At Bully Hills: Confessions of an American Oxycontin Addict

AT BULLY HILLS

Confessions of an American

OxyContin Addict

Written and illustrated by Thaddeus DeLuca

A Romans Á Clef Memoir

(Based on True events)

Thaddeus Deluca

Copyright © 2012 by Thaddeus Deluca.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4653-1000-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-6207-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are

the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any

resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely

coincidental.

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

This book is dedicated to the legions of Alcoholics and Drug Addicts who still suffer; may they find enough courage to take the first step in changing their lives—admitting they have a problem.

P.S.—If in some small way this book helps someone suffering from the disease of addiction find peace, the mission of this book will be completed; then pass it along to another addict in the hope he or she might find peace.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank iTunes, iPod Shuffle (Apple); music saved my life. Thanks to Google, Google Earth, Microsoft Word 2007, Wikipedia and the IMDB website; along with the vast expanse of knowledge on the myriad websites available on the internet; they saved me countless hours of hard copy library research. Information became instantaneously available at my finger tips. Many thanks to my wife for her understanding and undying commitment; for keeping our home network of computers up and running, making the internet available at all times; whenever inspiration called.

All footnotes were designed to credit original source material whenever possible; every effort has been made to preclude any copyright infringement. I have tried to promote my original work without obfuscation of events. Per HIPPA medical records Privacy Act, the names of all medical personnel, patients and the names of medical facilities were changed. All related material labeled See also: was added per author’s own edification and for clarification of references to: American jazz music, anatomy, Catholicism, classical Latin, classical music, etymology, literature, pharmacology, poetry, Pop Culture, graphic depictions of deviant sex acts (sodomy/bestiality), graphic depictions of drug use/abuse, and Rock-’N-Roll. My uses of snippets of poetry, prayers, and literature were all used per Public Domain; real life characters’ names were changed or used by consent. Historical references were added for accuracy and credibility. The multitude of serendipitous coincidental connections provided threads of timeliness; a tapestry of subtext woven by relevance appeared unannounced before my eyes.

CHAPTER ONE

At Bully Hills

There are very few absolutes or certainties in this world. There is Absolute Zero (-273 C) and the fact that once you are born, you are absolutely certain to die. Then there is withdrawal from OxyContin[1]—Cold Turkey[2]—for which there is absolutely nothing that can prepare you. Of this much I’m certain; I know; I’ve been through it. OxyContin withdrawal is a one way ticket to Hell. No detours, no station stops. You have just boarded the express train for one of the worst rides of your life. Please observe the no smoking signs and fasten your seatbelt. The train is leaving the station.

The life of an addict is never easy; it was like working two fulltime jobs just to keep my narcotics habit going, constantly obsessed with counting my pills to make sure today and tomorrow are taken care of; never thinking of next week. I always counted the days on a calendar for my next refill. It all started with my car accident in August of 1994, while on duty as the Building Inspector for the City of Oswego; it began with a prescription for Xanax and a one hundred count bottle of Lortab 7.5/500 (hydrocodone/acetaminophen) that was kept open for the next three years.

I innocently started my ordeal while taking physical therapy treatments for a whiplash injury. I slowly worked my way up the ladder of narcotic pain medication through a series of treatments, trials and tribulations that included a series of nerve blocks administered into my cervical spinal column. Although the nerve blocks were scary, I had to endure them just to keep the narcotic pain medication coming on an open script. I innocuously worked my way up the ladder of pain mediation; starting with Lortab, Vicodin, Darvon/Darvocet and then moved my way up to Demerol and OxyContin immediate release capsules; eventually I reached the OxyContin twenty milligram ER’s. All bought and paid for by Workmen’s Compensation.

Then I hit the jackpot; I found an anesthesiologist in Rochester, New York, who was a pain management doctor. He was the best doctor I ever had; the first two questions he asked me were: What are you taking?And, How much do you want? He wrote prescriptions like a Major in the Army writes orders. After about two years I got to know him well, and affectionately nicknamed him the Good Doctor. As long as he kept getting paid two hundred and fifty dollars each monthly visit by Workmen’s Compensation, the scripts kept falling like clockwork. He whittled his practice down to about eighty five patients, and had them all strung out on a variety of narcotic pain medications; to set the hook, his favorite was three OxyContin 80 mg. ER’s in the morning followed by even more throughout the day, mixed with fentanyl lollipops for breakthrough pain, Xanax for panic attacks, with both Ambien and Trazadone before bedtime. And believe you me; the best dope in anyone’s hometown is right behind the counter at the local pharmacy. The only problem is; the invitation to behind the pharmacist’s counter comes from a doctor’s prescription pad. Boy did the pharmacist love to see me coming; usually my scripts came to between three and four thousand dollars a month. This monthly ritual continued from 1998 to 2004, as I worked my way further up the ladder of narcotic pain medication; that is until the DEA and FBI shut the Good Doctor down for good.

