Unscripted

PART ONE

The Kasson Surfing Odyssey

Australia 2006 - 2009

CHAPTER ONE

TO HELL AND BACK

SHE APPEARED OUT OF NOWHERE. Mike was tired and exhausted. Withdrawal was setting in and he was anxious to get a fix. He recognized the short auburn-haired girl strutting along the beach. Her bulky high-top, laced-up boots looked out of place, along with her black, crinkled cotton skirt held up by a big leather belt studded with metal.

Mike managed a smile as he watched her. She hadn’t seen him yet. The young woman carried an indignant look on her face, her head held high oozing defiance. The demeanor she portrayed was totally out of place on a beach—everyone stared at her.

Her beautiful white teeth were even and straight. When she smiled the corners of her mouth turned up, exposing deep-set dimples on either side of her cheeks. Her image was in direct contrast to the other beachgoers. Mike had seen her before in town; he knew she was mixed up with a motorcycle gang. She was the contact for getting dope capable of giving an ultimate high, like meth or heroin—that’s what he was after. Mike hurriedly caught up to her. This was his big chance to score.

Hey, wait on, Mike called out.

Wad da ya’ want? she asked, trying to reach the stairs to the pavilion, but the sand was increasingly bogging her down.

Hey, here, take my hand, Mike cried out. What are you doing walking in deep sand with those friggin’ biker boots?

What’s it to ya’? she asked turning away, screwing up her nose.

Your name is Casey, right?

Suddenly she tripped, but Mike was there to catch her just before she went face down in the sand.

Damn! she cussed, thanks for the help. Yes my name is Casey, how’d ya’ know? she asked, brushing the sand off her skirt.

They reached the stairs. Mike steadied her by placing his hand on her elbow for support. Finally on the wooden veranda of the pavilion, acting most independently, she pushed his hand aside. She was now curious.

How do you know me? she asked, a little more ladylike.

Ah-h-h, now don’t get pissed off, I know you because I bought dope from you once and I know that you know how get the big stuff, Mike added quickly. I want heroin, the powder form!

Hmph! she snorted. Listen, it’s expensive. You got the money? I gotta go tonight,

If you want it, meet me at The Happy Brew House tonight," she quickly told him, hurrying to get away.

Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there, Mike called.

Meet me on the beach just outside the joint, she called back, I’ll sell you some of the stash I have for The Lone Legion Brotherhood. It’ll cost ya’ two gran!

You deal with those low lives? Mike questioned cautiously. The sound of their name made him nervous: he was aware of the notorious group. I’ll have the money, you just be there at ten.

Gotta’ make a living don’t I? See ya’! Casey hurriedly crossed the road. Mike stood and watched her drive off in a dark blue Ford Explorer sedan.

After meeting Casey that night and paying her the money, Mike immediately drove home. The heroin she sold him was like a brown tar; she didn’t have the powder but he didn’t care, he could sniff or smoke it. All he wanted was to get home and take a hit. Mike arrived back at the cottage. He swung open the door and proceeded to get aluminum foil and a cigarette lighter. He quickly made a little tube out of tin foil, called a tooter. He placed the brown tar on a six-inch square of foil and lit a flame underneath it. The heroin began heating up and started to smoke; Mike hunched over ready to inhale. Druggies describe what Mike was doing as chasing the dragon – the smoke represents the tail of a dragon and they chase the tail while sucking in the smoke.

Mike hadn’t done this for some time but he soon mastered the art. He had forgotten how strong and bitter the first hit was. He took another hit but this time he held the smoke and ever so slowly, released it from his lungs—this was the perfect high. The feeling ran through every pore and cell of his body. Mike spent $5,000 on this stash.

This should do me for a few weeks, yeah … I figure three, if I stay with the plan, Mike thought, satisfied.

Mike got high every day for weeks. As the days obliviously passed by, he soon discovered that he was running low. Afraid he would run out, he began his daily search for the dealer up and down the beach. He telephoned Casey constantly. He left her messages stating that he had the money, but Casey was nowhere to be found. Mike tried to contact his other dealers, but everyone was playing it safe. He was told that last week the cops raided their favorite haunts and a few of the dealers were thrown in jail. Mike began to panic for he was aware that heroin had massive addictive qualities. He knew that his body had built up a physical dependency on the hits, and he knew what the result would be—he’d become violently sick and begin throwing up. He shuddered at the thought and didn’t want to face that torture again.

