All or Nothing (19 page)

At Conte it was rise and shine at 7:00
A.M
. sharp, but anyone who worked the kitchen graveyard shift could crash until 10:00. Getting up always sucked. I didn't have any commissary money, and the only people who ever came to visit me were Grandpa Seymour and Grandma Audrey and my friend Sam. One day I got a letter from Grandpa Laz saying that he believed in me and loved me, and I held it tight, believing that if I worked the program and lived with integrity I could get my family back.

Other guys used their commissary money to buy cookies, radios, and whatever the hell else they wanted. I became industrious and started doing little things in exchange for these goodies. I offered to fold the other inmates' laundry for a cup of soup or some Snickers bars. Or during my shift in the kitchen I'd snatch a pair of latex gloves, snip off the fingers, and fill them with salt. I'd stick them in my shoe or hide them in my armpit. Salt was always a hot commodity. After months of eating bland, tasteless food, a little bit could go a long way.

It wasn't long before I found other uses for those latex gloves. “Fifis,” or makeshift vaginas made of latex gloves, were very popular among the inmates. Even a man in jail needs some loving. I had several Fifis and even gave them their own names. Delores was a good one, but when she popped on me one time when I was fucking her, it was over between us. When I didn't have a Fifi, I just made do with porn. Guys circulated magazines around. Sometimes I cut out a picture and stuck it to a wet tile in the shower. Other times I took a picture of a naked woman and laid it down next to a pillow while I was going at it with my Fifi.

The commissary kitchen was really two kitchens—one for the inmates and one for the staff. In the walk-in refrigerator there were shelves stacked with cold cuts and meat. Obviously these items were strictly off-limits for inmates. One day I noticed a large pork shoulder. It must have weighed fifteen pounds, swaddled in fat and collagen. My mouth started watering. I knew that when the pork was cooked, the fat would melt away, leaving the meat moist and tender. The collagen would break down into simple sugars, giving the meat a sweet, juicy taste. I couldn't stop thinking about that pork. At night I dreamed about eating it with my bare hands, the juices running down my face. I showed it to the other guys, and I could see them salivating. We made a pact to take the pork and share it if an opportunity arose.

Before long a moment came along when no one was looking. I quickly stuffed the pork shoulder under an apron and placed it in a box with some other items. Then I went about my business. There was a row of stack ovens in the kitchen, and I surreptitiously covered one of the red oven lights with black tape so the guards wouldn't know it was in use. Then I had the other inmates form a line in front of me. There wasn't much time. Quickly I threw the pork shoulder in a bowl and marinated it with a dry rub of pilfered garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and oregano—basically anything I could get my hands on. Then I placed it on a baking tray and slid it into the oven, closing the door gently. Then we all got back to making sandwiches. The guards had no clue what we were doing.

It took four hours for the shoulder to cook through. Quietly, I opened the oven door and paused for just a brief moment, savoring the aroma of the freshly cooked meat. The other inmates and I took turns tearing off pieces to eat. The pork was perfectly cooked, succulent and juicy. It had been months since I'd eaten any flavored food, and years since I had enjoyed any food without pills, heroin, or crack dulling my senses. I relished every bite.

At the end of our shift we took what was left of our prize, wrapped it in tinfoil, and hid it on a shelf behind rows of tomato paste and chickpeas. We munched on it for two days until it went bad. It was a risk taking that pork shoulder, but it was worth it. For me, the reward wasn't just the satisfaction of eating it, but the ability to really cook and eat for the first time in years as a sober person. My passion for food had never gone away, but it had been sundered by years of addiction and abuse. It felt strange to reconnect with this intrinsic part of myself in the most depressing and unlikely of settings. Now my love for food had returned in the same pure, unfiltered form I had previously only experienced as a child. I was grateful to have it back under any circumstances. I knew if I could harness that passion, I could use it to make the culinary world my oyster.

Aperitif

Aperitif
: An alcoholic beverage that is usually dry rather than sweet and is often served before a meal to stimulate the appetite.

S
chenker, pack it up.”

I knew this day was coming. My six-month sentence was up. But instead of being elated, I didn't want to leave Conte, where I was safe. Before going to jail I had been high or strung out ever since I was a child. I didn't know the first thing about how to take care of myself.

I gathered my few possessions and hugged my cellie Louie. Then it was time to go. Accompanied by two guards, I walked the short distance to a filthy holding cell in the main jail, the final stop before release. It was then about a half hour's drive in a sheriff's van to Turning Point Bridge Work Release, a state-run therapeutic community. This would be my first step before either reentering the real world or, if I fucked up, making a short trip back to jail.

The “smoke pit” at Turning Point was a small grassy area out front surrounded by a thick layer of brown mulch. Everything else was covered in gray asphalt and brick. In rainy weather the pit turned brown and discarded cigarette butts floated in the puddles of mud. The rules at Turning Point were strict. It wasn't jail, but it was no country club either. The atmosphere was highly structured, and the punishments frequently excessive. If you lit up outside the pit, you'd get a violation. Three violations meant a DR, or disciplinary write-up. Three DRs was all it took to go back to jail.

Upon entering Turning Point, I had little contact with the outside world. That had to be earned. It was like a work camp, and I spent all day at the facility sweeping leaves from the front porch, scrubbing floors on my hands and knees, folding laundry, attending meetings, being screamed at, or watching the cops tackle other residents and haul them back to jail. There was a hierarchy among the residents, and we monitored each other. A resident who had earned conferred status for good behavior could dress another resident down for the smallest bullshit, like making a five-inch lengthwise pleat on his bed instead of a six-inch pleat. If a guy screwed up or slacked off, he would get paraded around the grounds with a sign detailing his transgressions. There was no such thing as privacy. We all showered together in a large, open room. The bathroom had no stalls, just one long row of toilets. Even in jail the bathrooms had stalls.

