Needle Too: Junkies In Paradise Part 10

Regardless of how it may appear at times, I'm really not a hopelessly hateful person. In fact, I've had longstanding dislikes for people that after a second thought and a little consideration I was easily able to change my way of thinking, shed the ill feelings and develop a meaningful appreciation and respect for those once despised. And, not surprisingly, after living in Southwest Florida and exposing myself to the gut-wrenching agony and perpetual humiliation suffered by so many devoted and unwavering Boston baseball fans-I was finally able to forget about the past, let bygones be bygones and develop a deep appreciation for The New York Yankees.

The pain inflicted by their perennial success was exquisite, and though it affected Bostonians like none other-champions.h.i.+ps won in the name of Gotham delivered a palpable malaise that descended across the entire area and each time it sounded a little less like s.h.i.+t. Of course, there would always be those who simply refused to shut their stinky mouths.

"Yankees f.u.c.king suck!" was suddenly trumpeted at me from behind as I simultaneously smiled with satisfaction and stepped into Tiny Tots Daycare to pick-up Kristen's kids. But when I turned around to get a gander of what was making the awful noise there was clearly nothing to smile about.

"Oh, my G.o.d-Andrea!" I said as I covered my mouth in horror and sort of squinted at the awful aftermath of what had to have been a terrible accident. "What happened to you?!"

"I'm pregnant, dumba.s.s, what do you think happened?!" she said with a smile as she held a belly full of baby with one hand and attempted to corral her already-ejected offspring with the other. "Seven months."

"Wow."

"And six-months h.o.r.n.y," she whispered in my ear before nibbling on it.

"Well I'm starving," I said hoping to replace the subject with another that might also spark her interest and distract her from where this little chitchat was obviously headed. "Let me grab my roommate's kids and we'll head back to the apartment for something to eat."

When we arrived I threw a couple of frozen pizzas in the oven and as the kids ran into the bedroom to play, Andrea held her back and with great difficulty attempted to lower herself onto a couch that was so old it was beaten into the floor.

"Oh, Jesus!" she moaned in discomfort as she leaned against the edge of the couch and then landed on the tired old piece of furniture.

"Pregnancy hurts," I said.

"Oh, really? How would you know?!"

"Because it hurts just to look at," I told her and the moment I did I knew I shouldn't have.

"What do you mean?!"

"I don't know. For some reason I find pregnant women" I said before pausing and deciding whether or not to run with this, "-difficult to be around."

And alas, having been widely praised for a brutal brand of honesty-this is probably not my most popular sentiment.

"AND WHY'S THAT, YOU f.u.c.kING a.s.sHOLE?!" Andrea asked in a way that made me think she was taking it personally.

"I'm not exactly surebut I have some issues," I said as it suddenly occurred to me that I might be a little more f.u.c.ked-up than I originally thought.

"Well I know that!"

"Sorry. Let's just forget I said it. I'm a f.u.c.k-up. Always have beenright from the very beginning."

"Alright, but tell me something," Andrea said with a coy smile. "What if the baby wasI mean, what if you and I werewhat if the two of us were in a different situation?"

"You mean like in a scientific situation?"

"WHAT?"

"Like if we were in biology cla.s.s or something? Like if you were some sort of a-."

"I mean what if the baby was yours?!" she interrupted me...thankfully.

"But it's not mine."

"But what if it was," she said as if that would make it better.

"That would make it worseBy the way, it isn't-is it?"

"No, a.s.shole-it isn't," she said as she fired laser beam bullets at me with her eyes.

And then she started to cry.

"I'm sorry, Andrea," I told her and I really was. "Every now and then I think I'm funny or something and I just get carried away. I'm here for you, honestly. Anything you need is yours. Amy's not letting me see Savannah so I've got plenty of time to spare, and I'd like nothing better than to help with the boys. You know, be a stand-in father-figure or something."

"What's Amy's problem now?"

