* * *
Vanessa and I are inseparable. I take her everywhere with me. Which is how, two months after we met, we’re in Vegas—in town for the Consumer Electronics Show—drunk, and talking about getting married.
“How much do you love me?” she cooes, downing another glass of Champagne.
“More than anything,” I tell her, and I mean it. I’ve always been a fall-in-love-fast, love-at-first-sight kinda guy, but what I feel for Vanessa is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
“Enough to marry me?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She seems satisfied with my answer, which gives me the confidence to return the question. “Do you love me enough to marry me?”
She nods.
“If you would marry me right now,” I say, “I would marry you. You are everything I’ve ever wanted.”
She sets down her glass. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Next thing you know, we’re at the Silver Bell Wedding Chapel picking out a wedding package. It’s hokey and ridiculous. We’re an Elvis impersonator short of total Vegas cliché, and I can’t stop giggling.
“What’s so funny?” she says.
I tell her I’m just really happy.
The next morning, hungover and a little worse for wear, we’re back on a plane to L.A. We’re coming in for a landing, I can see the runway at LAX from my window, when Vanessa rests her head on my shoulder. “I can’t wait to tell all of our friends,” she says. “This is going to be so funny.”
“I know, right? No one is going to believe us.” As I’m picturing the looks on all of our friends’ faces, it occurs to me that we shouldn’t share news of the wedding with the fans. I’m afraid having a wife will be bad for my image, since my fan base is made up entirely of love-struck, fanatical teens.
“Oh, I’m totally fine with that,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like this is a real marriage, anyway.”
I turned to face her abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’re not really married.”
“Of course we’re really married. We got the license and everything.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like we’re going to live together or anything. We did it as a joke, right? For our friends?”
Her words take the wind out of me. I remembered, vaguely, laughing about how our friends would be shocked, but I didn’t think the entire marriage was a joke. I had meant it when I told her I loved her.
“We’ll keep dating and everything,” she continues, “but I’m not going to move in with you. We have to be practical. We’ve only known each other a few months.”
I thought it was a little late to be thinking practically. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, if you’re going to take this whole thing so seriously, maybe we should just get it annulled right now.”
I don’t want an annulment. So I agree, against my better judgment, to take things slow.
* * *
Back when all the bad press started, I had signed on to do a Disney movie. Image in trouble? Sign up to work with the Mouse. The film is called Exile—it’s loosely based on Lord of the Flies, and it’ll air on NBC’s The Wonderful World of Disney series, as an original Sunday-night movie. We’ll be shooting on the deserted side of Catalina Island, and I already know I’m not going to be able to find drugs there. I’ve only been doing heroin for a few months—Vanessa doesn’t even know about this yet—but my appetite has proved voracious; I’m already up to ten balloons a day. In order to make it through the one-week on-location shoot, I figure I’ve got to detox. So, I gather the strength to tell Vanessa that her young “husband,” if you can even call me that, has a secret heroin problem. She is livid, she feels duped, but she agrees to stick by me. Then, I have my cousin Michael and Tony Burnham sweep me off to the Pasadena Recovery Center. Tony is so worried about me he’s got tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you,” he keeps saying. “I’m afraid you’re going to kill yourself.”
I assure him that it’s not that bad, but this is just one more lie in a web I’ve built up around me. I had lied to Drew during the course of our entire romantic relationship—at fifteen, she’d already been in and out of rehab, twice, and had gotten herself sober, while I was off doing heroin and crack cocaine behind her back. I lied to Vanessa, let her get swept off her feet by a closet junkie. And I’d lied to the whole world by starring in 15 and Getting Straight, and preaching about the dangers of drugs. I was terrified of rehab, but I knew it was where I needed to be.
I think I lasted about ten hours.
