Needle Too: Junkies In Paradise Part 8

"Sorry," she said as I took the pa.s.senger seat. "I already called Kirk and told him we'd be a few minutes late so don't worry."

However, as soon as we stepped into the restaurant Kirk called me into the office and flipped the f.u.c.k out in a way that was not only totally over-the-top, but partially incoherent and completely irrational. He knew precisely why I was late, which was the same reason Kristen was late and while he said not a word to her, he was literally foaming at the mouth at me. I'd never seen anything like it. His fury seemed pent up, like he'd been waiting for the perfect opportunity to let it combust before unleashing it all. And as he ranted and raved incoherently about everything he never liked about me and chunks of spittle came flying out of his mouth in all directions-I thought he might've been a little out of his head. Of course, this was purely speculation as I never saw any evidence other than a few periods of extraordinarily absurd behavior but then again-that might've been enough. So anyway, toward the end of April in 1997 Kirk fired me because Kristen was late, and for some reason I was totally cool with that. Besides, immediately afterwards I was able to secure work for the month of May at Jalapenos. In fact, from what I understood, the job was practically waiting there for me from the moment the last chunk of spittle landed thanks to recommendations from the staff at Bistro 41-but not so much the management.

Jalapenos was a Mexican restaurant, and though like Bistro 41 it was also located on Route 41 near the Bell Tower, it was much closer in caliber and proximity to Taco Bell and Crime Manor. Nonetheless, the month I spent at Jalapenos is notable only because it was there where I met Amy-Savannah's mother-and because I developed something of a friendship with Rob Moore and Jamie Sharkey, two members of the wait staff who were also something of a couple. Both were 22-years old and Jamie, coincidentally, harbored very serious ambitions to become an actress. Hence, predictably enough, within a week the New Yorker Who Knows Everything started running his mouth about the city and before I knew it-I'd extended both of them invitations to join us in Long Island for the summer. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, Rick had already secured housing for the group that would be insufficient to accommodate any additional members.

I cannot begin to describe how overcome with disappointment Rob and especially Jamie were at the prospect of suddenly not going to Long Island for the summer. As a matter of fact, as far as Jamie was concerned, the whole Southampton gig was just a convenient and timely excuse for laying down more permanent roots in the city and doing the starving artist thing for a while.

"Well then you know what?" I said to them as I think I saw a teardrop forming in the left eye of the little girl. "Let's just spend the summer in the city instead. It won't be Southampton money but it'll still be way better than anything happening down here for a while."

Well now it was on. Now it was in my head. Certainly, not in my head like it was before in an unaddressed, obscure and intangible way, but now it was out in the open in my head. Yes, indeed, now the picture was finally forming as the colors were being added and the details were emerging. The script was written. The characters were in place. The show was about to begin.

17.

On June 2nd it was hot out there. The weather-I mean. I was amazed at how big the ensuing summer sun had become as it now always seemed to be directly over my head while every morsel of moisture was systematically sucked out of me.

In the blistering Florida heat Rob and I filled a large U-Haul with Jamie's life, and about 30 hours later we were in Manhattan. The Hamptons contingent had arrived in Long Island about a week earlier, and after Rob and Jamie dropped me off at the West Side Inn to secure a room before continuing on to a storage facility in the Bronx, I met up with Perry right in front of the hotel and was then provided with the exact same room we lived in a couple years earlier. Then, after a bit of nostalgic reminiscing about the past six years of indiscretion we immediately scored at the nearby Columbus Avenue spot that a medical school junky introduced me to back in 1995. But that would be the last time I'd see Perry for several months, and when Rob and Jamie returned to the hotel four hours later he was already gone and I was lying in bed deeply tucked away in a remarkably snug nod.

While I pretended to be asleep I could tell that although Rob was fine with the accommodations, Jamie was a little less than thrilled with the fact that all three of us would be sharing a single bed in a single room with a bathroom in the hallway. But since I snorted the dope it really didn't matter what she thought. I was unfazed by her discontent. I was already in selfish junky-mode and it suddenly felt like I was on vacation. A vacation from sobriety. Well, not sobriety exactly, but sobriety in relation to doing dope. Regardless, I'd already decided that I would remain f.u.c.ked-up for the duration of the summer, and in no way did I consider it a relapse in the way that I'd relapsed in Connecticut. THAT was a real relapse. THAT was a relapse with no end to the fun in sight. THAT relapse occurred while I was living at my mother's with no serious intention of getting out of Dodge, while THIS was a TEMPORARY and COMPLETELY different situation. THIS was really just ONE LAST HURRAH. And though I couldn't afford to get arrested as a fugitive from justice with a two-year-old bench warrant hanging over my head, I worked my magic and conjured up a brand of self-serving logic based on the law of averages, my history of arrests and my expected duration in the city and decided I stood about a 13% chance of being captured. Soon, however, that percentage would be whittled away to just about zero.

