BURNED - Living Through the 80s and 90s as a Rock Guitarist

by Bobby DeVito

  The next morning, still drunk and hung over, we went to City Hall, where we filled out the paperwork, did the proper blood tests, and were man and wife within a matter of hours. Georgia doesn’t have a mandatory waiting period, and maybe they should.

  Arriving back in Tampa after our drunken whirlwind romance and quickie marriage, we pulled into my parent’s driveway, and stumbled in for cake and coffee. My parents had not met Jen previously, and were obviously not too impressed. They asked how our little trip had been, and I said casually “Oh, Savannah was great, we ate in some great places, did some drinking, and got married. Mom, can you pass the creamer?” My father stared blankly towards his coffee cup as my mother rose up from her seat. Shaking, she hit the table with her hand and said “She’s a WHORE” and walked away from the table. I think at this point the only thing I could possibly do to shock my poor parents would be to come home as a gay man, or marry a black woman. I should just go all the way and start dating a gay black man.

  After this family debacle, Jen still had to go home to Rob, explain to him that he would have to move out because she had suddenly married another man while she was away. And that she was married to Bobby DeVito. It was an instant scandal in the small Ybor City community. Jen was the “Scarlet Woman”, and I was the cuckolding rock star. When we finally re-entered the James Joyce as man and wife, the staff and employees clapped…more than likely out of sympathy.

  Sympathy and Empathy are two completely different things, and my father has spent many years explaining them for some reason. So when Bob Uzzo does the same thing with guilt and shame, it sounds like a familiar fatherly riff to me. Guilt, Bob repeats over and over “is the feeling that I made a mistake”. Shame, he counters, “is the feeling I AM a mistake”. At this point, I feel like both sides of the equation.

  The first few months with Jen were tumultuous, crazy days filled with all sorts of drama from all sides. We initially lived in a cheap weekly hotel on Nebraska Avenue, waiting for Rob to move out of the house. To his credit, he made little fuss about it all, and didn’t hassle me. I’m sure he wanted to kick my ass, and I deserved it, which was even worse. Jen and I moved into the house, and nearly immediately her sister Juliet moved in as a room mate. From the very beginning, neither Jen nor I were good partners to each other. She was overly domestic in a stern, German way that was slightly pathological. It contrasted sharply to the whiskey drinking poet that I used to hang out with. And within those first couple of months, it was already apparent to me that I had ONCE AGAIN screwed up and married someone, and this one only lasted a matter of weeks! I had once again broken my record of the shortest marriage, and this time there was an added surprise – Jen was pregnant.

  This news came as a heavy blow. I had already started to avoid coming home, as I didn’t want to be in the house with Jen. I would sneak out at all hours of the night, cruising the Tampa streets looking for drugs. I would hang out in seedy bars to avoid seeing any of my friends, and would spend entire evenings just parked down by the Hillsboro River, getting high and drinking beer in my car, anything but going home to reality. I would do my gig, get my money, head straight to the ‘hood in South Tampa. They have it down to a science down there. You stop at the Texaco and get some gas, go into the convenience store and buy yourself a “rose”. It’s a little fake rose shoved in a long clear piece of glass piping. I have never actually known anyone who has given one of these to a paramour, but they sure make good crack pipes. You go to the shelf and buy some “Chore Boy” steel wool, pay for your gas, and you’re almost set. As you pump the gas, the young dudes on bikes approach and ask for your order. You tell them “$50”, and within seconds the deal is done, and you drive off with your little glass “rose”, a couple of rock, some chore boy, and of course the two 40s of malt liquor you picked up at the store. It truly is alcoholic/addict one stop shopping.

