A Decade Under the Influence
December 21, 2013
The snow came down in a maddening haste and I was scared I wouldn’t be able to drive afterwards, for I've done opiates before, but never the brown stuff. It was already dark and the road was certain to get worse. It’s the same, but more intense, he said in my passenger seat. I had an idea what to expect from past experiences with similar stuff, but I couldn’t be sure. The CD was Disclosure’s 2013 opus Settle, and he took the jewel case and broke out lines on the faces of the young boys gracing the cover. It was freezing, but I was kept insulated by the wad of cash in my back pocket and the Toyota’s musky heat blasting in our faces. It was my dad’s car and he let me borrow it. Our families still loved us. He turned the heat off to make sure the beige powder didn’t blow off the hard plastic. He kissed me. We consumed it all and walked into the mall holding hands. We Christmas shopped, whimsically, amongst the holiday cheer, for our beloved friends and family. I got my mother a white infinity scarf. I wrapped it a day later. Three days after that, it was wrapped around her. He loved it. We were warm and spoiled from the inside out. Life was a gift.
August 20th, 2016
I woke up late, bewildered, in a stupor after giving the morning away to last night. I thought I had a fix for work, but no matter what pillow I looked under, what floorboard I moved, what vinyl sleeve I looked in, I couldn’t find the unwrapped glycine bag anywhere. I was living with my mom, and she knocked on the door with a cup of coffee and made sure I was ready to go to work at a job she got me through a friend of hers who pitied me. I was up, frenzied, not needing coffee. I didn’t have a fix so I couldn’t eat breakfast and the landscaping truck was beeping its horn outside her apartment before I could locate it. I had no choice but to grab my water and leave, leading my mom to think all was well.
The scorching sun beat down on my bare neck, relentless in its intensity, as I toiled away at the summer job that provided me with meager cash and no sense of purpose. By 9 am it must have been a hundred degrees and I was already drenched in sweat. In between customers, Jeff—the driver, the boss, and chemtrail connoisseur played Alex Jones over the truck's airwaves and told me about the evils of George Soros. But overall, he was a nice enough guy for someone who often said shit like, “The slaves didn’t have it as bad as they say.”
We mowed lawns from 7-3:30, Monday to Friday. I was in charge of the weedwhacker. I usually tried, I really did, but that day in particular, I did an exceptionally poor job. I even masturbated into someone's shrubs to temporarily remove myself from the sickness. A magical 45 seconds. I came with enough velocity to chip the wooden fence. When I did the shivers returned, post-nut clarity came on and I entered a dark despair about how pathetic I was and longed for the day's end. I was a sucker with no self-esteem. I tried not to show how I was feeling on my face. Most of the long-term effects of addiction, even though I was in it a while now, rehab trips, court appearances and all, hadn’t yet manifested itself in the gums of my mouth, the color of my teeth, the pores of my skin. Somehow, still, I possessed the deceptive ability to scrub away the grime and present a facade of cleanliness to the unsuspecting world when the situation called for it. People still touched me, thought of me as normal at first glance, but I no longer showed up for life before drugs—those tables had turned. At the end of the day, like every day, Jeff dropped me back off. I had to wait to be paid cash before leaving, so I was in passenger seat prison, listening to his soliloquy about the mainstream media until the sun dipped below the pine trees and it started to get dark. He finally unlocked the door and paid me, for what seemed like both working and listening, and I shook his hand thank you. He loved a stern handshake.
My mom wasn’t home when I opened the door to run in, water my face and change clothes, and score. I opened my laptop before I hit the highway and was instantly in awe. I absorbed the news flashing across my laptop screen—the triumphant return of Frank Ocean, heralded by the long-awaited release of his second album. Four years of frustration and anticipation, a time shrouded in enigmatic silence and cryptic remarks, all evaporated in an instant. Blonde was here. Gay black Jesus had risen from artistic purgatory, bestowing upon us a gift. The 1,500-day wait was finally over.
