American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  Fourth Step #4 – You’re reading it.

  Don looked at my first inventory and said, “One page? This can’t be all you got. You’re fucked up!” He wasn’t known for pulling punches, and his observation was on-point. My effort was hopelessly inadequate. But I didn’t understand what he was bitching about. I was sober, and AA seemed to be working for me.

  The Phone Book

  I needed a job. I had computer experience, so Paula suggested I try the technology field. “Why don’t you go through the phone book and call all the computer stores in town?”

  As I listened to her suggestion, I thought, What a stupid idea. No one gets hired over the phone. Especially a high-tech job. She’s such a dumbass.

  The third business I called, Technologies for Tomorrow, hired me. I guess I was wrong. The company provided computer repair and networking services and was owned by two women, Pam and Liz. Although I wanted to work as a technician, they put me on the sales floor because of my natural ease at closing sales, a skill acquired from the pawn business. Since most people view pawn brokers as crooks, which is accurate, I had less than ten minutes to establish trust with each individual. Sales were much easier to make without the customer's inherent wariness.

  I thrived at the job, and Pam and Liz trusted me. I opened and closed the store, balanced the cash drawer, and made deposits when needed. Although I was a skilled technician and a trustworthy manager, something else was at play here. Many years would pass before I became aware of it.

  The Chameleon

  I’m a chameleon. I’ve always felt if anyone knew who I really was, they would run away or, at least, hide their purses and wallets. Thus, I blended into my surroundings. I fooled people into thinking I was what they needed me to be. This behavior is essential for a practicing addict. But I carried it into sobriety. To be honest, I’ve always behaved this way.

  This elaborate deception started with Robert. I knew I wasn’t the son he wanted, so I acted like that person. Even though I hated sports, I memorized team names and game scores to dupe him into liking me. I mimicked his opinions on business, politics, or life in general to get his approval and struggled to respond in a manner he found appropriate. But Robert was the most difficult one to fool.

  I behaved the same with Paula. She frequently said to me, “You’re a bad liar. I can read you like a book.” But she didn’t really know me at all. If Paula thought she could read me like a book, she needed to order “Hooked on Phonics.” For every deception she uncovered, dozens went undetected. The easiest people to fool are the ones who want to be fooled. She wanted a loving and thoughtful husband. I simply acted like that person. I was a performer instead of a partner.

  When I first started attending AA meetings, I quickly learned what to say and how to behave to project the illusion of sobriety. I also used humor to ingratiate myself with people in recovery. I espoused the virtues of clean living while stoned out of my mind. It was all an act. I dare not let anyone get close to me.

  When I worked at Technologies for Tomorrow, I was sober but found myself behaving in much the same way. I observed the personality types of the people in charge, discovered their preferences and pet peeves, and acted accordingly. This behavior was not a conscious decision. My chameleon tendencies are so hard-wired into my character I have difficulty knowing who I really am. Am I a loving, fun, humorous, capable, and smart person who acts abhorrently when using drugs? Or am I a lying, cheating, thieving, manipulative, self-absorbed drug addict who acts appropriately when it’s expedient?

  Which is the act?

  Which is real?

  I still don’t know.

  I think this song sums it up nicely.

  My Evil Twin

  by

  They Might Be Giants

  My evil twin

  Bad weather friend

  He always wants to start

  When I want to begin

  It scares me so

  Like I scare myself

  With that book of Nostradamus up upon my shelf

  Playing hangman till the morning light

  Doing donuts on the neighbor's lawn

  Then sleep all through the day

  Get up and start again

  I can hear some sirens somewhere but I don't know why

  My evil twin

  Runs home again

  Searchlights look for an alibi,

  But I'll be home by then

  Here he comes again

  My evil twin

  My friends have seen him hiding underneath my skin

  Who cut the arm off the voodoo doll

  That resembles a Republican president from long ago

  I'd hate to see you leave

  'Cause I have grown so grateful for the

  Blame you save me from

  (My twin) I know he looks like me

  (My twin) Hates work like me and walks like me

  (My twin) He's even got a twin like me

  My evil twin

  Bad weather friend

  I know someday I'll meet him

  But I don't know where or when

  The Church Project

  And now, some geek humor. Years ago, an interface existed which would increase the transfer speed of data to and from the hard drive. It was called SCSI, pronounced “scuzzy,” and stood for Single Computer Simple Interface. It was primarily used in video editing systems, where data transfer speeds were of the utmost importance.

  A gentleman entered the store and said to Pam, “I’m the pastor at our church, and I’m working on a video project for our congregation. I need to improve the speed of our editing system.”

  “Okay, is it SCSI?” Pam asked.

  “No, this is family oriented material.”

  Pam, being a consummate professional, never cracked a smile. But we laughed about it later.

  The Decision

  Pam and Liz offered me a fantastic opportunity. They asked me to lead a corporate sales division that was recently created and planned to hire a retired sales manager from HP to assist. The decision seemed like an easy one.

