The weekend from hell pt. I

This is part one of a three-part tale of alcoholism and recovery--meaning cessation of addiction, not abstinence. It reads--to me anyway--like fiction, but I can assure you, this is as accurate as my memory of events allows (my memory of these days is not all that clear). It's not here as a "phallus-measurement" post, but as a warning about addiction, and because the solution is one I've rarely seen mentioned, but I'm convinced could help many not currently helped by any of the recovery models out there.

"How much do you drink?"

She looked at me, waiting for an answer. I had reason to distrust doctors, but in this case I had no choice. I'd been up to my usual tricks, drinking the semester away and sobering up for tests. Now, with finals fast approaching, it was time to taper down to nothing, get to work. Only I couldn't.

My past M.O. was to halve my drinking for a week, halve it again the next week, then quit. So far, it always worked well enough (yes, there was often some backsliding, but there was always some "wiggle room" built into things). This time, however, I was making no appreciable progress, and time was wasting. So, here I was, my hand out for Valium.

"I dunno...probably fifteen, sixteen drinks a day." Almost honest.
"You realize Valium is addictive?"
"Well...less so than booze, right? And that's plan B."

So she wrote me a script, but not without insisting I get bloodwork done, which I greeted with all the enthusiasm of a root canal. It turned out that my liver enzymes weren't everything they should be, so my general suspicions now had numerical certainty.

That was Wednesday, I believe. I actually made good progress, getting work done, using the V to stand in for (most of) my drinking. Valium was a great drug for tapering...all the sedation, none of the glow. I was aware people got hooked on the stuff, but I had no idea how. And, I got to anticipate my "last blast" in Atlantic City.

I'd bought a bus ticket to AC earlier that week. I figured I owed myself a reward for the work I was about to do, and since I was going clean "for good," I was going to try and score some Heroin, which had held my curiosity for some time. From my memories of Pacific Ave, AC seemed a likely place to find it. I packed a duffel bag, cash, and left the Valium behind, because..."because I'm stupid" seems the best fit, though I'm sure I had reasons at the time. I got in Friday evening, and checked into a cheap motel, not too far from the Tropicana.

I entered into a hold-em tourney at the Trop. As I recall, I busted out "on the bubble," meaning just on the cusp of when the payouts started. I think it was my tight style of play, good for a cash game, which ensured my stack never grew fast enough to keep up with the increasing blinds. It's okay...I was essentially marking time. I do recall that I was flagging down the cocktail waitress at every opportunity for G+Ts. Not to get drunk, mind you, just to keep well enough to keep my mind on my cards, for which purpose the Trop's watery cocktails were almost adequate.

I hung around to see the winner before I ambled down to a strip club on Atlantic. I figured this would let me do some actual drinking to get drunk--not well--while simultaneously scoping out a possibility for H. Oh, and there were naked women. All was well, the Ten High was starting to improve my mood, when a "hard sell" stripper ruined things. I couldn't get rid of her, apparently, without being offensive, and my wallet wouldn't withstand more than 30 minutes of her attention. (It was SOP to buy the strippers drinks there, and I don't care what you do for a living--I'm not paying for Courvoisier!)

At this time, a hotdog and a midnight stroll seemed in order. For those who've never been, Atlantic City has the boardwalk, then the casinos. Further inland of that are Pacific and Atlantic avenues, populated by hot-dog vendors and people up to no good. I got food from the former, and strolled the avenue, eyes open for the latter. When I spotted the same guy walking the street for the third time, I sought him out.

What I was doing was looking for an acquirer...someone with enough local knowledge to score for me, with a cut for himself. As it was, he was a crackhead, and I (correctly) had trepidations about giving money to one. At this point, though, it was late, and I was just drunk enough to be up for it. We got into a cab and travelled 1/2 mile inland, to tenement housing. Someone promised to get my dope...all it cost me was double price for the "runner" and a rock for my new friend.

I sat in the house with probably six others. It took close to an hour for the dope/crack run, and the pipe was passed around. I let it skip me the first two times--not so much because I was scared of crack but because I knew it'd counteract the dope to some degree. It then occurred to me that a stranger, abstaining amongst a bunch of increasingly paranoid rock heads, looked awfully narc-ish, so I took a couple wussy hits from then on.

At last--the dope! I'd paid for two bags. I had no reference, but it looked just like dope is described: "stamp bags," folded over and closed with scotch tape, with red stamped lettering indicating the brand (no, I don't remember the brand name). I went into the bathroom, poured out a half-bag's worth of the greyish-tan powder...then got bold and poured it all out. I rolled up a bill and snorted it up like coke.

The lady whose house we were at accompanied me into the bathroom...after I finished, she asked for $20. Most likely a reasonable request, I was getting fed up with people with their hand out...starting with the stripper, on to the drugs. I mumbled something about being broke and hightailed it out of there, me and my new drug buddy.

We walked--quickly--towards the ocean, towards downtown. I tasted the medicinal drip of the heroin, stronger than cocaine on the throat. I could tell the bag I'd done wasn't enough...not by half. My "buddy" took me to a local bar--seemed like 20% of the clientele were hookers. I ordered a beer, and went to the bathroom to hoover up the rest, now that I knew it wasn't going to kill me.

I'm sure, dear reader, there is a good chance you want to know what the heroin felt like. I hate to be anti-climatic, but it didn't really feel like much. Part of that, I'm sure, reflected on the quality of the dope...but much of it has to do with the nature of opiates. For all the press, they're fairly subtle drugs. I guess I felt a "glow" of sorts, somewhat like alcohol but in a clear-headed sort of way. I hung around long enough to have another drink--I'd heard the combo kills, but I was sure it would take much more dope than I had on board.

I went out to the boardwalk now--no longer interested in scoring, I kept to where it was safe. I enjoyed spending the "wee small hours" people-watching and going into the odd casino. I was feeling damn good--perhaps the dope was stronger than I'd reckoned!

It was as I was returning to my room that I saw him. "Ed" was one of those at the crack house. For $20, he said he'd make a contact for me with someone who could score me a bundle (a dozen bags) and, strongly suspecting a scam, I paid him anyway. I was very much not happy to see him--I expected some B.S. scam for more money, now that he'd smoked up the $20.

He swore up and down he had my bundle on him. I was doubtful, but his scam worked in the textbook fashion--my greed (for the dope) got in the way of my better judgment. He said we'd settle up in my hotel room.

So, I close the door and ask "where's the beef...uh, dope?"

I get a sly smile.

"[Blah, blah, blah]...class A felony...[blah, blah, blah]...undercover officer...[blah, blah blah]...hate to see you with a record...[blah, blah, blah]...$80."

Now, I know there's at least a 99% chance he's full of it...but can I really afford the consequences of the 1%? Or, more probably, can I afford whatever his "plan B" is if the con doesn't get him my money? I'm unarmed...no idea about him.

So, I put on my best sorrowful face. Here, take the $55 I got in my wallet...it's all I have besides a bus ticket out [lie]. I'm sorry about ever buying drugs [lie], but I'm an alcoholic [truth] and I turned to dope because I needed something stronger [?].

This does the trick, and with a "be out of town today," he leaves. At this point, with "sucker" tattooed across my forehead, and half the AC baseheads on my payroll, I know I'll get no sleep, so I settle up and head for the casinos (Trump Plaza in particular) with the intent to gamble until my bus leaves. I stop by a bar on a cross-street between Pacific and the Boardwalk and have a breakfast beer or three.

Because my "business" in Atlantic City had been concluded, I elected to catch the Saturday evening, instead of Sunday morning, bus to State College. Little did I know the hell that would result from a seemingly minor change of plans...