Needle Too: Junkies In Paradise Part 11

29.

Not long after my mother landed in Florida and the South began paying reparations for real-I suddenly found myself single, and rather than buy some time at a friend's house while waiting for the next insignificant relations.h.i.+p to develop, I decided I should finally strike out on my own, put on my big boy pants and get my own apartment. As luck would have it, two months later a coworker made me aware of a small, one-bedroom apartment that was immediately available in the Cape. It was $500 per month and for the first time in my life I was living alone, which at 33 years of age was extremely convenient for me not to mention Emily-my brand new, 18-year-old girlfriend.

I met Emily Marcott about a week after I moved into my new digs, which was located a few blocks away from a restaurant she tended bar in. Only a few months short of her 19th birthday with blond hair, blue eyes and a whole lot of beautiful she was 15 years my junior, and given her youth and immaturity there were obviously some lifestyle disparities between us-most notably was that she didn't smoke pot. But I couldn't hold that against her as she was hardly a puritan and though she didn't seem to have any pa.s.sionate feelings of any kind toward any drug, like so many others she was strangely intrigued by the fact that I'd been a dope fiend, or perhaps it was just my willingness to admit it.

"I could never do heroin," she told me one evening during our third week together, while we finished eating dinner at a local restaurant in the Cape.

"Good for you!" I said as I commended the tyke's ability to JUST SAY NO. "And now tell me, squirt-why's that?"

"My mother would be so disappointed in me!" said my underage girlfriend as she threw back a shot of Jack before following it up with a swig of Sam. "Wasn't yours?"

"First of all, I couldn't care less about what my mother thinks and secondly-I never told her."

"You were a heroin addict for all those years and your mother doesn't know?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like her and I'm not interested in her opinion," I explained.

"Oh, but I think secretly you are."

"Secretly I wanna throw her under a bus. Trust me, my mother's opinion has NEVER factored into ANY of my decisions-wholesome or otherwise," I said to the drunk teenager I was about to bed.

"That's unfortunate."

"By the way, what does your mother think of me?" I asked as I was wondering about the woman who was in her late-forties and about as hot as her daughter.

"Oh-she really likes you and she said she can totally see why I'm attracted to you," Emily said as I made a mental note for the next morally-bankrupt decision. "My stepfather's not so good with everything, but Momma's all that matters."

Indeed, Momma Marcott was all that mattered which was a good thing because Tom-Emily's stepfather-wasn't terribly thrilled by my relations.h.i.+p with Emily but then again, n.o.body seemed terribly thrilled with Tom. In fact, he was constantly at odds with Jon, Emily's 22-year-old brother, who was a talented musician in his own right. Incidentally, Jon and Emily shared an extraordinarily close bond and would soon become fixtures in my apartment, though Emily had yet to spend the night because of hercurfew.

Meanwhile, out in San Francisco, Perry was burning the candle at both ends as he spent his days pulling trees out of the mud, his nights waiting tables and the time between enjoying the nod he purchased in The Tenderloin on his way to work. Certainly, I'm not sure how after two heart surgeries and an ocean of antibiotics Perry would even consider doing heroin again, but there's always a reason for that one last drink, one last hit, one last hurrah and one last potentially fatal indiscretion. And making matters even worse, the black tar s.h.i.+t being sold in this seedy section of San Francisco was much dirtier than the powder being peddled in New York and couldn't even be snorted-not that Perry would ever consider such a thing.

30.

Toward the end of October I got a phone call from Perry and he told me to expect a present. He got it and sent it without asking because he knew I would want it-just like he would want it. Junkies are really easy to shop for.

The package was delivered to my doorstep at three in the afternoon on Halloween by someone dressed-up like a mailman.

Trick or treat.

I opened the box and in it was two CD jewel cases with an unmarked disc in each, and wedged between the plastic portions of each case was a little yellow balloon. There was also a note: Craig, Here's the software we discussed. There are two of them. Don't download both or you'll crash your computer.