  That evening, my parents called and asked to meet with Paula and me. Since my last conversation with Robert was less than pleasant, I was quite surprised. I thought they were coming over to congratulate me on my job offer. But I was wrong. Robert asked me to return to the pawn shop. Except this time, I would assume part-ownership of the business and also manage the bar next door which he had recently purchased. I was promised I could go to AA meetings and finish my computer science degree, for which I was currently working toward. From my parents’ conciliatory tone, I assumed they realized how much work was involved in running the shop. Their offer was a vindication of sorts, although my sobriety probably had a lot to do with it.

  I had a decision to make. I could stay with Pam and Liz and start a new career in a field I loved or jump back into the snake pit and make more money than I ever had. Of course, Paula wanted me to go back to the pawn shop. Her primary concern was the security of our family. I spent a day weighing my options and decided to give the family business another try. My motivation was not money or security. Robert came to me asking for help, and I wanted to be the one who rescued him.

  I withheld my decision from Pam and Liz for two days, feigning thoughtfulness. When they learned of my choice, Pam reacted like a true professional. Liz, however, looked at me with her jaw dropped in disbelief. Her expression seemed to indicate she already knew what I would eventually come to realize. That was one of the worst decisions I have ever made.

  The Saddle

  The next day, I walked into the pawn shop after a year-long absence. I was back in the saddle again. Unfortunately, riding a saddle can sometimes cause hemorrhoids.

  My daily routine went as follows: Arrive at work at 8 am. Open both pawn shop store fronts. Start any pending computer repairs. Walk next door to the bar and do a liquor count. Walk back to the pawn shop and finish the previous day’s accounting work. Direct my employees on what needed to be
accomplished that day. Leave at noon for an AA meeting. Work at the pawn shop until 5 pm. Walk back to the bar for the afternoon liquor count. Close the pawn shop at 6 pm. Four nights a week, attend evening classes which ended at 9 pm. On the way home, stop at the bar and prepare the purchase orders for the next day. Typically, I got home around midnight.

  I was also responsible for the point-of-sale systems for both businesses. Any malfunctions required my immediate attention. All the while, I answered at least one question every fifteen minutes from customers and employees. I performed this routine six days a week. No wonder my parents wanted me back.

  Paula took my long hours in stride. We were both sober and had so much money, we didn’t know what to do with it. She purchased a beautiful 2700-square-foot home with a white picket fence and bought all new furniture for every room, as well as a $700 life-sized metal Doberman Pinscher which stood in the foyer. Every time I walked through the living room, it scared the shit out of me. For a while, life was grand. I graduated with my computer science degree and was co-owner of the largest pawn shop in Pensacola. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?

  The Newspaper Article

  Troy Moon, a columnist at the Pensacola News Journal, wrote a weekly feature where readers had their ten favorite albums printed in the newspaper. After reading the article for several weeks, I decided to submit my list.

  A month later, Mr. Moon chose it for his article. The following Thursday, it appeared in the newspaper along with my name, picture and the fact I was the owner of the pawn shop. The next day, I was contacted by a woman named Ann, who saw the article and wanted to speak to me. I agreed and, thinking she was a salesperson, thought nothing else of it.

  That afternoon, a pink Jaguar pulls into the parking lot. A young lady confidently steps out of the sports car and struts through the door. She was very slender with skin-tight jeans, stiletto-heeled boots, and a fur-lined button-up blouse. She had brunette hair with large curls, two stunning brown eyes, and rose-red lipstick adorning her perfect smile. She was one of those women who sucked the air out of a room when she entered. All my employees stopped what they were doing - the men enthralled, the women enraged.

  She walked up to me and said, “Are you Brett?”

  “Uh…yes.” My heart started racing.

  “Hi. I’m Ann.” She smiled and held out her hand. I stared at it for a second, as if I had never seen a hand before.

  “Can you help me?” she asked with an exaggerated pout.

  “Well…uh…I’m sure whatever you need, I can help you with it.” My store manager, Tina, who was standing out of Ann’s view, shot me a disapproving glare as she shook her head.

  “I have nothing to watch movies on.”

  “Uh…well…I’ve got some DVD players over here,” I replied as I walked around the counter. I led her over to the appropriate shelf and handed her one. “You can have it. No charge.”

  “Oh no. I insist on paying,” she said as she handed me some money, which I didn’t count. “Thanks, love.” She looked me dead in the eyes, shot a quick glance at the money in my hand, then looked me in the eyes again.

  As Ann strutted out of the store, I examined the twenty-dollar bill she handed me and felt my heart swell up in my throat. Written on the bill were the words, “Call me,” and a phone number.

  Danny, one of my best employees, was a simple country man who was loyal, honest, and hard-working. He never concerned himself with the affairs of others, regarding such conduct as rude. But he made an exception this time. “You gonna’ hit that?” he asked with a shit-eating grin.

  “What would make you think that?” I replied, trying to play it cool.

  “Cuz’ I’ve never seen you give away something for free.”

  “Well, she didn’t have anything to play movies on,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

  Danny laughed. “Well, I’d hit that shit with a quickness.”

