It was a shock but not a surprise—like getting a cancer diagnosis after a battery of tests. As I slid the warm glass pipe from his hand, he opened his eyes just long enough to register that I was standing there, then closed them again. There was no discussion and no apology that night; I tossed and turned alone in Graham’s bed.
I think he did that deliberately, that letting me find him was easier than confessing. But I knew even before he admitted it that he must’ve had a dual habit: heroin and crack.
We were at his house a couple of days later, sitting on the floor, holding hands. Even though I had begged him to be honest with me, I wasn’t prepared for what would happen next. He knew it would change everything. I didn’t.
But once the words were spoken—entering my consciousness to take up residence in the pit of my stomach, a twitch in my eye, nightmares about crack houses and needles and death—everything solid and knowable in my life gave way to the vortex of his addiction.
CHAPTER FIVE
April 2006
Boerum Hill, Brooklyn
I’m in a daze on the couch—I must’ve slept here all night. I hear Susan moving around downstairs but I don’t want to face her. I’m dreading what she’s going to say after finding me with the pipe.
What a fucking disaster. I’m trying hard to remember what happened, but the details come back in bursts of clarity clouded by haziness and denial. After we fought, I figured she knew what was up so I spent most of the party avoiding her, barely talking to her family or any of her pals.
I feel like sneaking out—I’m desperate for a hit—but it’s too late for that. I can already hear her footsteps slowly coming up the stairs.
I’m staring at the TV, my reflection distorted in the blank screen, when she stops between me and the door.
“You’re not even going to look at me?” she says. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her bag next to her on the floor.
When I glance up, she doesn’t seem pissed off—just disappointed and worried and tired. It hurts so much to see her in pain I have to look away. I should’ve split as soon as I woke up.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to ruin your party.”
“It’s not about the party, Graham.”
“Well, I’m sorry about everything.”
I can hear kids’ voices outside the window, a scooter bumping over the cracks in the sidewalk—all the neighbors going about their normal day.
“Is that all you’re going to say?” she asks.
“What else do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me what’s been going on….Can you please just be honest?”
At first I don’t answer. A flush of shame fills me with a prickly heat. I feel like if I say anything, I’ll lose it somehow.
“I can’t do this right now,” I finally mumble.
“Really? Now isn’t a good time for you? How about a few weeks ago when I found the needle in your bathroom, or last month when I told you I was worried about you relapsing, or any of the dozens of times I asked if something was wrong—I guess those were all bad times, too?”
When I don’t answer, she asks, “Don’t you think I deserve to know?”
I look up at her again, say, “I think it’s pretty fucking obvious at this point.” I don’t mean to snap at her, but the comedown from the crack is making me aggressive. I feel like she’s got me backed into a corner.
“Well, it’s not clear to me. When did this start? Is this a relapse or have you been using the whole time we’ve been together? Crack and what else? I’m assuming that needle really was yours.”
That sets me off. “What difference does it make? Why do you need the details—when, what, where, why? ’Cause I really don’t feel like being interrogated about all my failings. I love you, and I am so fucking sorry, but I just…”
I can’t finish that thought. I’m not ready to admit all the things she wants me to tell her. I feel physically and emotionally gutted.
“Then I’m leaving,” she says, putting on her coat. “My parents are waiting for me at my apartment.”
I don’t want her to go, but the craving is gnawing away at me—I wish she’d just get it over with so I could go cop.
“Well, we’re not done here,” she says. “I need to know what the fuck has been going on, but I probably won’t be able to talk until my parents leave on Monday.”
“Alright” is all I can manage. I don’t get up and she doesn’t come over to kiss me. When the door slams, part of me is relieved that she’s gone.
I dig through my pockets for the pipe but I can’t remember if Susan took it or I hid it. I stick my hand down between the cushions, then stand up and pull all the pillows and cushions off the couch. Fuck. I’ll have to buy another one at the deli—$2.50 for a lighter, a screen, and a pipe, slipped across the counter in a brown paper bag.
