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
13. Always anticipate other people’s potential fuck-ups
14. There is no such thing as a “Free Lunch”
15. Alcohol is a drug, and alcoholics are drug addicts
16. Not only should you stare at handicapped people, you should actually talk to them as well
A sense of urgency ran through my actions that weekend. I seemed to be cramming as much frivolity into three days as possible, much like a death row inmate gorging himself on his last meal. I behaved as if that weekend would be the last celebration, that this trip would be the last party, that perhaps this time was the last time drugs would be fun. And as it turned out, it was.
The ATM
I acquired a new habit. I would draw up 90mg of Roxicodone in a syringe, take a huge hit of crack, then inject it into my vein while I held the smoke. And they only put Surgeon General warnings on cigarettes. This daily routine had to be worse for my health than the two packs a day I was smoking. And, as expected, I started to lose touch with reality.
As I sat in my parked car one day, the vehicle next to me started backing up. For a moment, I thought my car was rolling forward. My interactions with Robert were much the same. From my perspective, his attitude had soured. He argued with me constantly and always seemed unhappy. I thought he was changing, when in fact, I was. I believed Robert was reneging on the deal we made when I returned to the shop, but I was one breaking our agreement. He seemed to be rolling forward, but I was rolling backward.
Paula hated Robert, and the feeling was mutual. She blamed him for all my problems and was very vocal about it. I felt Paula was on my side, and, in her own way, she was. But everything was about to change.
One typical evening, Paula and I drove to Norm’s house to score some crack and pills. I was in such a hurry, I forgot to bring the cash. I didn’t notice the oversight until we were standing in his living room.
“Sorry, I forgot the money,” I said as I rummaged through my pockets. “I’ll run to the ATM and…”
“You forgot the cash?” Paula screamed. “You stupid motherfucker! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The anger in her voice caught me by surprise. I was momentarily stunned but quickly recovered. “What did you just say? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“You fucking heard me!”
“I’m the one who’s financing this party. You better watch your mouth.”
Paula got in my face, nose to nose, and bowed up like she was preparing to fight. “And what are you gonna’ do, pussy. You’re such a fucked-up idiot, you make me sick,” she snarled through her teeth.
Norm pushed between us. “Just go get the money. We’ll stay here and cool off.”
I went to the store, which was less than a mile away. I had never seen Paula react that way, especially over something as insignificant as this. The woman I married was gone, replaced by a person I hated.
The Depleted Resource
I was working at the computer repair bench in the pawn shop when a female customer asked to retrieve her tower. I placed it on the counter.
“This is not my computer,” the woman exclaimed as she examined it.
“The service ticket you signed describes this computer.”
“Well, I’m telling you, this is not my computer.”
“Are you sure? This desktop is brand new.”
“I know my stuff. This isn’t mine,” the lady stated, her voice getting louder.
“Okay, let’s boot it up and see what’s on it.” The desktop wallpaper was a picture of a baby. “Is this your baby?”
“Yes, but this is not my computer,” she said.
“Why would your baby be on someone else’s computer?” Especially a baby that ugly!
“I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is you’re trying to give me someone else’s computer. Mine didn’t have this.” She pointed to a four-slot memory card reader on the front of the tower.
“Why would I give you a better computer than the one you dropped off? That doesn’t make any sense,” I stated, trying to stay calm.
We argued a little more. I knew the customer was mistaken, so I suggested she go home and get the box it came in. We could compare the serial numbers.
“I’m not going through all that. I’ll just call the police.”
I encouraged her to do so. I thought once the officer heard my side of the story, the issue would be resolved. After several minutes, a female deputy waltzes into the shop.
“This man is trying to give me someone else’s computer.”
The officer turned to me and said, “Why don’t you just give the lady her computer back?”
“But this is her computer,” I exclaimed. My intolerance for ignorance was starting to show.
“If the lady says it’s not hers, it must not be,” the deputy said.
I pointed to the screen. “This is her baby. Who else would claim this kid?”
“Fuck you, asshole!” the customer screamed.
The female deputy suggested several ridiculous scenarios I might be using to defraud the woman, all of which I shot down. I finally had enough. “Either arrest me or get the fuck out of my store!”
The deputy pulled the woman aside and spoke to her briefly. Afterward, the customer yanked her computer off the counter. “You’re going to pay for this,” she snarled.
“Give it your best shot, bitch!”
The two women left. I thought that was the end of it. Of course, I wouldn’t be telling you this story if it was.
I regularly stayed after closing at the pawn shop, so I could work uninterrupted and get high while I did it. One evening, after shooting a substantial amount of dope, I left the store around midnight carrying a handgun, in case someone tried to rob me while I walked to my car. I put the pistol under my seat and headed home.