After three weeks on heroin, as predicted, he had run out. On the second day he was feeling sick. This wasn’t like having a cold or flu—this sickness was intense. He kept vomiting, his bones and body ached, he tried to eat but immediately lost it, and often he’d find himself lying in a pool of piss and vomit, not knowing how long he’d been there. When he managed to get to bed he couldn’t rest or sleep because his legs felt like there were razors under his skin. He had no control over the continuous involuntary kicking of his legs. He knew that all he needed to do to make this stop was to smoke more heroin. He crawled naked around the room looking for any remnants of the tar that he may have dropped without knowing. He made his way to a corner of the cottage and curled himself up into a ball, praying that Casey would call or stop by—he had the money. The phone rang. It was another dealer he had placed a call to. He slid over the floor, through his piss and vomit to reach the phone.

H-Hello, who’s this?

Me, Tony. I can stop by in one hour. You got five hundred bucks?

Y-yes, y-yes man! H-hurry u-up!

Mike crawled into a pair of feces- and vomit-laden jeans. He checked the pockets for his money and managed to separate five hundred dollars from the now much smaller roll he had previously withdrawn.

Ten minutes later he heard a knock at the door. It was Tony; he let himself in.

Phew man, it friggin’ stinks in here! Tony said, covering his mouth and nose.

G-give it to m-me d-dude. H-here’s your m-money.

Tony gave a pathetic-looking Mike the dope in exchange for the money. He headed for the door, turned, and watched as Mike fumbled to unwrap the tar and get it on the foil.

Listen mate, you probably have enough there for three days. Casey said to tell you if you meet her at the usual place, Saturday at ten p.m., she’ll have a big stash for ya’.

Mike heard what he was saying. He was busy trying to light the flame, trembling, but he managed to hold it there until finally the tar began to smoke. Mike picked up the tooter and ravenously sucked the smoke in and held it long in his lungs before exhaling. Instantly he could feel the effect of the huge hit he took. He turned to Tony.

Tell – cough, cough - her I’ll be there – cough, cough, cough. Same stash as before. Mike took another hit.

Boy, man, take it easy. You’ll run out of money, then whatcha’ goin’ do? Tony told him as he left, shutting the door to the stench-filled room behind him.

Saturday, at 10 p.m. sharp, Mike was outside The Happy Brew House but there was no sign of Casey. He waited patiently for the next ten minutes; having taken a hit before he left home he was actually enjoying the sound of laughter and music. He walked over to sit and wait on what was left of an abandoned, rotted wooden pier. Occasionally, a wave splattered alongside it. After about five minutes, Mike felt someone approaching. He’d heard an odd noise; he glanced around, but was mistaken. No one was there. Looking at the moonlit streak over the deep blue water of the ocean, Mike suddenly felt two hands surround his throat and the smell of stale beer was suffocating. He immediately kicked his legs only to have someone hold both his ankles. Another individual punched him in the groin, and as Mike’s body involuntarily buckled in pain, the two hands from around his throat released but grabbed both his arms, pulling them behind his back. A fourth guy was searching his pockets and took the roll of cash from Mike’s jeans.

Ha, ha ha, the pretty surfer boy ain’t so pretty now. Watch this! the gang member yelled, pulling back his fist and pounding away at Mike’s head. Mike felt excruciating pain—the kind of pain that produced rage and anger inside of him. He managed to get his feet free; he instinctively swung them up and kicked the bloke who was at his feet with great force right in the throat. Mike recognized the bully who was punching him as one of the gang notoriously known as The Lone Legion Brotherhood.

Mike was free. He could feel the warm thick blood pouring out of his head and he aggressively wiped it from his eyes. He could hear the bloke he’d kicked in the throat gasping for breath while rolling in the sand. Mike’s protective jail-time instincts came back in full force: the gang didn’t know what had hit them. Mike was in survival mode—violently turning into a madman. He swung his body around and head-butted the bloke holding his arms. The bloke fell to the ground, while the third guy who had been punching Mike’s head took off. The one with the money from Mike’s pocket looked like he was thinking about running. He turned but Mike sprung forward and karate-chopped him across the back. He picked up his money and spat at the three guys lying in the sand.