I find my phone, scroll through my contacts, start making calls. “I’ll be there in five,” I say, once I connect. Then I hang up and head out the door.
—
WHEN I GET back I call Liam—he slept at a friend’s house after leaving the party. He sounds distracted but says he’ll be home later and asks if I’m having dinner with Susan and her family tonight.
“I don’t know,” I say, a rush of guilt sweeping through me. “She went back uptown to meet her parents so I’m not sure what’s going on. But if you want to have some pals round that’s fine.”
After hanging up, I smoke some more crack, then send Susan a flurry of text messages. I just need to reach out to her—I’m not thinking too much about what I type. My emotions are all over the place, my mind is racing. I’ve got that crack-induced confidence that I can fix things.
If I just let her know how bad I feel, how much I love her, that I don’t want her to leave me, then maybe we can get over this and move on. Didn’t she say something about us not being done?
I try to cling to that feeling, even as the comedown kicks in, about ten minutes after the high. That’s what makes you keep smoking—it’s like when you’ve got a cake and you keep cutting off little bits, after telling yourself you’re only gonna eat one slice.
Heroin is different—once the initial rush passes, you can function for hours without needing it again. So you shoot up to fight the comedown from crack, and smoke crack to wake up when you’re nodding. It’s a constant juggling act, mixing uppers and downers, but the world seems perfect when you get it just right.
—
LATER THAT AFTERNOON I get an email from Susan. She’s going to dinner and a movie with her parents, then they want to go to church in the morning so she doesn’t know when she’ll be able to talk.
“Not quite sure how to interpret some of the messages you sent,” she says. “Please don’t go off the deep end!”
I don’t know how to take that. I’m surprised she still gives a fuck about me, but I’m worried about what she’s telling her family. Picturing her talking to them makes me angry—I don’t want everyone to know. I feel like calling and telling her not to say anything, but I’m sure that wouldn’t go over too well.
In a way, it’s sort of a relief that her parents are still here. It gives me some space to try and work out what to do next. Not that my options are looking good.
I was really hoping I could nip this in the bud before Susan caught on. But after she found that needle, started asking questions and getting suspicious, I knew I was running out of time. Even though she’s a bit naïve about drugs, she’s not stupid—sooner or later she was gonna figure things out. I’d tell her I was late because the subway got delayed, or that I was going out early to get coffee and muffins, but I could tell she didn’t always believe me. She’d say, “Let’s just make breakfast here”—like she was testing me, to see if I’d find another reason to leave the house.
It’s not that I don’t want to quit—I just don’t know how the fuck to go about it. It’s like trying to organize some major event without anyone knowing. It can take a week to d
etox—which I can do on my own, I’ve done it before. But it’s painful and messy, so I wouldn’t want Liam or Susan to see me like that. Then I’d still need some kind of rehab, so how am I supposed to explain disappearing for a month? Plus I don’t have insurance—and even if I did, rehab probably wouldn’t be covered. I don’t want to pay a fortune for some half-assed program that didn’t work for me the first time around.
They’re all excuses, I know, but it’s not as easy as people think. There’s wanting to quit, then there’s actually making it happen. And not just for twenty-eight days—for the rest of my life.
—
AS THE REALITY of the situation sinks in, I have no idea what to do. I pace around the house, racking my brain for some way to get Susan back. But I can’t concentrate, my mind is spinning. I can’t even figure out how I’m gonna get through the next few hours.
It’s a relief when Liam rolls in with a couple of pals. They pile into the living room pulling videogames out of their backpacks, bragging about who’s got the highest scores and arguing about which game to play. For some reason all the noise calms me down—explosions and gunfire mixed with whoops and groans.