The following day I decided to visit St. Marks Pizza near St. Mark's and Astor Place and though it no longer exists-here was clearly the greatest pizza that ever lived. I then wandered around the block and into Around The Clock and was immediately hired as a WAITER at this trendy 24-hour diner. And of course, as the newest employee I was offered the graveyard shift, which I really had no objection to and I'm glad I didn't because it even further reduced my chances of getting busted.

Each morning at around 8 a.m. I'd leave the diner with a pocket full of cash and head directly to 106th Street and Columbus Avenue-two blocks from the West Side Inn-where the dealers would just be coming out of the woodwork to service the 9 to 5 clientele looking to get straight before heading into work, or perhaps just to prepare themselves for the day ahead. Of course, as far as I was concerned, dope had always been an after-school activity and these days school ended as breakfast began. Consequently, right around the time I was stepping out of work and getting ready to score-the cops were stepping in to Krispy Kreme and getting down to business. As a result, my freedom was never in question.

It was all so very convenient and inexpensive. I woke up, ate, went to work, scored, got high, nodded off, fell asleep, woke up again and began the cycle anew. And though within a week Jamie seized an opportunity to rent a room being offered by a new co-worker whose roommate was in California for the summer, lodging was still entirely affordable as Rob remained behind at the West Side Inn and a.s.sumed half the cost of the accommodation. What's more is that after I sent him to Serendipity with Bill Sorvillo's name to throw around as a reference he was hired on the spot and scheduled to work days. Consequently, each morning as he was setting out for Serendipity I was returning home from Around The Clock, and then once his shift concluded he'd usually be socializing with coworkers until after I headed out to work the graveyard. As a result we were on completely opposite schedules and practically NEVER saw each other, so we both essentially lived alone but still enjoyed the cost-effectiveness of having a roommate to share the rent with.

For about four months or 119 days my routine went unchanged, and to be quite honest I'm not sure I was ever happier. I had a decent job, a decent place to live and the most fantastic roommate I never saw. I was snorting or shooting two bags of dope a day like clockwork, without the burden of a band or the threat of an arrest or aspiration to get in the way. From a junky's perspective I HAD IT ALL, and as far as any future hope of recovery was concerned, I was fortunate for being acutely aware of the extreme singularity of my situation. I knew that as much as I would've loved for this to go on forever, the stars would only be aligned for so long. Eventually, Rob would be leaving and the fun would have to end because I could never afford to live there as a junky-unless of course I could find another roommate on opposite schedules to share the rent withand I definitely thought about it.

Aside from the fact that I was probably happier and more content than I'd ever been in my entire life, that summer was of little note. Oasis released an alb.u.m that I enjoyed in spite of the singer, Princess Di was tragically killed in a horrific car accident, and Matt Dillon made my miserable life a little more miserable by behaving badly in the wrong place at the wrong time.

At around 4 a.m. every Sat.u.r.day and Sunday, Around The Clock would fill to capacity with drunk and sweaty twenty-something clubbers coming in from Webster Hall. On one early Sunday morning in particular, as plates of pancakes and bacon began to fly around the dining room at dangerous speeds, my station-which consisted of about ten small tables situated in a very cramped, triangular-shaped s.p.a.ce at the front of the restaurant-quickly filled to capacity with mostly women along with a very lucky Mr. Matt Dillon, who'd apparently been carrying on that evening without the company of his girlfriend, Cameron Diaz.

He flitted about my overstuffed station with unrestrained ent.i.tlement, and as he chatted-up chicks he strutted around almost as if he'd come in entirely alone, though he MUST have been with someone. Whoever it was, however, was lost in the blazing glare of Matt's white-hot celebrity, so by exclusion I'm certain his famous girlfriend wasn't also in attendance else I'm certain I would've burst into flames.