"She's p.i.s.sed-off and trying to make me pay for it, and now she's talking about supervised visitation and I'm not gonna go for it. I simply refuse."

"What's her reasoning?"

"She hasn't any. But I think she'll use about a decade of doing dope if she needs to."

The sad irony of the fact was that Savannah's arrival required me to settle in the Suns.h.i.+ne State indefinitely, which, at least while I remained there almost guaranteed my continued abstention from heroin. Since I'd been entirely clean for the last eight months and for most of the past two years, had no history of doing dope in Florida and consequently, no potential exposure to what would be the typical triggers-there was nothing to be tempted by. And the birth of my daughter and the awesome responsibility connected to it only ensured I'd keep it that way and not commence with any new, self-destructive routines. Of course, this seemed to matter little to Amy, who was more than willing to stand by and let her stepmother dictate the terms under which I would be permitted to exercise my fatherhood.

In some respects I wish I could have sucked it up and given in to being "supervised," but I just couldn't do it. I'd already lost so much of my own dignity and self-respect that for my own sanity-I had to draw the line and hope Amy would eventually come to her senses. Savannah was six months old and if her mother felt she was too young to visit me in Cape Coral without her being present, I would have to accept that. But if I couldn't be treated with enough respect to take my daughter to the park without being watched by a grown-up, I wouldn't be able to handle it. For the time being I simply had to suck it up and suffer on without her. Then, in July Amy called and when I answered I was certain she'd finally realized she was being unreasonable.

"Did you and your family put a hit on my boyfriend?!" she demanded.

26.

One evening in November the phone rang and it was Amy. I immediately a.s.sumed that during a moment of clarity, combined with Savannah's rapidly approaching first birthday, she'd finally woken up and decided to include me in my daughter's life.

"Craig, I'm so sorry," she said in a scared, nervous voice. "What are you sorry about, Amy?! What the f.u.c.k happened?!"

"UhhhI ummm-"

"Well, since you're apparently incapable of telling me what the problem is, why don't you just go ahead and put that other b.i.t.c.h on the phone."

"Who?"

"G.o.d, Amy-YOUR f.u.c.kING STEPMOTHER!"

"Ohthey got divorced."

"Well congratulate your father for me and then tell him to f.u.c.k off."

"Okay, fine, but listen: I'm at the hospital. Savannah accidentally swallowed some pills."

"WHAT?!"

Consistent with the flawed judgment she'd been exercising in recent months, Amy left Savannah in the care of a family member with a long history of mental illness. Consequently, Savannah, only about a year old and perhaps already tapping into an inherited ability to sniff out the drugs, stumbled upon some psychoactive medication that was left out in the open and intended to put a 250-pound manic depressive at ease. And, thankfully, perhaps in some way also attributable to the same genetic legacy, an unexpected tolerance to the powerful medication prevented Savannah from ever losing consciousness, and while the doctors frantically attempted to counteract the effects of the drugs, she slapped their hands away and roared in protest like a junky defending her nod.

"You owe me BIG TIME, Amy," I said though I don't think she made the same connection.

"Oh, wait a second-somebody here wants to talk to you," she said.

With bated breath I waited and wondered what particular a.s.shole in Amy's inner circle felt the need to have a chat with me at a time like this.

"Mr. Goodman?"

"Yeah,"

"Mr. Goodman, this is Martin Merriman with DCF, and I have to say that I'm totally shocked by-"

"Wait a second," I said to the individual whose tone was already p.i.s.sing me the f.u.c.k off. "What's DCF?"

"Florida Department of Children and Families," he clarified with an att.i.tude that was deliberately palpable.

"Oh, great-listen, I'll be there in a few hours."

"A few hours?"

"Yeah, my plane's in the shop."

"Well, you know the mother says you're not in the child's life, anyway."

"Oh, well how convenient for the mother to say that," I said. "Listen, I'm leaving right now."

