“Hell, yes!”
Keith, the girl, and I did lines of coke and had sex in the back of the limo. I guess he wasn’t as gay as I thought. I knew Paula was staying at her mother’s house, so when the time ran out on the limo, the three of us went back to my house, did more cocaine and had more sex.
Before long, 10 am rolled around; I was getting married in three hours. I took Keith and the girl home and purchased two more 8-balls. At this point, I had gone sixty hours without sleep and expended a considerable amount of physical exertion. Cocaine was the only reason I was still alert. I drove to my parents’ house to get dressed for…
The Wedding
I’ve always felt like I stumble through life, like I’m rudderless, going wherever the current takes me. I’ve never been in control, bouncing around like a ball in a pinball machine, serendipitously falling into favorable circumstances, blind luck being my only guide. As I drove to my wedding, the reality of what was about to occur dawned on me. I wondered how all this had happened. How did someone like me end up getting married? How did I end up running a business? Why am I still alive? I felt like an outside observer to my own life.
I gingerly walked into Seville, not knowing what to expect. Every family member and friend I had ever known throughout my entire life was there, and I was Fucked-Up! To make matters worse, waves of fatigue crashed over me. I had to pull off a good performance for these people.
Paula descended the stairs in her flowing bridal gown. She was as exquisitely stunning a bride as any woman could be. I later learned the photographer who was hired for the occasion mounted a large print of her in the lobby of his studio. Paula was picture perfect. When I saw her for the first time in her gown, I knew this was for real.
That day in June was sweltering. As we posed for the wedding pictures on the back patio, Paula kept calling for a rag to tamp the sweat from her face. I looked embalmed in those pictures. When the ceremony started, I couldn’t hear the justice of the peace, focusing instead on a bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose. But before it had a chance to fall, Paula and I were husband and wife. And since we were on the back patio of a bar, no time was wasted driving to the reception.
Paula made the mistake of assuming I was current on wedding rituals. I was told to kneel, and she put her leg across my knee. As the photographer positioned himself, I blankly looked at her. “Take it off. Take it off,” she whispered. So, I took her shoe off. Apparently, I was supposed to remove her garter. Our wedding album had an epic picture of Paula with a “What a dumbass!” expression as I held her shoe.
The reception was a lot of fun, a once in a lifetime experience where everyone from my past was in one location. And they’re all paying attention to me. And we’re in a bar! And I had cocaine! And I didn’t have to share! A truly monumental evening. I was quite disappointed when, at 9 pm, I was told the party was over. Mom broke the news to me. “Brett, the carriage is here.”
“Carriage?”
“Yes, to take you and Paula to the Hilton.”
“Well, I’m having fun. Tell’em to wait outside.”
“No Brett, you have to consummate your marriage.”
“Shit, I did that years ago.”
“Brett, your bride is waiting. Get your ass in that carriage,” Mom laughed.
I ran to the bathroom, snorted a huge line of coke, and walked outside with Paula. I was seventy-two hours without sleep and feeling rather punchy. I didn’t know what Mom meant by “carriage,” but, as we walked through the showers of birdseed, I was pleased to see a horse drawn buggy with a “Just Married” sign on the back. Paula and I rode through downtown Pensacola, kissing and staring into each other’s eyes. I realized I hadn’t looked at her in a while. The person I spent the most time with had become part of the background, like a piece of living room furniture. I suddenly noticed the woman I fell in love with. The carriage ride was a romantic moment for me, a brief pause from the static.
The honeymoon suite at the Hilton was incredible. The room was located on the top floor and took up two stories, connected by a spiral staircase. A Jacuzzi adorned the upper floor. Paula stripped off her clothes, grabbed a bottle of champagne, and started climbing. She almost made it to the top, but stumbled and rolled down the staircase, which was located directly in front of the window; everyone in Pensacola saw her fall.
Paula and I were scheduled to board an airplane at 7 am to Puerto Rico, the start of a seven-day cruise which was a honeymoon gift from my parents. After a robust romp in the bed and another in the Jacuzzi, she passed out. The time was 4 am. Since I had been awake for eighty hours, I knew if I slept, we would miss the flight. I started seeing the “shadow men,” a hallucination caused by sleep deprivation where people seem to dart just out of your peripheral vision. I watched television and snorted cocaine until 6 am. We had one hour to pack and get to the airport. I attempted to wake her.
“Paula.” I shook her. “Paula.” No response. “Paula!” I shook her harder. “Paula!” Still no response. “PAULA!” I shook her vigorously.
“What?” She was not happy about being roused.
“Get up. We gotta’ get to the airport.”
“Okay.” She fell back asleep.
“PAULA!” I sat her upright.
“What the fuck do you want?!” she screamed, her eyes not fully open.
“Get up! We have a plane to catch!”
“Just go without me.” She laid down and closed her eyes.