The Lone Legion Brotherhood! Huh? You guys had this coming. You think you have power and pride in being a gang, huh? I should’ve killed you guys! he screamed as the bloody spit spurted from his mouth. Mike kicked sand in their faces. Where’s that little bitch, Casey? She set me up didn’t she? Didn’t she? he screamed. Mike was trembling with anger; he really wanted to kill the blokes and did everything in his power to refrain from committing such a passionate act.

The three bikers in their black denim outfits and silver studded belts began crawling away. Mike followed, kicking sand on them and trying to control his rage. Finally he stopped. The pain in his head was so overpowering he couldn’t move. Then, out of nowhere, he heard a soft, deep voice.

I know what you feel son, but enough is enough, the man in the shadows said quietly. Let me help you. You’re badly beaten, the man said with an outstretched hand. Mike turned and set eyes on the older man; he was dressed like a surfer with hair as white as snow. Mike was relieved it wasn’t another black-shadowed biker. Mike’s head ached and he fancied a ringing in his ears; the ringing became more distinct, but somehow Mike trusted the sound of this man’s gentle voice. Mike tried to take a step toward where the sound was coming from, reaching his hands out for help. A gray haze circled him and thick blood from his head wounds streamed across his eyes. Mike collapsed at the stranger’s feet.

CHAPTER TWO

WITHDRAWAL FROM DRUGS

MIKE OPENED HIS EYES. Two days had passed since the man with the snow-white hair helped him. The man turned out to be the legendary surfer Doc Kasson. It was reported years ago that the doctor had abandoned a successful medical practice to withdraw from the modern lifestyle that Australia was now following like the rest of the world. Unlike other people, going off in search of purpose, Doc had esoteric beliefs about life. Kasson and his wife set out on a sojourn that lasted fifteen years and produced six children. They all stayed in a 24-foot camper, living and following Doc’s rules on health, fitness and sexuality. They were homeschooled, traveling and surfing like nomads around Australia.

After finding Mike badly beaten, Doc took him back to the family camper. He treated Mike for the wounds and lacerations, giving him medicine to sleep through his discomfort for two days. On the third day, Mike’s symptoms were no longer from the gang beating. Doc immediately sensed that Mike was what they often called dope sick. He’d witnessed this reaction many times, and suspected the kid was hooked on heroin. Doc knew what to do; he administered medications to help the withdrawal symptoms, to relax Mike’s muscles, to help him sleep and to alleviate the excruciating pain. Doc, his wife Rosalie, and their kids supported what Mike was going through. Daily they took turns patting his body down with hot towels. Rosalie would coax him to eat, clean up his vomit, and when Mike couldn’t make it to the toilet, she even cleaned up his piss. Sometimes, when the pain got really rough, Mike would freak out, jabbering about how he couldn’t take it anymore. Rosalie would sit with him, talk calmly and gently stroke his back. Doc and Rosalie took shifts. Mike always responded when he’d hear Doc’s gentle, strong voice—it gave him the strength and courage to get through withdrawal. The six kids tried to help whenever possible. Doc explained every aspect of what Mike was going through—it was their life lesson in drug withdrawal. Each kid knew that they would never be put in such a position. Doc explained to them his theory on addiction: he didn’t believe in it. He taught the kids that addiction stems from deep underlying causes. That is what led Mike and others to find refuge in drugs.

After thirteen days, Mike was feeling a little better. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced around. He saw two tanned, fit, healthy-looking teenagers—no shirts, wearing brightly colored board shorts, each with a mop of sun-bleached hair. They appeared to be playing some board game on the floor. He heard sounds outside of adult chatter and to his right, standing by the sink, was a dark-haired, slim, Spanish-looking woman. She glanced over smiling, a smile he remembered through his pain.

I’m Rosalie Kasson, Doc’s wife. He brought you here, she told him, placing the pan she was cleaning back into the sink.

Doc? Mike questioned.

My husband was a doctor—we still call him Doc. You’ve been with us for thirteen days. It’s been rough on you—at first you were badly beaten up, but then you went through with … Mike cut her off.

I-I’m sorry. I was messed up on heroin. I remember all of you helping me. God, you helped me, I could never have done this without you all, Mike said apologetically.

You were more than messed up. Doc told us how you defended yourself from that gang who beat you up, she said, wiping her hands on the dirty apron tied around her waist. She went over to kneel beside him. Mike tried to raise himself on his elbows.