Since the emancipation—even before that, really—I’ve surrounded myself with a surrogate family. Sure, many of them are molesters, abusers, and addicts themselves, but the result is that I’ve never, ever spent even one night alone. (At least, not one I can remember.) And now I’m in a hospital gown, hooked up to an IV, and I’m terrified. I can’t take it. I’m yanking IVs out of my arm and throwing a total, meltdown-style tantrum. I sign an involuntary discharge notice, and get myself back home.
Back on Picturesque Drive, Ron’s managed to score some Quaaludes. “We haven’t done these in forever, man. Not since the days with your dad.” Jon thinks the Quaaludes will be a great way for us to avoid doing heroin. I eat a few, and my body instantly turns to mush. I’m laying across the steps that descend to the sunken living room, too drugged up to really move. Somehow I manage to stumble into bed. An hour later, I wake up. Ron is at me, tugging on my pants.
“You motherfucker!” I lunge for him, but I’m so fucked up, I fall out of bed, flat on my face. I’m screaming at him, “If you ever come back here, you’re dead. I’ll kill you. I will fucking kill you!” I’m screaming at him from the floor.
Ron is finally gone for good. One week later, I get a call from the check-cashing place down the street. Ron had been stealing checks and passing himself off as me. Despite the theft and the betrayal, my cousin Michael remains friends with him. I can’t understand it, even though it’s the exact same situation with me and Corey Haim and Tony Burnham. I’m still friendly with Tony because I’m too screwed up to connect the dots, to make that mental leap.
I move into a three-bedroom apartment in Beverly Hills. Vanessa stays over often enough, but I can’t get her to move in with me. Therefore, I’m jealous, I accuse her of lying and cheating, I hear vague rumors about her dating other people, I’m convinced that she’s started a relationship with Prince. I somehow make it through Exile, but by the end I’m going into withdrawal cold turkey. I feel like I’m actually dying.
It’s a spectacular tailspin. I’m flaking on meetings right and left. I’m supposed to audition for Toy Soldiers, which will feature my friends and fellow costars Wil Wheaton, Keith Coogan, and Sean Astin, but I blow off the president of Island Pictures. On our second meeting, I flub all my lines. Vanessa and I are a mess; I’m lazy about hiding my habit, and she’s finding balloons shoved under the carpet and crack pipes half-buried in the trash.
By the time Rock ‘n’ Roll High School Forever comes around at the dawn of 1990—my first direct-to-video movie—I’m in a freefall. We’re on set one day when the first assistant director comes over and discretely tells me to wipe my nose, because I’ve got brown gunk leaking out of it. Instead of thanking him and taking care of the problem, I make a huge production. I spin an elaborate story about a blown tire, subsequent work on my car, and engine grease—it’s the engine grease that’s rubbed off on my nose—while the crew looks at me with disgust.
Soon, I’m running out of money. I’ve got a three-hundred-dollar-a-day heroin habit, and I’m spending money as fast as I make it. In lieu of cash, I start hawking my personal belongings to dealers on the street. Before I know it, I’m selling my CDs on a corner in exchange for crack rocks. Still, I haven’t hit bottom.
* * *
In another attempt to salvage an unsalvageable relationship, I decide to take Vanessa on a three-day trip to Big Bear; it’s a two- to three-hour drive up to San Bernardino County. Of
course, I’ll need enough heroin to get me through the long weekend, so I make another stop downtown on my way to some audition at 20th Century Fox. I’ve never had an official connection; I know the right streets, where to find the Mexican gangbangers I usually buy from. These guys keep balloons in their mouths so that if the police roll up, they can swallow them. I find my guy, and he spits out what I need. I buy twenty-five balloons, well over two grams in total.
On the way to the audition, I tear one open. The heroin tastes like cocoa powder, and I realize that I’ve been sold bunk. I’m on my way back downtown, in an attempt to haggle a trade, when I see an unmarked car flip its lights. I pull over and watch the uniformed officer approaching through my rearview mirror.
“Have you been drinking today?” he asks as he fingers my license and registration.
I’m actually genuinely surprised by the question. “No, sir.”
“Why is there an open bottle of alcohol in your car?”