Then came the dark days; when every patient the Good Doctor had began scrambling for another pain doctor; no doctor dared write prescriptions in his absence, for fear of losing their license. I started scrambling like Bart Starr, Johnny Unitis or Golden Joe Montana; a quarterback in the pocket, with a full blitz coming from all sides. I got dumped by my family physician and wound up at a welfare clinic; where a congenial doctor took pity on me and walked me down off all the drugs I was on. The only problem I had, he was walking me down just a little too fast. I couldn’t keep up with his rapid pace of decline. When his ever descending rate of titration ran me ragged, Workmen’s Comp finally pulled the plug on my OxyContin habit. The total bill on just my OxyContin alone was over one hundred thousand dollars. I ate each and every pill the Good Doctor prescribed like an endless supply of Good ‘N Plenty candy treats. But after the dark days, it was time to go to a rehabilitation facility to clean up my act. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

It was a Monday morning, December 6th, 2004, and my parents were picking me up for a couple of hours drive to a rehabilitation center to clean up my act. Both suitcases were packed the night before and a pot of hazelnut coffee was brewing in the Cuisine Art well before seven o’clock in the morning. As their car pulled into my driveway I grabbed my second cup of Joe for the ride to Bully Hills; my destination of the morning’s drive. Spirits were high and expectations reserved. After I put my suitcases in the trunk I sat in the shotgun seat and we headed down the highway. My father was driving and my mother was in the back seat.

You can do this, son, my Dad said, we’re all proud of you.

Yeah, sure I can… , I responded.

My mother didn’t say a word.

It was as if my father had just finished reading The Daily Racing Form, rating me as a thoroughbred for speed, endurance and past performance. Then he proclaimed with a chuckle, You’re a proven track winner… in the money your last three outings.

Too bad the jockey was a monkey on my back, carrying 122 lbs. and a fresh bunch of Chiquita bananas. Monkeys love it on your back, a free ride, and all they can eat. Anyway, by this time it was about nine o’clock and I was being dropped off at Bully Hills, with both suitcases in my hands and trepidation in my heart.

I wonder what these bastards have in store for us? the little voice in my head asked.

That little voice in my head comforted me as a child, alone and scared in the dark, that reassuring little voice in my head that, when my world was crashing in all around me said, Everything will be alright, you’ll make it through the rough water, I’ll be with you every step of the way. It was a voice of moral conscience that spoke to me when my friends were doing wrong, it told me to do right. A child’s voice of undetermined gender spoke to me during the most cataclysmic times of my life. It was a voice that came to me whenever I was near physical harm; or when my eternal soul was in danger of succumbing to any of the seven deadly sins. It was a voice that I looked to find, or rather it would find me and together we would find our way home.

"Carpe Diem," I thought, Seize the Day. So with a deep breath taken, I strolled through the front doors. As I exhaled, I sighed, Let’s do it… lock and load.

What a naïve soldier of the Drug Wars I was. To think that anyone in a rehab would give a Junky[3] an even break was a joke on me. Well, it had been at least three or four Tours of Duty for this soldier of the Drug Wars since 1980 and I hadn’t gone down for the count yet.

At check in they took my bags and ushered me into a waiting room while they promptly searched my bags for contraband. I even surrendered my Leatherman Super Tool 200 in its black leather sheath from my belt.

They’re taking no chances, I thought to myself.

The night before I partied hard, it was the last go ‘round before the main event. I took about twelve or thirteen OxyContin eighty milligram ER’s, that day and snorted half of them so that my head was packed just as full as my suitcases. Then I downed my usual buffet of assorted pills and prescriptions: Ambien, Klonopin, fentanyl lollipops, Xanax and then topped it off with a nightcap of one hundred fifty milligrams of Trazadone and a chaser of phat lines of OxyContin eighty milligram ER’s, followed by a sprinkle of warm water up my nose.

The little voice in my head squealed with excitement, There, that ought to hold you a day or so.

While still in the waiting room, I was greeted by a young woman named Melanie; she escorted me to the intake room. The morning was busy with paperwork, it went by quickly. Melanie rarely looked up at me; she just kept filling out forms and shoveling them across her desk for me to sign. When I finally looked at my wrist watch it was eleven forty five A.M.

Lunch break, lunch break! I thought. It had been nearly six hours since taking two OxyContin eighty milligram ER’s that morning.

Lunch break, lunch break, Lucy Van Pelt’s cartoon voice, from A Charlie Brown Christmas, echoed in my head. It was almost noon.

Perhaps I can slip into the bathroom and snort this last emergency pill before the afternoon turns ugly, I thought. Not a chance, this young chick Melanie was not about to let me go anywhere. She had been hard at work all morning, filling out forms and shoving them at me to sign. Sign my name as I had done a thousand times before as a civil servant, the Building Inspector, in a life many years ago.