M-my h-head, Mike stammered, feels like a balloon.

Feels like? It looked like one as well for days! Rosalie told him. You are a strong young man. You told us your name is Mike.

Mike nodded and smiled warmly.

You are a young man with an extreme will to live, Rosalie told him, gently shaking her head from side to side.

Mike struggled with his memory.

W-what h-happened …?

The Lone Legion Brotherhood. It’s all coming back to me. That f—king Casey, he thought, laying back on the pillow that Rosalie was adjusting to help balance his head.

Doc stepped inside the camper van. The light behind his tall silhouette made it difficult for Mike to see the man’s features, yet he immediately recognized the snow-white hair. Doc came closer. Mike tried to raise his head again, but the man beckoned for him not to.

Son, you’ve come through the worst of it! Thank God! Call me Doc. I see that you’ve met my wife Rosalie? Doc came forward, putting his arm lovingly around her waist. Rosalie smiled like a young bride.

Y-yes. Mike managed a smile. He reached up to touch the skin on his face and it felt tight.

You were covered in lacerations, Doc began. I had to do some stitching across your forehead.

Mike could see the man who called himself Doc more clearly now. He was built as strong as an ox, he too wore no shirt, and his skin was a deep golden brown. He was a man in his late forties, but the deep wrinkled crevices of his weather-beaten face showed that he’d spent years in the sun. His full head of white hair was strongly accentuated by his tanned body, and his mouth was full of perfectly kept, iridescent white teeth. His look puzzled Mike. He was the picture of health—he had the body of a twenty-five year old, but the facial wrinkles of a sixty-year-old.

I’m M-Mike Bradley. Thank you for helping me, sir. Mike tried again to raise himself.

We thought your name was Mike. You’ve been through hell and back young man.

I owe my life to you. What you all have done for me, I can never repay, Mike humbly told him.

Just being there, Mike felt safe, surrounded by the love and peace that permeated throughout the camper, from Doc, Rosalie, and the kids playing on the floor, to the excited conversation going on outside about surfing the next wave.

I-is this your home? And your family, you live here? All of you? Mike asked.

Yes, to all the questions. This has been our home for fifteen years, we have six children and we all live in this twenty-four foot camper. We travel from wave to wave, surfing every day. Doc adjusted the bandages on Mike’s head.

Surfing has been m-my dream since I-I was a kid, Mike managed to say.

What happened to that dream Mike?

Dunno, I guess. I tried … Mike knew he’d got hooked on drugs.

Doc sensed Mike’s thoughts and felt it time to get it out in the open.

Mike, were you trying to buy drugs when you got beat up? I found five grand in your pocket, Doc told him. That’s a lot of money for a kid to be carrying around. Why do you need to do drugs?

Doc realized he’d come across too strong and decided not to put Mike through the questions. He rebutted quickly: No need to answer that now, there will be plenty of time for talk later. If you continue on the same road my son, that is how you will die, he told Mike matter-of-factly. Now, let me tell you about my family and me. Doc pulled over the stool from the kitchen and sat down comfortably

P-please. Mike managed to say. I, too, want to tell you everything!

Mike didn’t feel ashamed of his situation. Here was a man who treated him with respect. This man and his family wiped up his piss, feces and vomit for days; they had put up with his ramblings and virtually saved his life. They didn’t treat him like the bum Doc found in the gutter thirteen days ago.

Doc began with his story:

When I was my thirties I was a well respected doctor. I had all the big college degrees, as well as a degree from Harvard University in the USA. I was certainly making a name for myself in the medical community, but … Doc hesitated, remembering, I felt beaten down being a doctor.

Mike’s eyes were wide open and his interest was sparked.

I wrote prescription after prescription, did operation after operation. Then I discovered that health was more than the mere absence of disease. My colleagues thought I was mad. When I went off to India to explore this theory, they wrote me off as being eccentric. Long story short … I was always known as a bit of an extremist and was tormented by living with the question of what lie beyond. Rosalie passed her husband a cup of herbal tea, and offered one to Mike.

Sweetheart, place a straw in the tea. His mouth is still very swollen. Rosalie was concerned.

Herbal tea will be good for you Mike, Doc told him.

W-what does lie beyond? Mike asked, intrigued by the statement.

We all share our esoteric, intellectual interests and our children live by them.

Wait! said Mike, What are you talking about? He didn’t understand.