I thought I would be doing the universe a great disservice if I played the album before getting high, something like blasphemy. I called my probation officer, who I was supposed to see at 5:30, and told him I had to reschedule on account of work. I was caught for petty possession a few times by this point, but nothing serious. I was, somehow, never arrested for anything I'd call serious. I shot up the parkway blasting TLOP from my Camry’s muffled speakers, got off at exit 142, saw The Man on the side of Broome St., and sped back home weaving through traffic. My mom was back and making dinner that smelled like childhood when I re-entered. We both said we had good days. I went into my room and in a great ceremony, I lit a candle, snorted the drugs off my favorite surface, put on my headphones, pressed play, and closed my eyes. With each note, each lyric, I traversed the vast expanse of my subconscious—a journey guided by the melodic musings of a modern-day genius. The sunset through my bedroom window wandered through every shade of red. As the discordant noise of ‘Futura Free’ faded into the ether, I emerged from my reverie, the spell of enchantment broken by the call of dinner. I was an addict, but my life, devoid of ambition, stuck in a blissful paralysis—in its total encapsulation—still felt like a picture of a sunny day.
October 12, 2014
Fourth of July weekend was a bartender's Christmas if you had a water side spot to sling drinks from. That summer, by some miracle, I managed to snag a few shifts behind the bar at Charley’s Ocean Grille. It was a spectacle unlike any I had witnessed in my years in the serving industry. Cash flowed like the Delaware river, patrons chucking money, drunk on patriotism and Budweiser. As the third and final night of the festivities drew to a close, and we finished cleaning the bar one last time, the staff and I gathered to raise our glasses to toast a job well done. I ended up getting drunk. With a flourish of irrational determination fueled by alcohol-induced sentimentality, I purchased two tickets to the upcoming Fleetwood Mac reunion tour, slated for October, as a gift for my mother's 50th birthday. It was a gesture of contrition, a small attempt to assuage the guilt that weighed heavy in my hands as I held the wash of cash. It was only four days ago I wrote bad checks in her name.
When the day of the show arrived, months later, my condition had worsened, but somehow, I held onto the tickets. Telling her ahead of time, forgoing the idea of a surprise, gave me an extra layer of accountability from selling the tickets when my money ran low. It also made for an easier summer where a little less prodding into my pinned-out eyes was always appreciated. Waking up on the morning of the concert, I found myself out of drugs and bogged down in muck. My car was in the shop, leaving me stranded without wheels. My parents staunchly opposed the idea of lending me one of their vehicles for what they deemed an unnecessary excursion on a weekday morning. I forget what I lied about saying I had to do. I rushed it, it was a shitty lie, I remember that, but I was afraid if I waited too long, they’d tell me it was too close to the concert time to go anywhere. Either way, I got a no and found myself at an agonizing impasse.
I was ten months deep into my opioid odyssey. I was mentally addicted, severely, my thoughts consumed from sunrise to sunset. Yet physically, I remained unscathed, the full weight of the diseases’ physicality yet to manifest beneath my skin, in the calcium of the bones it would soon call home. I was so mentally obsessed I convinced myself I was sick when I wasn’t, and my mind began playing tricks on me I couldn’t handle. It was a battleground of deception and obsession and I just kept numbing the feelings until it was too late to change my ways. With age comes a certain resignation, a cynical acceptance of the agony inflicted, as if you're deserving of the sickness. But in youth, the early years, the honeymoon prevails, innocence prevails, shielding us from any culpability. The result? A relentless mindfuck too intense for an immature boy to handle.
The day bounced around in my head and off the walls and I never felt comfortable in my skin knowing I wasn’t going to be able to make it to Newark, before making it to Newark for the concert. Yes, the show was at the Prudential Center, New Jersey's biggest arena, which happens to be only four measly blocks from my favorite drug depot. Advantageous location aside, navigating this would require a miracle. I had to orchestrate a brief escape, score and return to the show—all while ensuring I didn't embarrass my mother in front of her three friends who were tagging along.
I was furious I couldn’t get The Man to meet me at the Prudential Center. Dealers operated within the safety of their compound, always avoiding the risks of public transactions. My request was an unreasonable one, but one that left me fuming nevertheless as I rode the train up to Newark listening to my mom and her three friends laughing between sips of canned chardonnay. I retreated to the train's bathroom, where I took a puff of my inhaler to soothe my inflamed asthma that had been aggravated by the changing seasons and my rising anxiety.
