by Nic Sheff
Gack doesn’t want any heroin, but he sits with us. I melt down half a gram of the sweet-smelling black tar in the jar I took from Lauren’s. We suck up the syrupy brown liquid in two needles and push it all home. I wait: one, two, three, four. My head starts to tingle and I feel waves of pulsing calm sweep over me. My body goes slack and I look over at Bullet. He is smiling so big. I drift off somewhere for a minute. It is like everything is infused with this warmth and okayness. I laugh. “Shit’s good.”
“Word.”
“So, Gack,” I say. “Should we let Bullet in?”
“Hell yeah, man, he’s a good kid.”
“That what you want, Bullet?”
“I’m your boy.”
“Awesome.”
“We should come up with a name or something,” says Gack. “We’re gonna start the next big street gang in San Francisco. Before long, we’ll have all the kids workin’ for us.”
We sit back, talking on like that. I nod in and out, not giving a damn about one goddamn thing—knowing, just knowing, that it is all gonna work out.
DAY 5
We drop Bullet off around two a.m. He has to meet some guys about a bike theft racket. Basically they just go around with bolt cutters, break all the locks, and pile the bikes into an old van. It’s risky, but Bullet needs the money and he’s strong and quick.
Gack and I have nowhere to go, so I ask if he wants to drive out to Point Reyes with me. We’ve shot a little more speed to clear my head from the H and I feel real balanced out. I’m having fun taking the tight, winding turns through the redwoods. We’re listening to this Japanese punk rock music really loud and maybe Gack doesn’t like it, but I don’t care.
Gack has half a joint, which we split, and the weed on top of everything is making me hallucinate pretty good. The road is all green and pink tracers. The branches hanging down are twisting, knotted veins—spider lattices, a crawling insect sky. Every time a car passes from the other direction I’m swallowed in the bright, bright lights. I swerve, but hang on.
We’re laughing and talking as we pull into the driveway, but then I see my parents’ car there. The house is dark, but they must be inside.
“Fuck.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t be here?”
“I guess my little brother and sister don’t have school tomorrow.”
I wonder if they can tell I’ve been there—if they’ve noticed the missing guitar and things, or the back door I broke open. I wonder about it for a minute sitting there, feeling sick to my stomach. I imagine them walking in, looking around—those first moments of doubt and realization.
“Did you leave that towel there?”
“Did you drink that bottle of wine?”
“Were you in Nic’s room?”
“Whose shoes are these?”
“Oh my God, someone’s been in the house.”
I pull the car out of there quick, feeling more guilty and humiliated than anything else. I try to push that all out of my mind though, saying, “It’s cool. I know where we can go.”
We head out farther along the point, past the town of Inverness. The salt-crusted buildings are all nearly rotted through and breaking apart. The old, rust-colored Inverness Store sits in the middle of the town’s only block. They have everything from groceries to clothing to videos. I remember going there with my friends after school, getting high, and playing the one arcade game they had for hours. We pumped so many quarters into that thing. I try to relate something along those lines to Gack, but he’s actually fallen asleep for a minute, so I drive on.
Virginia and Adam’s house is empty. They’re like my parents in that they have a weekday home in the city, and a weekend home out on the coast. Seeing that there’s no car in the driveway I really breathe for the first time since leaving my parents’ house. I’m so tired suddenly and all I want to do is sleep. Gack and I get out and wander around the back of the creaking wooden house, trying to find a place to break in.
Virginia and Adam are my parents’ best friends, or, at least, they’re really close and all. I guess I’m pretty close to them too. They have two kids. The older boy, Jessie—with blond, blond hair, a long curious face, and wide-gapped teeth—is exactly my little brother’s age and they’re in the same class at school. His younger brother, Trevor—with equally blond hair—is exactly my little sister’s age. Our two families would go to the beach together, build bonfires in the sand, barbecue hot dogs and things. I would tell stories to all the children. I was always telling stories.