  Jen had started getting wise to my behavior. We had grown apart so incredibly quickly, and were basically co-existing together. I rarely came home before daylight, and if I did I would sneak out again. I felt trapped there because she was pregnant with our child, and I didn’t know what to do. Getting drunk, getting high, and driving miles and miles around Tampa seemed my only option. By this point, nearly all of my family and friends had written me off. I had begged, borrowed, and nearly stolen from all of them. All of my equipment was gone, except for one guitar. I had a moment of clarity that revealed exactly where I was heading. My last gig in Ybor City was at a friend’s restaurant/bar. Josh and Christina were a joyful happy hippy couple who made the best pizza in Ybor City, and had a 50s era diner theme joint right on 7th Avenue. The pair were a part of the inner circle at the James Joyce, and had booked me to play at their place a few times in the past. My performances at this point were becoming legendary – that is, people would come to see if I could remember the lyrics, or if I could manage to play. Josh tells me that this last night, I would play half a song, then stop, light cigarettes, talk to the audience about how bad my life was, start another song, droning on and on for my set. He said I was the only person he had ever heard who managed to make Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” sound sad. I take that as a compliment, actually. I hate that fucking song. It sure has made me some tip money though – thanks Van! I owe you a pint.

  After my gig that night, I quickly got paid, and promptly left the club, leaving behind my guitar, which was VERY odd behavior for me. In all my years of being a professional musician, I have never had a guitar stolen or lost, because I ALWAYS had them with me. I sometimes slept with my Jackson guitars in the 80s, I loved those things. I left the bar and headed west towards downtown Tampa. I walked all the way to the “hood”, at 2 am in the morning, where white people fear to tread. I should have been robbed and beaten, but I guess they just had mercy on me. I spent nearly all the money I had made on some crack cocaine, and headed to the local convenience store – you know the ritual – glass “rose”, Chore Boy, 40 oz Malt Liquor. I ended up behind a burned-out building on Nebraska Avenue, sitting there slumped against the Ybor City red brick wall of the destroyed structure. I had smoked all of the crack, and had drank the beer. I sat there looking at myself in amazement. I had pissed my pants, and reeked of cheap beer and the fake plastic burnt smell of crack. My face was covered in ash, from wiping my face with my fingers while smoking. I could barely stand up, and I was literally on the street.

  The next day, after managing to trudge all the way home on foot, I put a call back in to Terry at MAP. He wasn’t surprised to get my call, and was actually receptive to talking with me. I explained to him that I really realized that I had screwed up, that I had pissed on all his work with me, and that he was right about Mike. But as usual, I had to find that out by myself. Terry said he would talk to the other at MAP, and see what he could do. I was really starting to white-knuckle it again. Living with Jen was intolerable, and I felt like I was going to either end up in jail or killing myself at the rate I was going. Something had to be done, and I was really willing to listen this time. Maybe they were all right – I was indeed an alcoholic. I think many drug addicts initially reject the concept that they are alcoholics. I never did ANY of the typical things that we commonly associate with alcoholic behavior, things I saw my grandfather do like waking up with the shakes, drinking for weeks straight, pissing in the corner, etc. I had no DUI violations, and had not ever been arrested.

  Terry called me later that evening with the news – MAP would send me to a new facility they were using called “Sobrenity” in Ft Lauderdale. I was skeptical, as I wanted to go back to LA to get as far away from Jen as possible. But Terry insisted that this was my only option, and mentioned that the leader of this facility had done some amazing work over the years, including helping Trent Reznor get clean. I figured this was probably the guy I needed too, and agreed to go back into treatment. I called my friend Curtis, packed the bare essentials, and left Jen a note saying I was going to “band practice”. Unknown to her, it would be a three month ba
nd practice. Curtis showed up in his little Honda, we threw my guitar and suitcase into the back, and headed to the bus station. My sister had paid for the ticket, God bless her. I was dropped off unceremoniously at the bus station in downtown Tampa, and everyone was rid of me for a while. This time, it was evident to everyone, including me, that I had a major drug problem. Sitting there alone in the bus station, I realized that I had absolutely no money and no food, and only a half a pack of cigarettes left. No one trusted me enough to even give me pocket money for the journey on the bus. And I hate bus rides. This one was even worse, as various passengers tried to interact with me during the journey as I was going through withdrawals from alcohol and drugs. On one stop, I tried to do some “dumpster diving” behind a Burger King, but they had a locking dumpster and I couldn’t get in it. Bastards.