"Yeah, I know but you're not here now, and the damage is already done," Mr. Merriman said to me in the same dispa.s.sionate and judgmental tone I'd heard from just about every other city or state employee I'd ever dealt with. "I'm not sure your daughter is enough of a priority to you."

"Listen to me you pathetic waste of desk s.p.a.ce. I couldn't give two s.h.i.+ts about what you're sure of. YOU are nothing but an insignificant little cog in an anemic agency known more for colossal failure than anything else. So why don't you just watch your f.u.c.king mouth and lose the att.i.tude and the tone or you're gonna be reading about what an a.s.shole you are."

I'd recently learned that a well-worded but pa.s.sionate attack with a few naughty words could sometimes move mountains, especially if I implied I was a writer. Sometimes, it even generated an apology, but all I heard in this instance was complete silence.

"h.e.l.lo???"

"Hi-it's me," Amy said as she suddenly had the phone. "Can you come and get Savannah tomorrow morning?"

"f.u.c.k that-I'm coming right now," I said yet again.

"She's been through a lot tonight and I think it's better if she wakes up here. But I've got about a week to baby-proof the house or they're threatening to remove Savannah, and I think it would be good for her to get away from here for a bit."

"Yeah, not to mention spend some time with her father," I said before hanging up on her.

The following morning I rose and drove across the state to pick-up my daughter-though I was concerned she might be terrified at the thought of leaving her mother behind. But that was hardly the case, and the moment Amy strapped Savannah in she began clapping her hands, laughing hysterically and dancing in her car seat as I was certain she was totally excited at the prospect of hanging out with her daddy. It was either that, or she was still a little wasted. Regardless, she talked her baby talk for most of the trip until she finally lost interest and consciousness by the time we got to Lehigh, which I suppose was appropriate enough.

I still had a week of vacation time remaining from the previous year at Whitman, and since I'd just started my second year at the company I was able to parlay two weeks off from work to spend a total of 16 consecutive days with Savannah. And each day, though initially Kristen was up bright and early to tend to ALL the kiddies, I decided to a.s.sume control of the domestic routine while my roommate was more than willing to sleep in. As a result, on most mornings I was up at 6 a.m. to feed the kids, bring the boys to school and spend the rest of the day exclusively with Savannah. And though I didn't toke when I awoke-I took two at night to make it right.

27.

Although while Savannah was under my care I got out of the habit of smoking weed in the morning, it certainly wasn't because I couldn't function or care for the kids after indulging. Once again, pot didn't affect me like it did when I was in college. I'm not sure if it's typical for a drug to affect an individual so differently over the course of time, but that's what happened to me. Now, in many ways, weed was really just a creature comfort. It was a soothing security blanket. It was a warm, waterlogged sponge sitting on the top of my head. It made me calm-almost like a Xanax, but without the sleepiness or the heavy subduedness it can shroud the user with. Whether or not the subtle, helpful and productive aspects of smoking pot were unique to me and my own f.u.c.ked-up physiology and situation-I wasn't sure and I didn't care. And incidentally, I only did away with the A.M. toke because, with Savannah around, my routine was immediately altered and for some reason the same compulsion seemed to be missing. But it returned with a vengeance after she returned to Jupiter and I rea.s.sumed the position for Willie Whitman.

In December of 1999 I convinced Amy to let me have Savannah for what would be her first real Christmas. I remembered Kristen went all-out for the kids with Santa Claus the year before, and I was convinced that Savannah would be awed by the colors, candy and decorations and she was. She was also awed by Tiva, Kristen's 70-pound Pit Bull, who was smitten with Savannah and absurdly protective of her, as she would gently herd Kristen's unruly little boys out of the immediate area whenever she felt the roughhousing in the room was getting a little too rough.

