Crystal Clean

by Kimberly Wollenburg

  There was a convenience store/gas station two blocks from our house. It was February, and definitely dark at nine ‘o clock, but there were bright lights over the pumps and I was on empty. I used a credit card to fill my tank, then walked into the store, filled my mug with Diet Coke, and bought a lottery ticket. There was a man at the pay phone just outside the entrance. He held the receiver to his ear, but he wasn’t talking. He was doing the same when I left and seemed to be watching me. Odd. I got back into my car and pulled out of the lot. Almost immediately, there was a cop behind me. No lights on, just following me. In my side mirror, I saw another pull in behind him. That’s when the lights went on.

  It started out as the same thing that I was used to: cop number one chit-chats with me, telling me he’s got a report of me making a drug deal, while cop number two shines his flashlight around the inside of my car. This time was different, though.

  “We just got a report that you made a methamphetamine deal at the convenience store back there.” Well that’s pretty damn specific, isn’t it? “You know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you stop at that store?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed gas, and I filled my mug.”

  “You didn’t talk to anyone?”

  “Other than the clerk, no.”

  “Did you sell anyone meth?” Something was wrong. This guy was being a complete asshole, and this wasn’t the usual harassment stop I was used to.

  “No.”

  “Well, why did we get a report that...”

  “I got it!” The cop with the flashlight was excited about something.

  “Got it?”

  “We got it.”

  And that’s when the testosterone kicked in full force.

  “Get out of the car!”

  “Put your hands where we can see them!”

  “Get the fuck out of the vehicle, ma’am!”

  Both officers on either side of my car were jerking on the door handles, but they were locked. They automatically locked when I reached a certain speed. It wasn’t as if I’d hit a lock button. Everything was going on at once. I had no idea what they were talking about “getting,” I didn’t know how to put my hands where they could see them, unlock the doors and get out of the car all at the same time, so I just sat there until they quit yelling over each other.

  “Unlock this door, ma’am,” the officer who’d been speaking to me said. I hit the button, unlocking both doors. “Get out!” I got out. “Go stand on the sidewalk.” I did.

  They stood together on the driver’s side of the car with the door open, shining the light on the floor and they were laughing. They were having quite a good laugh, and I found out much later why. It wasn’t until my preliminary hearing when the prosecution had to present its evidence that I learned what started the chain of events that led to my arrest. The officers found a piece of popcorn on the floor on my car, and used that as probable cause to search my vehicle which, of course, led them to find my little black zippered bag inside my big black bail bond bag.

  I heard all the tapes later, including the 911 call that Garnett made, and the recording of him talking to his handler. I’d misjudged him in thinking he was simply being a nuisance. He was actually a police informant.

  But all of this is window dressing. The way the police treated me during the arrest is window dressing. One way or another, I would have gone down. We all do, unless we end up dead. There are only two ways out of the life.

  Chapter 19

  Mario and I talked after my arrest. He’d been in the business a long time and he knew that I couldn’t afford to stop working. He asked me if I wanted Garnett taken care of.

  A couple of days after my arrest, my parents received an envelope with the return address simply, “A. Friend,” in Garnett’s handwriting. Inside, was an enlarged picture of my mug shot, and nothing else.

  The next morning I was driving home from the jail after writing a bond. It was early enough that I had to use my headlights, but light enough to see the row of reality signs along the side of the main street leading to our house. Each held my enlarged mug shot with the caption, “Got Meth?” in bold letters beneath my face.

  As I collected all fifteen of those signs, I thought about Mario’s offer. Craig told me about the men who came from Mexico to handle situations. No one knew their names. A call would be made, details arranged down South and three men would come, staying just long enough to clean up a mess, then they were gone. Sometimes, they left nothing behind.

  Mario and I had grown close in the time we’d been working together and although he never spoke too much about business on the other side, I did know that he was part of a cartel and that he knew the men Craig spoke of. I didn’t ask beyond that. I assumed I was better off not knowing too much.

  So when Mario asked if I wanted Garnett taken care of, I knew he could make it happen.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ve thought about it and this is what I’d like done: I want him kidnapped, taken out to the desert, and stripped naked with his hands and feet duct taped. Then...”

  “Keem,” he said, “no, no.” He’d learned English well since we began working together. My Spanish, to my disgrace, remained about the same. “We don’t do that. That’s...that would...” He searched for the right word.

  “Be beneath you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s all or nothing.”

  “Yes. These men, I pay much money. Not to come all the way here for...” He shook his head. “They come, this man will go away. Forever. No one can find him. You understand?”

  I understood as much as I needed to. “How much?”

  He shook his head. “No, Keem, no. I do this for you. You no worry, okay?”

  And I thought about it, but not for long. In my mind, giving the okay would be the same thing as pulling the trigger. I don’t believe in God, but on the off chance that there is a hell, I know that my penance for that action would be to be chained to Garnett for eternity. There was no way I was going to risk that.

  I was getting tired. Tired of people, tired of running around and tired of me. Proust said, “No exile at the South Pole or on the summit of Mont Blanc separates us more effectively from others than the practice of a hidden vice.”