There were therapists, counselors, orderlies, and even a doctor on site. Prior to being admitted, all residents were tested for TB and HIV, and as soon as I arrived they also ran my blood work. When the results came in, my liver function was sky-high. “Your test results indicate that you most likely have hepatitis C,” the doctor told me without looking me in the eye. “Fortunately, it's treatable.”

Later when I was released from Turning Point and was able to get a proper physical, I learned that I never had hepatitis C. Turing Point hadn't done a conclusive test; they just made an assumption when my liver function came back high. But I didn't know this at the time, and I walked back to the smoke pit and sat on the edge of a bench, not knowing what to do with this information. My palms grew moist and small beads of perspiration formed around my lips as I took a long, slow drag from a Camel. My legs began to twitch, and I could feel my anxiety level rising, but this was completely different from the sense of unease I'd experienced before. In the past, my anxiety came on suddenly and then disappeared just as quickly. I could never pinpoint its source. But this time the anxiety had a specific object to latch on to—fear. There was no escaping it; drugs were not an option. For the first time in my life I knew, clean and sober, what it meant to be afraid.

Ms. Schumacher, my therapist at Turning Point, was a take-no-bullshit chick with thick-framed, oversized glasses, a discordant mop of blond hair that moved in multiple directions even when she was sitting down, and a noticeable limp. Her accent was Deep South all the way, probably from North Florida, Georgia, or Alabama. At our first meeting I sat down on the couch in her institutional white office. The walls were empty except for a lone painting of sailboats and a freebie calendar opened to the wrong month. On top of her desk sat stacks of files and an old-school Rolodex. She pulled up a chair and peered at me through those glasses. “You like heroin, don't cha?”

She sure didn't waste any time. “What the fuck?” I said in response.

“I've seen enough of you boys to know who likes to go up and who likes to go down,” she told me. “You got a relaxed look about ya.” No one had ever told me I looked “relaxed” before, but Ms. Schumacher got me right away.

Over the next month we talked every day about my life, my family, my drug use, my goals, and my plans for the future. I dove into meetings and therapy at Turning Point. My intentions were good, and I was aligned with my higher power, and I felt like nothing could fucking stop me. I was invincible. In recovery I was finally learning a way to live that didn't agitate me. By now I knew that, as an addict, I couldn't let myself get too down or too up—that was when things got wavy. I figured out how to live in the middle, making up rules to keep myself at bay, to avoid too much intense feeling. This allowed me to get out of my own way, but by avoiding emotions I still never learned how to process them in a healthy way.

As I talked to Ms. Schumacher my psychology started catching up with my biology. For years I had been stunting my emotional growth with drugs; by the time I got to Turning Point I was twenty-one but emotionally only about thirteen. Slowly everything started to catch up, and after two months I was emotionally fifteen. Month after month of meetings, structure, and therapy helped me finally catch up to my chronological age. I had been clean for only six months, but I was already a changed man, living in the moment and full of gratitude just to be alive.

One day Ms. Schumacher said out of nowhere, “Now, tell me about the watch.” I had never mentioned a word about the watch during our sessions. I never told anyone else about it either. How did she know about that fucking watch? But it didn't matter. Her simple question opened the floodgates, and I told her how stealing my mother's Rolex was the breaking point that ended my relationship with my family.

Our visitors at Turning Point were carefully screened—not that it mattered much in my case. No one really came to see me except for Sam. He swung by once a week with clothes and food. I had gone straight from the streets to jail, so I didn't have any clothes of my own when I got to Turning Point. Sam went to a Walmart and bought me a few outfits, a pair of shoes, and some underwear so at least I had something to wear. Sometimes he gave me a few dollars so I could buy soda from the vending machine. But one morning he came by unexpected. He didn't have any food or clothes with him. “Let's go for a walk,” he said, and as we stood outside Sam didn't waste any time. “Your parents are ready to see you,” he told me.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't even know what to think. For over two years I'd had no idea what my family was doing or what they even thought about me. Sam said, “I think they were happy to learn that you were still alive.” As he continued talking I thought about the prospect of reuniting with my family. How would I be able to excuse or explain all the harm I had caused and the misery I'd inflicted? When I left, we were a fractured, broken family. Had anything changed?

But instead of feeling angst about a possible reunion, I was at peace with it. I had already surrendered my will and felt so accepting of everything that I didn't have any expectations. I was free. I believed in my higher power and knew that a reunion would happen when it was right.

Ms. Schumacher spoke to my parents over the phone and with me in our regular sessions. Finally she suggested a meeting in the staff lounge at Turning Point. I was still nervous, but I figured if Ms. Schumacher thought I was ready, then I was ready. My parents arrived before me and spoke first to Ms. Schumacher. Then I went in. I felt anxious, but also confident that I wasn't the same person as the Jesse they had last seen. I was reuniting with my parents as a completely different person.

As I walked down the hallways toward the lounge I saw a group of residents milling about. Through an open window I caught a glimpse of my family talking with Ms. Schumacher. Even from a distance, I could feel their anxiety. I felt for them in that moment. They had no idea what I would be like or how this would all play out.

I walked right up to my mother and buried my head deep in her chest. “Call me Jesse Blake,” I said, my tears wetting her shirt. She was one of the only people in the world who called me by my middle name. My father and Joee closed their arms around us, and we all cried together as we embraced in silence.