Long Past Stopping (26 page)

H
ELLO…CAN
I help you?” I heard a voice say. I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to figure out where I was.

“Uh…hi. I'm sorry, what was that?” I asked a woman who was standing on the other side of the pool at Jack's house.

“Can I help you with something?” she said, looking as though she was just about to dial 911 on the phone she was holding.

“Hi, I'm Jack's son” was all I could come up with for an answer.

“Okay…and?”

I was hoping that was all I would have to say, but she wanted more. “Well, I'm kind of in a situation. I ran out of gas on the freeway, and the cops towed my car, and…and this was the only thing I could think of to do.”

“And you say you're Jack's son? What's your name?” she asked.

“Oran.”

“Okay, Warren. Just stay there. I'll be back in a minute.”

“It's Oran…with an O,” I called to her as she walked away.

It was more than a few minutes because I was asleep again when she finally came back.

“Hey, Oran. Are you awake?”

I opened my eyes.

“My name is Jennifer. I'm your dad's personal assistant. I just spoke
to your father, and the problem is that he's in Hawaii, but he said you could stay down in the barn until he gets back. I'm going to take you grocery shopping, and I'll check in on you until he gets back. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, standing up to follow her.

 

T
HE GOOD THING
about crack, if there is such a thing, is that the exhaustion after a three-day binge is so severe that you actually get to sleep for a few days before having to experience the nastiness of heroin withdrawal wide-awake.

Jennifer helped me get set up in the barn—which was actually a pretty nice one-bedroom apartment above the horse stables—and I was able to eat and sleep for the first few days until the heroin withdrawal kicked in worse than ever. Fortunately somebody had left the barn stocked with about five unopened bottles of alcohol, and when Jennifer showed up on day three, I was wide-awake and shitfaced from the bottle of Jack Daniel's I had been working on since I had woken up. It wasn't my intention to get plastered by nine thirty in the morning, but I had woken up so goddamn sick that I needed something, anything, to take the edge off.

“How's it going…you doing okay down here? Need anything?” I was sitting on the top of the stairway, smoking a cigarette from the carton she had bought for me.

“Nope. I'm absolutely fine,” I said, wearing a weird alcohol-induced grin that didn't fit my circumstances at all.

“I had a feeling that leaving all that booze in there was a bad idea,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, taking another sip of a Jack and Coke.

“I don't know who you're trying to fool, but if you think I don't know what's going on, you're—”

“Oh, now I get it. You talked to Jack. Ha. I wonder what he had to say. That guy has no fucking idea what I'm going through right now.”

“I don't need to talk to anyone to see what's going on. I found you passed out by the pool, broke, with only the clothes on your back. It's fairly obvious, don't you think? But you're right. How could your dad have any idea what you're going through? He's never been through it.”

“Yeah, right, and you have? I doubt that very much.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Ten years ago I showed up at my parents' house, same as you: broke, no job, no friends. I had lost everything to alcohol, but I haven't had to take a drink since,” she said.

“I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm actually going through something different.”

“Are you keeping up this charade so I won't tell your dad? I mean, how many people are drunk by ten in the morning?”

“All right…fuck it then…you want to know what's going on? I'm drunk because I'm kicking dope. I'm not an alcoholic.”

She stared at me with incomprehension, and I realized I should have kept my mouth shut. These Santa Barbara people probably didn't come across too many junkies, and I'm sure they didn't want us in their town.

“Shit. I'm sorry I told you. Listen…don't worry about me. This is my problem,” I said.

“Wow. You're a serious piece of work. Anyway, the only reason I came by was to tell you I'm going to a meeting tonight, and you're welcome to come along if you want.”

“What? An AA meeting?”

“Yup.”

“Thanks, but I don't think so. I'm
really
not an alcoholic.”

“Oh man,” she mumbled to herself. “So, can I take the booze out of here then?”

“Why? I just told you I'm not an alcoholic.”

“God, you're impossible, but call me if you change your mind about the meeting or just want to talk.”

I spent the next two days finishing off the alcohol before taking Jennifer up on her offer to go to a meeting. I was losing my mind in the barn, and I was nervous about having to confront Jack the next day. I wasn't looking forward to another “loving father to the rescue” trip like the one he had pulled back in San Francisco, but I suspected that, without the audience he had last time, it would be a different routine. The only thing I was sure of was that it would be awkward.

 

S
O I HAVE
to admit. This puts me in an awkward situation,” Jack said the next day, after I explained how I ended up there. We were in his office and I was bundled up under a couple of blankets, still shivering cold from the withdrawal. He was standing in front of the huge bay window that looked out over the horse corrals.

“I don't usually find myself in this position, but I really don't know what to do. I mean, I've never dealt with someone kicking heroin, and I don't know anything about it. It seems to me that you should be some
place where they have experience dealing with this kind of thing,” he continued.

“I see your point, but I've been through it before, and it's already been four days, so I think if I just stay in the barn for a little while longer I should be fine.”

“Well, I'll be honest, it's hard to see you like this, and Inga just moved in with her kids.”

I didn't know much about his new girlfriend, but I had heard there was some drama.

“We're both going through divorces right now, and having someone…” He paused, trying to choose his words carefully.

“Kicking heroin at the house doesn't look good,” I finished for him. There was no denying how strange it must have been for my ten-year-old half-brother, Christopher, whom I had only met a few times, to see me in this condition—not to mention Inga's kids, who were not at all happy about being there in the first place. It would only be a matter of time before news of the creepy dope-sick guy lurking around the house reached their father.

“Even for four or five more days?” I asked anyway.

“And then what?”

