll back and face explode in sweat. She was dead before the paramedics arrived.

  Witnessing her death was disturbing, so naturally, I wanted to get stoned. I walked into the parking lot; my car was parked at the other end. I noticed a stranger walking several yards in front of me. Suddenly, a truck full of men with baseball bats pulled up to him. They jumped out and started beating him repeatedly. I quickly ducked out of sight. His mangled body was left lying behind my car. Moments later, a police cruiser and an ambulance arrived at the stranger’s motionless body. How am I supposed to get stoned with all this shit going on behind my car?

  Our group was rather somber when Victor’s closed for the evening. As I rolled a joint for the trip home, we sat in my car and watched party-goers run across the highway. Without warning, a woman was hit by a car. She flew twenty feet from where she was standing, landed on the asphalt, started to push herself up, and collapsed. She never moved after that. We stopped going to Victor’s.

  Soon after, Duke had another seizure. As we visited in his hospital room, he asked a favor. He had planned to pick up an ounce of cocaine from a Greyhound Bus station later that evening and asked if I would retrieve the package instead and take it to his friend, Bill (not Keith’s friend, but Duke’s throbbing asshole friend, Bill). I agreed.

  At the bus station, I handed the ticket to one of the two clerks, who were both teenagers. The clerk with the ticket shot the other one a sinister glance. He disappeared into the back and returned with a tattered package. They wore sheepish grins as I left.

  I brought a spoon and a needle with me and planned to do a monster shot before I delivered the package to Bill. I quickly pulled into a self-serve car wash and examined the box, which reeked of cinnamon. It was poorly taped as if it had been opened already. The box was full of cinnamon packets, but no cocaine. I instantly knew what was about to happen.

  Throbbing asshole Bill was a musician, which was surprising because he was the exact opposite of the stereotypical artist. He had the personality of a fire hydrant. Talking to him was as enthralling as watching centipedes fuck. Stiff and stoic, he let me know he thought I stole the dope. I emphatically denied the accusation. Yet, I had not made a good case for myself. Duke knew my appetite for cocaine, and after our trip to New Orleans, he knew I was a thief. I never understood why Bill didn’t get the package himself. Despite my protests, I never convinced Duke I didn’t steal from him, and our friendship never recovered.

  The Roommates

  Robert allowed me and Paula to stay in one of his rental properties free-of-charge. The offer was very generous. The only condition was we had to repair and maintain the place, which would help him find a new tenant once we moved out. We agreed.

  The house was in Mayfair, which was an older subdivision, although most of the homes on our street were nice. The one exception was a crack house located four doors down. It was in a drastic state of disrepair and had a constant stream of brief visitors all hours of the day and night. One would think I would quickly become their next customer, but the house was so shady, I was afraid to approach it. I know that’s hard to imagine.

  Our house had a crawl space underneath and was surrounded by oak trees. Thus, we had a significant roach problem. And Paula suffered from Katsaridaphobia, which made life in the house challenging. Pulling into the driveway at night was like the final scene of the movie Creep Show. As soon as the headlights illuminated the carport, roaches scattered everywhere. I had to clear a path before she would exit the car. Roaches attacked our dinner while Paula was preparing it. Roaches fell on our heads from the door frames. We were even assaulted in our bedroom. Paula and I were reading in bed when we heard the unmistakable sound of fluttering insect wings, followed by the crunchy thud of an insect hitting the wall above our heads. We leapt from the bed. The Black Bart, the name Paula assigned to giant cockroaches, landed on the floor and ran toward her. She bolted, gloriously naked, from the room screaming.

  Paula’s fear was beyond irrational. Once, she called me while I was at work. “Brett, there’s a Black Bart in the closet!”

  “Okay, kill it,” I said.

  “Awwww! I can’t. It’s too big.”

  “Okay. Don’t kill it.”

  “I put a cup over it.”

  “I’m not sure what the purpose of this call is.”

  “Will you kill it when you get home tonight?” Paula asked.

  “I thought I would take it for a walk instead.”

  “Brett!”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll kill it. You could have asked me this when I got home.”

  “I just wanted to warn you.”

  “I’ll get mentally prepared for the execution before I get there.”

  In addition to our hundreds of small roommates, something was living in our attic. We could hear it moving as we lay in bed. I knew whatever it was, it had to be large, because the creature never moved quickly, even when I hit the ceiling with a broom handle.

  One evening, as I walked into the utility room, I discovered what it was. Above my head, walking along the top shelf, was the largest rat I had ever seen. When I turned the light on, it stopped, looked directly at me with an “Oh, it’s only a human” look, and slowly continued its journey. The rodent was so scary looking, I let it live in our attic.