Across the room I sit down at my computer and type “rehab detox new york” into Google. I open a few links, skimming the descriptions of all the programs that pop up: “7-day guaranteed drug detox…All you have to do is want to stop—we’ll teach you how….In-patient rehab—comfortable, effective, cheap…88% success rate at six months.” I feel like I’m shopping for a car or picking a retirement plan—everyone is selling the perfect recovery package. But if it were that easy, it would’ve worked for me when I did it before.
I’m scribbling names and phone numbers on a piece of paper when Liam comes up behind me—I quickly pull up some photos on the screen.
“Hey, Dad. Can we order something to eat?”
“How about pizza?” I say, scanning his face, trying to figure out what he saw. “If you’re hungry now, I think there’s some cheese and crackers left from the party.”
“Cool,” he says, grabbing the phone. “Have you got any cash or do you want me to put it on your card?”
I pull some crumpled bills from my pocket and give him more than enough. Once he heads back to the couch with a menu, I reopen the Web page I was looking at—hopeful promises about recovery, testimonials from past residents, and photos of happy, healthy-looking people on a beach. It’s all bullshit. The rehab I went to was totally depressing, with fluorescent lights, ugly couches, and a bunch of addicts smoking like fiends.
As I read through the program rules listed on one site—no phones, no TV, no reading material except the Bible—my enthusiasm for recovery starts to wane. I open up Craigslist instead, wondering if there’s anything I can offload to help pay for this, maybe a camera or a few of my photography books. I’ve got a first edition of The Americans, signed by Robert Frank, but I don’t think I could part with that. Or I could sell some of my prints—the Weegee should be worth a few grand.
After Liam’s friends leave and he goes to bed, I pick up the pizza boxes and pile them on the counter, taking a few bites from the only slice left. My mouth is so dry I can hardly chew.
The silence of the house and the loneliness bring the craving back with a vengeance. I still have a couple of little rocks in the basement, and whatever residue is left in the pipe. I’m not going to get rid of it, so I might as well smoke it—then there won’t be anything left to tempt me tomorrow.
The thought of the hit is so intense I can practically feel it before I’m halfway down the stairs. This is it, I promise myself. After tonight, I’m done.
—
ON SUNDAY MORNING, the dope sickness is slowly seeping in, those first little shivers making my skin crawl. I have to fight hard not to run out and cop. “Call someone in recovery,” my rehab counselor used to say. “Reach out.”
I’m not sure how talking to someone can take away this craving, but I try my friend Andy—he’s been clean for a while now. He doesn’t pick up so I send him a text: “Call me. Need to talk.”
A few minutes later my phone buzzes. It’s a message from a dealer asking, “You good?” I hesitate before shoving it back in my pocket. I wish I could turn it off but I’m still hoping Susan or Andy might call.
I’m looking out the window, watching my neighbors work on their garden, trying to block everything else out, when I hear Liam stumble up the stairs. I’d almost forgotten he was still here.
“You look like you’re half-asleep,” I tell him.
“Maybe because you woke me up in the middle of the night banging around.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d do some scanning.”
He opens the fridge but it’s practically empty—everything got eaten at the party.
“There’s not much in the way of food,” I say, feeling bad I didn’t at least buy cereal and milk for him. “Do you want to go out for breakfast?”
“No, I’ve got too much homework. All my school stuff is at Mom’s so I’m going to head back over there.”
“You don’t want to go to the diner first?” I’m not really hungry, but I’m desperate to get out of the house.
“I’ll get something at Mom’s,” Liam says, filling a glass with water and gulping it down. “Aren’t you hanging out with Susan today?”
I clear my throat and take a sip of cold tea from a mug sitting on the counter. “Maybe later. Her parents wanted to go to church this morning, but you know that’s not really my thing.”
“Is everything okay with you guys?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering if he noticed the tension at the party. “Susan wanted to spend time with her family while they’re here. She doesn’t see them that often so I thought I’d give them some space.”