We would play tag on the beach, swim together in the stinging-cold ocean. The kids would all attack me and I’d have to fight them off—but gently. I remember genuinely looking forward to those nights together. We’d all go back to our house and play music, like the Talking Heads or something, and dance, dance, dance.
Adam is in his early forties and is a brilliant graphic designer. Virginia is a writer and so sweet. We talked about movies and books and art and everything. I watched them take so much interest in their kids’ lives. I watched them devote themselves to those children. They gave so much, you know?
“Hey,” says Gack. “Come in here.” Somehow he’s gotten inside and has the back door open and is looking around, nervous, like someone might see.
I go in and we turn some lights on. The house is small—all wood floors, tattered throw rugs, and worn-out leather furniture. It is sparse but elegant—simple. We eat some cereal they have in the cupboard and spread out on the two couches. We talk for a while, saying nothing important. Eventually I fall asleep. I don’t dream. It’s all just black.
“Nic, quick, get up.” Gack is shaking me hard.
“Wh-what?”
“There’s someone here.”
The blurred morning light softly fills the living room and I look out on the thick bramble outside—wet and frosted with dew. There are some birds making shrill noises somewhere and then I hear it—heavy footsteps in the kitchen. Instantly I’m on my feet and we’re walking as silently as possible toward the door. I feel sick and high from adrenaline and fear. Behind us I hear the footsteps coming faster and then a man’s voice calling out with a thick Hispanic accent.
“Hey, you, kids, stop.”
We don’t. We run to my car and jump in fast, starting the motor as the man keeps yelling after us. There’s a whole crew of construction workers standing around the front of the house and they’re all staring at us as we drive off, looking at us with unveiled scorn—or is it pity? Either way, I’m not laughing and neither is Gack.
We drive not saying anything, still out of breath. It’s so cold that I’m shivering and I crank the heat up all the way. The Tomales Bay opens up gray and still in front of us, the sun just starting to rise above the distant green knuckle of Elephant Mountain. The sky is wrapped in thick white clouds. I smoke a cigarette and give one to Gack without him asking for it. I pull into the town of Point Reyes and stop next to the Bovine Bakery. Gack rolls his eyes. “Come on, man, let’s get back to the city. This country shit is trippin’ me out.”
“I’m just getting some coffee. You want some?”
“Coffee, man, I don’t drink that crap. Shit’ll rot your stomach out.”
I laugh at that and go inside. I bring Gack some hot chocolate instead and he seems pretty grateful for it. That bakery was where I used to get picked up for car pool every morning before school. I loved the croissants there, hot and fresh with chocolate insides that got all over the place. We’d meet there every morning at seven fifteen. The different parents of the kids who lived out in Point Reyes would take turns driving into the city. It was a long drive, so sometimes we’d listen to books on tape, or play guessing games, or whatever. When my little brother was born, he would be brought along on the rides and more often than not, he’d end up crying the whole time. We would take turns, the other kids and I, inventing different ways of distracting him—quieting him, making him smile, or getting his attention so he would just stare at you with his wide-open eye
s. We had songs we’d sing to him. Everyone was so patient. He became the car pool mascot. I think we all missed him the days he wasn’t there.
My stepmom drove a lot of the time. I’m not sure how it happened exactly, but one day she just invented this game called the “complaining game.” Basically, it was sort of like therapy. We’d get five minutes to complain about what was bothering us. We’d give one another points from zero to ten, based on how honest, insightful, and revealing our shares were. Anyone who cried got an automatic ten. People cried pretty often.
The car pool consisted of three girls and me, all in sixth grade. We’d start playing the complaining game and talk about feeling excluded at a certain birthday party—or the way our teacher gave too much homework. Eventually, however, it would get increasingly personal, with each one of us opening up about our difficulties with our families and things like that. One of the girls, Teresa—who was always so quiet and shy and everything—started talking about her parents’ divorce and the hardship of that and how her mom was drinking too much. We all started crying and she was proclaimed the “complaining game” champion of all time.