  It seemed like everything happened so fast: moving up the way I did, and everything with Allany. I didn’t know how to stop. I couldn’t imagine giving everything up and living a normal life, whatever that might look like. What would I do? A regular job wouldn’t pay all the bills. My lifestyle was far from extravagant, but I couldn’t just give everything up and start from scratch. I had nothing saved. With the money always rolling in, I never worried about tomorrow. I never thought seriously about what would happen if it all ended. I spent thousands on gambling every month and more buying things I didn’t need. My meth addiction, compulsive shopping and gambling; all of it was me trying desperately to run. Away from myself, away from my demons, away from all the pain and hurt I’d kept inside for so long, but was afraid to feel.

  I was running out of ways to run away from myself.

  But there was something else. Something more insidious. I loved meth and couldn’t imagine living without it. I’d been using for so long that even if I could, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to life before meth.

  I was in my car one day, driving home from doing a deal with Kelly, and I popped in a CD that I hadn’t listened to in a while. K’s Choice, I’m Not an Addict was the first song and it was like a slap in the face. I’d heard it dozens of times, belting out the lyrics as I drove around with the top down.

  I’d sung the song a capella while in the shower and doing yard work. But on that particular day, it was as if I were hearing the song for the first time. And as Sarah Bettens smoky voice grew more intense, I felt like maybe there was a reason I’d put that particular CD in the player after having not listened to it for so long. As cliché as it sound
s, the lyrics that day felt like needles trying to tattoo themselves into my skin.

  It was a short drive home, and when I got there, I sat in my car listening to the song again. I must have played it four or five times before I finally went into the house. That was the first time the word “addict” floated through my mind in close proximity to the image I had of myself. I wouldn’t allow them to connect, but they shared the same space.

  It would be nice if recovery were as simple as that. You hear a song, make a connection, have an epiphany, get sober and live happily ever after. Recovery is not that simple, but I remember that day vividly as being one of the many beginnings of finding my way back home.

  I knew on some level then, and certainly now, that my drug use was, at the very least, fueling all my problems, but it was the only thing that made me feel good. When I smoked, all my troubles evaporated and I felt smarter, prettier, funnier and invincible. I think that’s why anti-meth campaigns say, “Not even once.” There’s a saying in recovery that once is too many and a thousand is never enough. That’s definitely true with meth. Aside from the physiological effects, meth is almost indescribably good. I don’t know anyone who’s tried it and not wanted more immediately.

  The truth is, nothing is this world will ever make me feel that good, and nothing will ever rip my life to shreds the way meth did. There’s a high price to pay for seduction. These days, I’ll settle for serene happiness and an even keel. I’ve been on the ride, and if anyone had told me what was waiting for me at the last drop, I’d have never bought the ticket.

  Some people call meth the Devil, the Devil’s drug or evil incarnate. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, of course, and this is mine:

  To vilify anything is to shun responsibility, and responsibility is power. To hold the belief that meth is anything other than what it is - a man-made drug - is to give it power while robbing you of your own. I believe that meth is the most vicious, addictive drug known to man, but that’s all it is: a drug. The only “evil” involved, if that’s what you want to call it, lies in our own ego. We wage the war against ourselves.

  Getting sober is hard. It hurts, mentally and physically. Staying sober takes true courage. The courage to heal not only the pain caused by addiction, but also all the pain that led to addiction. It’s a process and it takes years. I was sober for a year before I realized I actually wanted to be sober.

  Dismissing meth as “The Devil’s Drug” lessens the addict’s responsibility and robs her of the opportunity to find courage in herself she never dreamed existed.

  Chapter 20

  When facing drug or alcohol charges, the defendant is required to undergo two different evaluations to help the court determine sentencing. The first is a drug and alcohol evaluation. The second is a P.S.I., or pre-sentence investigation. The evaluation is exactly what it sounds like. You meet with a certified drug and alcohol counselor who assesses your proclivity for addiction and sends the results to the court.

  The P.S.I. is more involved and is only required for felony cases. The interview is like a condensed autobiography. They want to know about your childhood, how you were disciplined, and family history with substance use/abuse. They ask about the socio-economic status of your family of origin, extended family ties and how you feel about an array of subjects. The interview takes a couple of hours. Prior to that, you have to have at least three people write a letter to the court about your character. They want to know if you, soon-to-be-convicted-on-a-felony-drug-charge, have any redeeming qualities.

  Both of these evaluations required me to take an inventory of my history of drug use. Later, I would have to repeat the exercise in rehab, as part of working the twelve steps of A.A., and as part of a requirement of probation.

  The first time I huffed gas I was twelve. I started drinking at thirteen and smoking at fourteen, the same year I first took speed. The first time I smoked pot I was fifteen. I took my first hit of acid in my junior year of high school during a ten-minute break between morning classes. I didn’t take shrooms until my senior year. After that, I drank my way through three semesters at the University of Idaho. I tried crank a few times when I was nineteen and became an almost daily user when I was twenty-seven. At twenty-six, I started using cocaine on a daily basis. When my coke dealer suddenly left town and I was without other resources, I quit drugs by default and stayed clean for four years.