As we checked off my laundry list of drugs on the menu the day before; Melanie questioned me, You’re trying to tell me you have taken all of these drugs everyday for the last three years? I don’t believe you! She exclaimed. That’s eight hundred milligrams of OxyContin a day plus benzodiazepines, fentanyl, tranquilizers and Ambien… you’ve got to be kidding! she shrieked.

Well, I did drink a lot of coffee, I chuckled.

Jesus H. Christ, that’s a lot of dope, how can you function? she asked.

How can I function? How can I function? I asked myself incredulously.

I’m a jazz musician, goddamn it! Doesn’t she know anything about jazz musicians? I thought to myself, Hasn’t she heard about Billie Holiday, Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, Art Pepper, Charlie Haden, Ray Charles or even Etta James? All jazz legends addicted to Junk! So then this little cunt started to read me the riot act about how bad drug use was for me and blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda—drugs are bad for me and how my body will eventually give out on me—yeah, yeah, yeah, heard it all before.

The only problem I was having at the moment was that I was due for my next dose of OxyContin and this little bitch was making me nervous. A little too nervous, if only I had a good Nodd going I could have ignored this noise.

Christ, she must be someone’s mother, I thought, no one could possibly rag on somebody this loud, for so long… who does she think I am? Her daughter? Fuck this shit! I’m here for help not a lecture.

So, after her big speech, we went over my thirty year drug history—now there’s a story! I told Melanie how the Good Doctor in Rochester got me all jacked up on OxyContin, et.al. Then I told Melanie that the last script the Good Doctor ever wrote for me was back in July of 2004, it was a three month supply of OxyContin. I was supposed to walk myself down, he said with a wink and a smile.

Nine hundred pills, Melanie shrieked. Nine hundred OxyContin eighties all at once, she shrieked again, "you’ve got to be kidding me. Nobody gets nine hundred Oxy eighties all at once. Nobody!"

So, how many did you sell? she secreted, You had nine thousand dollars worth of pharmaceutical dope in your hands, do you know how much money that is on the street?

How the fuck should I know? This was my last hurrah and I was not sharing my last bag of dope with anyone—ya’ dig? Around and around we went with the selling of Oxy’s thing and finally I was getting more than a little pissed off. Listen, you’re accusing me of a Class-A-Felony! I shouted, And I don’t like what you’re insinuating!My blood was hot and the hair at the back of my neck was standing on end. I’ve had two FBI agents in my kitchen asking me questions about the Good Doctor and I didn’t fold. So I didn’t think this young whelp of a rehab bitch was going to break me. Get Fucked! I yelled.

As you can imagine things quickly went from bad to worse.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" the little voice in my head asked me.

Flash! She took my picture with a Polaroid instant camera. What’s that for? I asked, Are finger prints next?

"The Polaroid is for our records… so we can do a before and after picture… to show what a dramatic difference our program has done to help you, Melanie assured me, ya’ know… after detoxification."

After the third degree was over we squared off like a matador preparing for the moment of recibiendo (receiving the bull). Melanie faced me like I was a bloodied bull; she drew her last sword. Before Melanie was ready to make the final plunge, she sized me up.

Well, this fucking bull ain’t goin’ down for this chick, I comforted myself; I’ve been in tougher spots than this one before."

As she held her sword, the moment of truth was upon her, poised to make that fateful plunge. Then she did something unexpected. She blinked; she blinked twice, held her breath waiting to be gored, and then exhaled and in almost a whisper she said, Let’s move on to the next phase. The matador decided not to make her final plunge. Melanie aborted her attempt to bring down the bull. Smart move, I was ready for her.

Phase II; in her office I met with a pretty, blonde haired Arian woman in a white lab coat. She looked strangely familiar, I met her once before. She was Dr. Dungaree’s assistant, his girl Friday, so to speak. She smiled a knowing smile and looked over my chart. As I sat in front of her desk she got up and went to a white phone mounted on the opposite wall and speed dialed Dr. Dungaree directly. He was busy at the time so she was referred to the on call physician, Dr. McCartney.

Yes, yes he’s sitting right here in front of me, that’s right, OK… we will begin shortly, she spoke softly.

So, can I get some Methadone now? I asked with a sense of urgency. I’m not feeling so good… I could use a shot of Demerol, I thought out loud, ring my bell with ninety cc’s of Meperedine… that’s the ticket… that will hold me for the night.

No, there won’t be any Methadone for you today, the blonde haired Arian woman in the white lab coat spoke decidedly in a cold clinical Teutonic timbre, or any Meperidine either.

No Methadone? I questioned her words with desperation in my voice, "No Methadone?"

As it turned out there would be no Methadone or any other narcotics on the menu for this junkie at Bully Hills, not today or any other day. Not on her watch. No, there won’t be any Methadone for you today, the blonde haired Arian woman in the white lab coat said in her best clinical voice, we have support protocol for your detoxification, to help get through it.