  Despite the age of our new home, Paula kept the house as clean and pest free as she could. She had a place for everything and was annoyed with clutter. My propensity for slovenliness was a continuing point of contention. She was also obsessed with her appearance. She spent two hours every morning putting on makeup and doing her hair. Paula always looked picture perfect, even when we were at home. She reminded me of June Cleaver cleaning the house while wearing high heels and a pearl necklace. At the time, I took her preoccupation as a positive attribute.

  The Dry Spell

  For ten years, I managed to stay stoned. And I literally mean every day of that period. Unless I was sleeping, I was smoking pot. But soon after moving into our new home, a dry spell occurred, which typically happened in late summer before the plants were harvested. Today, marijuana is grown indoors, making dry spells uncommon. All my sources were out. I even went through my parents’ drawers, to no avail. In case you didn’t know, marijuana doesn’t cause physical withdrawal symptoms, thus physically, I felt fine. But mentally, I was a basket case. Whereas I was typically smiling and joking, happy and amiable, now my mood was dark and brooding. Work was drudgery, and once I got home, I sulked on the couch, which was next to the end table where I kept my pot and paraphernalia. My sour mood got so bad, Paula started making calls to her friends on my behalf in search of the coveted green substance. She said things like, “If not having pot affects you like this, perhaps you should quit.”

  To some degree, I knew she was on point. But my addict pretzel-logic always prevailed. “So let me make sure I understand you. Since not having pot puts me in a bad mood, I should continue not having pot? Whatever.”

  Reasoning with an addict is like teaching a cat to bark; it’s very frustrating and usually results in failure.

  After two agonizing weeks of absti
nence, Paula called me at work to tell me she found some. I raced home on my lunch hour, rushed through the door, grabbed the bag of dope from her hand, and sat in my usual spot on the couch. As I rummaged through my stash drawer looking for rolling papers, I found something I didn’t expect: a second bag of pot which was hidden in the drawer the entire time. I had the only bag of weed in Pensacola within arm’s reach while I suffered, although, at the time, I had no idea what real suffering was. When Paula saw it, she couldn’t help but laugh, much like laughing at an oncoming train as you stand on the tracks.

  Despite our new living quarters, our partying had not abated. The only aspect of our drug use that changed was the frequency in which we got high alone instead of going out with friends.

  The Darkness

  I graduated with my Associates of Arts degree from Pensacola Junior College. Robert paid for my first term, but I dropped all my classes. Afterward, he told me he would never again pay for my school, and he kept his word. I discovered I was a lot less likely to drop classes when my own money was on the line. Paula enrolled in nursing school, which I gladly paid for. I made more money than a person in their early twenties should make, at least someone with the habits I was developing.

  Paula was an incredibly sound sleeper, so I got in the habit of smoking crack and watching pornography at night. Eventually, I got bored with watching sex, so I started sneaking out of the house and getting high with prostitutes. I never had intercourse with these women, rationalizing that a blowjob was safe, and didn’t fall into the “sex” category. For the second time in my life, I pulled a Bill Clinton. Of course, the fact I never told Paula what I did at night indicated I was doing something I shouldn’t. On more than one occasion, I slipped into bed minutes, sometimes seconds, before her alarm sounded, giving the appearance I had been sleeping next to her the entire night.

  Despite my evening outings, I did cocaine with Paula most the of the time. Although I thought I was bulletproof, I discovered my Kevlar had a vulnerability. After a four-day binge, I started to feel strange. We all instinctively know when our bodies cross the boundary from okay to not-okay, no matter how subtle the change may be. I stood from the couch. “Something’s not right.”

  “What are you talking about?” Paula asked, assuming I was joking.

  “Something’s not right with me,” I blurted out in a panicked voice. A tingling numbness started in my fingers and toes and began slowly moving up my arms and legs. I placed my hands on Paula’s shoulders to brace myself.

  “Brett! What’s wrong!?”

  I looked at her but couldn’t speak. My extremities were paralyzed, and my hands were drawn up in a cramped position. Waves of darkness hit me with increased frequency as I struggled to keep my eyes open. With each slowing heartbeat, my body throbbed with the tingling numbness that stole my arms and legs.

  “Oh my God! I’m calling 911!”

  “No,” I managed to mumble as I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around her waist. Upon touching her, I felt the numbness subsiding. After the deathly feeling had waned, we decided to get some rest. Each time sleep tried to take me, I fought it, afraid I would never awaken.

  The next morning, we finished the cocaine. I never determined what exactly happened. We wrote it off as a panic attack or sleep deprivation. But the Darkness, as I called it, started occurring regularly. Of course, the risk of encountering the Darkness didn’t stop me from using. On multiple occasions, when this feeling slipped over me, I called an ambulance. Strangely, as soon as I hung up the phone and knew help was in route, it subsided. By the time the paramedics arrived, I felt normal. I did this so many times, I knew the ambulance driver by name. Ken always said the same thing to me, “Stick to the natural stuff, Brett.”

  Wait! What’s that I hear?