I look over at the passenger seat. In the well, rolling around the floor, is a half-drunk bottle of tequila I hadn’t even realized was there.
“I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”
I’ve got twenty-five balloons of heroin stuffed into one of my socks, and I’m terrified. I take a seat on the curb and watch as a second officer opens my glove box and pulls out a joint. An open bottle and marijuana are already enough for an arrest, but they soon find a single balloon that’s fallen beneath the driver’s seat. Every other time I’ve dealt with the cops, I’ve managed to talk my way out of trouble. I’ve already avoided an arrest for possession, and even got one officer to return my confiscated weed. But these guys are loving it; they are reveling in the fact that I’m up against the wall and I can tell, no matter what, that I’m completely and totally fucked. Still, I’m not above begging.
“Please, sir. Give me a chance. This is going to ruin my career.”
“Your career?” he snorts. “What’s your career?”
“I’m an actor.”
“An actor? What movies have you been in?” Now he’s looking me up and down.
“Uh, The Goonies? I was in The Goonies.”
“The Goonies?” I think I recognize a flicker of recognition in his face. “Is that the one with a whole bunch of kids, and they ride around on their bikes and find a pirate ship or something like that?”
“Yep, that’s it,” I say. I feel something that’s not quite relief flood over my entire body. Maybe this is going to work.
“Never heard of it,” he deadpans. My stomach sinks right back down, so low it feels like it’s in my feet.
“What else?”
“Uh, Stand by Me?” I offer half-heartedly.
“Stand by Me … what’s that one about?”
“Four kids that go looking for a dead body? Please, sir, have some mercy on me.”
“Wait, is that the one with the kids walking along the railroad tracks? It was a Steven King book?”
“Yes!” I say.
“Never heard of that, either.”
I’m handcuffed now, sitting in the backseat of the unmarked squad car. There’s another guy back here with me, with a ratty beard and tattered clothes. He looks homeless. I watch as the cops continue searching my car, when the man turns to me and says, “Tough break, huh? Well, you gotta deal with it. You gotta pay the price.”
“I’ve got to get out of this,” I tell him. “This is going to ruin my life.”
I manage to lift my foot high enough so that, handcuffed, I can reach into my sock, retrieve the balloons, and shove them, one by one, behind the seat. “Please don’t tell,” I say to my companion.
“Don’t worry, man. No problem.”
When we pull into the station, I watch as the bearded man gets out of the car and whispers something in the officer’s ear.
“Really?” the officer says. “Thanks for the tip.” Then he turns to his partner. “Looks like we’re gonna hafta pull out the bench. Our friend here’s left us a little present.”
I’m booked on suspicion of possession with intent to sell, on account of the large amount of heroin I’d been carrying.
* * *
On the very same night, all the way on the opposite coast, somewhere down in Daytona Beach, Florida, another former child actor has gotten himself into trouble. Danny Bonaduce has been arrested for attempting to purchase cocaine, and the twin arrests explode in the press. By the time Vanessa bails me out, sometime after 4:00 A.M., I’m deep into withdrawals, scared shitless, and convinced that I’ve completely destroyed my career. I think about all the kids that watch my movies and think I’m somebody cool. I know I’ve let absolutely everyone down. I figure my friends will bail on me. I’m sure that Michael Jackson, with his still squeaky clean image, will never speak to me again.
I know I’m going to need some serious firepower in the courtroom. Dick Donner, in a spectacular display of compassion, hooks me up with a lawyer, Richard Hirsch, and even fronts me some money for my impending legal fees. Richard, in turn, introduces me to Bob Timmins, the drug counselor with a proven track record of helping downtrodden celebrities get themselves clean. Bob immediately sits me down and talks about getting me straight.
“The first thing we need to do is get you into rehab,” he says. “We need to prove that you’re taking this seriously and seeking treatment before the court demands it of you.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I tell him. “Just as long as it’s not a long-term thing.”
“You really need to be somewhere for something like six to nine months.”