"No Methadone? I questioned her words again with desperation in my voice, No Methadone? All hope faded, so I went on the offensive, I specifically asked on the telephone before I came here if you had any Methadone at this facility and they told me yes."

"Well, yes they do, they hadn’t lied, but no . . . not for you! the blonde haired Arian woman in the white lab coat attested. Dr. McCartney gave telephone orders, support measures for your detoxification, the blonde haired Arian woman in the white lab coat attested, she ordered meds to control your blood pressure and some Buspar for your panic attacks. The blonde haired Arian woman in the lab coat said calmly, But there will be no narcotics of any kind prescribed for you."

The cruel irony hit home like a knife—Ouch!

"You mean I have to go Cold Turkey . . . are you people nuts?" I questioned her words and measured my marrow. Now, Cold Turkey is every junkie’s worst nightmare come true—The Great Sickness—that can only be staved off by more dope. Fall back and re-group, the little voice in my head guided me, "keep control of the situation."

Well, that does it! I’m going home, I declared. I knew I had one day’s supply of OxyContin left at home in my bathroom medicine chest and that beats Cold Turkey any day. So, the bargaining began. Finally, I was braced on my hind legs, like a lone hyena making its last stand before being eaten by an angry pack.

Dig your heels in, make one last stand Old Boy, the little voice in my head shouted.

Not only had I been accused of selling drugs, but the greatest indignity of all was—No Methadone—where’s the fucking door?

Subsequently, I met with the Director at Bully Hills, and her husband, the Assistant Director, and of course, Melanie. I was ushered into a conference room of sorts where we discussed my situation. The Director was a pleasant Southern Bell named Sandra from somewhere in the Carolinas, her drawl had just a dollop of molasses. Her husband, Henry, covered her back; Check six, they always say in a fire fight. Henry, the Assistant Director, was from the North and had a mustache. We all talked about my situation.

My staff tells me that you are unhappy with the treatment you are receiving here at Bully Hills, Sandra spoke softly, what seems to be the problem?

What’s the problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is, I bargained, "the problem is… I need something to step me down a little bit, before I get into this detoxification thing."

"What do you mean step you down?" Henry asked.

"You know, click me down from eight hundred milligrams of OxyContin a day to something reasonable, I spoke in desperation, if you people think I’m going Cold Turkey off this habit I’ve got going on, you are sadly mistaken… I want some help and I want it now."

What kind of help did you have in mind? Sandra asked.

We could start with some Methadone, I pleaded, "and then click me down gradually from there."

Methadone is one option, Henry spoke in an authoritarian voice, but it would take weeks, maybe even months.

And we generally don’t let our patients dictate their own treatment programs, Sandra jumped in, "we try not to let the inmates run the asylum."

We all laughed.

And on top of that, I don’t like what Melanie has been insinuating, I became defensive, that somehow I’ve been selling my pain medication instead of taking it, I don’t like her accusations.

Well it does seem like an incredibly high dosage of OxyContin, Melanie interjected, it’s kind of hard to believe anyone could be taking that much medication and still be walking around.

Listen, I didn’t start taking this much all at once, I built up to it over a six year period, I explained, it takes a while to get where I am today, I’m not proud of it… but here I am.

It is an extraordinary amount of pain medication for anyone to be taking, Melanie defended herself, don’t you agree?

Hey, it doesn’t matter how I got here, but here I am, I defended my habit, I’ve been suffering with chronic pain for over ten years now, it wore me down… I’m just tired of being tied to a bottle of pills every day.

That’s why you’re here now isn’t it. Sandra explained her mission, We here at Bully Hills have been helping people in your situation for years… why don’t you let us help you?

When people’s lives become unmanageable, that’s when they need professional help, Henry bargained with me. We provide a place for people to work on putting their lives back together. We here at Bully Hills-s-s-s are your only hope of recovery, Henry hissed like a snake. Your life has-s-s-s-spiraled out of control… you are hopeless-s-sly addicted to drugs-s-s… your life has-s-s-s become unmanageable." Sandra and her husband Henry were working the Good Cop/Bad Cop thing very well. I’ll bet Henry was counting the shekels on my tally sheet for a two week stay at his resort and spa treatment facility.

What can you do for me then? I asked, I’m not going Cold Turkey… I’m not stepping off this habit without some kind of help.

What we can do is… I’ll call our Medical Director, Dr. Dungaree, and see if he can prescribe an equivalent medication to Methadone, Sandra bargained with me in her polite Southern drawl, will that suffice you enough to stay?

"Hey, I need something… something to help step me down off this habit, I held my ground, as long as you give me an option other that Cold Turkey I’ll stay."

I’ll get our Medical Director on the phone and s-s-s-see what he can do for us-s-s-s,

Henry hissed some more, s-s-s-so I’ll tell the s-s-s-staff you’ll be s-s-s-staying then?

