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wanderingsoul
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I am still amazed at the hold Dale had on me. Here I was, sitting in a jail cell seriously believing I would be spending the foreseeable future in prison—and when they offered to dismiss the charges against me if I gave them information on Dale and his supplier, I told them to go **** themselves.
I had reasons why I didn’t want to talk. I suppose I had conscious reasons and subconscious ones. At the time, I thought my reasons were based on sanity. If I told them about Papa Doc—I didn’t fool myself into thinking it was Dale they were really after—I could kiss my ass good-bye. Papa Doc was connected. I knew that. Didn’t have to be told that—just knew it instinctively. And Dale had told me more than once that Papa Doc would shoot my ass as soon as look at me. I had no reason to doubt that. Papa Doc had never given me any reason to doubt that.
That was my conscious reason. And I fully believed that was my only reason. But I had used my one phone call to call Dale, to warn Dale. And that wasn’t because I thought I owed him that. It was because I still felt something for Dale. Life with Dale wasn’t all bad. There had been good times, times I still remember. Like when we first met. Like when he took me to dinner at the Best Western—and I had that prime rib with the freshly grated horseradish. Like when he gave me the book of poetry, Treasury of the World’s Best Loved Poems. And all the times the sex had been great. And the time he took my nightmares away from me. These were all good times. And these were what I thought about as I sat in that jail cell. These were what I was really feeling when I told them to go **** themselves. I see that now. I didn’t see that then. And I also see that had Mark not called Roger I would have never been able to simply stay away from Dale. I would have gone back to him. Would have gone back to him again and again and again.
And pathetic as it is, beneath it all, there was part of me—a very young, idealistic, romantic-minded part of me—that imagined Dale would be there when I got out of jail. No, not waiting for me with open arms and an “I told you I would wait for you forever” look. But there, willing to take me back—even if it was on his terms. I had no illusions on that—it would be HIS terms. But he would take me back. And part of me held on to that. Part of me needed to hold on to that. I had lost Paul and considering what I had said to him, I felt certain I had lost Mark also. I wanted—needed—to believe I wouldn’t lose Dale.
My dad came to see me. Mark came with him. I knew Mark had told my dad. Knew he must have. My dad never bought the local paper. My dad didn’t get local TV. My dad didn’t go anywhere, didn’t socialize. No way he would have found out unless Mark told him. And my dad was the last person I wanted to see. My dad and I weren’t on the best of terms as it was. And a big part of me felt like a little boy around my dad. In this case, a very naughty little boy who had managed to find still one more way to shame his father. I could see that in his eyes as he looked at me.
I suppose, looking back, what I really saw in his eyes was pain. Not easy to look at your child and see him hurt. And I didn’t look great. Hell, that is a major understatement! I was bruised, cut and broken and I looked like I belonged lying in a gutter somewhere. Not easy to see your little boy looking like that. Can relate to that now. Couldn’t then. Then I only saw him turn his head away when he looked at me.
So I lashed out at him in my customary fashion. Told him I didn’t need him, didn’t need his help, didn’t want his help. And one thing I have to say about myself is that when I am hurt, when I am angry I use a very sharp weapon: my tongue.
I looked right at him and took my best aim. “You going to help me like you did last time, Dad? You going to just talk to the right people and make everything all go away? Just going to pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend it doesn’t matter?” I saw immediately I had hit the mark.
He just got up and walked out. I looked at Mark and started yelling at him. “Why the **** did you tell him? What ****ing right do you have to drag my father into this? It’s not like he ****ing gives a **** beyond how people will think of HIM! He doesn’t give a **** about me, and you know of all people should know that!”
Mark stood up and I could see the guard tense. “And who the **** do you think DOES care about you, Luc? You think Dale cares about you? You think HE gives a **** about you? Is he here? Has he come to see how you are doing? You called him. Where is he?”
“I don’t know where the **** he is. But he cares a hell of a lot more about me than my dad does!” The words were irrational. God! I even knew that then. But I wanted to believe that Dale cared—even if he didn’t actually care more than my dad.
Mark turned away. He ran his hand through his hair. “God, Luc! How can you be so ****ing stupid?” He looked at me. “Dale skipped, Luc. He was gone before he even got your message. Roger told me it was still on the machine—unplayed—when the police searched his apartment.” He shook his head. “I told you before, Luc--it’s a ****ing small town. I didn’t tell your dad—he called me. And I’m sure one of Dale’s customers must have seen you getting taken away and must have told him. And you see how quickly he ran? You think he gives a **** about you?”