Having no answer, I just shook my head. It was clear that Jack was very gently trying his best to get me out of there without kicking me out. As much as I wanted to be angry with him for it, I couldn't blame him. My main focus was trying to put off any decision making till I could go get what was left of my heroin out of the police lot. I desperately needed to get my dope out of there, and I was worried that if I didn't get there soon, someone else would find it and I'd be in a whole different kind of trouble. Jack wanted me to make a decision now, and I could tell we weren't going anywhere until I gave him one.

“Okay. I guess I should probably check in somewhere,” I said.

“Well, I already did some research,” he said, confirming my suspicion that he was just holding out for me to come to the conclusion myself. He pulled out a legal pad with a bunch of phone numbers on it. “There are a few rehabs in the area. But I think the best thing would be for you to detox at the hospital and then figure out what to do next,” he said.

“Okay, but seriously…I need to get my stuff out of the car before I check in anywhere.”

“Great. Let's go, then.”

We drove to the police impound lot, and I explained to them that I
couldn't afford to get my car back, but that I needed to get my belongings out.

“Too bad. Because that's one nice car,” one of the cops said.

I was paranoid that they'd already searched it and were just waiting for me to come back, but I had no choice but to go through with this. I asked Jack if he could get whatever was in the trunk, while I went up front to clear out all my drugs and paraphernalia. Everything appeared to be just as I left it, but I didn't trust these cops. Maybe it was a bigger offense if they caught you holding the stuff than if they found it in your car? Maybe they needed a search warrant and it was easier to wait until I showed up? Shit, they could probably even get me on distribution, since my dope was in individual bags.

Whatever the case, the only thing to do now was try to get as much of the evidence out of there as possible. I went through all my hiding places and took the five balloons of dope I had left, one syringe, and a spoon and slid them into the lining of my jacket. Everything else—needles, spoons, glass pipes, Brillo pads, and cotton balls—I threw into my messenger bag. Then I swept off the remnants of crack that were stuck in the crevices of the seat cushions and ground them into the carpet. I was still expecting to be arrested when we drove up to the gate, but the guard waved us through.

A wave of relief hit me for about two seconds, until Jack asked me if I needed to stop for anything before going to the hospital.

“What? We're going straight there?” I asked, as if this were the first time I'd heard of this.

“Yeah. Remember? That was the plan.”

I knew full well that that was the plan, but now that I had the dope in my possession the plan had changed.

“I thought we were going back to the house first. That fucking cop wouldn't even let me take my clothes with me, and I've been wearing the same shit for a week now. I thought I could at least take a shower and change, before God knows how long, when I get to the hospital.” I didn't have to pretend to be on the verge of tears, as I was about to start crying anyway.

Back at the house, I practically ran to the bathroom and turned the shower on while I fixed myself half a bag of heroin. In only a few seconds, an unbelievable warmth replaced the freezing cold that had been coming from my bones, and lying on the carpet in the fetal position for the past five days seemed like a distant dream. Less urgently, I opened
the rest of the balloons and flushed all the little bags of coke down the toilet. I secured the heroin in my jacket lining with the syringe and spoon. Then I wrapped the rest of the paraphernalia in a wad of paper towels and threw it in the trash, hoping no one would find it. Ten minutes later, I was showered, shaved, and wearing different—if not necessarily clean—clothes for the first time in a week.

“Well, you certainly look a lot better,” Jack said when I walked into the kitchen, reminding me that I was still supposed to be in the thralls of dope sickness.

“Thanks. The shower helped. I still feel like fucking shit, though.” I hated acting dope sick. It was never easy to act awkward and uncomfortable while keeping in mind that my normal method for dealing with discomfort was to act cool and uninterested. It was a complex role to play, but I had the advantage of playing it in front of someone who didn't really know me that well.

“I can't even imagine,” he said sincerely.

 

T
HE DETOX WARD
at the hospital turned out to be the psych ward. After I was thoroughly searched, which was normal, they took away my shoelaces and replaced them with two large rubber bands.

“One of the patients tried to strangle herself with her laces,” the nurse explained.

“Wow, but why do you need mine?”

“Well, about an hour later she stole someone else's and tried again.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Anything else we should know about?” the nurse asked after I had turned over my razor, toothbrush, matches, lighter, and the keys to my fucking Buick. I offered her my cigarettes as well, if only to seem cooperative.

“You're going to want to hold on to those,” she said. “Just find one of us to light them for you.”

“That's everything then,” I said, thankful they hadn't patted me down and found my dope and the extra pack of cigarettes I had hid in my jacket. Even I was aware of how insane it was that I was checking into a detox/psych ward with drugs on me, but I couldn't bring myself to throw away perfectly good heroin, no matter the circumstances.

“Okay then. Go to the window over there, and the nurse will give you your meds. Then I'll show you to your room.”

I shuffled over to the window—the rubber bands did a very poor job
of keeping my shoes on—and took a large assortment of pills without asking what they were giving me.

“Don't worry,” the nurse said as I was struggling to wash it down with water from the smallest Dixie cup I had ever seen in my life. “You're going to sleep tonight. That's for sure.”

“Thanks. I can't fucking wait,” I answered, suddenly overcome with a strong urge to just lie down right there in front of the window.

 

A
LL RIGHT,
you're finally awake. I was worried that maybe we'd overdone it with the meds. You've been out for fourteen hours.”

I was lying in a bed, looking up at the doctor who had checked me in the previous night.

“So, how are you feeling today?” he asked.

I didn't know how I felt, but I used my stock “I feel like shit” answer I always used with doctors who were responsible for doling out the drugs. “That was the first sleep I've had in four days.” I didn't want him thinking I had been out so long as a result of too much medication.