For about an hour Matt was either completely oblivious to my plight, didn't quite grasp the nature of my position or simply didn't care, as he was either a moving obstacle making rounds to women in my station or stretched out in his own s.p.a.ce with his legs across the aisle like he was relaxing at the f.u.c.king beach. And I know he sensed my agitation once or twice as he made a snide comment but I simply didn't have time to provide him with a thoughtful response. Of course, in retrospect, I'm thankful I didn't as the public venting might have dampened my lingering fury later that afternoon and prevented a special strain of spitefulness that can only be tapped into by tapping a vein. So, a couple of hours later I got loaded and contacted the gossip pages of the New York Post to inform them of how Matt behaves when his girlfriend isn't looking, which-as expected-they were only too eager to hear and within a day or so the news was printed on Page Three. Of course, it wasn't long before I read that for some unknown reason Matt was suddenly single again-and I can tell you that was a h.e.l.l of a lot more rewarding than the 10% he left me on $36.50.

18.

At the end of September my respite from responsibility, recovery and life itself was rapidly coming to a close. Rob had recently left the city for Michigan to visit family while Jamie stayed in Manhattan to pursue her dream, and Perry-who had remained on Eastern Long Island for the entire summer-was now heading out even further eastto China. He'd recently met Sh.e.l.ly-a young graduate student who was in the midst of completing her doctoral requirements in Hong Kong-so he'd be spending the fall and the better part of the winter lying on the beach and living off grant money while she completed her thesis. So, on October 4th I once again purchased two bottles of methadone and boarded a Greyhound bus heading south.

I decided to take advantage of an invitation to stay with Amy because it was my only option. Of course, it certainly didn't have to be this way. During the summer and over the course of 119 days and 238 bags of dope I spent exactly $2,380 on drugs and about $100 on works. So instead of having a decent amount of money in my pocket to get a new footing and a fresh start I had about seventy-five bucks, some methadone and no sense of direction or how to proceed with the future. After all, although I wrote the songs-Perry charted the course, and now with the situation and outlook so completely different I was at a loss and felt a little like I was flying a plane in the dark because there was no contingency plan for any of this. For the better part of a decade Perry and I were convinced of a destiny that was clearly false and now I finally had no choice but to come to terms with that as well as sobriety and somehow make it work. But when the meth wore off the need to be high on something revealed itself once again and I would once again satiate the need with weed.

Just prior to leaving Florida in June, Amy and I began a very casual, remotely intimate relationship and when I returned in October I believe she had some expectation for that to continue. I was mostly ambivalent about it, however, and my interest in her as anything other than a friend rapidly began to wane as the days pa.s.sed and November approached. It wasn't long before we realized we were completely incompatible as a couple and decided to keep each other company until next summer, at which point she would permanently return to Jupiter, Florida where she was originally from, and I would probably try to reconnect with Perry and figure out what to do next. In the meantime, however, I spent my days working lunches at a local restaurant within walking distance of Amy's apartment, not far from Downtown Fort Myers.

Amy had been attending a local community college and she wasn't college material-not even community college material. I'm not sure if it had anything to do with a short attention span or a general lack of interest in the subject matter she selected but it wasn't exactly an exacting curriculum. She was taking 100-level courses in English, History and Psychology and the final grade for each would be determined by how well she performed on the respective, weekly essays that were written fromHOME. Yes, that's right.

Well, it still wasn't easy but with some tough love, a little discipline and some nagging it finally paid-off as Amy successfully completed the semester with an A in History, an A in English and unfortunately a B in Psychology-but at the risk of sounding biased I think I deserved an A across the board.

In January, after briefly visiting me in Fort Myers, Perry headed out west to San Francisco to be with Sh.e.l.ly and soon launched Total Tree Care, a tree removal and landscaping service that would eventually enjoy some success. In the meantime, however, my life with Amy was largely dictated by her mood swings which swung like a pendulum. Each day was an emotionally-fueled rollercoaster ride and by the middle of March neither one of us could stand the sight of each other and the relationship was officially dead. As a result, on March 20th Amy returned to Jupiter while I decided to ride out the lease and about a week later began dating a nymphomaniac and planning the future, though one had nothing to do with the other...at least not in the beginning.

19.