As we exited the platform, a sinking realization hit me: I couldn't escape. I had to take this one on the chin, for my mother. For all the bad checks and bullshit, I had to sit through this—call it penance. Embody Jesus if you must… I’ll have the power of her love and the music of Stevie Nicks. I hope they play Secondhand News… When put like that, it seems lovely. But the disease ruined these moments now. I just couldn’t take no for an answer. I was obsessed with the thought, the allure of my favorite street signs in plain sight, taunting me with promise of relief as we walked to the venue.
The ticket scanner beeped; my stomach sank. The arena's strict no re-entry policy loomed over any potential escape ideas. So, I assumed the role of a pathetic junkie martyr. Despite the fear gnawing at me, I had to sacrifice my own comfort for the sake of my mother, despite knowing my medicine was only a half mile away. Somehow, I’d have to endure a train home and a night’s sleep afterwards. But first, I had to make it through the show. I had to ride the music. I had to ride the love.
Bless my pitiful heart. I couldn’t maintain that facade, who was I kidding? This was more evident the more the opening act droned on. Wanna hear a joke? Sure. I’m making a horror movie that takes place in a concert hall. Oh, what’s the plot? The opening act plays more than four songs. Fortunately for me, my mother’s friends were sitting in a different section. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was The Man. He was ready and waiting, but it was on me to get there. I couldn’t get locked out; I couldn’t do that to my poor mother on her birthday.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes in an attempt to quiet my pinball machine brain. As I exhaled, I didn’t quite exhale, and that sparked an idea. The lights went dim. Finally, Fleetwood Mac was taking the stage. My mother looked at me, kissed me on the cheek, and thanked me again for such a wonderful and thoughtful gift, even though my parents themselves somewhere along the line paid for it. Together, we rose from our seats, joining the collective joy rippling through the audience like blood up the dropper. We stood up together and clapped. The band took the stage and opened with a song I knew, and in that moment, I forgot all about the block. In that moment, in the swirling lights and pulsating rhythms, I lost myself in the music, momentarily forgetting the shadows lurking just beyond the stage lights, outside in the streets. The stage lights illuminating one of the great American bands. I was there, and I was missing it. And I felt that when the first song ended and the second began. The rapture of energy was infectious enough to run to the bathroom without having to explain myself.
She was caught up dancing and I escaped her with a glance. A diabolical grin slowly spread across my face like a fungus. The smirk that surfaces naturally when I have my junkie chessboard perfectly aligned, ready for my next move. It was time to put on my acting shoes. I took a series of heavy breaths, attempting to inflate myself like a puffer fish, before sprinting over with a red face to the help kiosk. Gasping for air, I pleaded for assistance, claiming that my inhaler—the only lifeline capable of sustaining me through the show—was left behind in the glove compartment of my car. I gasped and wheezed. The two kiosk workers exchanged cross glances before nodding in reluctant agreement. They summoned an aid on the walkie-talkie and escorted me out of the building for reasons of medical emergency as I panted like a pug on a hot day. I turned the corner and took off in a dead sprint.
I couldn’t afford to rely on public transportation, and a cab was a luxury I could only afford one-way. Punching in the Uber details while sprinting, I fired off a quick text to The Man, ensuring he was ready for my lightning-fast visit. The odds seemed insurmountable, but by some stroke of luck—or sheer desperation—I managed to pull it off flawlessly. I arrived in 8 or so minutes, The Man was waiting, and within 5 minutes, I was in the back of the Uber enroute to the venue. Exiting the cab a block away from the venue, I crouched behind a parked car, taking a moment to catch my breath before ripping open a dig and dipping in a dollar. The moment right after the glory of the rush, when the body settles and things slow and you can see things rationally again, that moment can truly be the emptiest of feelings. It’s only then you look at what you’ve done. And you have to, once again, resign yourself to the feeling. A life of indentured servitude.