Of course, when we got to school, no one said anything about anything. I’d go off to play with my friends and the girls would all go play with theirs. We wouldn’t talk. Sometimes I’d see one of them getting picked on and I’d do nothing to stop it. If someone in my group of friends was mean to them, I’d go along with it. And the girls were the same way. But in the car, with my stepmom driving, we were transformed—wide open, like my little brother’s eyes.
So Gack and I pull out from in front of the Bovine with coffee and croissants and hot chocolate—when I almost hit this blue Volvo station wagon coming the other way. I slam on the brakes and lock eyes with the driver. She has black hair coming down over her face, but I recognize her. My stepmom. She sees me and I see her and I back out of there so quick. She honks her horn wildly and speeds off after me. I drive recklessly over the road, but she is behind me—chasing me down.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Dude, that’s my stepmom.”
“Well, why the hell is she following us?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Maybe you should stop and talk to her.”
“No way, man.”
In the rearview mirror I can see her expression. It is strangely blank—resigned or something. I try hard not to meet her eyes, thinking about how disappointed she must be in me. My dad and Karen were married when I was eight years old. They’d met the year earlier. I’ve always respected Karen so much—as a person, as a parent to me, as an artist. I remember watching Pollyanna with her when my dad was out of town. It was the first time we were together, me and her, just the two of us. I think we both thought the movie was pretty stupid and we would crack each other up for months afterward doing Hayley Mills imitations. Karen took me on hikes with her and her friends around Marin. She took me to galleries and out to dinner. She read stories with me and bought me comic books. I respected her and, well, I’ve always wanted her respect, you know, just so badly. I’ve always wanted her to like me, mostly because I like her so much. But how can Karen respect me now? I am ashamed of myself and, for a moment, I can’t even remember why I’m doing any of this. What is the point? I guess it’s crystal meth. I mean, that’s always the bottom line, isn’t it? That’s the ultimate trump card for me. It is more powerful than anything.
As we drive, I look out at the eucalyptus and buckeyes that line the road out to Stinson Beach. The grasses grow up wild and unkempt along Route 1. I’m giving my car everything it’s got, screeching around the corners, but Karen stays pretty close. We pass the bat house—a white-painted shack in the middle of a field with the doors and windows all boarded up. They can’t tear it down because it’s been taken over by species of bats that exist nowhere else in the world. The sun is up and the clouds are all gone and the wet road is drying quickly underneath us. I take the next turn a little too quickly. My back tires slide out and I almost spin.
“This is so bad,” says Gack. “This is so fucking bad.”
“Relax,” I say, but I’m anything but relaxed.
The gears of my car are grinding and I’m starting to smell the rubber burning. The heat gauge is way up there. We go through Dogtown, past the Horseshoe Hill Road turnoff. The coastal town of Bolinas sits off to the northeast. That was where I learned to surf. The waves there roll into the lagoon gently—perfect for beginners. We’d surf out at the point and then go eat pizza at the Bolinas Bakery. When my little brother and sister were old enough, we’d take them out in the water and push them into the shore break on an old, heavy longboard. We’d play road tag on the beach—where you’d draw trails in the sand that you had to run in. If you left the trail you were out.
And here Karen and I are—playing road tag on the broken, jagged highway. Smoke is billowing up from the hood of my car. I round a bend and lose the Volvo for a moment, turning up a heavily wooded driveway. I swing the car around and let it idle there. We wait.
“I need a shot,” says Gack.
“Yeah.” My shirt is soaked through with sweat. My hair is wet, sticking up.
“Should we wait here?” I ask.
“Okay.”
I see my stepmom’s car go by—slow, slow. She doesn’t look up at us. She keeps moving. I turn off the car. It hisses loudly.
Gack dissolves a huge amount of crystal in the jar. After he pulls some up for himself, I add a bunch of heroin. I let Gack shoot me up. He’s so good at hitting me. Everything is all better after the tar and meth enters my bloodstream. I’m not even sure if that car chase was a dream—or real. But my smoking car answers that question.