This is such c.r.a.p! Peddling ten miles to College Point and back to play a stupid doubleheader in 90 degree heat-only to get pounded by the s.h.i.ttiest team in the leaguetwice! Oh, wait a minute: That makes us the s.h.i.ttiest team in the league. And now I have a frigging flat tire! This is just GREAT! But there's only eleven more blocks to go and I think I can make it. I better make it. It's only 1:30 and I'd hate to have to wake Ma to come and get me becausewait a minutewhat the h.e.l.l is that? Oh no-not another one. Not another little bird! It can't be. Please, G.o.d, please don't let it be or I think I'm gonna cry. AND I CAN'T CRY!! NOT HERE, NOT NOW! If anyone sees me crying in my baseball uniform I'll be dead tomorrow before I step off the bus. But I think I see a little blue sh.e.l.l and it looks crushed and wet andI think I'm gonna cry.

About a week after Amy left, Andrea was hired as a waitress at the Fort Myers restaurant I was working in and I immediately felt a strange attraction to her, though I'm not exactly sure why. And while I suppose she wasn't technically a nymphomaniac, she had a staggering s.e.xual appet.i.te. Andrea lived across the river in Cape Coral but was originally from Boston-which wasn't at all unusual as the west coast of Florida was home to an inordinately large number of transplants from Ma.s.sachusetts. Being from New York this eventually became problematic because most Bostonians were so beaten down by 80-years of baseball failure and hara.s.sment they seemed to have conditioned themselves to automatically take the defensive by taking the offensive-especially if they heard even the slightest hint of a New York accent. And to me, of course-a Boston accent sounds like bad breath smells.

"The Yankees suckwe're gonna wipe the floor with you tonight!" I'd occasionally hear at my regular watering hole in that THICK accent, though I'd usually try to cover my ears to avoid the offensive odor of stupidity.

"I don't even like the f.u.c.king Yankees," was my standard response to Boston transplants along with the rest of the west coast of Florida which-unlike those on the eastern side of the state-generally seemed to take exception to all things New York.

"And in October we're taking the f.u.c.king Series!" said a delusional Red Sox fan who was also apparently suffering from some sort of ident.i.ty crisis.

"Now listen to me you pathetic, pointless, p.i.s.s hole of a t.w.a.t-YOU'RE not gonna do a f.u.c.kING THING!! Regardless of what happens in a stupid baseball game, YOUR miserable and meaningless life will go on as scheduled and only get worse with the pa.s.sing of time-got it you f.u.c.king dips.h.i.t??? Now whaddaya wanna eat for dinner tonight, sweetie?"

Andrea had two little boys from two different relationships and terrible grammar but she wasn't stupid by any means, and though she wasn't pretty in any obvious way she totally turned me on and she smoked a lot of pot. But prospects for a real relationship with Andrea were dim because I was in no condition to be in one and besides, although I had no idea where I wanted to settle down it certainly wasn't Florida. Of course, I also knew it couldn't be New York or I'd be doomed and I suppose on some level that awareness was the beginning of some sort of recovery-if you want to call it that. But at the same time I felt smothered and stymied by sobriety and boredom and a complete lack of ambition or better yet-inspiration. Life had become bland, one-dimensional and empty even though I was smoking about a quarter of an ounce of weed each month to fill the void. Then on April 8th Amy called.

"I'm eight weeks pregnant," was all she said as I learned I was going to be a parent.

Obviously, I was totally unprepared for fatherhood and over the last eight years had effectively demonstrated the fact that I couldn't even take care of myself. Besides, what in the world did I know about being a father? Of course, I'm sure my own father loved me and was proud of me but practically speaking, I didn't know how a decent father was supposed to behave as Daddy had clocked-out when I was barely five. h.e.l.l, I didn't even know how a decent mother was supposed to behave and she tortured me well into adolescence. I suppose, at least in this particular sense, I might as well have been an orphan. But then again, a creative and thoughtful orphan with a truly unmediated view of parenthood might be better equipped to fill in the gaps, because my gaps were filled with horror stories. In fact, I can honestly say that during my childhood I can only recall one, extremely brief, but marginally meaningful moment when I think I felt something like parental love, or at least something close to parental concern.

When I was around 10 years-old, I stumbled upon an egg that had fallen out of a tree and onto one of the sidewalks surrounding Cryder House. The egg was bluish in hue, and amidst the wreckage of a broken sh.e.l.l there was a baby bird that was blue as well, and with its big baby-bird eyes shut ever so tightly it appeared to be pristinely asleep and unaware of its own misfortune. Of course, the baby bird wasn't sleeping.