I just stared at him. I don’t know why what he said made any difference to me. I hadn’t expected Dale to do anything. Hadn’t expected him to call or come. Had honestly expected him to stay away. Had even sort of expected him to run, to hide—at least on a temporary basis. That was, after all, why I had called him. But somehow expecting him to run and hearing that he actually had run… two entirely different things.
“Luc, your dad does care about you more than Dale. I care about you more than Dale. Christ, even the ****ing mailman cares about you more than Dale. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see what a **** Dale is? Look what he’s done to you, Luc!”
I stood up and apparently the guard thought I was going to lunge at Mark, because he grabbed me and had the cuffs on me in an instant. He was right, I was going to lunge at Mark. “You don’t care about me, Mark. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here. Just go the **** away, will you? I’m so ****ing tired of you messing up my life. Just leave me the **** alone. Stay the **** out of my life!”
The guard dragged me out of the room.
“Is that what you really want, Luc?” I heard Mark’s voice behind me. No, it wasn’t what I really wanted. Of course it wasn’t what I really wanted.
“Yes!” I yelled over my shoulder.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/26/2003, 3:16 am
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wanderingsoul
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“Dale skipped, Luc. He was gone before he even got your message…. And you see how quickly he ran? You think he gives a **** about you?”
Like I said, expecting him to run and hearing that he actually had run…two entirely different things. I was wound up when they took me back to my cell. My head was racing. I was angry. I was angry with Mark for calling Roger. I was angry with Mark for saying Dale didn’t give a **** about me. I hated him for throwing that in my face. And I hated Dale for making every word Mark said true. But most of all I think I hated myself. Hated myself for not seeing—or for seeing and not believing—or for believing and still not caring, for choosing to tell myself what I knew to be lies.
But I wasn’t analyzing it then. I was just feeling, and what I felt most was out of control. I didn’t know what to do. It was almost a panic feeling at first. I paced around the cell, banging against the bars, banging against the walls, kicking the bed. I wanted out! And I wanted a fix—badly! My head wouldn’t quiet down. I sat down on the bed and banged my head on the mattress, over and over and over until I felt like I was going to throw up. I wanted everything in my head to just end. I wanted to just end. And I couldn’t see how to make it end. Dale had run. Dale was gone. He wouldn’t be there when I got out. I had nothing left to hold on to.
So I let go. I sat there on the bed, leaning over, my face against the mattress, my head pounding and just let everything pour out of my head, out of my eyes. Good thing I was alone. Would have been one hell of a show. But when I had cried every possible tear I had in me, I felt that sense of quiet that you get after an emotional purging. It wasn’t precisely numbness. I still felt. Still felt a very deep pain, a deep sense of loss, of despair. But it was a quiet despair, a quiet, accepting despair. I knew my life was over, so nothing else mattered anymore.
I stood up and called to the guard. He wasn’t terribly friendly in his response. Can’t say I blame him. I had NOT been a model prisoner up to this point. I told him I wanted to talk to Detective Finch. Told him I wanted to tell him what he wanted to know. The guard gave me a look that clearly said he didn’t believe a word I was saying. But he went back to his desk and called the detective. I sat back down on the bed. My heart was pounding, my pulse was racing. The calm was leaving me. I had made my decision, now I had to go through with it. And I firmly believed that going through with my decision would cost me my life.
I sat there and thought it all through, thought what I would tell Detective Finch. I would tell him what I knew about Dale. In my mind I couldn’t see how Dale would be affected. He had already run. The best I could give them on Dale was a physical description. I didn’t know his customers. I had only seen the one—that first night in Dale’s kitchen, the first time he had hit me. And that had been a year ago. I couldn’t recall the slightest thing about him. And after that, I had learned not to venture out of the bedroom when I heard voices in the kitchen. I suppose Dale was really very shrewd. He hadn’t wanted me involved in that part of his business. For my own sake, he would always say. But I guess he was really protecting himself, making it impossible for me to do much damage to HIM if anything like this ever happened. I guess Dale knew how to plan ahead. So I really couldn’t hurt Dale. And maybe that was one of the reasons I did decide to talk. Maybe if I had not felt Dale would be safe, I would have never made that decision. I don’t know. Jail was not where I wanted to be. I would like to think that eventually I would have just been willing to do anything to get out of there—even at Dale’s expense. But even now I doubt it.