  I think it’s Jeff Foxworthy again.

  “If you know the ambulance driver on a first name basis, you might be an addict.”

  The Issue

  One Friday afternoon, Robert asked me to come to his house. He needed help loading his dining room table, which was his grandmother’s and of some considerable value, into the bed of his truck so he could have it refinished. It was covered with numerous round indentions, which he attributed to normal use. But I knew the actual source of the damage; it was from my friends and me playing Quarters. I helped him load the table and went back to work.

  That evening, Paula and I started a two-day cocaine binge. As the sun rose early Sunday morning, we prepared to sleep the day away. The phone rang. “Is this Brett?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Fire Marshall Bill with the Pensacola Fire Department. Do you know where your parents are?”

  “No, sir. What’s going on?”

  “We have an issue at their house on Newton Drive.”

  “What kind of issue?”

  “I can’t talk to you about that. We need you to come to Newton Drive as soon as possible.”

  “Okay, but what’s the issue?”

  “We can only discuss that with the homeowner.”

  Exhausted, we drove to my parents’ house. Upon our arrival, the “issue” was obvious. My childhood home had burned to the ground. Neighbors filled the street, watching the firefighters work. Although the fire had been extinguished, the entire house was in ashes. Paula and I were frantic. The fire marshal again asked where my parents were. As the implication of his question dawned on me, he assured me no one was in the house. He then hammered me with a series of questions about my parents’ finances and the stability of their relationship. I was in no mood to talk.

  We drove to Memaw and Pawpaw’s house. They told me Mom was in Vero Beach visiting Dorothy and Harwell. “Oh my God, Mom!” I cried into the receiver.

  “It’s going to be okay. Just relax.”

  “Your house burned down! Everything’s gone! We don’t know where Robert is!” I sobbed.

  “Your father’s on a fishing trip. Now calm down. Everything’s going to be okay. Now, you and Paula go home, and I’ll call you later this afternoon,” Mom said in a calm, reassuring voice.

  As we drove home, something disturbing occurred to me. “The first thing Mom did on the phone was console me,” I said.

  “Of course she did.”

  “No, you don’t understand. She never asked me why I was crying.”

  The house fire is a topic that is off limits in my family. I still wonder about it to this day.

  The Ultimatum

  One day, Paula unexpectedly asked, “You’re going to ask me to marry you, right?” I nodded.

  Some days went by. Again, she asked, “We’re getting married, right?” I nodded.

  More days went by. She stopped asking. “Either marry me, or I’m moving out.”

  “Can I sleep on it?” Paula didn’t think my joke was funny. What’s the rush? We’d been living together for four years; I thought our arrangement was perfect.

  “Marry me, or I’m moving out,” she reiterated without smiling. I could take a hint. I acquired an engagement ring through the pawn shop and proposed at Jubilee’s, a restaurant on Pensacola Beach. Oddly enough, she acted surprised.

  Paula and I were now engaged. The next decision was the location of the ceremony. Several churches were suggested, but I was afraid I would burst into flames if I walked into one. I wasn’t sure if God had forgotten about that “Fuck Jesus” thing. Strange how I was concerned about the feelings of an imaginary deity. Plus, I didn’t know where any churches were located, which was remarkable because Pensacola has more churches than traffic lights. I did, however, know where the bars were.

  Paula and I were to be married at Seville Quarter, which had a large outdoor patio. The event was set.

  The place was Seville Quarter.

  The date was June 29, 1991.

  The only thing left was...

  The Bachelor Party

  Thus far, I have described the circumstances which led to an epiphany, then restated it in a list of trui
sms. This time, however, I will present the list first.

  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

  6. Do not moon cars in your own neighborhood

  7. Never eat in a restaurant where the cooks are laughing hysterically

  8. No matter how small the detail, never compromise yourself for love’s sake

  9. Sometimes, what seems like an insignificant decision can become a life changing event

  10. Always fasten your seatbelt, even on short trips

  11. Properly motivated, everybody lies

  12. Never have a bachelor party the night before your wedding

  The night before my wedding, a limousine pulled up to my parents’ house. Inside were Keith, Bill (not throbbing asshole Bill), and several other friends. Unbeknownst to the party-goers, Keith and I had been doing cocaine the previous evening. I was already forty-eight hours without sleep. Thus necessity dictated I purchase an 8-ball, which is 1/8 ounce of cocaine, to stay coherent. Of course, I didn’t share. We did the typical bachelor party stuff: went to strip clubs, drank, and got lap dances. The strippers dragged me up on stage, pulled my pants down, and shook their tits at me. At 2 am, the limo took everyone home, except Keith and me. I purchased another 8-ball and gave the driver $400 to take us to The Place, a bottle club that stayed open until 5 am. I walked up to the first attractive woman I saw on the dance floor and asked, “You wanna’ party with me and my friend?”