The conversation continued on for some time; they finally beat me down, three on one, in a small room with bright lights and no windows; they covered my retreat. They outnumbered me three to one, and yipped and yapped at me with staccato bursts of rapid fire interrogation. First one, and then the other; they didn’t let up on me or allow me any quarter. No breaks in the interrogation until I broke. The interrogation would be over in very short order. I was starting to feel the shit sickness in my stomach in a very big way. It was creeping into my bones and my skin was feeling very hot.

Goddamn it! I’m getting sick here and these fuckers won’t let up ‘till I fold, I thought. If only I could slip into the bathroom I’d snort this Bindle[4] with eighty milligrams of OxyContin hidden in the change pocket of my Levi’s; I would be on top of my game—ready to eat these fuckers for lunch. But I couldn’t. They covered my line of retreat. There was no way out; they beat me down; they finally won. But, I was hungry; hungry for a blood meal, their blood and viscera. If only I had my Leatherman Super Tool, I’d cut one of these fuckers and somebody in this room would bleed. I didn’t care which one; I wouldn’t kill anybody, just bleed ‘em good, just to let them know I was seriously desperate. I’d even cut myself if I had to; just to make sure there was some blood spilled in that room, just to let them know. It was the law of the jungle now, kill or be killed.

The monkey on my back was screaming; he had run out of Chiquitas and was starting to squeal into my ear, Let’s get some dope… feed me!

Christ, if only I were home in my bathroom, safe, with the door locked, all would be well. No more sickness and Bonzo the chimp would be sitting on my back, phat and happy once more. A good load of Oxy in my head, and I would have been back on the Nodd.

Just the thought of taking the administration at Bully Hills down in ashes sustained me, They would get theirs… every dog has his day, I promised myself.

Finally, I’d had enough, I was feeling sick to my stomach and had started sweating profusely, Yeah, I’ll stay… I’ll stay.

Good, then we’ll make all the final arrangements, Henry smiled and gathered up all my paperwork, Melanie will introduce you to our medical staff.

Sandra looked relieved and smiled at her husband as if to say, Good work. They triple teamed me; broke me down. I acceded to their will. Still, I wondered about going home for the night and finishing off the baker’s dozen of OxyContins I had left in my medicine chest at home.

Yet, I had made the decision to stay at Bully Hills and kick my drug habit. Maybe there was something in Henry’s words that rang true, that resonated within me. My life had been spiraling out of control; unmanageable, there was no doubt about that. I had to do something to fix my broken life.

Suck it up and get with the program, let’s do it! the little voice in my head shouted.

Alea iacta est; (the die is cast), just as Julius Caesar proclaimed in 49 B.C. After he conquered Gaul, Caesar marched his legions over the Rubicon River on his triumphant return to Rome. Now I was resolved to cross my own Rubicon; the decision was made, there would be no turning back. In 55 B.C., Caesar marched his army across the Rhine into Germania on a bridge his own engineers built. After conquering Germania, he returned to Gaul in 57 B.C., Caesar burned his own bridge behind him. And just as Julius Caesar had done; I burned my own bridge behind me. There would be no retreat. I would finally get the monkey off my back. I committed myself en toto, mustered my troops and began the campaign to conquer my drug habit. Although the battle plan was not entirely clear, the objective was in sight; to defeat an enemy which had enslaved me. I remembered a Latin phrase: Nemo liber est qui corpori servit; or, No one is free who is slave to his body. OxyContin was the primary target, with collateral damage expected for the benzodiazepines, sedative/hypnotics and sleeping pills. Looking back, it was a ten year drug habit that began with Lortab and Xanax, just after my car accident back in August of 1994, while working as the Building Inspector.

I was now entering Phase III, check-in and acclamation to the new environment. After being greeted by a nurse with long corkscrew blonde hair and bangs, I was introduced to the medical staff, whereupon my bags were searched for contraband, yet a second time. What had once been a neatly folded collection of my pants, shirts, socks and underwear, were now a matted mess of crumpled clothing.

Christ! I thought, I hope these people have a steam iron around here somewhere, probably part of the rehabilitation process.

"Just as life is like a mess of wrinkled laundry, so shall you iron out your problems and straighten out your life . . . Grasshopper," the little voice in my head spoke to me like the blind Chinese monk—Master Po—to Kwai Chang Caine in an episode of Kung Fu.

Yeah, a Chinese monk from a Chinese Laundry, I thought.

No tickee… no laundry, I laughed.

Having missed lunch, it was now approaching five o’clock; surely they would have to feed us supper. I was starved and asked, When do we eat supper?

The nurse with the long corkscrew blonde hair said, "Not ‘till you meet your roommate and get settled into your room."

So I was trundled off, suitcases in hand, to my room adjacent to the main nurses’ station. We passed the station/desk, a credenza that stretched a good eighteen feet, and was roughly four feet high. It was a formidable barrier between patients and staff. A barrier never to be breached unless invited. Rules were rules, the better to protect the staff from the patients. Battle lines had obviously been drawn; a line in the sand not to be crossed. As I entered my room, a double with two single metal beds side by side, and a night stand between them, I was greeted by a portly young man with ruddy cheeks named Dan.