We live with a complete cultist bliss, combining diet, exercise, rest, recreation and attitude. That’s how the Kasson family has lived each day for the last fifteen years, and that’s what supports our bodies in the face of disease, Doc repeated, contentedly sipping his tea, encouraging Mike to do the same.

Eight of us in a twenty-four foot camper? Doc’s eyes questioned as proof.

Rosalie came over and placed her arm around her husband in such a loving way that Mike’s eyes glassed over.

For the first ten years of our odyssey, Rosalie remarked, I was either pregnant or breastfeeding. We homeschooled our kids, kept away from the school officials, and everyday we pray together. We live life in an Amish kind of way.

Come with us Mike, Doc suggested, "spend a few months with us, going from wave to wave. Your soul needs to heal and replenish. Surfers aren’t fighters: they are calm, mild and peaceful. Let the ocean become your strength. Think of a sea wave to end all waves, coming from an energy source—like the stars or the sun that help make it powerful.

You see son, a little wave has some of the wisdom of nature. Now is the time to take some of that wisdom for your journey ahead. Doc spoke like a prophet, a receptacle for inspiration.

Kids, come in here! Doc called, We want you to meet your patient and teacher. He’s going to be part of our family for the next few months. The kids piled in and Doc introduced them one by one. This is Isaac, the oldest: he’s just fifteen and a dazzler with the waves. Doc grinned proudly. And this is Joshua—his gentleness is his strength. He’s fourteen and holds six surfing championship awards.

Dad, don’t brag, Joshua said, humbled.

This is Judith, our joy and only girl; she is thirteen and can surf the pants off anyone. Judith placed her arm around her dad and mom.

Come over here, Levi, Doc gestured. He’s a little shy, loves to be on his own, but is sharp as a tack. He’s twelve. Levi acted embarrassed.

This is Nathan; he’s eleven—the musician of the family. He plays the guitar and surfs the big ones. Nathan strummed his guitar and grinned.

Finally, this is Elazar the daredevil and he is ten. He will take on any storm in search of the ultimate big wave. All my children are amazing surfboard riders, Doc said proudly.

The five boys and one girl said hello to Mike. They began asking questions all at once. Doc reminded them, You were witness not only to Mike’s gang beating, but also his withdrawal from heroin. Go slow with him, Doc said, knowing that six enthusiastic attitudes were the best medicine Mike could have to heal his abused body, mind and spirit. Mike found it difficult to believe that he felt no shame with these people. Doc and Rosalie walked out of the camper happily leaving Mike deep in conversation with the kids.

They strolled away to the sound of their children talking incessantly to Mike about their days of surfing and the places they had been. Then they heard Mike begin to open up, remembering who he really was. They heard Mike telling the kids: Growing up in California I surfed every day with my buddies Burton and Danny. My only dream in life was to surf the great white beaches of Australia. I did that! Here in Oz, I met the love of my life. She was also a surfer and we …

Doc and Rosalie, now out of earshot, stopped and looked at each other knowingly. Love permeated between them. Doc pulled Rosalie close to him. The warm, sensual body he’d made love to each day they had been together still ignited a reaction in his groin. Their lips met. Theirs was a love beyond words. Doc looked at her.

Sweetheart, we may have just given birth to another son, only this son is older. He has been sent to us from God to heal his mind, body and spirit. I think God has something for us all to learn.

She smiled in agreement, knowing her husband was right again. People are sent to each other for lessons to learn and Mike was sent to them to be their teacher.

They both looked out over the magnificent ocean; the waves were pounding as the moon lit a pathway beckoning them to follow. The universe was sending them on a new journey. What they didn’t know was the journey would take almost three years.

CHAPTER THREE

BYRON BAY, NSW

MIKE AND THE KASSON FAMILY stayed around Byron Bay for the next year. Today the town is regarded as the well-heeled mind and body mecca of Australia. That term evolved from a previous title that most people were more familiar with—Byron Bay had been known as the hippie capital of Australia.

Mike returned to the cottage and packed up his few belongings. All he had was a duffel bag, backpack and surfboard. He drove his truck over to turn in the key to the landlord, paying the back-rent he owed. His intention was to stay with the Kasson family until he had healed himself.

The landlord was curious and asked Mike, What happened to that pretty little girl that lived with ya’? She came over ‘ere one day and told me she was leaving, but you’d be back. She paid the rent so you only owe me for one month, mate, the man said with a mouth full of chewing tobacco. Suddenly Mike brightened up.

