Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.
To
this day I regret the how I spent my final hours on the farm. I regret the day I had spent with Rhonda and
Crystin in the apartment so many miles away from Bull. I regret having allowed myself to experiment
with banging dope, but more than anything, I regret having drank the way I
did while I was spinning my head off on crystal meth. I regret having woken up in the bleary
condition I did, face down on a child-sized mattress in the back of the old,
rundown farmhouse I had come to associate with the feelings of home for the
last several months.
I
awoke face down on a pile of open mail and paperwork. The farmhouse itself was still bustling with
the sound of far too many people for my comfort. I did my best to compose myself in the dim
light of the makeshift bedroom I found myself in, but the familiar feelings of
shame that only an alcoholic can associate himself with were washing over me in
waves as I listened to the laughter and conversation in the not-so-distant room. I lay silently on my back, trying to attach
faces to the voices I heard. I
recognized several voices immediately as those of Charlene, Ron, Snake, Dayna,
Bull, Rhonda, and much to my surprise, Dale.
I heard Dale, who had just been arrested for driving without a license
while leaving the farm just a couple of days prior to today. More importantly, Dale who had been arrested
after leaving the farm with a baggie of dope that he had just taken possession of
from Bull. An uncomfortable feeling of
suspicion and anxiety at Dale’s presence on the farm was beginning to take hold
of my bleary brain.
I
sat up on the bed, and my head spun viciously with the sudden movement of my
body. I steadied myself, and reached
above my head to push a switch to a light bulb, which better illuminated my surroundings. My hands crushed the paperwork that I had
been sleeping on, and I did my best to reshape the pile they must have been in
when I was poured on top of them. They
appeared to be reports from the DCFS event having occurred when the
investigators arrived to remove Dayna’s son from her custody. I focused my eyes as best I could to peruse
the reports.
The
reports were statements detailing Dayna’s meth-positive urinalysis, the rundown
condition of the farmhouse, and the dangerous condition of the land upon which
the farmhouse that Bull and Dayna called home was kept. Further paperwork explored Bull’s previous
incarcerations for methamphetamine manufacture, and the Departments opinion
that if Dayna wanted to recover custodial rights to her son, that she was
expected to seek drug rehabilitation and mental health counseling while being
observed by a DCFS investigator. There
was also a recommendation that she no longer pursue a relationship with Bull
Gunville until a time when the courts could deem that he himself would not
present a danger to the welfare of Dayna’s son.
All
of this was quite a bit more than I was ready to absorb at the moment. It appeared to me that if life were going to
continue the way we were living it on the farm that only a couple of options
were available to us. Dayna would either
have to leave and adhere to the strict standards that DCFS had established or
she would have to accept that she could no longer be a parent to her son. Knowing Dayna the way that I had come to know
her, both options would be met with resistance.
These options would be met with very loud, very dramatic, very
irrational resistance. I had a feeling
that Bull on the other hand, would try to find some way to either make Dayna
see reason, or force her to make the right decision… in his own way. I wasn’t excited to witness the outcome of
either.
I
left the papers in a neatly stacked pile on the bed, and stood up to make an
attempt at navigating a path to the bathroom adjoining this small bedroom. I relieved myself, and splashed some cold
water on my face, and dampened my stringy hair in an attempt to make myself a
little more presentable to our guests.
My face was bloated and my eyes were puffy and bloodshot. After slapping myself a couple of times on
the cheeks, I sat on the closed toilet seat, and reached behind the cupboard
above the toilet tank to retrieve a glass pipe that I kept stashed for rough
moments like this. Fortunately I didn’t
have to make an effort to load the pipe from what remained of the bag that
Rhonda had paid me with for the bolt.
There was a hardened puddle of dope settled at the bottom of the glass
ball. I fumbled for a lighter in my pocket
and began the process of getting high from my glass pipe.
After
several large hits my head began to clear, and I began to feel quite a bit
steadier than when I had woken up. I was
sitting in a cloud of smoke when a knock came at the bathroom door.
“Hey
fucker… are you alive in there?” It was
Bull.
I
jumped at the sound of his voice. “Yeah
boss, I’m done in here…” He opened the
door as I was putting the pipe back into its hiding spot. He walked in a couple of steps, looking down
at me from where he stood.
“What
the hell happened to you, brother? I’ve
never seen you drunk like that before.”
I was having a hard time meeting his stare, and I had a feeling that he
recognized my avoidance. “Look at me
man,” he palmed the top of my head and gently turned my head towards him. I shook my head free of his grasp.
“I’m
okay, Bull… I just drank a little more than I thought while I was getting high
with Rhonda and her weirdo friend.” I
looked at him briefly and stood up from my seated position.
“I’d
say so…” He looked over his shoulder at the bed I had been asleep on, where the
pile of papers I had read was stacked neatly on the disheveled pillow. “Didja do a little reading when you came to
your senses?”
“Yeah
boss, I read that shit. Doesn’t sound
real good, does it?” I began to pull
down my sleeve on the arm I had been using to bang dope with Rhonda and
Crystin. I was stunned to see some
bruises, and a couple of pockmarks where the needle had entered. My attempt to hide the arm failed, and before
I knew what had happened, Bull had both of my wrists in the tight grasp of one of
his rough, scaly hands and had yanked me towards him and a couple of inches off of the
ground. He was examining the damaged arm
with wild, infuriated eyes. His mood had
immediately gone from that of friendly inquiry to angry inspection.
“What
the fuck happened here?” he whispered through a tightened narrow mouth. He had pulled his free arm back as though he
were about to send his fist directly through my face. His face was close enough to my ear that I could
feel and smell his tobacco-rancid breath.
I felt my bladder release a little, and was shocked to feel drops of
urine on my leg.
“Put
me down, boss…don’t hit me,” I pleaded. Tears were welling up in my eyes, and genuine
fear had consumed my body. My legs were
numb from the knees down, and my wrists were aching. “Please, Bull… it’s no big deal, I just tried
it… I’ll never do it again if you tell me not too.”
Bull’s
demeanor unexpectedly changed just as suddenly as it had deteriorated. He was still holding my wrists above his head,
but the fury in his eyes disappeared, and for a moment I thought I could see
the beginnings of moisture in his own eyes beginning to well up. He lowered my wrists, and released them when
my feet had found the ground. He put the
hand that had been grasping my wrists onto my shoulder, and pulled me towards
him in a momentary embrace. It was just
as gentle a gesture as a father comforting his own son. His next move still remains in my memory as
one of the most stunning things I have ever experienced.
“Goddammit,
brother… I never wanted that for you.
Hell, I never wanted any of this for anybody.”
He grabbed my arm and put both of his hands over the bruises. He squeezed my arm tightly with both of his hands and
whispered, “I’m sorry I sent you away.
You don’t have to do shit like that anymore, okay?” He let go of my arm, turned around and walked
out of the bathroom and back to his expectant company. I was alone in the bathroom. Tears had begun pouring out of eyes, and I
hurried to dry them.
I
looked down at the arm that Bull had been squeezing. I could still see the blood returning to
pale, fleshy hand prints Bull had left on my arm, but the bruises and puncture
marks from my day of banging dope with Rhonda and Crystin had disappeared. I reached my own hand up to the fold of my
arm, and stood alone… looking at something I couldn’t believe. I was left there speechless, amazed and
confused. I have never touched another
needle for the purpose of banging dope to this day.
I
needed to find a clean pair of jeans.
This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo
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