But I would also tell them about Papa Doc. And THAT was the part that made me believe that my decision to talk would cost me my life. There was no way I could reason myself out of that feeling. Papa Doc was a gang-connected drug dealer whose operation was at the very least in two counties. There was no way that giving evidence against him would do me any good. Oh, I might get handed the “Get out of jail free” card—but how long would it be before someone like Tyrell or Ramon or any one of Papa Doc’s “boys” that I wouldn’t recognize would find me? I had watched TV. I had seen the movies, the cop shows. Witness Protection Programs were for bigger deals than this. I could see myself sitting on the witness stand, Papa Doc at the defendant’s table, some of his “boys” sitting in the back of the courtroom studying my face. If—and that was a big if—I even managed to survive long enough to give testimony, as soon as the guilty verdict was pronounced, my life wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s dam.
Funny, that was my dad’s phrase. Something wasn’t “worth a tinker’s dam.” And thinking that phrase made me think of my dad. I was a major disappointment to my dad. He never let me forget that. Not with words. He never said what he was feeling. That wasn’t how my dad was. But he didn’t have to say the words. I could read his face, his body language. I had disgraced him—and that was the right choice of words. My dad was older, from a time when children could “disgrace” the family, their fathers. And I had disgraced him when I was 15 by fathering a child “out of wedlock.” I had disgraced him again when I was 16 by getting myself raped—except that never actually happened in his eyes. In his eyes it had been just one of those “locker room fights that had gotten out of hand.” And I was disgracing him again now.
And that was really what convinced me that I was making the right decision. It wasn’t like he didn’t have any other children, any other sons. He had Bob. He would still have Bob—Bob who had become respectable, who had gone from Biker Bob to Insurance Man Bob and was now earning a respectable living. I would tell Detective Finch what I knew about Papa Dock. That was the right thing to do. And maybe that would remove a little of the disgrace from my dad’s name. And then Papa Doc would remove me. And my dad wouldn’t have to live with the disgrace of having a son like me anymore.
**
I sat across the table from Detective Finch. A court reporter sat off to one side. Two guards…stood guard. I was handcuffed. Apparently they had reason to think that was necessary. I wasn’t going to try to run, wasn’t going to take a swing at anyone. But they didn’t know that. I had done both already. No reason for them to assume I wouldn’t do either again. My lawyer—such as he was—was sitting next to me.
“If I tell you what you want to know, what will happen to me?” I knew what would ultimately happen to me. But I was interested in my immediate future. Would I still get jail time? Would I get probation? What kind of deal would they offer me?
“My client is an innocent victim in all this, Detective. I plan on petitioning the court for a dismissal. You found no drugs at his place of residence, and you and I both know that possession of drug paraphernalia is a crime on paper only.”
I stared at him. Apparently he had decided to actually play lawyer.
“Perhaps, but your client did test positive for heroin, which you and I both know is an illegal substance. That hardly makes him innocent. And he did assault a guard. And he did try to escape. Your client will serve time on those charges at the very least. And I’m sure your client does not want to spend any more time behind bars than is absolutely necessary. He has a 4-year-old son I am sure he would like to see for Christmas.” Detective Finch paused, and I could feel the “dramatic pause” just as if I had been watching it on TV. He continued. “If your client is willing to tell us everything he knows about Dale Rankin and his connections, then I am sure I can get the assault and escape charges dropped. And as you say, beyond that there is no real evidence against your client.”
So, Dale’s last name was Rankin. I wondered how they had found that out when I had known him for over a year and didn’t know that.
“May I have a moment alone with my client, Detective?” my all-of-a-sudden-real-lawyer asked.
Detective Finch started to rise. I stopped him. “No, there’s nothing we need to talk about. The deal sounds fair enough to me. That’s what it is, right? A deal? I tell you all I know about Dale and his connections, and the assault and escape charges are dismissed? And you let me go for lack of evidence? Am I understanding that right?”