  CHAPTer SeVen

  ForT LiQuordALe

  Arriving in Ft Lauderdale, I was there in the dingy bus station I had seen already in several episodes of “Cops”. This place has a yellowed linoleum floor with that metal 60s floorboard trim you just don’t see anymore most places in sunny south Florida, except the Ft Lauderdale Bus Station. I had enough change to make several phone calls, luckily, and I tried to call my “handler” from MAP, some guy named “Chris”. I had taken this journey on faith, and I thought I would be taken care of once I arrived, like had happened in LA. I was wrong. There was no one to pick me up when I arrived, and after several angry voicemails to this Chris character, I finally got a call back on the pay phone. Chris Brekka was the South Florida contact for the MAP program, and was pissed off to be talking to me at 3 am.

  “Well, you’re just going to have to get there yourself ” growled an irate Brekka. I tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t getting out of bed, and I had no money for a cab or even bus fare IF the buses were running. So, getting the address for Sobrenity, I slammed the phone down thanking Chris for nothing. Here I was, still in detox, with my stuff and a $2,000 guitar, in the downtown bus station in Ft Lauderdale at 3 am. It was SKETCHY.

  I trudged up Sunrise Blvd, heading for 15th Ave. I realized the sheer irony of the moment as I walked by the Rolls Royce Dealership. This part of Ft Lauderdale is a weird mix of ghetto housing, crackheads, and hookers, and also luxury car dealers and huge yacht sales. As I walked up the street, I was propositioned several times with drivers thinking I was a male prostitute. I forged on, finally reaching Holiday Park. I knew of this area because of the great bass player Jaco Pastorious. Jaco had been considered the “Jimi Hendrix” of the electric bass, and I had had a brief encounter with his bass madness back in the early 80s at an X-Statics gig. Jaco was a legendary alcoholic and drug addict, and at the end of his life was actually living in Holiday Park behind the public library. Sobrenity was located down the street from this area, and I managed to make it to the correct address, or so I thought. I laid down and rested my head on my suitcase, while lying on the brick entranceway and waiting daybreak. I laid there for a couple of hours, smoking cigarette butts I had saved. Finally, the door behind me opened, shocking me awake and upright. The obviously surprised elderly man looked at me and said “Who the hell are you?” I told him my name, and that I was coming to Sobrenity. He didn’t know what that was, and asked me the address. I was one number off – Sobrenity was across the street. So, I gather my things and slink across the street, apologizing profusely. As the sun rises, I am sleeping in front of Sobrenity in a beach chair that I found leaned up against the front wall. Suddenly, just as it seemed I had gotten off to sleep, the lawn sprinklers started spraying me with the most foul smelling sulfur water I have ever experienced. Welcome to Sobrenity.

  As I sat there soaked in sulfur-scented groundwater while lying outside on a beach chair, I had to laugh. I had still kept my sense of humor if I had lost nearly everything else.

  Finally around 8 am a woman looked outside of the gate and saw me out there in the parking lot. She opened the gate and allowed me in. Her name was Sharon, and she was Bob’s partner at Sobrenity. Sharon was a beautiful woman, late 40s, a bit plump, but with beautiful hair and deep brown eyes. She was an RN, and was usually the “good cop’ to Bob Uzzo’s “bad cop”. As I stumbled into the compound with my luggage and guitar case, I was a bit taken aback. Unlike the drab surroundings at Daniel Freeman Hospital, this place was more like a small luxury resort. Ten rooms surrounded a beautiful tropical gardens and pool, with lush foliage and other typical Florida accoutrements. Sharon ushered me to my room, and told me to wait for Bob. I was completely exhausted at this point, barely able to even stay awake, with no cigarettes, no money, and little hope.

  Bob finally entered my room about an hour later. I had curled up on the couch in my room, fading in and out of light sleep. Bob was a late 50s Sicilian guy, and ex-drug smuggler who used to move kilos of cocaine from Miami to Brooklyn in the late 70s. He still had a bit of that gangster edge to him, with piercing eyes and a hearty “been there done that” laugh. He had me fill out some initial paperwork as my stay at Sobrenity officially began. As I took a look around me, I tried to process just want had happened in the last few months. Somehow, I had managed to fall off the wagon with both drugs and alcohol, and also had married and gotten pregnant a woman that I could barely stand to be around. And here I was back in another rehab. I was becoming a “frequent flier”. And they don’t give out points for that distinction.

