Here’s how Kim remembers things:
CHRISTIAN WAS REALLY OUT OF IT MUCH OF THE TIME, AND HE WAS ALWAYS GOING OUT ON ME. I WAS GETTING OUT OF THE SHOWER ONCE WHEN THIS GIRL KNOCKS ON MY FRONT DOOR, SAYING SHE’S LOOKING FOR CHRISTIAN. I ASK, “WHO ARE YOU?” AND SHE REPLIES, “I’M SO-AND-SO, THE GIRL CHRISTIAN’S BEEN LIVING WITH FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS.” I TURN AWAY AND SAY, “CHRISTIAN, IT’S FOR YOU.” THEN I FADE INTO THE OTHER ROOM AS THEY HAVE A BIG FIGHT. AFTER THAT, I RETURN AND CHRISTIAN AND I HAVE A BLOWOUT OF OUR OWN.
IT WASN’T JUST THAT ONE TIME, EITHER. WHILE HE WAS LIVING WITH ME, ONE TIME I CALLED A GIRL’S NUMBER TRYING TO REACH HIM, AND HER VOICE MAIL SAID, “HI, CHRISTIAN AND I AREN’T AVAILABLE RIGHT NOW.”
I’D GIVE HIM MONEY TO EAT AT TACO BELL OR WHEREVER, AND HE WOULDN’T COME HOME FOR A WEEK. HE WAS WITH A DIFFERENT GIRL EVERY NIGHT—WELL, MAYBE NOT EVERY NIGHT, BUT CLOSE. HE WAS RUNNING THE STREETS, RUNNING FROM THE LAW, BUT MOST OF ALL HE WAS RUNNING FROM HIMSELF. I DIDN’T REALIZE THAT UNTIL I GOT INTO RECOVERY. WE WERE TOGETHER TWO AND A HALF YEARS, BUT IT WAS RARELY GOOD.
LAX FULL PIPES. 1990. © CESARIO “BLOCK” MONTANO.
“I have no money and no income, but I still have a mouth and can talk my way into or out of just about anything. I’ve always been a good hustler.”
Soon after my son’s birth I hustle two brand-new vans from a major car dealer in Orange County. Not only do I show up at the dealership without a cent or any proof of income, I don’t even have a driver’s license! Apparently one of the salesmen wants to meet me, and I turn that to my advantage. I guess I make a good impression, because he says he can lease me a van. When he asks about my income, I inform him of my partial ownership in the now barely alive Focus Skateboards. That seems to satisfy him.
Of course I myself am never satisfied, so I push things: I tell him I want two vans, one for business and one for pleasure. “No problem,” he says. He gives me the business van, a stock Grand Caravan, along with an awesome Grand Caravan with Pirelli rims, painted a sick shade of dark gray. I sign like seventy papers, and when he asks for my driver’s license, I explain that I left it in my storage unit. In reality, my license has long since expired, and I can’t apply for a new one because of my outstanding warrants. I show him my passport instead and he seems content, copying the information down. He sends me off in the first van, which I tell him that I’m driving back to the Focus office. A week later, I return to the dealership and drive off in the other van.
I immediately install one of those bouncy baby seats in the back of the van, not for Rhythm to ride in, but so that any cop looking inside won’t become suspicious. It’s a decoy: anyone checking the van out will see that seat and assume they’re looking into a nice family vehicle owned by people who live behind a white-picket fence with two cats in the yard. I wash the van every few days and keep the dealer plates on so it looks like I’ve just driven it off the lot. I keep myself clean-cut too and wear a collared shirt and a nice watch whenever I drive anywhere. I styled a pair of glasses that look like something a lawyer might wear. They’re just part of the facade too, frames without glass in them. In this disguise I cruise around without any worry of getting stopped. If cops stare at me while I’m driving, I stare back at them, nod, and drive on. I don’t fit the profile of a strung-out junkie, so there’s no reason to pull me over. You never see people who look like me being questioned by the cops.