Detective Finch sat back down, and I could see a little smile of satisfaction on his face. I suspect he was already reading the newspaper article in his mind. “Yes, that’s right.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ok, then. Where do you want me to start?”
I told Detective Finch everything. Well, not everything. I left out a lot of my time with Dale. I couldn’t see any reason to tell him some of those things. But I told him about getting hooked on heroin—not why—just when and how. Told him about the “alleged customers” I would hear—but not see. And then I told him about Papa Doc. I could see his eyes light up, could see him leaning forward in his chair. I gave him descriptions of Papa Doc, Tyrell and Ramon. I gave good descriptions. You don’t forget the face of a man whose **** you sucked and who ****ed you every week for nearly a year. And Tyrell’s face and the candy cane smell of his breath would stay with me for a long time—as would that smirk on Ramon’s face. I gave him a good description of the house—right down to the number and driving directions from I-88. And I told him that I dropped off and picked up every Thursday—had done the same thing for about 10 months. It was Tuesday and I had been in the county jail since the previous Thursday night.
Detective Finch acted like the information was questionable. Told me everything would have to check out before the deal would be put in place. But I had no doubts the information would check out. And I figured that it was unlikely Dale had warned Papa Doc. Dale wouldn’t be THAT stupid. Papa Doc would, of course, blame Dale and Dale’s life would be wroth less than mine—less than a tinker’s dam. So, it was Tuesday. It would be Thursday before Papa Doc would have any reason to suspect anything was wrong. I figured that Detective Finch was probably running that same thing through his own head. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I shared my thoughts with him.
“You know, you seem to be a fairly bright boy. How the **** did you get yourself this screwed up?” Detective Finch was looking directly at me. His eyes looked right into mine. They weren’t unkind. I didn’t feel like he was accusing me or judging me. I just felt he was legitimately wondering.
And I felt I owed him an answer. “Just really good at ****ing things up, I guess.”
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/29/2003, 6:41 pm
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wanderingsoul
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Detective Finch was true to his word. On Friday, December 24th I stood in front of the judge in the county courthouse. Papa Doc had been picked up the day after I had given Detective Finch the information. They hadn’t wasted any time. Hadn’t thought they would. His operation had turned out to be a nice juicy one. And they had found more than enough evidence at his house to be pretty sure of a good solid conviction—without the need for any testimony from me. The judge had everything in front of him. My statement. The reports on the subsequent arrest and expected conviction of Papa Doc.
My dad was there. Hadn’t expected him to be. Hadn’t wanted him to be. My mom was there also. That was hard. My mom and I have always been close. Never had a time when we were not. I didn’t want her to see me in that place. Though, I suppose it could have been worse. Would have been a HELL of a lot worse if she had seen me when they had first brought me in. And, of course, Mark was there. Mark and his brother Aaron. Mark’s cousin Roger was there—in the official guise as the “arresting officer.” My good friend Kyle was there also. Linda wasn’t there—though she told me afterwards she wanted to be. But it was Christmas Eve and Sam was 4 and there were preparations for Santa to be made. Detective Finch was also not there. He had family also, and it was, after all, Christmas Eve.
My lawyer made the formal motion to have the charges dismissed. The District Attorney, in accordance with the “deal” made by Detective Finch, agreed with my lawyer. Of course, the judge could do as he pleased. It was his call. I remember my heart racing. I knew this was the moment of truth one way or another. They had me dead to rights on the assault and escape charges. They could choose to pursue them. And there would be no point pleading not guilty to them. My lawyer had told me as much. A conviction on those two charges would get me jail time of some form.
Of all the things that have stuck in my mind all these years, you would think I would remember every detail of that moment. The judge was about to decide my fate, alter the course of my life. You would think I would remember what he said. But I don’t. Not the details. All I heard was “I am going to allow the dismissal of all charges…” I know he said more. He said a lot more. There were conditions to the dismissal. But I honestly don’t remember one word after that. I just felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I remember turning around and looking for Mark. Guess that was always my instinct, to turn to Mark. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. But he was smiling. And that was good. My mom was crying. Of course. Happy, sad, in the middle—my mom would always cry. My dad…he looked relieved. And even though I was drowning in relief myself, that one part of me figured he was relieved he wouldn’t have a jailbird for a son. As that thought hit my head, I remembered that I really had no reason to be so relieved. The People were about to set me free—but Papa Doc’s “people” would no doubt find me soon enough. And then I would be in that tinker’s damn position again.