“PAULA!” I bellowed as I sat her up again. “When you wake up at noon, and I’m in Puerto Rico by myself, you’re not going to be happy. NOW, GET UP!” I pulled her out of bed.
“Fuck you, asshole!” Bea was the last person to slur those words at me.
Paula struggled up the stairs. I removed our suitcase from the closet and frantically started packing our belongings. The time was 6:20 am. I heard the shower start. I ran up the steps and found Paula stepping into the tub. I turned the water off. “We don’t have time for a shower. Help me put this shit in our suitcase.”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
I popped open a bottle of champagne. “Drink this.”
She didn’t need my instruction. The time was 6:30 am. Paula grabbed her makeup case, which I ripped from her hand.
“Give me that, you motherfucker!”
“Look at me.” I grabbed both sides of her head, forcing her eyes to meet mine. This angry face was lovingly looking at me just six hours ago. “In twenty minutes, I’m going to be on a plane headed to Puerto Rico. If you want to go with me, grab your fucking shit right fucking now or this will be the shortest fucking marriage in history.”
I don’t know if my speech or the champagne jolted her, but she suddenly understood. We quickly packed our belongings, jumped in the car, and sped to the airport. The time was 6:50 am.
Lucky for us, Islamic assholes had not yet used airplanes to pull off an audacious terrorist attack against our country. Thus the boarding process was quick. We approached the gate just as the attendants were closing it. Thirty seconds later, we would have missed the flight.
Paula slept on the airplane, while I made frequent trips to the restroom to snort lines. My nose was raw and painful to the touch, and swells of fatigue caused recurring bouts of unconsciousness. I fought to stay awake. Each subsequent walk to the restroom was more labored than the last. My body was surrendering.
I snorted the last line of coke at the San Juan airport, which was quite different from the ones in the States. Everything was written in Spanish, and chickens were walking around the baggage carousel. We boarded a bus and started the hour and a half drive to the cruise ship. At this point, I had gone ninety-four hours without sleep. With no cocaine left, I passed out as soon as I sat down. I woke up with a sizable puddle of drool on the front of my shirt. However unlikely, we made it to the ship.
At the time, I attributed our successful arrival to drugs. Without cocaine, I wouldn’t have been able to stay awake, and we would have missed
our honeymoon. Of course, cocaine was the cause of my sleep loss in the first place. Drugs give the illusion of making life easier when in reality, they make everything a chore. I couldn’t see this fact because I had never lived without them. Every endeavor in my life was chaotic and burdensome.
The honeymoon was incredible, although we slept for the first twenty-four hours.
Fuzzy
I have never been a lover of pets. Why own something that increases my list of responsibilities? When Paula and I started dating, she asked if we could get a cat. I said, “No,” because I didn’t want to be bothered with feeding or cleaning up after it. I discovered when Paula asked for my blessing about something she wanted, the decision had already been made. The question was a formality of politeness.
Soon after, I found a small kitten living in our apartment. We were now pet owners. “Isn’t she cute?” Paula asked, trying to lighten my mood. “What should we name her?”
“Let’s call her Sebastian,” I suggested.
So, naturally, we called her Fuzzy.
Although I wasn’t enthusiastic about having a pet at first, Fuzzy became a member of the family. Every night, Paula called the cat’s name, and it responded by jumping on the bed, climbing under the covers, and balling up next to her. She loved that animal.
Before we left on our honeymoon, Paula asked Keith to watch our house and feed Fuzzy. Upon our return, we were shocked to find the cat had not been fed. Keith said he wasn’t feeling well, an excuse Paula rejected. She was extremely upset over his negligence.
The Phone Call
Married life was pretty much like unmarried life. Paula and I worked hard and partied harder. She graduated from nursing school and started a lucrative career in the medical field. The pawn shop had grown to the point where it took up two buildings. Money was no longer a concern for us. Everything was to my liking. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?
I received a phone call from Bill (Keith’s friend Bill, not throbbing asshole Bill). What he told me was like a kick to the stomach. Keith had AIDS. Apparently, he had been feeling ill for some time and couldn’t figure out why. The doctor diagnosed him as HIV positive, but by that time, he had full blown AIDS and didn’t have long to live. As I tearfully hung up the phone, the night before my wedding popped into my mind. I always felt like the last person to get the punchline, and this time, the joke was on me.
The dread of realization tied a knot in my chest so tight, I could barely breathe. Why is this happening to me? Deep down, I knew the answer to that question, but playing the victim lessens the distress. To make matters worse, I had no one to confide in. Talking to my parents was out of the question, and I definitely didn’t want to tell Paula. I would have to go this one alone. I needed time for my fragmented thoughts to congeal. I needed to make some decisions. I needed to get high. I left work early and did just that.