That spring and summer there seemed to be a lot of those baby birds, and each time the helpless little victim seemed fully formed and just a day or two from being a happy, healthy, baby bird. That destiny, of course, was sadly s.n.a.t.c.hed away from them and each time I stumbled upon one of those unhatched hatchlings I was terribly moved by it. It seemed SO unfair to spend so much time in that d.a.m.n egg just to suddenly hit the ground and never even see it coming. Come to think of it, maybe it was better not to see it coming. But regardless, for it all to end before it ever began was something that brought me to tears.

I left the sadness lying there on the Cryder House sidewalk but it stayed with me for years, and during the late spring and early summer months I'd often find myself scanning the ground for broken eggs in the park or on my way to the bus stop without even realizing it. For a while it became almost obsessive, and though I could never quite muster the courage to bury the babies like I should have, I think I felt I had to at leastacknowledge them. Perhaps, if I did bury them I would've achieved some sort of closure, but instead I'd occasionally relive those sad discoveries in nightmares and it was after one of these that I remember awakening to my mother rubbing my back and telling me everything was okay.

Without a doubt, this is the only truly tender moment I can recall spending with Mrs. Goodman.

But even though my parenting skills were perhaps compromised by my dysfunctional childhood, I still knew a few things. First of all, while Amy was still just barely pregnant, I knew Savannah was a girl while her mother was convinced she was a boy. Secondly, and more importantly, I knew she was mine-even though Amy and I rarely had s.e.x. That said, when Amy-who was completely overwhelmed with the notion of motherhood-began to seriously consider putting Savannah up for adoption I simply had to put my foot down. After all, I couldn't live with myself after unleashing a redheaded terror genetically disposed to wreak havoc and misery on everyone around her without at least being there tofine-tune the performance.

After I made it crystal clear that I had every intention of being Savannah's father, Amy decided she couldn't live with herself while knowing where the wreckage was occurring. Consequently, she decided to embrace her own parental responsibilities as well, but from the beginning I knew we could never be a couple because then there'd be three miserable people living under the same roof and I was under the impression that Amy agreed because she said she did.

Regardless of what precise shape Savannah's family would take, money was now a huge factor and with the summer approaching I decided to once again start flapping my gums about seasonal work on Long Island. Before I knew it Andrea made a few calls, secured jobs and housing for us at the Montauk Yacht Club and on May 19th we delivered her kids to their respective fathers-before heading north in an old Ford Taurus that wasn't as grand as the one Matt sold to Perry for 300 bucks.

Over the last year or so I'd spoken sparingly to my mother, and not too long before departing for Long Island she called to ask that Andrea and I visit her in Connecticut before continuing on to Montauk. Of course, it was suspicious enough for my mother to go out of her way to invite me-let alone my nymphomaniac girlfriend and mother of two from two former relationships-to spend some time with her at her apartment, but I deliberately banished any potentially disruptive thoughts because for the first time in a while I was focused and heroin-free. Savannah's impending arrival awakened a sense of infinite accountability within me and though I didn't admit it aloud or in any other way, I knew this was one responsibility I couldn't shirk or mute the enormity of with drugs. It was no longer only about me or my ego as my blank check for self-centeredness had been cashed long ago. And I was excited about it.

After 23 hours of driving we made it to Glenbrook Road on the afternoon of May 20th. We were greeted by my mother at the door and then, exhausted from the ride, almost immediately pa.s.sed-out on her living room couches until dinnertime, at which point she decided to whip-up an old family favorite and order a pizza. Then, after a couple of beers she asked Andrea to excuse the two of us for a moment before she led me into my sister's bedroom.

