I was moving up in the underworld and the additional responsibility brought more money. At the time, I felt good about myself. The recognition and acceptance I received from Kilo and my regular customers went a long way toward building my nearly non-existent self-esteem. In that world, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t finished college. It wasn’t important that I couldn’t seem to hold a job. It didn’t even matter that I had a drug habit the size of a third world country because, hey, it’s a stressful job. We all did it. Smoking meth was so normal, we barely paid attention to our own use. When Kilo and I were together, we never said, “Hey, let’s get high.” We just loaded the pipe as an ancillary behavior, and when I was alone it was like drinking water. It was just something I did. It’s what I did to feel normal.
My brother had just ended his most recent relationship in Jackpot, and moved in with me to get on his feet. In exchange for room, board and, of course, free drugs, he would stay with Andy when I had to go out at night to make my rounds. Everything was covered. When Allan was home, we would spend as much time as possible together at my house. I would sometimes cook for him and do his laundry. “It’s no problem,” I would say. “It doesn’t make any sense to take your clothes to a Laundromat when I have a washer and dryer here. Just let me do this for you.”
Allan started calling me Kimpossible because if it was possible, he said, Kim could do it. I took it as a great compliment that someone thought I could do anything.
Co-dependency, a layman’s definition: making sure everyone else’s needs are met while completely ignoring your own. Co-dependency means never having to say, “I love you.”
We would spend our time together talking or sometimes watching movies. Occasionally we would go shoot pool, but mostly we got high and had sex - wild, raunchy, raw sex. I couldn’t get enough. We were fabulous in bed together. I felt like I was living a dream life: I was taking care of my son and myself without having some mundane, boring office job, I worked in the daytime when I wanted to, I was there for Andy when he was home and I had a man who...
A man who what? Dropped by on the weekends for sex and drugs, that’s what. But I was in denial. If someone had smacked me upside the head and pointed out what was right in front of me, I wouldn’t have seen it. It breaks my heart, thinking of the woman I was, selling herself short, selling herself out, for a man. It was easy to dismiss the obvious, using his job as a long haul truck driver for an excuse. So what if he never took me out to dinner? Who was I to hope for flowers or little trinkets from the places he’d been? Why should I care that we never went to the movies? Any time I started to think about what was really going on, or what wasn’t, I would push the thoughts aside, telling myself I was being greedy.
Allan’s tired from the road, and besides, he doesn’t need to spend money on me. I can do it. (I don’t deserve it) I can pay for dinner. I can provide all the drugs and booze and whatever else anyone needs, because (I don’t deserve it) I’m not worthy of being taken care of. I don’t need any help. I’m Kimpossible. If I were worthy, I wouldn’t have to ask. It never occurred to me, as it does in sobriety, that the measure of my own self-worth is in how I treat myself.
Hindsight’s a bitch.
I hated it when Allan had to leave. I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me, but inside I felt betrayed, as if his leaving was a direct affront to me.
“I want you to start keeping track of what I owe you,” he said one day as I handed him his package of meth for the road. “You know I’ll pay you back, so start keeping track, okay?”
“Are you sure, Allan?” I felt awkward, but I was also glad he had offered. I was sending a lot of dope with him on the road, and I had a strong feeling it wasn’t all for him. I figured he was either sharing with his trucker friends or selling some on the side.
Supporting my habit, Allan’s and my brother’s was putting a dent in my profits. “I hate to ask, but I really appreciate it. I’ll give you good deals, though,” I said, kissing his neck. “I promise.”
I kept a separate ledger for what Allan owed me. He didn’t belong with my customers. He was different. He was special. I thought it was very caring of him to consider the effect his habit had on my bottom line and that strengthened my illusion of our relationship. That’s all it ever was: my illusion. My own little fantasy I created in my head. Conveniently, by never defining our relationship, my illusion was secure.
Another reason it was so easy to hide in my fantasy was because of the way Allan treated my son. They adored each other. The only man Andy ever spent any time with was my father and, occasionally, his Uncle Chuck. Seeing Andy with Allan tugged at the corners of my heart. They played Mario Kart together - Andy’s favorite video game - and Andy would show Allan things he’d made at school that week, explaining what his class had done. It never bothered Allan that he couldn’t understand most of what Andy said. I’ve always joked that Andy speaks “Andowneese,” which is a combination of Andy and Down syndrome with the “eese” denoting, of course, that it’s a language. Andy’s funny, raspy voice, babbling on and on never fazed Allan. He just acted as if he knew exactly what Andy was talking about, and after a couple of months of me translating, he did.
When Allan was on the road, Andy asked about him. When Allan called, he asked about Andy. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t part of me that wished for Andy to have a daddy someday, and at the time, Allan seemed a perfect fit. I never thought, “I wish Allan were Andy’s father.” It wasn’t like that at all. It was just a warm feeling I got seeing them together and a lovely little tapestry with which to decorate my fantasy world.
Chapter 9
Allan decided to buy a house, and we started house hunting when he was home on the weekends. I admit, there was a twinge of hope in the back of my mind that he was thinking of asking Andy and me to move in with him, but I never gave it serious consideration until he called me one day to tell me he’d found his dream house: a gorgeous log home in the mountains. His exact words were, “Do you want to be partners?”