My attorney nudged me sharply and I looked up at the judge. “Do you understand these conditions, Mr. Shaffer?”
What conditions? I hadn’t heard anything he had said. But I wasn’t stupid enough to say that. “Yes, your honor.” I knew my lawyer would tell me what they were. And whatever they were, I really had no choice but to comply with them.
He looked long and hard at me. Then he nodded and it was over.
**
It was Monday before I was actually released. I had missed Christmas with my son. It was the first one I had missed. Even the last Christmas, when I had been with Dale, I had still managed to be there for Christmas morning and the opening of the presents from Santa. I knew he was young, just 4, but he was old enough to know that Daddy wasn’t there on Christmas morning. That bothered me. More than it might normally have bothered me—because a very big part of me didn’t expect to be around for any more Christmas mornings. That thought didn’t have me in the greatest of moods when I listened to my lawyer run through the conditions of the dismissal.
“It’s not that bad, really, Lucas.” He seemed cheerful as hell. But then, he hadn’t missed his son’s Christmas. “You just have to participate in a Substance Abuse program. I have a list of the ones that the court considers acceptable. There is an employment condition in here as well. You have 60 days to find a job of some form, or be able to show proof that you have been making a serious effort to find one. You know there is an agency right here in town that can help you with that. I would suggest you make an appointment with them right away.” He looked at me. “You do know that any one of the programs approved by the court provide for random drug testing. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
I didn’t know. I was over the physical effects of withdrawal from heroin. Technically my body was “clean.” But my head was the problem. I didn’t know where it was, didn’t know where it would go. I answered him honestly. No point in lying to your lawyer. “Not sure.”
“Lucas, you got really lucky here. Honestly, you had a couple of people go to bat for you.”
I assumed he meant Mark’s cousin Roger. And I thought maybe he might have meant Detective Finch also.
“The DA here tends to be tough on drug offenders. Same with judges. I’ll be blunt, Lucas. You **** up, you fail any one of the random drug tests and you will be back in.”
“Just for failing a drug test?” That didn’t sound right to me.
He shook his head. “I knew you weren’t paying attention to the judge. He dismissed the charges conditionally, Lucas. If you violate any of the conditions of dismissal, you will be brought back in and will charged with possession and the original assault and escape charges will be brought against you.”
“But wouldn’t they have to actually find something on me?” I saw TV. I thought I knew the rules.
He just smiled. “You test positive for heroin, of course they will find something on you. Wouldn’t that be reasonable to expect? Either on your person or in your premises.”
I understood. “How long do these conditions apply?” I was wondering how long I would HAVE to toe the line. I didn’t want to go back to jail.
He smiled again. “Thinking that far, are you?” He shook his head. “Again, you were lucky as hell. The Substance Abuse programs mentioned are 6-month programs. If you test clean throughout, that’s it.”
I thought about that. Six months was a long time to live with all this **** in my head. But then, it wasn’t that long really. And very likely Papa Doc’s boys would cut that time down a bit.
“Ok, then. You just sign these papers and you can go home.”
I signed the papers. But I was thinking about what he said. I could go “home.” Where was my home? I had told Mark I wanted him out of my life. I had hurt him deeply even before I had said that. He had told me he would always be there for me and I had thrown that back in his face. Yet he had been there in the courtroom. But if Mark didn’t want me to share the apartment with him any longer, where would I go? I couldn’t go home. Home hadn’t been “home” for me for 3 years. Oh well, maybe I could stay with Kyle for a bit. Though I knew that would be the worst possible thing for me to do. Kyle used and Kyle would share.
I sighed, and I saw my lawyer look at me curiously. “Just thinking. There’s just a lot in my head.”
He nodded and I could see understanding and maybe a little sympathy, even, in his eyes. “Just stick with the Program, Lucas. Worse addicts than you make it through. And maybe while you are there you should look into getting a little counseling for some other things.”
I knew what he meant. Of course, I had no intention of doing anything like that. But there was no point in going through that. I just nodded.
**
It was snowing when I stepped outside. My lawyer had told me that Mark had said he was going to drop off my car so it would be there when I got out. But instead, Mark was there.
“Hey, Luc.”
“Thought you were going to drop off my car,” I replied stupidly. I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t even want to meet his eyes.