Before returning Savannah to Jupiter on the final evening of her holiday visit, we packed the Trooper with her new toys and clothes as I was struck by the winter chill, the likes of which I hadn't experienced while living in Florida. After I fastened her into the car seat while my ancient Isuzu warmed itself in the cold night air, I rolled up the driver side window and noticed a stray gray kitten rising up along with it and staring at me as she clung to the top edge of the gla.s.s, almost as if she was doing chin-ups against it. I gently opened the door, stepped out of the truck, carefully unhooked kitty's claws from the edge of the window and gently placed her in the gra.s.s beside the apartment before transporting my daughter across the state-oblivious to the first monumental failure of my own humanity.

28.

As the new millennium began to unfurl itself, I began a string of relatively short-lived intimate relations.h.i.+ps, and though in retrospect I realize they were mostly shallow and born from a mutual kind of convenience, they occasionally compelled Amy to use her daughter as a bargaining chip of sorts-or even ransom for what she wanted. Consequently, whether it was a matter of increased support or simply seething resentment, she wouldn't hesitate to suspend my relations.h.i.+p with Savannah if she felt the ends justified the means. And though at first I was livid with her tactics I'd eventually realize the best course of action was to sit tight, ignore her, stay away from the phone and wait for her to come to her senses.

As far as the aforementioned, personal relations.h.i.+ps were concerned, I believe they were largely a side-effect of living in Southwest Florida among so many turnkey families with pretty, young, women at the helm-most of whom had relatively low expectations but a desperate desire to play house with someone in something resembling a conventional domestic setting. And as a "recovering" junky with a dysfunctional family background and a revived libido but no conception of what it really meant to be a husband or even a serious, sober, boyfriend-I was so ripe for the picking I fell the f.u.c.k out of the tree. But most importantly, however-though I've never admitted this to myself or in any other forum-I think the primary motivation behind a.s.suming the surrogate daddy/hubby roles was the real daddy role I'd been playing alone, a role that I had no prototype for. So, lacking the character to admit it back then-though I suppose given the circ.u.mstances there must have been a shortage of that to begin with-I believe I was largely exploiting those sad, patriarchally-challenged living arrangements in order to furnish Savannah's visits with real homes and real moms who would go out of their way to be extra good to my little girl. And indeed, Savannah's visits were always filled with lots of love, lots of kids, trips to amus.e.m.e.nt parks and incredible Christmases-so much so that each year she would almost always be in Cape Coral to greet Santa. But certainly, I too would extend similar gestures as drunk, ornery and abusive ex-husbands or former boyfriends would occasionally drop by to kick-in doors and issue threats while terrorizing their own children and looking for a fight. And of course, each time they got exactly what they came looking for. In fact, one of them hit me so hard I actually s.h.i.+t my pants, but believe me-there are times in a frightened woman's life when nothing means more than a big pair of b.a.l.l.s and a little bit of p.o.o.p.

Meanwhile, by the end of the summer of 2000 I left the Wealth Center and began a series of business writing positions with companies that included a devious data provider, a deceptive employment agency and a multilevel marketing firm, all of which I enjoyed about as much as Willie Whitman as I realized Cape Coral was hardly a mecca for legitimate and respectable businesses types. Then on April 1st, 2002 my mother relocated to Bonita Springs in Southwest Florida as she could no longer bear the thought of being so far away from her beloved son-but only a f.u.c.king fool would believe that. In reality, her income-pilfered and otherwise-could no longer support the quality of life she demanded in Connecticut so she headed to Florida, and after 137 years the South would finally be getting its comeuppance.

As far as Perry was concerned, Total Tree Care was up and rolling and by 2002 he had his own truck, the necessary tools of the trade, and everything required to run a successful lawn care and tree removal business except for customers. As a result, he revived a less artistic version of the starving artist role he played in New York and got a job in a San Francisco restaurant to support his less glitzy aspiration, and the hectic schedule was apparently pus.h.i.+ng him to the brink.

"A cop pulled me over in my truck yesterday while I was driving around without a license," he called to tell me.

"What happened?"

"I cried."