Hi, I’m your roommate, he said as he gripped my hand firmly.

We bonded with a hearty handshake.

I’ll give you the nickel tour after you un-pack, kind of show you around the place before we eat, Dan smiled and our eyes met, we both knew why we were here at Bully Hills.

After my clothes were neatly placed in the proper drawers and my shirts hung up in the armoire, I was shown the place. Dan led the way and pointed excitedly to each room in the long corridor behind the medical area.

Here’s where group therapy is… this one is for each councilor’s individual sessions, and so on and so forth, Dan said. And here are the bathrooms! Dan exclaimed.

The one in our room had a shower, toilet and sink but no lock on the door. Surely this one would afford me some privacy. I could probably feign having to take a shit and hustle up a Bindle [5]of OxyContin from the change pocket of my Levi’s, but no time for that, we were on the move. Dan would have no part in stopping the nickel tour; like a kid in elementary school showing his new friend the way to his classroom; Dan hustled me further down the corridor toward the main dining hall.

"Wasn’t it Cool?" Dan asked excitedly.

"Uh, Yeah Cool . . . real cool Dan," I didn’t know what he was talking about, what was so fucking Cool? Had I missed the floorshow in the formal lounge? Had they re-created the Jungle Room from Graceland?[6]

I just love the way this whole place is laid out, it kind of makes you think they thought a longtime about the layout, just to make it easier on us, ya’ know while we’re going through such a tough time in our lives, Dan thought out loud.

"You mean they actually hired an architect to design the layout before this twenty seven million dollar facility was built? I shouted in my head, Now there’s a revelation."

We were all herded into the main dining area like cattle. It was a rustic dining room; twenty foot ceilings with exposed beams and a peaked roof high above us. An open floor plan with high ceilings; architects loved this look—Splash—they called it, supposed to make us say, Oooh, aaahh. The front walls had a lot of glass in them, especially near the top, so we could see the sunlight and the open sky. We could see the overlook, the view of the outside world. Even in December the vista was stunning at Bully Hills, nestled in the rolling hills of upstate New York; it could have easily been mistaken for a giant ski resort from the outside. With the rustic look and the stone fireplace, the dining room could have doubled as a ski lodge for weary skiers, cold and wet, looking to get warm. However, for all the splash and splendor, high ceilings, exposed timbers, stone fireplace and breath taking view; the architects missed their mark. There was something about the dining room that screamed, Hospital!

Maybe it was the stackable chairs or the orderly arrangement of the furniture; I really didn’t know. For whatever reason, the whole place shouted, Institution, locked down, secure facility, play by the rules, no one leaves without a card key!

It was finally time to eat, so I grabbed a plastic food tray and got in line. My mind was wandering as I scanned the cafeteria style food line. Pick up your tray and move-on-down-the-line. Then some Gomer named Goober would slop this shit on your plate and grunt an affirmation that it was time to move-on-down-the-line. The entire kitchen staff looked like they were AWOL from Mayberry. I envisioned Barney Fife working the grill, Aunt Bee at the oven/stove, with Floyd the barber as sous chef and prep man. Of course Ol’ Andy would have been supervising, with corn fed teeth accenting a huge smile; keeping an eye on Goober serving at the food line and Ernest T. Bass, as clean up man and dish washer.

Oh and don’t fer’git the fruit cup, yer’ salad, and raisin cake fer’ desert… y’all come back now y’ hear! Andy Griffith hollered as ’60’s daytime television rolled in my head. After going through the cafeteria style food line all of the men were seated at the round Formica topped tables with our dinner trays.

Mmmm goulash, Dan murmured.

I heard Homer Simpson’s voice echo in my head, Ahhh, donuts. I envisioned Homer’s cartoon mouth dripping with saliva. They’re calling me, Homey said with a smile.

I love goulash, my favorite meal in this place, Dan said with delight.

Yeah, fucking goulash… I hate goulash, was my response, like some mishmash of leftover peas, pot roast and flat noodles, it sat there on my plate. Yum, yum, I was so hungry that even this ghoulish gruel of Goulash started looking good; it was thrown together with sliced carrots, peas, beef tips and potatoes dumped over egg noodles; topped off with thick brown gravy and left over biscuits. The Goulash was starting to smell great.

As I sat there my mind wandered; I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus. Thoughts were waif ‘ting through my mind like the thick summer’s fog of San Francisco. The fog, that rose gently off the Pacific Ocean each summer morning blanketing the Sunset District by noon; by late afternoon the fog built up to the mountains of Twin Peaks where is stalled. The Fog [7] would gently roll across Market Street and glide down 18th Street each summer’s day at about four o’clock. From a friend’s picture window in Bernal Heights I saw wisps of fog running silently down 18th Street; filling the Castro, on to Noe and Church streets, and then past Dolores Street; washing over the Mission District, layered in a high tide of clouds.