Everyone knows I’ve relapsed now.
I drop Gack off in the TL and we make plans to meet up in a day or so. He says he’ll start feeling out for people looking to sell some quantity. I turn on my cell phone. I have twenty-seven messages. I listen to the first second or so of each one, then delete them. My stomach has dropped out completely and there’s a cold tingling up the back of my neck. I think about Spencer, my mom, my dad, my job, and friends I left behind. I wonder if I really have come too far to go back. Yes, I reason, I have. Besides, things aren’t so bad. It’s not like I owe those people anything. This is my life to live—or throw away. Isn’t that true? I tell myself again that it is.
The only message I hear all the way through is one from Lauren. She wants me to come by after she has dinner with her parents. She says I can sneak in through the back gate and maybe no one’ll see me. I have a while to wait, so I drive down to Baker Beach and go swimming again in the ocean. I bring my leather toiletry kit over to the men’s room. I shower outside with my shorts on and then step into the sand-covered bathroom, setting up my shaving equipment along the dark-stained sink.
I have a nice razor and one of those bristled facial brushes from L’Occitane. I have a silver dish of shaving soap. I get the hair off my face and put lotion all over. I put on deodorant. I splash on some cologne and put some styling product in my hair. I cut my fingernails and toenails. Every once in a while a stunned-looking beachgoer will come in, stare at me, then walk out quickly. Still, by the time I step outta there, I look halfway presentable.
There’s something about outward appearances that has always been important to me. I always thought I was so ugly. I mean, I really did. I remember being in L.A. at my mom’s house as a little kid and just staring into the mirror for hours. It was like, if I looked long enough, maybe I’d finally be handsome. It never worked. I just got uglier and uglier. Nothing about me ever seemed good enough. And there was this sadness inside me—this hopelessness. Focusing on my physical appearance was at least easier than trying to address the internal shit. I could control the external—at least, to a point. I could buy different clothes, or cut my hair, or whatever. The pit opening up inside me was too frightening to even look at. But I could get a new pair of shoes and, here, I can make sure I’m clean shaven and have good
skin.
It’s so shallow and ridiculous and I see it, I do, but I’m powerless to change. I mean, I don’t know how to change. All I can do is just shoot more goddamn drugs.
I decide that maybe I should try and apply for a part-time job at some coffee shop or something.
I drive to Clement Street—past the imported goods stores and stinking fish markets, the sidewalk dim sum stands and Chinese bakeries. People are crowded together, talking loudly, walking fast. I go into the Goodwill and buy a forty-dollar Brooks Brothers suit and some nameless black shoes. After that I cross over to the Richmond Branch Library and sign up to use a computer. The wait is about two hours. The place is dingy and so full of bodies that the books and walls themselves smell of sweat. A slick, shining homeless man with layers and layers of clothes sleeps in the doorway. Old women with peroxide hair argue in Russian. A pregnant mother pushes her sleeping child in a blue-checked stroller—back and forth, back and forth.
I smoke cigarettes and wait and scribble in my notebook. I try to write out a resumé so I can type it up once it’s my turn. Problem is, I can’t really leave any references. My work history is solid and my jobs always start off great, but soon degenerate and end badly. Usually I just stop showing up for work one day. That’s what happened at that rehab in Malibu. That’s what happened with the six jobs before that. Actually, I’ve never seen a job all the way through to the end—not even in sobriety. I always get so overwhelmed trying to do everything perfectly. I can’t do a job and not put everything I have into it. I need to be the best employee, the best coworker, the best whatever. I need everyone to like me and I just burn out bending over backward to make that happen. Having people be mad at me is my worst fear. I can’t stand it. There is this crazy fear I have of being rejected by anyone—even people I don’t really care about. It’s always better to leave them first, cut all ties, and disappear. They can’t hurt me that way—no one can. That’s why I have no references. But, of course, there’s always the hope that my new employer won’t check them out.