  Bob was nearly always escorted by his best friend – a huge 140 lb wolf/ husky hybrid named “Capo”. This dog was an amazing beast, with bright blue eyes and big white teeth. Capo guarded our little sanctuary at Sobrenity, and seemed to tolerate the inmates pretty well once he got to know them. I have been around more than my share of large dogs, but it took me a while to get used to Capo. Besides, this dog was half wolf, and I was leery of being around him when Bob was not around. After I was finished with my entry paperwork, Bob and I sat outside and had a cigarette with Capo. He advised me that I did not have to participate in group activities for the next few days until I was stabilized. Sobrenity was not a detox, and most clients that came there had already been to some sort of detox facility or hospital. I had merely come on a Greyhound bus, but had luckily not driven myself over the edge where I would have required medical attention for my detox and withdrawals. It was just another week of white-knuckling my way back to some sort of normalcy. I knew that I was incredibly lucky to be here, and that Terry at MAP had gone out on a limb to get me to this point. I knew that I would not repeat the same behavior that had occurred in Los Angeles, and resigned myself to three months of being locked up at Sobrenity.

  At first, I was lucky in that I was alone in my room. Most of the clients at Sobrenity had to share their rooms with at least one other person. I was staying in the “Darryl Strawberry Suite”, the room that the exbaseball hero and noted crackhead had resided in during his recent stay at the facility. The room was sparsely decorated, with a small kitchen and a 19” color hotel TV that was usually on. Tile floors and miniblinds rounded out the place, and I basically relaxed and crashed out for a couple of days. Bob was very concerned about me, and brought me some food to eat and gave me a pack of his generic cigarettes. Why do people, especially people who can afford anything they want, smoke those generic cigarettes? If I’m going to kill myself with cancer, it might as well be with a name brand.

  At that time, it was the beginning of summer. Two days after I had arrived, Bob came to my room to let me know it was time for me to join “the group”. I had seen several people meander by my room trying to get a look at me since I had arrived. It was time in Ft Lauderdale for the annual Air & Sea Show, a large showing of all sorts of military might that draws hundreds of thousands of people to see the latest fighter planes and the typical hot dogs like the Blue Angels and the Thunderbirds in action. Bob was a firm believer in going to the beach, much like other lifer Northeasterners who move to Florida in search of the endless summer. Bob’s skin had already started to get that leathery look that only comes from prolonged
exposure to the incendiary Florida sun. So luckily I had managed to pack some shorts in my bag, and got suited up to go to the beach. It was a brutally sunny day and I was sans sunscreen, so I got a healthy sunburn that day that tormented me for days afterward. Watching the Stealth Bomber fly overhead was almost worth the pain, however. The members of the group were cautious, but nice to me that day. There were three other women and four other guys at that time. Bob is a very smart guy when it comes to working with people, and he knows to keep that number as low as possible. There are surely some “assembly line” rehabs out there that are just going through the motions and raking in all that insurance company cash. Seriously, the typical 30 day detox and rehab could potentially cost $50,000! Add in the aftercare of a residential program or reputable halfway house, and for 6 months you could tack on another $25,000 or more. And to do a complete year program (which many addiction experts say is the best chance for long term recovery), I have known personally many families who have danced to the tune of over $100,000! Rehab is big business.

  But I trusted Bob for many reasons. He was a real guy, a former drug runner, and 100% Sicilian. There was good reason why his dog was named Capo. He didn’t charge nearly as much as he could have, and kept his client roster low so that each person could receive enough personal attention. Bob has his own flavor of recovery, which he calls “Reality Therapy”. Bob is a stone-cold realist who took liberally from AA and NA literature, alongside his training and education from the groundbreaking recovery center Hazelden. And Bob had BEEN an addict for years and years. I know that I always related better to someone who had been there, and I noticed the same inclinations in most of the others around me. Like attracts like, I suppose. I’m sure that Sobrenity was profitable, but Bob wasn’t exactly driving a new Jaguar or anything. He called me to his office for a private meeting the day after the Air & Sea Show.