Did she say where she was going? he asked excitedly, handing the man his money.

Sure did, son, the old man said, spitting way past Mike’s feet.

Now where she’d say she was goin’? he thought aloud, scratching his bum.

Please try to remember, Mike almost begged.

It was north of Sydney. She was takin’ some students there—they wanted ‘er to spend the summer holidays with ‘em, ya’ know? Teach ‘em how to ride one of them surfboards. The man spat again. Nah, I can’t remember son. All I know is it was this side of Sydney. Mike quickly scribbled down his telephone number and handed it to the old man.

Here, take this! Please, if you remember, could you call me?

Okay son, but why’d ya’ let ‘er go in the bloody first place? Beats me, yous’ kids today. Why can’t yous’ be like we was? The man turned and closed the door behind him. Mike left with a little more hope of finding Megan again in the future. It could wait awhile because he needed to get right before he could even think of asking her to go back to him.

Mike and the Kasson family remained around the area for the next nine months. Doc thought it would be the most appropriate place for Mike to begin his recovery. The Bay was an internationally renowned place for alternative lifestyles, full of wealthy refugees from the suburban rat race. According to the local Bundjalung (Aborigine) people, the valley is known as the resting place of the Rainbow Serpent and a place of healing. Many retreats have sprung up around Byron Bay; one very famous retreat is that of Olivia Newton-John, the well-known singer and actress.

Apart from experiencing some of the best waves in the world along the beaches up and down the coast, the Kasson kids were ecstatic about staying put for a long time. To earn a little extra money, they set up a surfboard riding school with Mike’s help. Mike truly felt he would never do drugs again; he was fit, healthy and strong. Having his truck available to run the kids around significantly helped Doc and Rosalie. Mike gained a feeling of importance by setting the kids up to run the surfing school—he had become like a big brother to the Kasson kids.

Life was good. Mike was happy to be with the Kasson family and Doc continuously taught him about criminal law and financial trading. With the little money he had left he began trading his own account. The family always discussed worldly matters—it was part of the kids’ homeschooling. Mike often joined in with the little he knew of the law that he’d learned from his dad. Coupled with Doc’s extensive knowledge, they created a class on finance and law that they held for two hours each day.

The months quickly flew by and Mike was surprised by how comfortable it was being part of this structured family. His mind would regularly go back to his love Megan, and what he’d done to her. He even visited the landlord a few times to see if he’d remembered where she had gone, but his attempts were all to no avail. The more he allowed the memories in, depression and self-doubt began taking over his mind. It didn’t take long before his escalating poor self-image convinced him that he was an addict and always would be—his dad had repeatedly told him that.

He longed to make things right with Megan. He heard from surfers in town that she had gone south to Sydney as well, but no one knew exactly where. Rumor was she had sold the business after one summer with her students, just three months after leaving Byron Bay.

After five months of being clean, Mike’s craving for drugs was getting harder to control. Drugs were readily available everywhere in the town of Byron Bay and it didn’t take long for Mike to succumb. He began by smoking a little dope, believing it would do no harm. But after three days of pot, he craved more and set off to buy cocaine. On his way to pick it up from the dealer, Mike felt perplexed by the same nagging question Doc had continued to ask him during their time together: Why do you need to do drugs Mike?

Mike had enormous respect for the family who saved him and who had treated him as one of their own all these months. After driving a few miles he immediately turned the truck around and went back to the Kasson camp. He felt that he owed it to Doc to tell him what he was feeling again. Doc may even help him discover the answer.

Doc was sitting in the sun reading the morning paper, Rosalie and Judith were cleaning the camper, and Levi was playing a board game with Nathan at the table set up under the bright-blue camper awning. The other kids had taken to the surf.

Hi Doc, you got a minute?

Sure. What’s on your mind, son?

Mike walked over close to Doc and squatted down next to him.

Doc, I’ve been doing pot for a few days, Mike told him, bending his head and lowering his voice so the kids wouldn’t hear. I was just on my way to get cocaine … Doc wasn’t surprised. He had seen a change in Mike’s mood lately and he blatantly asked, Mike, why do you need to do drugs? Doc was frustrated with the young man standing in front of him. Mike was taken aback by Doc’s sharp tone and