  My chemical history, in black ink against stark white paper, stripped of all excuses and glorification did seem excessive. The first time I had to write it all down, I may have missed a few shots here and a hit or two there and as detailed as the inventory was, it still wasn’t accurate. I hadn’t left anything out, but when I wrote “alcohol four or five times per week,” for instance, I was speaking of days, not actual drinks. If I were to break it down that minutely, I don’t know that I would or could ever finish the inventory. Do I count a bottle of Jagermeister as one drink or two? Is it different if I drink it straight out of the bottle as opposed to my usual six or seven double shots when I’m at a bar? What if my brother and I are passing the bottle back and forth? Does each swig count as one drink? It’s the same with Crown Royal. If I make my own drink and fill the glass three quarters of the way with booze and just a splash of mixer, it’s technically a drink, right? What if I’m so coked up that I keep ordering shots with beer chasers and forget to drink them and just keep ordering more? It was a dilemma.

  For the five years prior, my drug of choice was meth and my preferred method of ingestion was smoking. I didn’t just smoke it; I consumed it with every fiber of my being. And it consumed me. We were lovers intertwined from the core and meshed together like strands of DNA.

  The evaluation was first.

  I remember feeling defiant about having to do everything the court was requiring me to do, but there was something else, too. I hoped that the evaluator would do something. I wasn’t sure what I thought they might do, but I was secretly hoping for rescue. Part of me wished they would see how broken I was and not let me leave, but somehow help me instead. I was still sure my drug use was ancillary to my bi-polar disorder, but I felt certain that a professional would recognize that. I would have been pissed off and indignant on the outside, but secretly relieved, even if the outcome of the evaluation was commitment to a psych hospital. I felt so alone, so broken and so lost. What I truly wanted was for someone to notice me. To that end, I decided to be as forthcoming as possible during the evaluation.

  I think the drug and alcohol counselor thought I was being evasive and trying to minimize the quantity of meth I was using.

  “When was the last time you used?”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s 10:15, why?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “You used just before coming to this evaluation?”

  “Yes.” I have always considered myself an honest person.

  “How often do you use?”

  “Every day, all day long.”

  “And how much would you say you use in a week?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You have no idea. Mmm hmm. Well, what about in a day? How much do you use in a day?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Come on, you must have some idea. You don’t seem like a stupid person. You know what you’re buying and how much of that you’re using in a day, right?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.” I was uncomfortable with this. Not because I wanted to hide anything, but because I knew what I was going to say next was not what she was expecting. Not by a long shot. I tried to come up with a way to explain it to her so she would understand. I was trying to figure out a way to soften the blow.

  “Okay, here’s how it is. I always have as much as I want of the very best there is. Always. So I always get the best of the best. I don’t weigh it. I just take out what I need when my pipe is empty and reload.”

  “But you know how much you’ve bought and
even if you’re selling some of it, you should have some idea of how much you’re using, Kim. Would you say a gram? A teener?”

  Some of it?

  She didn’t understand what I was saying. She was so professional looking sitting with her notepad and pen, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and her legs crossed. She was petite with a kind of Kathryn Hepburn thing going on: charcoal gray slacks, tailored white blouse and tasteful, low-heeled burgundy mules with a matching burgundy sweater casually tied around her shoulders. Blonde hair pulled back into a neat French twist. Pearl earrings and a wedding band were her only adornments. She was studiously beautiful, clean and pure. I felt like I was going to somehow taint her - as if I were about to spray liquid shit all over her.

  My intention wasn’t to shock her, but rather to be as honest as possible because while a small part of me thought I might actually need help, I also thought she would be impressed at how well I function considering my daily chemical intake. I thought she would agree with me that my main problem was actually depression and that meth was simply my way of self-medicating.

  I had to talk to her and I couldn’t tell her the whole story because I was being evaluated for a felony possession charge and I wasn’t about to volunteer to make my situation worse by confessing to one of the collective “them.”

  I sighed. “My best guess would be somewhere around an eight-ball a day.” Roughly three-and-a-half grams. She jotted this down in her notebook.

  “Do you think you have a problem with alcohol?”

  I paused. “No. I mean I have...at times...drunk a lot, but I’m not an alcoholic.”

  She set her pad and pen down. “Do you think you have a problem with drug abuse?”

  I answered immediately. “Yeah, because normal people don’t do this. I know I’m self-medicating my depression.”

  She just looked at me.

  The whole assessment took about an hour and then I was dismissed. In my car, I started crying. I wanted someone to notice me, and I thought if it were to happen, this would be the time and place. I was hoping she would just commit me to Intermountain Hospital, the psychiatric hospital in the city, and someone would finally take care of my depression and me. But she didn’t. She just jotted everything down in her little notebook and sent me on my way. It’s not illegal to be high. It’s only illegal to posses drugs or be under the influence while creating a public nuisance.