The fog was deep in the mists of my mind; I followed the fog to the Mission. I used to live in the Mission with my Old Lady Nina, back in the early ’80’s,

Man, those were the salad days, I remembered.

Our studio apartment sat just a half block off Dolores Street on 18th Street at the corner of Oakwood. I briefly revisited the shenanigans that went on in our apartment. Dolores Street began just south of Market Street, where a bronze equestrian monument memorialized the California Volunteers of the Spanish American War[8]; it stood on a four foot oval limestone pedestal with a stepped limestone base. The bronze patina turned green with age; the rider held a flag flown proudly in his right hand; held high in a fixed frozen arc that traced an ecliptic ring from the Tropic of Cancer to the Tropic of Capricorn, tilted on an armillary axis.

Dolores was an impressive promenade that ran north and south; huge royal palm trees dotted the center median; which divided four lanes of traffic—two lanes north and two lanes south. Dolores Street divided Noe Valley from the Mission district, and continued on down toward South San Francisco. It separated the bad from the good.

I revisited Dolores Park, it was part of my old neighborhood and sat directly across 18th Street from Mission—Let’s Get High School (a graffiti artist’s tag). Ahh, Dolores Park, to be free again, with its verdant acres, swing sets, basketball and tennis courts, jungle gyms, and palm trees; it climbed a steep hill to give a Post Card’s view of downtown San Francisco. Many a sunny day was spent relaxing in Dolores Park lying down on my back under a palm tree, listening to a Tito Puente beat, as the rhythms of congas, cowbells, timbales and guiros drove the groove, while a gaggle of Cholos chanted the Chorus of Oye Como Va.[9] It was a time of freedom in my life that I never experienced before, a freedom of mind that allowed my thoughts to wander and explore the deepest recesses of my imagination. I was so far from home, on the California Coast, that it seemed almost anything was possible if I could’ve let go and allowed it to happen. Free to lie under a palm tree in thick green grass on a hill; listening to the J-Church electric LRV clack its way into its tunnel to a samba beat. Free to lie on my back under the California sun smoking a joint of Humboldt County Green Bud, stoned out of my mind.

Hey, you gonna eat that raisin cake? Dan shouted, as he jolted me out of a daydream.

Nah, you can eat it, I replied. How the fuck am I going to eat this shit on my plate?

The peas and carrots were now moving around on their own; the roast Beef Chunks-’N-Gravy [10] were barking at me. I began to hallucinate wildly; both visually and aurally.

"Hold on soldier," the little voice in my head told me, eat, eat something, you need food in your stomach, remember an Army marches on its stomach. So I took a deep breath and tried to eat, even just a little; while everyone else was chowing down. I was sweating and had no appetite. After the men were seated and eating, the women were let in the dining area from a different wing of the facility.

Now there’s a breath of fresh air, I thought, co-educational dinning. The women filed in as a group and remained—A Huddled Mass Yearning to Breathe Free—words from the poet Emma Lazarus’ The New Colossus, mounted on a brass plaque inside the Statue of Liberty’s star shaped base. As a group, the women were giggling, jostling and pointing at the men as they smiled and waved. Some of the men even waived back.

"We don’t mix with the women! Dan exclaimed pointedly, Not a good thing in Recovery."

"Oh, so that’s why we’re here, recovery is it?" I thought, questioning the word recovery. I thought it was three squares a day, a hot shower and a warm bed to sleep in while I kicked a drug habit.

So what are you in here for? I asked Dan, as we were seated at the round sterile table.

"Uh, Pot, I’m in here to try and stop smoking Pot every day," Dan remarked in a low voice. I almost spit my peas and gravy all over his face as I laughed.

"Pot… Pot? You mean you’re in here for twenty eight days to stop smoking Pot?" I asked him.

"Why would you want to stop smoking Pot? Pot is nothing, Pot is natural, Pot is your friend, it makes you feel good, what’s wrong with Pot?" I questioned him.

A-a drug, is a d-drug, is a d-r-r-rug, Dan said with a stammer of sloaganism, s-so what are you h-here for?

Uh, me? I’m in here for OxyContin detoxification… and a whole lot of other shit too, I declared, asserting myself as top dog in the pecking order of the drug world hierarchy. You know, the hard stuff.

Dan rolled his eyes and looked at the other men at the dinner table, who were still eating their supper. Each man nodded his head as if to say, I think we have a winner, there’s a junkie at the table.

I barely choked down six or seven bites of this nasty looking mess of Beef Chunks-’N-Gravy, topped off with dried out biscuits, when the nurse with the long blonde corkscrew hair came and got me.

"We have to go now, time for meds. she said. Then she pulled me by the arm. Well, it’s about time," I thought. My opiate receptors were all hungry for dope. It had been almost twelve hours since my last dose of OxyContin; just a little junk in my system would stall this sickness, settle my stomach and take away the muscle aches and sweating that had begun.