“Figured it was easier to just pick you up.” He started walking towards the parking lot. I followed. There had never been an awkward silence between us. Never. Not once since that first day in the school cafeteria. We had always talked—or yelled—or fought. But we were never silent.
“How’s Chop?” Chop was his dog Chopper. The damned dog thought I was god. Could picture him pining away for me all this time.
Mark grinned. “Wasting away.” Chopper could go a couple of months without eating and would still be fat. He was the biggest, fattest beagle I had ever seen.
I grinned, too. “As if!”
We reached Mark’s truck. I got in.
“Brought you some Mickey D’s. Figured you’d be hungry. Doubt they fed you anything good in there.”
I had to grin. Mark was obsessed with eating. Did it pretty much 24/7. Was the farm boy in him. Used to eating good solid meals. If left to his own devices, a double cheeseburger, fries, a vanilla shake and a couple of apple pies was a good solid meal. That was what he had brought me.
“Actually the food was ok. Didn’t much feel like eating it. But it was ok.”
I looked over at him. I could see his brows knitting together. Knew he was struggling with what to say. I figured I would say it first. “I’m sorry, Mark.”
He looked at me quickly, and I could see something almost like shock in his baby blue eyes—which were NOTHING like Dale’s turquoise ones. “What for?”
I stared at him. “What for? You want a list? Let me see, for—“
“I don’t want a ****ing list, Luc.” He interrupted me. “Just shut up and eat, will you? You look like ****.”
I smirked. “Love you, too.”
He glanced at me, a big dumb farm boy jock grin on his face, and he spent the rest of the ride back to our apartment telling me about Christmas dinner at his parents’ house.
I just grinned as I ate. Guess I still had a home to go to.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/30/2003, 6:08 pm
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I did find out from Roger that Papa Doc had been convicted of drug trafficking and had been sent to a state prison downstate. I suppose it must have made the papers, but it didn’t make the local paper so I didn’t see it. None of his “boys” ever came after me. I expected them to. It hung over my head like the Sword of Damocles—even a while after Roger told me of Papa Doc’s conviction. But I suppose Dale’s ability to protect himself inadvertently protected me as well.
Papa Doc couldn’t give any more information on Dale than I had—and he had no reason NOT to give whatever information he had. He had no reason to want to protect Dale. Actually had a LOT of reasons to want to take him down with him. But apparently Papa Doc never actually knew where Dale was—so he had no starting point if he had wanted to look for me. He had never actually met Dale. And Dale always called Papa Doc—or Papa Doc called him--on his cell phone—which I knew didn’t actually belong to Dale anyway. Dale was very good at covering his ass—and ended up covering mine, as well.
So I gradually did lose the conviction that my life wasn’t worth that tinker’s damn. But even without that, I was still a serious mess. My head was in a bad place. Without the heroin to neatly pack away everything that bothered me, I found myself plagued by the same things that had haunted me when Paul had left—and then there were the things that Dale had added. Had a real hard time sleeping. Nightmares weren’t always the problem. Sometimes—most of the time, really, I just couldn’t shut my head down. When it got really bad, I would risk some Benedryl and some scotch. Never did that on days I worked or on days I had counseling though. I wasn’t sure whether an antihistamine would qualify as a “drug” that would violate the conditions of dismissal. I knew one drink wouldn’t show up, though. And I did stick to just one.
My shoulder also took a while to heal. I hadn’t done it any favors when I was banging against the walls and the bars. I was in a lot of pain from that. I saw a doctor. But given my history of drug addiction (medical records transferred from the county jail—those papers you sign at the doctor’s office give them a right to those records), he was reluctant to prescribe anything that was a “controlled substance.” So, no codeine, no hydrocodone, no Darvocet, nothing good. Got mega doses of ibuprophen and a prescription for physical therapy. That didn’t help my sleeping. And it made me irritable as hell. Well, that was what I blamed that irritability on. I’m sure it was related to the heroin—or lack of it.
But I stuck to the conditions of the dismissal. The Substance Abuse Program I got into was operated out of the same site as the unemployment office. That was a good tie in actually, since they had contacts with companies that would give opportunities to people who have ****ed up. I did manage to find a job. Despite Dale’s dark prognostications that no one would hire a “two-time loser with no ****ing skills,” I got a job working in the local office of the weekly My Shopper paper. Actually did have a few skills. Could type. Could read. Could actually recognize language—which was more than their previous proofreader could do. It was only a part-time job, but it was my first job in an office and I was just anal-retentive enough by nature to do it rather well.