The security who was responsible for my reentry let me in, but not without grilling me like he knew I lied about something. But he gave me no trouble. I went to the restroom, splashed some water on my face, and went into the toilet stall to get settled good. Returning to my seat, I found my mother still standing, lost in dancing, completely unaware of what her son had just pulled off. The opening chords of Secondhand News played and I couldn't suppress the urge to dance myself. I was high on everything, feeling like some master jewel thief after executing a daring heist on cocaine. My mother's smile, though genuine, betrayed the same flicker of love it had earlier in the night. She looked at me closer. The longer she looked at me, the more melancholy her dance moves became. She knew part of her son was somewhere else missing a wonderful show, out of reach of the music, and out of reach of her love.
July 30, 2021
It was the day Billie Eilish dropped Happier Than Ever. Exiting the bar at work, utterly shitfaced, I found a friend in the full moon as I walked along the boardwalk. I had the record on through my Dollar Store headphones. Despite its title, the track didn't evoke much sentimentality, but reminded me of the emo music I grew up with, resonating with my brooding state of mind and my feelings of nostalgia. I cried, yearning to return to the kid I was during the golden age of the bygone genre. This shits embarrassing. You ruined everything good. Made all my moments your own. I’d always treat me so shitty. Just fucking leave me alone.
I was so drunk, emotional and exhausted that I actually passed through Asbury Park forgetting to buy H. I stumbled to my father’s front door and knocked gently. He kept the door locked when I left, scrutinizing my pupils through the peephole, sizing them up before granting me entry. I pressed my face against the peephole like I was taking a biometric scan in a science fiction film. Those were the rules. He inspected my eyes, the pupils were neither dilated nor pinned out and decided to open the door, only to close it when he was greeted with a whiff of whiskey strong enough to knock him back a step. To stay the night, sobriety was non-negotiable, to be sober from everything—alcohol included. As I heard the familiar sound of the lock turning, the metallic clink of the latch, he said through the door: "Don't come back." Desperately, I pleaded with him, telling him about my early work shift at 11 a.m. "Come back to shower at 10:30 in the morning," he relented. Holding onto a sliver of hope, I lingered for a few minutes in the hallway, silently wishing him to reconsider. Then, like a flicker of light in the darkness, a beautiful thought crossed my mind, a thought that never fails to cheer me up in the most debasing circumstances: I forgot about H. My baby H. The idea turned my frown upside down. With cash in hand from a decent shift and still enough time, I hustled. Asbury didn’t have the 24/7 access Newark afforded. I’d get high on top of this, sleep on the beach, strangely content, and head to work tomorrow as if it were the epitome of normalcy.
I woke up on the beach at 2 am, feeling the cold wind from the Ocean blowing through my bones. In the clarity of near-sobriety, I saw the sadness in my state of affairs and wanted to confront the situation violently. Despite copping narcotics just hours before, I ended up passing out without consuming much. Restless, impulsive and devoid of any answers, I paced back and forth on the boardwalk, a little more time with the moon, my mind a million ways to hell. On a dramatic whim, I threw my phone into a nearby garbage can, thinking it would somehow make the next decision easier. Hidden behind the sideways lifeguard chair set down in the sand, I took it all in one big pile, the entire stash through the last dollar bill I had. “When I’m away from you, I’m Happier than Ever. Wish I could explain it better. I wish it wasn’t true. The moon, my only remaining comrade, cast its light directly into the mouth of the ocean as the tide began to rise. "I’m Happier than Ever.” In a trance, I followed the milky white light and dove in headfirst.
I came back to life 4 days later in the Riverview emergency room. According to reports, a late-night beach cruiser saw my body wash up on shore, applied CPR, and called an ambulance to rush me to the nearest hospital. I was transferred once, while in a coma. And again, when I spoke up and they grilled me about my state of mind. I was transferred, once more, to an involuntary psychiatric ward where I’d spend the remainder of the summer. But when I was lying in the hospital bed, indifferent about surviving, I continued asking the doctors over and over again what happened. And over and over again they’d repeat the same story. But, for the life of me, even to this day, I think they’re lying to me. That just maybe, this isn’t really happening. And not due to the slim odds of such an implausible intervention, but in the vast dominion of that darkness, I felt an uncanny awareness that enabled me to be among the stars, to come in contact with a substance, an ethereal entity, that felt like the tangible embodiment of love. I felt a warmth there, and saw a deeper darkness ahead, and reached out before I was pulled away and back to earth—awakening to the hum of hospital machinery and the drone of the local news.