On the way, I pulled out a cigarette and accidentally dropped it between the seat and the center console, so I stopped on the side of the road. As I attempted to retrieve it, I noticed the flashing blue lights of a Sherriff’s car in my rearview mirror. I rolled down my window and immediately knew I was in trouble.
“Well, well, well, look who we have here.” The female deputy I had tossed out of the store was smiling at me. “Get out of the car.” Luck, the natural resource I had depended on my entire life, was now depleted. Without asking permission, the deputy started rummaging through my pockets.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I have used needles in there.”
She whirled me around, shoved my chest into the side of my car, and cuffed my wrists as tight as she could. She was definitely enjoying this moment.
Within minutes, my car was surrounded by police cruisers with their blue lights flashing. I was placed in the backseat of a cop car and watched my vehicle being searched. An officer approached my window, holding the handgun I had shoved under my seat just minutes earlier. “Is this yours?” he asked.
“Yes. I have it to prevent thieves like you from stealing my shit.”
Another officer approached my window with a bag of Roxicodone pills. “We found these. Are they yours?”
“If I said ‘No,’ would you believe me?”
“What about these?” he asked, holding two methadone pills in his hand.
“Damn. I was wondering where those went. I needed those last wee
k.”
Two more officers walked up to my window. “What about this?” the first cop asked, holding a bag of pot.
“Where did you find that? I thought I had smoked it all.”
“And this?” the second officer asked, holding a bag of crack.
“Wow! The next time I lose my drugs, I’m definitely calling you guys.”
Apparently, cops have no sense of humor. Which stands to reason, since they deal with the dredge of society. Wait. Does that mean I’m part of the dredge?
At the jail, I was placed in a holding cell with several other unfortunate souls. The drugs and needles found in my car were placed on a table in view of my cellmates.
“Look at all that,” one inmate exclaimed.
“Man, that guy’s fucked. It’s mandatory five years in prison for each pill. That’s thirty years,” the other inmate replied.
The moron couldn’t perform basic math. I had eight pills. That’s forty years in prison. Idiot.
The Gas Pump
After some time, I finally got to a phone. I called Paula. “Where the hell are you?” she yelled.
“I’m in jail.”
“What happened?”
“That female pig I told to fuck off a month ago arrested me. I have bruises on my wrists from that whore cuffing me so tight. Come bail me out.”
“How much is your bail?”
“$50,000.”
“How am I supposed—”
“You only need ten percent for the bail bondsman.”
“And where am I supposed to get five grand this time of night?” Paula protested.
“Look. I don’t care what you have to do or who you have to blow, get me the fuck out of here!” I could feel the Demon knocking on my door.
When I finally walked out of jail, daylight blinded my eyes, and I was breaking out in profuse sweats. I immediately called Norm and instructed him to meet me at a convenience store near my neighborhood. I told him I would pay extra if he would hurry. Norm promised he would waste no time.
Waiting on a dealer with the Demon sitting in my lap is one of the most nerve-wracking experiences I have ever had the pleasure of enduring. Each second seems like an hour. Drug dealers know they have a captive audience; customer service is not their priority. Norm was a white guy, so he was as prompt as I could hope for, although he still took too long. In contrast, the black drug dealers I dealt with followed what I call “African Time.”
To understand “African Time,” one must be able to recognize and decipher the units of time black drug dealers use. This conversion chart will help.
Conversion Table for
African Time
Unit of African Time
Unit of Real Time
I’m headed to ya’
I haven’t left yet
I’m at the light
Implies the drug dealer is at the traffic light closest to you, but he’s actually at a light somewhere in the United States
I’ll be there in 5 minutes
If a black drug dealer mentions a specific quantity of time, just multiply that amount by three and add two hours
I’m right around the corner
The drug dealer is in the same area code
I’m pulllin’ up on ya’
The drug dealer doesn’t know where you are
Stop blowin’ up my phone
I haven’t left yet
Anyway, back to the story.
I pulled up to the gas pump at the agreed upon location and prepared for another excruciating wait. So as to not look suspicious, I got out and pumped some gas. Suddenly, I noticed the female deputy who just arrested me pumping gas into her personal vehicle next to me. She was still in her uniform, indicating she just got off work. I ducked behind the pump and immediately called Norm to arrange a different meeting spot. Perhaps seeing her was an omen I should have acknowledged, but all I was focused on was saying farewell to the Demon.
Once I got home and shot some dope, I could think clearly. I approached this problem the same way I handled every problem. I lied about the circumstances to minimize my culpability. Since the same deputy I threw out of the shop was the one who arrested me, I claimed a vendetta. Seeing her at the gas pump and the bruises on my wrists supported that idea. I told everyone I was arrested for having two Lortabs. Now, I sounded like a target. Playing the role of a victim is a valuable tool in any practicing addict’s arsenal. Almost as valuable as dishonesty, but not quite.