“I can’t do that. I can kick this myself in three weeks.”
“You’ll have to go to AA.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine. But three weeks is the most I can do.”
Bob sets me up at Exodus, a private rehabilitation center in Marina Del Ray, but it’s like rehab for rock stars. Dave Navarro and Joseph Williams, the lead singer of Toto, are my two roommates. Down the hall is a girl I recognize from the cover of a Jane’s Addiction album; Perry Farrell is her boyfriend. I end up sending my cousin Michael out to score for me, but there’s nowhere in rehab where I can cook up the heroin in order to crush it. So, when Perry comes for a visit, he and Dave convince me to try it their way. Together, they proceed to shoot me up.
At the arraignment, I plead not guilty to two felony counts of possession with intent to sell; each carries a maximum penalty of up to four years in prison.
* * *
Funny thing about being an addict: when you finally get sober, when you feel clean and strong and something that seems awfully close to normal, you immediately begin contemplating the idea of partying again. Because you’re fine now, right? You just needed to get all that craziness out of your system. Now you can party responsibly. It’s the disease talking, but he sounds a lot like yourself.
My next project, which will film while I’m out on bail, is the exceedingly violent, action-adventure film Edge of Honor. We’ll be shooting in Washington state, and I’ll be reteamed with Meredith Salenger, but there’s no way anyone will insure me without a protective clause in my contract. I’ll be required to submit to regular drug tests; fail one, and the whole production will be shut down. It’s a lot of pressure, but I’m not being drug tested yet—shooting is still several weeks away—so I decide I’ll just smoke some weed, because this being-totally-sober thing, I know, is not going to work out for me. At the time, someone I’d met in rehab was trying to convince me to commit to long-term rehab instead of doing the movie.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m just smoking weed and drinking. I’ll be fine.”
“So, you’re just changing seats on the Titanic?” It’s a mantra that gets thrown around in rehabilitation circles all the time, a warning against the dangers of switching or substituting addictions, but I’d never heard it before. “Huh?” I ask, no doubt with plenty of attitude.
“You can fool yourself if you want, but the ship’s goin’ down either way.”
> “Listen,” I said. “I know myself. I got this. I’m cool.”
By the time I make it to Washington, I’m in full relapse, driving several hours to downtown Seattle to score crack rocks. I narrowly avoid another arrest (the cops pull up just as I’m approaching a possible dealer). Then, for some inexplicable reason, my mother decides to send my younger siblings on a plane, alone, to visit Vanessa and me. By now, my mother’s had another child with a different man; Brittnie is about three, Devin and Eden are ten and nine.
Vanessa and I are a wreck, fighting constantly, so I escape back downtown. A bum approaches me, asks me to rent him a hotel room; amazingly, I do. In exchange, he shoots me up. And this is the saddest moment of my life: I was three hours late getting to the airport, and now I’m driving my siblings around while I’m high on heroin. It occurs to me that I’m doing the same shit my mother used to do to me, I’m doing the same things I hated her for. And I hated myself, but I couldn’t stop.
Back in L.A., I do a few talk shows, try to convince everyone that I’m clean and sober, but then I’m right back downtown. I have almost no money, not enough for the two balloons of heroin and the crack rock I so desperately need, so I stiff a dealer. I drive off before he can see that I slipped him a five-dollar bill instead of a twenty. In the rearview mirror, I can see his friends gathering, emerging from back alleys and dark street corners, when suddenly the back window explodes. I look behind me—there’s a brick sitting in the middle of my backseat.
I’m at Vanessa’s apartment building, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, but she’s not letting me in. I don’t know if she’s out or if she’s hiding from me, but I’m sitting in a car with a shattered rear window when the cops roll up and ask me what I’m doing.
“I’m here to see my wife.”
There’s some concern that I’ve actually stolen the car in which I’m sitting, which of course I haven’t. I do have three outstanding traffic warrants, however. I’m arrested again, and the cops find three balloons of heroin in my shoe.
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