I never make one payment on either car, and I never get pulled over. Those vans aren’t just transportation, but often home—one of the best purchases I never made. The dealership would love to collect, I’m sure, but they can’t locate me. I’m now a renegade, a drive-till-the-wheels-fall-off kind of guy. But I never see the wreckage I’m leaving on the road.
Focus Skateboards still exists, but I think the only things floating the company now are Duncan’s credit cards and whatever scraps of goodwill remain from the relationships we’ve established with dealers over the years. Our orders don’t always ship on time, and morale is at an all-time low. What finally sinks us are snowboards. Snowboarding is huge now, and Duncan and Eddie have ordered some for us to put the Focus name on. We have quite a few preorders, so it seems like a good idea. They placed their initial order with the best manufacturer in the industry, but when that company gets backed up on production and can’t deliver, they order the boards from one of the worst manufacturers. Meanwhile, a Japanese client sends us a $50,000 deposit—good news!—but we quickly blow through it.
Finally the boards come in and we label and ship them. They’re soon returned, one by one and by the dozen, after they delaminate or fall apart completely. We have to make good on them and pay off another $45,000 in credit-card debt. A few years ago that amount wouldn’t have been insurmountable, but nobody in our crew has that kind of money anymore. Things are pretty slow anyway, so Focus finally shuts its doors.
When Focus dies, our friendship nearly dies with it. As with each of my earlier ventures, we’d been warned about getting into business with friends. And just as we always had, we were determined to prove everyone wrong and go our own way, against the grain. It looks like this time everyone was right, though.
I don’t fret over things for long. After all, business and friendship aren’t everything. There’s still partying to be done, and I know just the guy to party with. Just like me, he has no limits.
The guy seems to be burning rocket fuel in his veins; he’s willing to push things absolutely as far as possible. There’s no way he and I could push them any further without falling off the edge we’re standing on. One time we’re doing meth somewhere, and a UPS driver comes by and sees us in action. He says, “Hey, I’ll take a bong hit.” He takes one, looks up, and begins freaking. “Whoa, what is this?” he asks, stumbling a bit. “What is it?” he repeats. We’d like to help him out, but right now we’ve got places of our own to go. We send him off and hope he doesn’t crash. Just afterward, we’re driving north to do a skate demo, and we’re sharing PCP-soaked bong loads. PCP, or angel dust, is a gnarly hallucinogenic drug that can lead to out-of-body experiences. That doesn’t happen to me, but the drug definitely has an effect that doesn’t make skateboarding any easier.
When we get to the demo we’re just flying, and he’s like, “Are you still gonna skate?” I’m like, “Yeah, watch me!” He’s down below, looking up with psycho eyes, as I climb up the ramp. I feel like I’m floating on hot pillows. The air is thick and hot; electricity surges through my body. Everything happens in slow motion, and I feel as if everyone is watching to see if I’ll survive dropping in. The other skaters have stopped skating as I step up to the lip of the ramp, put my board in a tail-drop position, and tell myself, “Okay, you’ve got this.” My hope is just to make it to the other side. I do better than that: I survive the drop, move into rock ’n’ rolls, then do grinds, and finally blast air. At those moments when I’m suspended in midair, I feel that I can do anything.
Together, my friend and I are such gnarly partiers that we attract the attention of the punk-rock underground. Soon we’re hanging with all sorts of rockers, artists, and musicians, including some guys from the popular ska/punk-rock band Sublime who live in Long Beach. We’re hanging out, smoking meth, and just chillin’ with Bradley Nowell, the front man for Sublime. Bradley is a heroin addict who will soon join countless rockers who’ve sadly died before thirty from an overdose. But even if we could have seen the future, it wouldn’t have stopped us. In fact, it would have made doing drugs even more worthwhile. I know that sounds nuts, but that’s who we were at the time.