After hearing my distorted story, my parents hired Jerry, a prominent attorney in Pensacola. He was certain he could get the evidence thrown out, claiming an improper search. In my heart, I knew he would be successful. I had always managed to weasel out of trouble.
The Celebrity
I returned to work and, much to my dismay, was a celebrity of sorts. My name was in the arrest section of the newspaper. I was surprised at how many of my customers read the paper. I was even more surprised at how many of them could read. Exposure is not conducive to a successful addict lifestyle.
Although most of my new-found infamy was of no real consequence, one part of it bothered me. The parents of one of Devin’s friends threw a neighborhood party, and part of the evening’s festivities consisted of laughing at my mugshot online. I had brought shame down on my children. Up until this point, concealing my true nature from Devin and Jordan was easy. They both were young and couldn’t understand what was happening. Those days were gone. I spent considerable effort creating a grand image for my children to believe, and they both admired the pretense I hid behind. Their admiration was based on a lie. For the first time in their short lives, Devin and Jordan got a peek behind the curtain of the Grand Oz.
As with the memory of the other insidious things I had done, I tried to blot it out with the haze of drug use. An addict’s ability to ignore their past actions appears to others as a missing conscience, a lack of morality, or a complete loss of empathy for others. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although these painful memories are not consciously dwelled on, every single one of them lingers. The past follows an addict around like a specter, hardly visible but truly terrifying. This self-loathing is temporally alleviated by drugs. They’re called painkillers for a reason. The drugs lead to more actions causing shame, guilt, and remorse. This routine becomes a circular, self-fulfilling prophecy. Much like a freight train rolling down a hill, the weight and momentum become near impossible to stop.
My drug use quickly escalated to the point where my wife, parents, and children couldn’t help but notice. I was shooting between 25 and 30 Roxicodone pills a day and smoking crack constantly, which was the only reason I was still coherent. I was so deeply involved with crack; I became hopelessly obsessed with it. The drug consumed my every thought. I no longer cared about Paula, my job, my children or even living. Suicide was the only solution I could think of. Ending my life started to become an hourly consideration. Self-loathing is serious business. When drugs no longer erased it, death seemed like the only other option.
Mike
Mom demanded I go see Mike, my last AA sponsor. Instead of killing myself, I took her suggestion. Mike is a remarkable person. We came to AA at the same time, the difference being he got sober and had been for the last twelve years. He succeeded where I had failed and had since devoted his life to helping other suffering addicts find recovery. I sat down across from Mike, looked at him with my glassy, bloodshot eyes, and said, “Uncle.”
“So, you’ve had enough?”
“Yes. Mike, I can’t go on like this. I’ll do anything to stop. Anything,” I pleaded.
“Well, you need to go to long-term treatment.”
“Anything but that.”
“Sorry, but that’s my suggestion. Either your parents pony up and buy you some treatment, or they’re gonna’ be buying you a suit,” Mike proclaimed.
I’ve always appreciated Mike’s raw candor. He avoided the lofty vernacular that permeates AA meetings and spoke in a language I could understand. He once wa
rned me, “Brett, if you don’t stop shooting dope, you’re gonna’ wake up bent over a park bench with a condom hanging out of your ass.” Of course, that never happened. Not yet, anyway.
Another gem from Mike was, “Brett, if you really want to stop doing drugs, at some point in the process, you’re gonna’ have to stop doing drugs.”
As silly as that advice sounded, Mike was absolutely correct. I thought some process or writing or meeting or revelation or miracle would simply cure me of addiction. The only thing that could stop my addiction was me. Of course, the important part of his statement was, “…if you really want to stop…”
I drove home from Mike’s office thinking long-term treatment was out of the question. I couldn’t afford to lose my job at the pawn shop. Little did I know, I already had. Robert set up my ownership in a way where I would lose it if I ever started using drugs again. “Always anticipate other people’s fuck-ups,” Robert once told me, and that he did.
The Cold Turkey
I decided to stop cold turkey and detox myself, a grave decision considering the amount of dope I was injecting. I drove home, laid on the couch, and waited for the Demon’s arrival. He was always punctual.
For the next three days, I writhed in pain. Every muscle in my body violently spasmed; I couldn’t sleep. Time seemed to slow down, much like staring at a clock and feeling the agony of every second. Sweat pooled up on the leather couch beneath me, having to be sopped up every hour. I vomited feces during the first twelve hours, a result of opiates’ dampening effect on the digestive system. The Demon was in rare form. I cried tears of desperation, hoping the pain would subside, but knowing it wouldn’t.
American Drug Addict: a memoir Page 21