I believe I quit breathing for a moment. The fact that he qualified the question by explaining his specific intentions did nothing to quash my excitement. What he meant, he said, was that he wanted me to pay a portion of the mortgage in exchange for spending an occasional weekend in the mountains. What I heard, of course, was, “Do you want to be partners?”
He wasn’t able to buy that house, but he did qualify for one in the city: four bedrooms, two baths and a huge backyard with an old barn in one corner. It wasn’t the dream home in the woods, but it would do nicely.
He was already pre-qualified, and the process was going smoothly when he called me from the road one rainy afternoon to tell me the earnest money had to be at the title company before five o’ clock. Would I help him out? He’d pay me back, he promised. Just add it to his books. Keep track of everything. He’d pay me back.
A few days before closing on the house, Allan was on his way to Oregon. He’d found a new job with much better pay and the opportunity to own his own truck. He was flying to Oregon to drive the truck home. That was the plan.
He was pulled out of line at the airport. Most likely profiled because of the way he looked. In addition to his usual rugged appearance, he’d been drinking all night, was unshaven and wore a black leather skullcap. The authorities searched his bag and found a long forgotten pipefitting he’d once used to smoke pot. According to Allan, he simply grabbed a bag from his closet and threw a few things into it for the trip. He never looked inside and had no idea the pipe was there. There was only faint residue in the fitting, but it was enough to land him in jail that Friday afternoon, and keep him there until the arraignment on Monday morning.
Once again, I called Jill, and once again, she met me at the courthouse and then the jail where she posted Allan’s bond. It was set at five thousand dollars, meaning I had to pay five hundred, plus fees. This, of course, went on his tab.
While we were waiting for his release, Jill offered me a job. I believe he
r exact words were, “You seem like you’re comfortable around criminals. Would you be interested in working nights writing bonds?”
Why yes, I am. And yes, I would. And that’s how I became a bail bondsman.
“Can I take you to dinner?” After thanking me, that’s the first thing Allan said when he got out. Afterward, as we cruised down the freeway with the top down on my convertible, he reached over and cupped the back of my head in his hand, running his fingers through my hair. The November air was cool, stinging our faces. The feeling of his strong, warm hand cradling my head washed through me like the first sip of hot chocolate winding its way to your stomach on a chilly day.
This is how you touch someone you love, I thought, and I eased into his hand, feeling safe as I drove Allan to his future house, which he was renting from the current owners pending closing.
The bad news came just as we pulled into the driveway. When Allan hadn’t shown to pick up the truck in Oregon, his new boss-to-be did some checking and found Allan’s mug shot on the Ada County web site. He was calling to tell Allan not to bother coming. He didn’t want a druggie driving one of his trucks. It was two weeks from closing on the house and Allan was suddenly unemployed.
I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I’m sure the gist of it was, “I’ll take care of it, Allan, if Andy and I can move in. I’ll take care of the mortgage until you find a job. I know you’ll pay me back. After all, you bought me dinner and ran your hand through my hair. It’s the least I can do.”
I do recall that Allan was hesitant about accepting my offer, but I didn’t want to see him lose the house. That part is true. The real reason I did it, and I think I knew it at the time, was that I saw the opportunity to buy my way into his life. I thought that if we lived together, he would realize he loved me and we’d live happily ever after. That’s a hard thing to own up to: that I was so unhappy, I was willing to buy love. With enough meth, though, even the worst idea can seem genius, and if that’s true, I had enough meth to qualify for Mensa a hundred times over.
Andy was thrilled. He adored Allan and was excited that we were living with him. We moved in December 2003, just a couple of weeks before Christmas.
I enrolled Andy at the local Jr. High school - no small feat given the transition process. I met with his special ed. teacher and arranged for her to meet with the staff at the receiving school.
Every child in special education has an I.E.P. - an individual education program - that outlines the student’s goals for the year. Part of the I.E.P. is to determine the amount of time he or she will spend in the “regular” classroom versus how many hours they’ll be segregated in special ed. I’ve fought long and hard to make sure Andy gets as much mainstreaming with his typical peers as possible, and every year I go through the same thing at the annual I.E.P. meeting, fighting to make sure my son has the same opportunities as any other child to the extent that he is able. It’s not easy. Far less effort is required to keep children with developmental disabilities segregated. It’s easier for staff and easier for the child. Andy’s always thrived among his typical peers, though, and there’s no doubt in my mind that the effort I’ve put into making sure he’s mainstreamed has provided a richer experience for everyone involved.
In 2003, I had the not so pleasurable experience of repeating the I.E.P. process with the receiving school. Both old and new teachers assured me he would continue to be included in regular classes, with an aide as necessary.
I felt guilty transferring him again as I’d done when we moved to Jackpot, and again upon moving back to Boise. This was his third transfer in two years, and even though he seemed to take it in stride, I knew that what was best for him was stability. I vowed to myself that he would finish junior high at the new school, move on with his class, and graduate without any more transfers.