One time the guy rolls up his sleeve and says he wants to try shooting heroin. Bradley’s like, “Yeah, okay cool. Try it out, killer.” I mean, we’re all druggies, so none of us has the good sense to tell him not to do it. Me, I’ve tried smoking heroin before, and for me it sucked. That stuff made me go to sleep when all I ever want to do is jam in sixth gear. I decided back then that I’d never use it again.
So Bradley is fixing a shot f
or himself, filling the whole needle with black heroin, and the guy’s like, “Come on, give it all to me!” Bradley’s like, “Dude, you can’t take this much,” and he replies, “I do all kinds of drugs all the time. If you can handle it, I can handle it.” We’re just sittin’ there and Bradley’s like, “All right. You sure you wanna do this? It’s gonna hit you really hard.”
Against whatever judgment a junkie has, Bradley shoots him up and my friend slumps over; he’s out before the needle’s even out of his arm. As I gently lay him down, Bradley says, “Make sure he’s breathing.” He is, and his heart is beating, so we leave him there and continue partying. I look over and check on him from time to time, saying, “Wake up, wake up.” He doesn’t wake up at my check-ins but he’s breathing, so we leave him there and I keep smoking meth for hours. Late that night I finally head out and tell Bradley, “Okay, see you later.” I slump the guy over my shoulder, walk him to the car, place him in the passenger seat, and drive him to Kim’s apartment.
If you add it up, I’m getting only a few months’ worth of sleep each year. Now it’s kind of like he’s sleeping for me, all night long. I’m still hitting the pipe when he opens his eyes and smiles, and I say, “Hey, buddy; how you doin’?” He replies, “Man, that was the best high I’ve ever had in my life!” I’m like, “Dude, you had a shot and went straight out. You’re gonna say that’s great?” This is what happens when the dragon bites you. I’m like, “Okay—whatever, bro.” Where it used to be us doin’ meth and PCP or whatever together, now the only drug he wants to do is heroin. Our highs don’t mesh anymore: we pass each other while he’s on his way down and I’m on my way up. We still hang out, just not as often anymore.
I’m so deep into addiction that I actually shoot meth for a couple months. The hot-looking girl I’m spending time with these days would rather shoot meth than smoke it. In fact, shooting meth is all she does or wants to do. She’s not as fun as she used to be. We just sit in bed for days doing nothing but shooting meth. When I say, “Let’s go do something”—meaning something else—she answers, “No, I just wanna slam more.”
She has to wear long sleeves whenever we do go out, cuz there are gnarly marks all over her arms. I tell her, “You’ve got to stop; you’re too good for this.” All of a sudden I notice a gnarly mark on my own arm, and I realize that I need to wear long sleeves too.
I try pulling her back from the ledge, encouraging her to go back to smoking or even just snorting her meth. She says, “No way. I have to shoot it.” The crazy look in her eyes lets me know that that’s it for her. “Are you in, or are you out?” she asks. I hesitate a moment before answering, “I’m out.” She’s like, “Okay, I gotta go,” and then walks away. I’m bummed, cuz she really was hot. Ironically, I can see what meth is doing to her, but not what it’s doing to me. The beast blinds and controls you; it’s so hungry that it devours every part of you.
Not that I feel I’m better than anyone else, but I don’t want to do drugs and just hang around inside all day with the curtains drawn. Even as a drug addict I know there’s more to life than that. That’s why I turned away from heroin earlier. It’s a sit-around drug. I hate it, but my buddy Jeff Grosso loves it. Grosso skated for me for a while. He’s still a hot pro skateboarder in the late ’90s, but dabbling in drugs has left him straight up addicted.
We spend some time together, both of us fighting our own demons. I don’t remember much about those days, but Grosso does:
IT WAS 1997, AND I HAD BEEN IN JAIL FOR A COUPLE DAYS. WHEN I GOT OUT I DID THE THREE BEARS THING, TRYING TO FIND A PLACE TO STAY. FINALLY CHRISTIAN TOOK ME IN [AT HIS GIRLFRIEND’S PLACE]. WE WENT TO MY DEALER’S HOUSE, LITTLE RAY, AND THERE WAS A SHRINE FOR HIM ON THE DOOR. HE HAD DIED OF AN OVERDOSE.