And the counseling I got in the Substance Abuse Program actually did help. I went in with the attitude that I would just pretend to listen, do my time and get out of there. But I actually found myself listening. It got me to think—which is what I really needed to do. It helped me to reason myself into a different frame of mind. And I have to say that it is probably the only reason I did manage to stay off the heroin. I also managed to repress a lot of things. I didn’t realize it at the time—but I did. And it was probably a good thing. It is hard enough dealing with those things now. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with them then.
And I managed to convince myself that I needed to get my life back together. My son was 4, and while I had never lost contact with him during that time with Dale, I had not spent as much time with him as I had previously. He felt that and so did I. Paul had been right not to ask me to go with him. I started to actually see that a little. Still felt the loss, the abandonment, but could see why it wouldn’t have been right for me to go with him anyway. My son needed me. I was his dad—not just his biological father. I had been in his life from the moment of his birth. And honestly, I needed him. He gave me a reason to focus on tomorrow. And there were times when he gave me a reason to actually WANT a tomorrow.
Mark was there for me also. He had always been my best friend. He was still my best friend. And I couldn’t envision a time when he wouldn’t be my best friend. He was there for me when the nightmares came, just as he had been there before. He was there for me when I had a bad day—and there were many of them—and REALLY wanted a fix BADLY. He never asked me about anything, but I told him some things. I told him about Dale, about how he hit me. I told him that because he pretty much knew that. But I didn’t tell him about Papa Doc or Tyrell or Ramon. Somehow I knew I just would never be able to look him in the face and tell him the things I had done—or that they had done.
But the six months of conditions were over much more quickly than I had expected. I had to reappear in court, before that same judge, so that my compliance with the conditions could be reviewed. Seemed to me that a court appearance was a bit unnecessary. But I suspected that they wanted to put the fear of jail in me at least one last time. And they did. I knew I hadn’t violated any of the conditions, but standing in front of that judge my heart was pounding just as it had been when I had last stood there.
“Well, Mr. Shaffer, it appears that you have managed to comply with the conditions imposed by this court.” This time, I heard and remembered every word. “I see you have completed the Substance Abuse Program. The counselor had some good things to say about your cooperation, as well. And I see also that you have managed to obtain and maintain a job, where you are doing quite well according to your employer. I trust you have learned some valuable lessons from this experience. I am dismissing all charges without conditions. Good luck to you, Mr. Shaffer, and it is my sincere hope that you never have occasion to come before me again.”
**
I won’t say that my life was sunshine and roses after that. It wasn’t. But it wasn’t Hell either. I had good days and bad days. But there were mostly good days.
The funny thing is that you are never free of things like this. Once you are addicted to heroin, it is always with you. It is an old friend that you know you can always run to if you need to. And I’ve run there from time to time. I did that not too long ago, actually. And I won’t lie—it helped. And I enjoyed it. Every minute of it. And the 2 days of sick after the 3 days of using didn’t make me vow to never to do it again.
I’ve learned that promises like always, forever and never are very hard to keep. I like to reserve them for things that I truly believe will be always, forever and never. I don’t believe that about heroin. Hell, I don’t even believe that about Dale. Part of me would still go to him if he were around. That self-destructive part of me that still exists would seek him out. It’s that part of me that still believes that my only worth to someone is in the sex I can give them, the pleasures I can give them. It is that part of me that still hears the words “Who the **** do you think you are?” But fortunately that is only part of me now, part of who I am—but not ALL of who I am.
I make no promises to myself or to anyone else of never with the heroin. I won’t put that pressure on myself. I promise myself only that I will never yield to addiction again. That I know I have put behind me. That is a promise I am comfortable with. That will NOT happen again. But I allow myself to know that I can always use if I need to. And that takes away the pressure of having to live up to expectations, of having to keep a promise that I can’t be sure I can keep. Instead, it gives me the freedom to make a choice. And having a choice places all the power in MY hands.
Last edited by wanderingsoul, 12/31/2003, 7:31 am
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/31/2003, 7:17 am
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