Paula noticed the veil of somberness which enveloped me; she attributed it to the news of Keith’s illness. For the next several days, I walked around in a fog, consumed by thoughts of the disease I contracted and my innocent wife whose life I had destroyed. My drug use escalated in a desperate attempt to blot out my fear, but it wouldn’t go away. I stopped having sex with Paula, which she noticed as well. Eventually, I decided to get tested.
The test came back negative, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. Because the exposure was recent, I had to be tested again in six months. I was instructed to avoid sexual contact of any kind, and inform all my partners of the situation. I didn’t tell Paula. Not yet.
I was so wrapped up in my own selfishness, I hardly noticed one of my closest friends was dying. Since Paula was a registered nurse, she spent a lot of time with him. I, on the other hand, saw Keith only once while he was sick. She told him I was having a hard time accepting his illness, that I had not been the same since the news came out. But he knew the real reason.
Keith died on February 26, 1993. At his funeral service, as Bill, Paula and I wept over his body, Bill stuck a joint in his shirt pocket. I thought, If there’s another dry spell, all I need is a shovel.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The second HIV test was negative. I have since been tested several times. All negative. If luck is an actual resource, I used quite a bit that time, and it was depleting fast. I never told Paula. And I never dug up Keith. I love and miss you.
The Zeppelins
My parents quit their day jobs to focus on the pawn shop. Instead of smatterings of Robert’s displeasure with me, I heard it all day long. But he was unaware of my drug use and didn’t have anything substantial to complain about. Not yet, anyway.
Paula discovered she was pregnant and due in October. She claims to remember the session which resulted in her pregnancy, something only a woman can sense. Sex always ended the same for me. After learning of her condition, she stopped drinking and using drugs. I, on the other hand, didn’t have to shoulder that burden. A chance encounter at work would send me down a path of despair I almost never escaped.
One of our regular customers was a woman named Kim. Her figure reminded me of Allison’s, but with a larger frame. But her most noticeable feature was two of the largest mammary glands a human chest could accommodate. When she walked around a corner, it looked like a zeppelin race. As Kim browsed through the jewelry, she casually mentioned she sold weed. I got her number.
I purchased pot from her several times. On one visit, she asked, “You wanna’ buy some Lortabs?”
I remembered taking them after my car accident, but, being in pain, had no recollection of their effect. I bought a handful, dropped them in my pocket and forgot about them.
At work the next morning, I found them. I swallowed two pills and went about my day. An hour later, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I felt great. I had energy. I was in a fantastic mood. The tedious tasks I was responsible for were suddenly effortless. When I finally associated the change in my attitude with the Lortabs, I knew I had discovered something amazing. I had found the perfect drug.
The Perfect Drug
by
Nine Inch Nails
I’ve got my head
But my head is unraveling
Can’t keep control
Can’t keep track of where it’s traveling
I’ve got my heart
But my heart is no good
You’re the only one that’s understood
I come along
But I don’t know where you’re taking me
I shouldn’t go
But you’re itching, dragging, shaking me
Turn off the sun
Pull the stars from the sky
The more I give to you
The more I die
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
You are the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug
You make me hard
When I’m all soft inside
I see the truth
When I’m all stupid-eyed
The arrow goes
Straight through my heart
Without you
Everything just falls apart
My blood
Wants to say hello to you
My fear
Is gonna’ get inside of you
My soul is so
Afraid to realize
How very little there is left of me
You are the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug
Take me with you……. Take me with you……. Take me with you…….
Without you
Without you, everything falls apart
Without you
It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
The Construction Project
As Paula’s sto
mach increased in size, I realized I didn’t want to raise my child in Mayfair. Robert offered to sell us the vacant lot on Newton Drive. The remnants of the burnt structure had been removed, leaving the foundation. All I had to do was build a house on it. I had recently received a settlement from the car accident, so financing wasn’t a problem, if I built the house myself. But I knew nothing about construction.
I presented the idea to Paula, but she was dead against it, preferring to purchase a home from a realtor. I explained by building the house ourselves, we could get it for half the market value. I would use customers from the pawn shop who were in the construction business to do the work. She correctly pointed out I couldn’t hang a picture properly, much less build a house. She absolutely refused to go along with the plan.
The construction project was an opportunity to demolish Paula and Robert’s low opinion of me. I would not be outmaneuvered this time. I paid for blueprints, wrote a business plan, and made an agreement with a pawn shop customer, Jerry, who agreed to frame the house. After much persuasion, Paula reluctantly agreed.
Jerry and I decided to start the project the following Monday. I purchased $8,000 worth of materials at Lowe’s, which were to be delivered at 6:00 am. Sunday evening, I called Jerry. He told me he would be at the job site the next morning.
I arrived at the vacant lot at 5:30 am. The Lowe’s truck dropped off the materials as scheduled, but Jerry was nowhere to be found. I called his phone but got no answer. By 8:00 am, the situation had not changed. I could hear Paula gleefully reminding me of her insightfulness. “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” or some shit like that.
American Drug Addict: a memoir Page 14