AFTER THAT, CHRISTIAN TOOK ME TO COSTA MESA WITH ALL THESE SPEED-FREAK FRIENDS OF HIS. I SCORED, WENT INTO THE BATHROOM, SHOT HEROIN, AND FELL OVER. I HADN’T DONE ANYTHING FOR A FEW DAYS, AND THE HIT WAS JUST TOO STRONG. THE ONLY THING THAT SAVED ME WAS THAT I FELL INTO A BASIN OF RUNNING WATER, AND IT KEPT ME CONSCIOUS. THE PEOPLE IN THE HOUSE SAW ME AND TOLD CHRISTIAN, “YOU GOTTA GET HIM OUTTA HERE.” I SLEPT ON CHRISTIAN’S COUCH FOR LIKE A COUPLE DAYS WHILE HE DID SPEED AND PLAYED DARTS.
WHEN I FINALLY CAME TO, HE TOLD ME THAT I’D BEEN TURNING BLUE. THEN HE STARTED GIVING ME THIS LECTURE ABOUT DOING DRUGS AND HOW I NEEDED TO BE MORE CAREFUL. HE HAD A TORCH IN ONE HAND AND A PIPE IN THE OTHER, AND I SAID, “LOOK, YOU’RE A JUNKIE JUST LIKE ME, ONLY ON A DIFFERENT DRUG, AND BECAUSE YOU’VE HOOKED UP WITH THIS GIRL, YOU HAVE A PLACE TO GO.” I TOLD HIM THE ONLY WAY HE GOT AWAY WITH IT WAS BECAUSE HIS GIRL WAS AT WORK SO MUCH. I ASKED HIM TO GIVE ME SOME MONEY, AND WHEN HE DID I LEFT.
THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS THAT INTRIGUE ME ABOUT CHRISTIAN’S PERSONALITY. LIKE THE GIRLS HE CHOOSES. ALL THE GIRLS I’VE EVER SEEN HIM WITH HAVE BEEN SPITFIRES. I DIDN’T KNOW HIS MOM VERY WELL, BUT I’D BET SHE WAS CUT FROM SIMILAR CLOTH. AND THERE’S ALWAYS BEEN SOMETHING KIND AND GENEROUS ABOUT HIM. HE BROUGHT EVERYTHING GOOD FROM HIS PERSONA INTO THAT DARK WORLD, WHICH MADE HIM SUPER ATTRACTIVE TO ALL THESE JUNKIES. BUT THEY ALSO INFECTED HIM. BEFORE ALL THAT, HE WAS A LOT OF FUN. HE TOOK ME TO ENGLAND FOR THE FIRST TIME; HE TOOK ME TO JAPAN FOR THE FIRST TIME. HE TOLD ME I HADN’T SEEN ENOUGH OF THE WORLD. IT’S A STRANGE DICHOTOMY HE’S GOT GOING ON—HE’S AXL ROSE, EGO-GUY PRO SKATEBOARD DUDE; AND ON THE FLIP SIDE OF THAT, HE’S THE MOST LOYAL FRIEND EVER, AND YOU CAN COUNT ON HIM IN A PINCH.
I SUSPECT IT GOES BACK TO IVAN’S STRANGE PARENTING SKILLS. I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYONE MORE SECURE AND SELF-AWARE THAN CHRISTIAN. NO MATTER HOW BAD THINGS ARE, HE’LL ALWAYS SAY, “WE’VE GOT THIS—NO PROBLEM.”