I drove him to school on the first day, and walked him to his new classroom. The I.E.P. specified that he would spend first period with the special ed. class, and another in the afternoon so he could receive one on one attention for his specific goals. He would eat lunch in the cafeteria with the general population while an aide stood nearby, supervising until she was sure Andy would be okay on his own. Once he was comfortable, he would go to lunch independently. He was used to the routine of going through the line for hot lunch, getting everything he needed and finding a place to sit. The aide was there to make sure he wasn’t harassed, and to help him with his social skills.
Andy is a social guy, with an affinity for blonde chicks. Kids have always liked him. Expressive language is where he has the most trouble. People with Down syndrome tend to have large tongues and/or small mouths, which sometimes makes them difficult to understand. Andy has both to delay his expressive language. Simply put, my son loves to talk, but unless you’ve been around him for a while, he’s nearly unintelligible. I’ve always been his translator, and he sounds fine to me, but I sometimes have to remind myself that not everyone speaks Andowneese. It’s an acquired skill.
So I drove him to school the first day, but when we got there, he didn’t want me to go in with him. Of course he didn’t. What eighth grade kid wants their parents at school with them? I was concerned, though. About everything, really, but at that moment, I wanted to make sure he could find his classroom.
“Andy, I’m not going to stay. I promise. I just want to walk you to your class.”
“Mom, no. Unna go way. Andy do it.”
But I was firm. I had to know for sure that he wasn’t going to walk into that building and simply disappear among the concrete, linoleum and raging hormones that make up a junior high school. All I could picture was Andy roaming the halls, not knowing where to go and feeling frightened until a bell rang and the between-class stampede began. There’s no way I was going to let that happen.
“Andy-bug, you don’t have a choice on this one. Come on. I promise I won’t stay. I’ll leave as soon as you get to your room.” I reached out to hold his hand, but he scowled at me, grunted and waited until I started walking, staying about five paces behind me.
I walked him to his class, and he wouldn’t say goodbye to me. He was pissed, and I was secretly thrilled with his reaction. It was so typical of kids his age. But the mom in me wanted to protect my baby and make sure everything was okay.
Driving away from the school, I slipped my Mom skin, leaving it behind with the warm glow that was Andy, for safekeeping.
Chapter 10
Back at home, I sat down on my bed and lit a cigarette. I was so tired. I couldn’t remember the last time I was horizontal. I knew that sometimes I’d fall asleep at the computer for an hour or so, but I couldn’t remember the last time I actually slept in my bed. My practice of sleeping every night was beginning to fall by the wayside. I was drifting in and out when my eyes snapped open.
“Shit,” I muttered, picking up my still-lit cigarette. It had burned halfway down, leaving another hole in the increasingly puckered landscape of my new down comforter. It was the second time in a week I’d fallen asleep that way. The puckers were the places where I’d sewn burn holes shut, and now I was going to have to do it again. “Later,” I thought and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. As I got up, tiny feathers poofed from the fresh hole. Rather than going to bed, which is what I needed to do, I got high. I had things to do and people to see. Sleep could wait. I knew Shadoe was waiting for me to call.
“Hey. You up?” The question was rhetorical.
“I’m always up. You coming over?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” I had him on speakerphone so I could load my pipe and talk at the same time.
“All right. Is it good?” I hated it when people asked me that. I didn’t even matter if the meth was good, which it usually was. They’d bitch and moan, but they always bought. Always.
“Goddamn it, Shadoe. I’ll be there in a minute.” I loaded everything into my rolling briefcase - the same one I used when I wrote bail bonds - and arrived at his house forty-five minu
tes later.
“You’re early,” he said, opening the door. He was being sarcastic, but for me, arriving twenty-five minutes late was extremely early.
A couch and end table shared the living room with a motorcycle, and greasy engine parts lay on the kitchen floor where a dining table should have been. A thick layer of dust covered everything. I could see the particles, disturbed from inertia by our movement, dancing in the single patch of sunlight bold enough to risk a peek between the draperies as we moved through the forgotten part of the house. He led me through the house to the back bedroom - the only place Shadoe spent his time.
His bedroom was his office. That’s what he called it. He dropped his four-hundred-plus-pound self into the plastic lawn chair that barely fit between the queen size bed and the closet. Shadoe always made me feel a little ill. He looked like a fifty-year-old sloth with a greasy, thin ponytail. The tee shirts he wore were old, tired and no longer held their original form. He cut the sleeves and neck line out, so there was no way to avoid seeing all sagging, white flesh when I was with him.
I started getting out my scale and baggies, setting them on the wooden slab he kept for me at the foot of the bed so I had an even surface to weigh on.
“Look at this. I made this last night,” he said pulling down a small propane tank connected to a bungee cord suspended from ceiling.
“What the hell is that?”
“I designed it so that when I fall asleep with the flame going, it’ll lift up instead of burning me. I think it’s a pretty neat little invention,” he said, and he chuckled. Shadoe suffered from diabetes and had recently burned his foot so badly that he ended up in the emergency room. He’d fallen asleep holding a propane torch going full blast. Three weeks later, his foot looked like gangrene was setting in, but he refused to go back to the doctor.
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