-Perry I removed the heroin from one of the balloons and was surprised to find that "black tar" wasn't just a meaningless nickname because that's exactly what it looked like. Black tarwith the consistency of warm taffy.

By this point I hadn't had any heroin in four years, and as I stood on the precipice of something I'd managed to avoid since just prior to the birth of my daughter, I was about to take the plunge and nothing in the world would save me. Nothing could save me. I didn't even have to think about it because it was right there all along, just like I was right there all alongwaiting for it. Of course, I knew it was coming and now it was finally herewaiting for me. So there we were in the midst of the moment and there was no turning back because there was no desire to turn back. There was no fear and there were no doubts, just a little reflection. There were no hypocritical regrets or self-recriminations-just eager antic.i.p.ation. There were no sudden revelations or confessions of helplessness in the face of evil-just an extended, almost meditative pause to appreciate what I had on this fine Halloween afternoon: NO trick-ALL treat. I even had a set of works in that same old duffle bag I hadn't opened since departing Montauk in '98. Why I kept it at all I hadn't a conscious clue, but now it was right here along with the rest of us-waiting for the big revival. And the show was finally about to begin.

I grabbed the bag and immediately found the needle as if I'd packed it away only a moment before. I then took a spoon and placed the contents of one yellow balloon within it along with some water and began cooking black tar heroin as if I'd been doing it my entire life-though it dissolved much more rapidly than expected. And though it may have started off black, as the water bubbled the tar began to change in consistency and color and transform itself into a thick, brownish, oily pool sitting at the bottom of the spoon. I then stirred the syringe around in the spoon until the contents within it began to dissolve and resemble the color of tea, and as the needle sc.r.a.ped against the metal it gave me a chill. I then drew the narcotic into the delivery system and tapped a vein and just like a junky, not for a moment did I consider the damage I was doing to myself by putting a liquefied version of that sticky s.h.i.+t into my arm, through my veins and around my heart.

Perry was entirely correct and it was a good thing I took his advice and didn't load up on both balloons at once or I definitely would've killed myself. No question about it. Of course, I realized this fatal fact the moment I pulled the very first trigger, which makes it difficult to understand why I would immediately go on to cook-up the remaining balloon and then periodically stick myself over the course of a few hours while each succeeding dose brought me closer and closer to the point of no return. And after the last remaining bit was squeezed out of the syringe and into my arm I lost consciousness, though at some point I remember seeing Emily as she darted out of work and into my apartment to check on me because she somehow had some idea of what I was up to but didn't dare get in the way because 19-year-old girls don't tell 34-year-old boys what to do. And though the last remnants of a junky's wherewithal compelled me to dispose of the works, there was still a stream of evidence strewn about the apartment that left little doubt of my activities including b.l.o.o.d.y tissues, yellow rubber remains and a spoon with a used and abused cigarette filter stuck to it.

The following morning I woke up where I pa.s.sed out amidst the wreckage of a bad decision, though I'm certain it would've had fatal consequences had the total dope consumption been over the course of even a slightly shorter duration. Certainly, it's difficult to explain what I was thinking because it wasn't as if I'd lost track of what I was doing. In fact, it was quite the opposite because I was completely conscious and acutely aware of how much heroin I was administering with every last poke, but as utterly reckless as it was, my goal was to ultimately ascend to the highest possible height without slipping up and going over the edge-like a mountain climber might in the face of ever-thinning air and increasing light headedness. Of course, the mission was fatally flawed-as in this particular instance there can ultimately be no clear validation, certainty, or final summit ascended without paradoxically pus.h.i.+ng past the penultimate pinnacle and confirming the achievement with a fatality-which might have been my fate had I not run out of dope. Indeed, I could have easily gone over the edge without ever even knowing it.