HE WAS MY FRIEND, BUT I THOUGHT THERE WERE STRINGS ATTACHED TO OUR FRIENDSHIP. HIM GIVING ME MONEY AND WANTING TO HELP ME THAT TIME I CRASHED SHOWED ME THAT HE REALLY DID CARE ABOUT ME. THIS WAS AT A TIME WHEN I DIDN’T THINK ANYONE ELSE DID, AND AFTER THAT IS WHEN I STARTED DOWN THE ROAD TO GETTING CLEAN.
THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE—HE NEVER REALLY HAD ANY INSECURITIES LIKE EVERY OTHER KID. HE ALWAYS SEEMED IN CONTROL AND MADE IT SEEM LIKE EVERYTHING WAS OKAY. HE NEVER WAS THE TYPICAL ADDICT, TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM EVERYTHING. MAYBE THAT’S WHY HE LIKED SPEED, CUZ SPEED IS A CONTROL DRUG. YOU DON’T CONTROL HEROIN; YOU’RE JUST ALONG FOR THE RIDE.
Kim says that she was the one who found Grosso out in front of the apartment and called me to come and help him inside. I remember something that Grosso said during that visit; it really penetrated and stayed with me. “You’re not Christian Hosoi anymore; you’re a junkie just like me, only on a different drug.” He asks for some money, I give it to him, and he splits. Of course I would do that for him: he’s a good friend, and I know that there’s this awesome guy beneath his addictions. But if I’m not Christian Hosoi anymore, who am I?
I know one thing: I’m smart, and I know how to handle drugs, just like I handle everything else in life. Other people may fall off the edge, but I’m not going to do anything but enjoy teetering on it and peering off into the darkness. I’m skating nearly as well as ever, or so I tell myself—and when I clean up in a few months, I’ll be better than ever, and back on top. Everyone, including Tony Hawk, is gonna freak when I make my comeback.
I’ll put that on hold for a little while, though, I decide. Right now I have to hustle and score. Maybe I can sell a few of my boards and get a few bucks. I’ll do anything short of robbery, unless you count keeping vans I never paid for as robbery.
ALAN “DJ ALCHEMIST” MAMAN, SCOTTY CAAN, AND ME. HOSOI FAMILY COLLECTION.
© CESARIO “BLOCK” MONTANO.
“I’m in an upscale hotel with this girl and we’re cooking meth on the stove. Suddenly there’s the sound of breaking glass—the beaker of meth exploded!—and smoke is pouring everywhere. I quickly shove everything we’re cooking into the microwave in a futile attempt to confine the smoke. We can’t open the door to air the place out cuz we’re in a hotel. The smoke and smell would alert somebody to what we’re up to, and we’d go to jail for sure.”
It’s a sketchy situation, but we manage to escape without being caught. A fake ID and a stolen credit card is a great smoke screen to cover your tracks.
It’s 1998, and I’m again visited by the thought of getting sober, making a big comeback, and blowing everyone’s mind. I’ll party a little more and then get serious, I tell myself. With that added “rest time,” I’ll be even better than before.
Same old song: drug addiction is all about tomorrow. The days blur one into another, and tomorrow never comes.
On speed you never actually sleep; you simply crash under the weight of being awake for so long. I’m basically perpetually running on empty, up for two full days (and nights) at a time, crashing one day, then awake for two more days in a row. I sometimes even go three or four days and nights at a time with no sleep. To me this is just another competitive challenge, a twisted contest to see who can be awake the longest, who can party the most, take the biggest hit of meth, blow the biggest cloud, or blow the best pipe. I show off by blowing perfect meth smoke rings and feel a perverse pride in always being the winner in this event.
Some say crystal meth is the devil, and if that’s the case, the worship is done around the rituals that I’ve spoken of before: you score the drug, see how clean it is, examine it to see which of the different types it is, and then reverently begin the ceremony of snorting or smoking or shooting. Among countless varieties of meth, there’s lemon drop, peanut butter, and P2P (made from helicopter hydraulic fluid, if you can believe it—the best stuff you can get, from what I’m told).
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