  Although I tried to act disinterested, I was, indeed, hoping to get a chance to hit that shit.

  The next day, I called the number on the twenty-dollar bill. Ann asked to see me. Instead of going to the AA meeting, my first mistake, I went to her apartment. I knocked on the door and heard her say, “Come in.” Ann was sitting on her couch, wearing nothing but panties. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she smiled.

  “Since yesterday?”

  “Come here,” she laughed. We had sex three times in a row. She affected me like no other woman ever had.

  You’re probably thinking, Okay. I’ve bought everything you’ve written so far, but I’ve seen your picture and don’t believe this happened.

  Let me explain it like this. Ann saw a business opportunity in the newspaper, and it wasn’t in the classified section. I knew this affair was a relationship of convenience. But our partnership wasn’t as unseemly as leaving money on the bedside table after sex. I helped her out financially, and in return, she allowed me to do pretty much anything I wanted to her. In my mind, a perfect arrangement. Anyway, after teenage infatuation, the only true aphrodisiacs are money and power.

  I discovered Ann was an exotic dancer (okay, stripper) at Sammy’s, the most upscale men’s club in Pensacola. This made her allure that much more irresistible. She was a drug, and I’m not talking about the sex. After her initial visit to the pawn shop, I felt an unrelenting rush, an intoxicating elation that never abated. This feeling remained internally palpable for over a week, better than any dope I had ever encountered. I wanted to feel this way forever, much like the debilitating excitement a child experiences on Christmas Eve night.

  Three days after Ann’s initial visit to the shop, she stopped by to say “Hello.” We spoke for about ten minutes, and then she left. Danny was quick to comment. “You hittin’ that. I know it,” he gleefully stated, another shit-eating grin adorning his face. Do people really grin while eating a piece of shit?

  “She just came by to say hello,” I weakly deflected.

  “I saw how ya’ll looked at one another. You tappin’ that ass.”

  “Well, I may have tapped that ass once.” My ego won out.

  “You a lucky mutha’ fucker,” Danny quipped.

  He was right. I did feel lucky. I had a beautiful wife, a beautiful mistress, two beautiful children, a beautiful home, a successful business, everything a man in my position was supposed to have. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?

  The Ex-Boyfriend

  When Ann called, she usually needed money which meant I was going to get laid. But several weeks into our relationship, I got a call from her that sounded strangely distressed. “Honey, I need to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “I need you to come by my place. Now.”

  As I drove to her apartment, I wondered what could be the cause of the urgency in her voice. I already had a vasectomy, so she wasn’t pregnant. Ann was a drama-queen at times, but this was different. When I walked through her front door, she was sitting on the couch, fully clothed, and had obviously been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I broke up with my ex-boyfriend right after we met. He called me today and said he’s got an STD.”

  “What?! Which one?”

  “Gonorrhea,” Ann quietly answered, withdrawing as she anticipated my response.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

  “No. Please don’t be mad at me.” She started crying.

  I paced the floor for a few seconds. “What’s the treatment?”

  “Antibiotics.”

  Suddenly, my real problem came into focus. For the second time, I had exposed Paula to a sexually transmitted disease. Why does this keep happening? Extramarital sex, perhaps?

  Ann and I went to a doctor and received a prescription for antibiotics. I went home early and cooked dinner for Paula. She was surprised by my thoughtfulness, although it had a nefarious purpose. I pulverized several pills and dissolved them in her drink. She didn’t notice. F
or the next few days, I offered to cook dinner and spiked her drink with the medication.

  At the time, I was proud of my craftiness. Ann and I laughed at my audacity as we laid in bed together. Even in sobriety, I felt entitled to do anything I wanted. Little did I know, abhorrent behavior comes with a price.

  The Parking Lot

  I started coming home later than midnight, which I blamed on work. But the real reason was to watch Ann take her clothes off on stage. On one of my first visits to the strip club, she asked, “Can you stay till closing? I need a ride home.” Apparently, after drinking alcohol and bending over in front of men for eight hours, she developed some pent up sexual tension. When the bar closed, she hopped in my car and said, “Drive across the street to Whataburger.”

  I thought she was hungry. Instead, we made love in the parking lot. No, wait. I take that back. We fucked like animals in the parking lot, ten feet from the front entrance. Thus began one of the craziest years of my life.

  Because of Ann’s state of mind when she got off work, I volunteered to drive her home every chance I got. She would practically rape me as soon as we got in the car. We had sex at convenience store gas pumps, on the hood of my car in the Pensacola Civic Center parking lot, public restrooms, and other unusual locations.

  Ann must have bragged to her coworkers about the money I was spending on her because when I walked into Sammy’s, every stripper wanted to talk to me. I was living the dream. Sure, my new-found awesomeness was costing me a fortune, but it was worth it.

  The Drink

  Jacques is Paula’s nephew. He was ten-years-old when Paula and I met, and I practically raised him, which explains what’s wrong with him. Jacques and I have always had a humorous rapport between us.