Thankfully, at least, there was no ripple effect or risk of relapse after doing dope in Cape Coral simply because it was delivered by the Post Office. Of course, had I purchased the heroin in Southwest Florida-which by now appeared possible given the recent arrival of the area's first methadone clinic-things would have turned out decidedly different. Fortunately, however, I had no routine a.s.sociated with scoring in the Cape other than strolling over to the mailbox and of course-I had no control over that delivery system. Still, even though Perry would send me black tar on only three more occasions over the next few years, each time I would roam around the neighborhood like a rabid dog looking for the mailman-just like I used to roam around the East Village looking for the dealers. Of course, back when I was an addict, "recovery" or even abstention was never on the menu, and if it was it was usually a kneejerk reaction to avoid dopesickness. Now, however, things were different-or at least a little different as I knew with complete certainty that heroin could no longer have a place in my life. Obviously, though, especially at this particular point I still LOVED the thought of doing dope. And though in a thematic, general way Savannah's arrival secured my abstention from the drug, I also survived by crafting schemes to outsmart my addiction, one of which-of course-was moving to Florida in the first place. And now that I'd relocated to a place where I had no history of scoring from anyone other than the mailman, it was imperative that I keep my nose clean and not put myself in positions that might help initiate a regular routine-especially since heroin had now apparently made it into the area. So, from this point on I treated myself almost like you might treat a puppy or a child and simply refused to be in situations or with people that could eventually get me in trouble. And ideally, I would have at least conditionally ended my relations.h.i.+p with Perry or at the very least, been a better and more responsible friend by chastising him for buying the drug and forbidding him from ever sending it to me again. But that was complicated for a couple of reasons, one of which was because I loved him-and the other and equally important one was because he was my only connection to the drug. It was almost as if I simultaneously became two different individuals, each one bent on destroying the other.

31.

In early 2003 I left the multilevel marketing firm and accepted a position as a copywriter for a multilevel marketing software developer-and essentially went from one company that got rich exploiting poor people to another company that got rich helping other companies exploit poor people. And though I seemed to have effectively ended my career in the restaurant industry, most of my Florida friends hadn't and as a result babysitting help was always available for Savannah during the day while I was at work. Certainly, as a single father of a three-year-old with a 9 to 5 job this was an invaluable a.s.set that now permitted me the luxury of having Savannah visit for weeks as opposed to weekends which allowed us to bond, something I now look back on and appreciate more than ever.

It wasn't long before Emily a.s.sumed the babysitting role in its entirety, and Savannah loved every minute of it. Emily was much more of a girly-girl than Amy, and though she was only fifteen years older than the baby to whom she was playing make-believe-mommy, that put her right in line with a group of Cape Coral teenagers that were doing it for real. And, with maternal cravings of her own to contend with she played the part so convincingly she often found herself fielding questions about subjects she wasn't prepared for-like breastfeeding, burping and algebra. Jon, Emily's brother, and I also became close and shared a relations.h.i.+p that was mostly grounded in the musical aspirations he was consumed by and inexorably committed to. I admired that. I think it takes b.a.l.l.s to do it that way-not the way I did it like a coward hiding behind a degree certificate that hung upside-down over the toilet. Unlike yours truly, Jon was truly a committed artist without an exit strategy. He got right down to business by honing his craft in a mostly inconspicuous way-not at all like a wannabe-rocker might with egocentric ads announcing auditions for the greatest band in the world that n.o.body cared about. Instead, Jon bought vintage recording equipment and wrote and produced songs while perfecting his craft for the sake of his art without seeming interested in the attention and adoration that too many musicians are obsessed with and driven by.

I believe part of what drove Jon's music was a consuming but reserved sensitivity, which I think also complemented and enhanced the depth of his relations.h.i.+p with Emily, who was much more bold and boisterous. As a result, there was almost a ying and yang component to their relations.h.i.+p and the closeness of that bond was clear beyond words-except when they were smacking the s.h.i.+t out of each other. In fact, they even looked alike-or at least that's what Emily thought-and just as I couldn't relate in a personal way to the deep affection she had for her mother, the remarkable bond she shared with her sibling was a mystery as well.

Although Jon was actually a better guitar player than I, his singing was suspect mainly because his voice was a little meek. He needed to come out of his sh.e.l.l a bit and learn to belt it out and I tried to help him with that. But I think the most valuable service I provided was some tough love concerning matters of creative license, especially when he began discussing plans of generating a buzz by simply recording his songs with the bare accompaniment of a single acoustic guitar.