He looks like he’s not totally buying that, so I’m relieved when he doesn’t press me. I don’t want to lie to him, but the thought of telling him the truth is too much for me to handle right now. When Liz left me, she never said a word to Liam—after being in his life for years. Susan hasn’t been around that long, but I know he likes her so he’ll be disappointed if she just disappears, too.
Besides, he’s got schoolwork to focus on, and final exams coming up. The last thing I want is for him to be worrying about me.
—
AFTER LIAM LEAVES, I go down to the basement and rummage around until I find some AA leaflets I picked up after my stint in rehab. I don’t know why I hung on to them—I didn’t go to meetings that often—but I circle one that’s starting soon at a church not far away.
I’m a bit shaky on my feet so I decide to walk instead of riding my bike. By the time I get there, I’m fifteen minutes late. I don’t really want to go in—I can’t face all those sober eyes looking at me, judging me—so I walk to the other side of the street and lean against a wall. I’m thinking I’ll wait until they take a break, then I’ll slip in with everybody else.
For a while I just stand there, staring at the blue and white AA pendant hanging on the door. I’m picturing them all sitting there doing their shares—someone is probably saying, “I know God has a path for me,” which always makes me want to ask, “Really? His path was to fuck up your life for twenty years before deciding it was time for you to get clean?” Then there’s usually some annoying guy boasting about his drinking days—like if he thought he could get away with it, he’d still be doing it, but he can’t and it’s obvious he totally resents that.
The more I think about it, the less I want to go in and listen to all that bullshit—the self-righteous speeches and mindless slogans, as if AA is the only way anyone can quit. I wait around until a few people come out of the church for a smoke. Now is my chance to duck in and take a seat. But I don’t. When they go back inside, I just walk away.
Back at home I don’t know what to do with myself. I play some records, surf the Web, watch TV. But I’m craving crack so badly and I’m so stressed about Susan I can’t focus on anything else. I’m sure she’s goi
ng to break up with me—why wouldn’t she? I’ve lied and hidden so much, I can’t think of anything that would convince her to stick around. Even if I said it was just a relapse, there’s no way she’d ever believe me.
I grab my jacket and walk to the deli around the corner, buy a pint of ice cream and a pile of candy, then eat it all while flipping through crap on TV. The sugar rush helps a little—filling the emptiness in my stomach. I just have to get through the night, make it to the next day. But the buzzing of my phone is like a trigger. I wish I could throw it out the window but I need it in case Susan calls. I check again….It’s not her.
I start to cry. There’s no buildup, no warning—just tears I can’t seem to stop and a harsh lump in my throat that makes me wince every time I swallow. When it finally passes, I wipe my eyes on my shirt and fumble in my pockets for what’s left of my cash. One more time won’t make a difference at this point.
CHAPTER SIX
April 2006
Upper West Side, Manhattan
As a reporter, I always carried a notebook with me, mostly to write down to-do lists, story ideas, or quotes from interviews when I didn’t have my laptop. But the week after my book party, I took notes while I was on the phone with Graham.
I’m not sure why. Up until that point, I’d only jotted down the occasional pithy comment he shared. (“If it’s big and in color, it’s art. If it’s small and in black and white, it’s photography.”) I think I was afraid I wouldn’t remember the details of our conversation, after we hung up and I sat there trying to process everything he said. Graham hadn’t revealed much when I saw him on Monday, after my parents left—other than admitting he’d been using again. But I already knew that. As soon as I saw the crack pipe in his hand, I knew the needle I’d found in the bathroom was his. What I wanted was answers, explanations, a full confession, so I hoped he’d open up more on the phone, when he didn’t have to see my reaction.
I suppose the notes were also a way for me to vet his story later, a habit after years of checking facts. “Addicts lie,” Ethan had told me, so matter-of-factly it was like he was describing the sun coming up every day, a law of nature that couldn’t be changed. I resisted the immutability of his assertion; I believed Graham still had a moral compass that just needed to be realigned—despite all the evidence that kept proving Ethan was right.
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