The shit sickness is creeping up on me, I thought, it has stolen my appetite, I can tell the package is definitely in the mail.With a handful of Darvocet N-100’s[11] I could probably shake this creeping sickness that has stolen my appetite, I thought. I could’ve used a quick blast up the nose; still no shakes or shivers, but my nose began to run a little bit. Maybe this won’t be too bad," the little voice in my head whispered to me. Little did I know, but I was about to be shown where the bear shits in the buckwheat, by a little orange octagonal pill known as Suboxone.

CHAPTER TWO

Suboxone

It was time for my physical, so the nurse with the long corkscrew blonde hair ushered me to the medical area behind the credenza, the wall between patients and staff. I entered an examination room and was greeted by a large woman in a white lab coat. She was a pleasant woman, a Physician’s Assistant—an ersatz Doctor. She explained, with a reassuring smile, that I would receive a cursory physical before being given something to ease my withdrawal. Hell, at this point twenty milligrams of Valium would have helped, but I had no idea how wrong I was; what dreadful medicine was headed my way. I was asked to stand on a double beam scale so that my height and weight could be recorded, then the PA asked me to hop up on the exam table and have a seat. As I rested on the naugahide examination table my blood pressure was taken, after I slipped off my shirt she listened to my heart and checked my motor reflexes. I hadn’t had a Patella Reflex in my right knee in over seven years, and this afternoon would be no different.

"No Patella Reflex . . . odd," she queried.

I told you it wasn’t there, hasn’t been there for quite some time, I answered.

Let’s move on, she guided the conversation.

I’ll need a urine sample, the PA told me, and handed me a sealed plastic urine cup.

I went into a small bathroom and she asked me to leave the door open a crack while I filled it, so she could hear what was going on. I put the urine screen on a metal tray when I finished and she checked the temperature on a little numbered strip gauge.

After my piss test, I filled out a long questionnaire about my drug history; I checked off a laundry list of college experimentation, from Locker Room inhalant to Whippets (N2O). I answered Yes to having tried just about every drug except Ecstasy and PCP. I was given a brief social history that surveyed my proclivity for any genetic predisposition toward alcoholism or drug addiction. I told her that my paternal grandfather—Johnny Bones—was a jazz musician, who died at age sixty five from a heart attack after a lifetime of alcoholism and hard living. He was primarily a lead alto saxophone player, but could just as easily improvise on piano, vibraphone, alto, tenor saxophone and clarinet. All of his solos were spontaneous; his impromptu performances were played over well worn chord changes that he knew by heart, and he played by ear, no sheet music needed.

I went on further, and told her that alcoholism galloped on my mother’s side of the family as well. My maternal grandmother’s last name was Limbaugh. The Limbaughs came from a long line of Hell raisers with desperate reputations, not so much the sisters, but Marvin, Rush and Denver all had their own stories to tell. Uncle Rush was a former Marine who used to ride with the Hell’s Angels motorcycle gang; he had calmed down considerably by the time I got to know him. I told the PA that it was actually through my maternal grandfather that I was a blood relation to the Conservative Radio Talk Show host Rush Limbaugh, from the Cape Girardeau area of Missouri. My maternal grandfather was the last of five children. The PA just grinned and made a notation on her clipboard. Then she asked me to summarize how I thought other people viewed me.

That’s an easy one, I responded, doesn’t give a shit!

Hmmm, she hummed as she wrote on her clipboard, doesn’t give a shit.

The PA spoke the words as she printed ink on paper, and with a stroke of her pen she underlined the statement for emphasis.

Do you have any heroes? She asked me.

What do you mean heroes? I responded.

You know, people you look up to or admire, she shot me a quizzical look in disbelief.

Uh, yeah… Jaco Pastorius, a jazz bassist, I spoke, "revolutionized the electric bass… a real virtuoso . . . played it like an alto saxophone."

Never heard of him, she never looked up from her clipboard, should I have?

Uh, yeah uh… he played with Wayne Cochran and the CC Riders, Al Di Meola, Pat Metheney, Joni Mitchell, and Weather Report… put out a debut solo album the year I graduated high school that put him on the map, a real Monster, I continued. I had just begun playing electric bass in my high school’s Big-Band, I explained, he had a huge influence on my playing, tragic life though… spent the last few years of his life in and out of Bellevue Hospital’s mental ward… drug and alcohol problems… got beat to death by some bouncers at the Sunrise Musical Theatre in Ft. Lauderdale after sneaking onstage during a Carlos Santana concert… fucking tragedy, a real tragedy, he was only thirty five years old when he died.

How do you spell that? She asked me.

John Francis Anthony Jaco Pastorius III, P-A-S-T-O-R-I-U-S, I spelled it for her.

"And he’s your hero how?" She quizzed me.

Well, he was a genius for sure… but, it was like a double edged sword, I continued, "he was given so much… musically… but