"Why is that a waste of time?" he asked as he seemed somewhat offended by my blatant party-p.o.o.ping.

"Well, it isn't really," I told him. "But I think at this point you have to stick to the formula a little more."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you can't come out of the clear blue with a relatively abstract thing like that and expect a lot of people to give you their attention. You have to seize their attention. You have to put something together with broad appeal that cuts as wide a swath as possible."

"Chris Cornell just released a collection of acoustic s.h.i.+t," he said in defense of his plans.

"You're not Chris Cornell."

Uh-oh. I hurt his feelings.

"He's dealing with a different set of circ.u.mstances," I said as I went into damage control. "I mean, at this point in his career, if Chris Cornell puts a little distortion on his farts he changes lives and makes millions. You don't have that luxuryat least not yet."

Just then Emily stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body and another around her head.

"Oh G.o.d-you two really do look alike," I said and that was definitely the wrong time to agree with her.

Observations aside, I should have also been more tactful with my advice to Jon. Although my comments were made with the best of intentions, I'd forgotten that he was a really sensitive and mild-mannered sort-especially when he wasn't swatting Emily in the head.

At the end of February I set out on my bi-weekly coast to coast trek to pick up Savannah, and Emily and Jon decided to join me.

"You wanna little Xanax for the ride?" he asked me as we began the grueling, six-hour, roundtrip road-odyssey. "It'll help you relax."

"It'll help me drive off the road."

Actually, I had no interest in Xanax because it only made me tired and never filled the void, though it took a long time and a s.h.i.+tload of Xanax to finally realize that. Jon, however, would occasionally use the drug in small doses to reduce a kind of chronic anxiety.

When we arrived in Jupiter and Amy stepped out of her house she noticed Emily in the pa.s.senger seat and trouble was on the horizon. And though at this point Amy must have heard something about Emily from Savannah, when she actually saw how young and beautiful she was I believe it changed the game even further and actually ratcheted-up the tension a bit. Not surprisingly, within a few weeks Amy wanted an increase in child support and until she received it I'd be prevented from seeing my kid.

32.

By the beginning of March Jon suddenly needed to become my roommate, and even though Amy was now receiving substantially more in child support I decided against asking him for rent. Tom, pleasant as ever, had been ha.s.sling him relentlessly about a bunch of stupid bulls.h.i.+t and when I heard about it I told him to come on over. A few hours later he showed up at my apartment and as a token of his appreciation he bought me a lamp-which would only help illuminate the fact that most of my visitors were now between 18 and 22 years of age.

One concession I did receive with respect to the new support order was a reduction in travel distance when picking up and returning Savannah, as Amy would now have to meet me halfway-though she soon decided the midway meeting point would be 30 miles closer to her own residence. Nonetheless, it was better than nothing as it shortened the roundtrip trek, and when Jon came along for the first of these abridged journeys it literally flew right by, especially because he was so good at humoring Savannah.

"What's that?" he asked her as I drove west on Palm Beach Boulevard.

"It's a magic stone!" Savannah said with wonder in her eyes as they lit up and she held out a rock she found in the fast food parking lot of the original midway meeting point in Belle Glade. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yeah, Savannah-it sure is!" Jon said with feigned but convincing excitement as he took the special stone between his fingertips and gazed at it-just before chucking it the f.u.c.k out the window.

At first my protective, parental, instinct kicked in and I wanted to punch Jon in the face, but then I looked into Savannah's eyes and saw profound sadness quickly transform itself into heat-seeking vengeance as daddy's little girl made plans for the future. But certainly we'd soon learn that all Jon would have to do to get back in the four-year-old's good graces was grab his guitar and sing a song-any song-and periodically insert Savannah's name in the chorus as the toddler turned to mush.

So, on most days during that month of March I would set out to work for a company that helped pyramid schemes more cost-effectively enable a few at the top to exploit so many below, and then return home to my apartment where on some evenings Emily, Jon, and Savannah were watching television and awaiting my arrivaland that was the closest thing to a family I've ever known. Of course, the family vibe was periodically intruded upon by my mother when I occasionally felt some vague obligation to share Savannah with her.

"You better break her of that," she barked at me in the checkout line at Target as Savannah-with remarkably poor timing-was in the midst of throwing her one and only temper tantrum over a big, gaudy, expensive, Dr. Seuss wall-clock that I would've gotten for her but simply couldn't afford.

"What?" I said as I was trying desperately but failing miserably to calm my daughter while also teaching her an important life-lesson, namely-not to embarra.s.s the s.h.i.+t out of me in front of her f.u.c.ked-up grandmother.

"That's no way to behave in a department store."

"You're right. Why don't you grab a hammer from Hardware and set her straight?"

In what was clearly one of the most awkward and exasperating moments of my life with my mother at one end, Savannah at the other and neither one of them relenting-I was on the brink of tears.

"Savannah-Daddy really needs you to be a good little girl right now and I'll have a surprise for you when we get home, okay?" I pleaded with her but she refused to take the bait or cut me any slack, much like her grandmother who continued dispensing parental advice: "If you don't nip that one in the bud she's gonna be impossible when she's older."

"Should I just beat the c.r.a.p out of her? Huh? Like you would've?"

"I would never have done that!"

"Yeah, you're right-you would've waited until we got home," I said as my daughter let out a brain-shattering shriek. "Come on, Savannah. Let's get out of here before this b.i.t.c.h starts making sense."

I left my mother standing in Target and called home to make sure everyone was aware of our sooner than expected arrival, and the moment Savannah and I got in the car and away from that stupid clock the tears subsided, the sun came out and all was well in Whoville without having to nip anything in the bud. But just to be on the safe side, the moment we returned to the Cape and stepped into my apartment Jon was at the ready with guitar in hand as he immediately broke into: Oh Sa-van-nah,

Oh don't you cry for me-

For I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee

Generally speaking, this was a good time in my life as it wasn't at all uncommon for me to have Savannah for weeks at a time while there were so many people in my immediate circle that were ready, willing and eager to a.s.sume babysitting responsibilities if necessary. Whether it was Jon, Emily, Emily's hot mom or one of my restaurant friends, each morning as I headed out for work and temporarily left her in the capable hands of someone who really loved her, I thought about the future and began to realize the only way I'd be able to provide my daughter with the things I had as a child-other than the beatings, b.u.mps and bruises-was by owning a business. And fortunately, I was lucky enough to have gleaned a few legitimate Internet business strategies while working for Willie Whitman that I thought might help me pull something out of my a.s.s. As a matter of fact, right after Savannah returned to Jupiter in March, Martin Ehrhard-a website developer and former a.s.sociate who'd enjoyed some success selling auto parts online-decided to join forces with me and build a career advancement website that, among other things, would provide jobseekers with free resume templates to download and along the way, produce some advertising revenue for its owners.

Each morning at the crack of dawn and then again after work until around midnight, I sat at the computer for hours creating a variety of resumes to serve the needs of virtually any jobseeker, ranging from recent high school and college graduates to seasoned, corporate executives. It was a grueling and excruciatingly boring task and by April, after about a month of hijacking job histories from client resumes lingering on my laptop since a stint in the career advancement industry, I had over a thousand different resumes available to download and use as a starting point to launch virtually any job-hunting campaign.

"What are you gonna be doing tonight?" Jon asked me early one Friday morning as I was about to be finished with yet another, brutal, resume-writing session.

"Resumes," I said as if by this point I even needed to.

"Again?"

"Always."

"I think you could use a break, you know-it's the weekend," Jon said even though he'd be working through most of it as he tossed me a little Ziploc bag containing four Xanax that were shaped like tiny blue footb.a.l.l.s along with eight large and elongated yellow pills. "The Xanax are mine."

"What are the yellow things?"

"Perc-10's.

"What are Perc-10's?"