She sat down on the bed and suddenly explained that I had two older brothers and sisters I knew nothing about from another family my father had prior to meeting my mother. She also said she was really, really, sorry she hadn't mentioned it earlier and that if I was interested-which I wasn't-she would try to arrange a meeting between all six of my father's children as Mother became uncharacteristically considerate and obliging. And though she never provided an answer to justify her continued silence in the matter, there were a few obvious reasons why she might not have initially been so forthcoming-especially right after my father died when a relationship with his older offspring might've provided me with some measure of comfort. Of course, preeminent among them is that she lacked the character to do so as such a public revelation would also require her to reveal the fact that she wasn't my father's first and only wife, which is something her ego simply wouldn't permit. And regardless of whether or not she knew about the existence of my secret siblings when she married him-which I doubt she did or I doubt she would've-I believe my mother's vanity, her extraordinarily inflated sense of self and her take-no-prisoners, win-at-all-costs ego would consider any Goodman children born outside their marriage to be a constant reminder of her lack of singularity, and perhaps on some level even a threat. She simply wasn't a big enough person to handle that kind of information, much less do anything healthy or constructive with it even for the sake and well-being of her children. And certainly, the generationally warped sense of family my mother was not only a product of but helped perpetuate, would hardly compel her to extend any meaningful overtures-as if that even needed saying at this point.

So anyway, I suddenly found myself a week away from my 30th birthday and discovering for the first time that I had four older siblings who were now well in to their forties. But here's where it gets weird: Mrs. Goodman goes on to explain that the original Mrs. Goodman was taking legal action and claiming to be the rightful beneficiary of an investment my father made prior to his death, along with the interest or dividends it had continued to generate which, of course, my mother had been using to finance a lavish lifestyle for 25 years. And, she explained, in order for that to continue, as the first born child on this branch of the Philip Goodman Family Tree, she would need my signature on a legal doc.u.ment that she suddenly pulled out of nowhere.

Ah yes, it was all becoming quite clear. This whole bit about my long lost siblings was really just subplot, because I'm certain their existence would've remained a secret had money not suddenly come into play. Indeed, this little chat wasn't about family, it was about finances. But why in the world would Mother need my signature to fend off some sort of legal challenge mounted by my father's first wife? Was it perhaps because I, in fact, was the rightful beneficiary of something unknown to me that Mother had been pilfering for years, and now that I was on the cusp of my 30th birthday it finally needed to be signed or authorized or approved or altered or perhaps even "legally" relinquished in order for business to go on as usual? And what type of doc.u.ment intended to help establish the legal and rightful recipient or heir of anything is signed in a dimly lit room without at least a notary or witness being present?

Of course, it all stunk to high heaven and I knew it, but I refused to consider the new data in its entirety or try to connect the dots. Instead, I chose to banish it to the same s.p.a.ce I'd always reserved for things I couldn't deal with, although this thing unlike other things in the past was obscured by only two beers as opposed to two bags and as a result it was much more difficult to ignore. Nonetheless, I'd been heroin-free for eight months ever since last summer's relapse that wasn't really a relapse and had to look away and not fuel the potential fury and sense of betrayal that was now simmering just below my surface. I couldn't allow myself to be emotionally overcome and consumed by what was likely my mother's treachery. Savannah needed me to maintain control of myself and my impulses and not lose sight of what was truly important by going off the deep end and after my mother like I'd learned to go after people-to verbally vanquish them until there was nothing left and then go back for seconds. It was a weapon of worded-warfare I'd honed since adolescence, and one that my mother actually instilled in me and helped develop but wouldn't stand a chance against, especially now that she couldn't neutralize it by physically lashing out. No, I had to remain focused. I had to remain in control. I just couldn't afford to incapacitate myself by expending that kind of furious energy, especially while in such a vulnerable state. And though dope wasn't something that I typically turned to in order to alleviate feelings of anger or anxiety, given my proximity to the goods I knew it wouldn't be much of a stretch for me to get carried away on a wave of bitter emotion and rationalize a trip to 125th Street. I simply had to make a concerted effort to deceive myself and bury the fury for the sake of my own survival and my unborn daughter's future. So, I signed the paper and looked away from the fact that besides destroying the vast majority of pictures I'd had of my father in the physical world and trying to sully and tarnish any memories I'd had of him since childhood, she was now likely attempting to steal whatever legacy he'd left for me. And I was helping her do it.

20.

When Mother presented me with those doc.u.ments she seemed so unbelievably placating, so meek, so uncharacteristically mild-mannered I should have ignored my own good vibrations and placed her directly in my crosshairs. But instead I bottled it up, ignored the implications and looked the other way like I did when I was a dope fiend. It was a conscious decision I made to remain officially unaware, and a strategy to stay focused and be some sort of a dad to a little girl who was soon to arrive-but didn't bargain for any of this. It was difficult enough that she would be born into an unconventional family, but I was determined to do better for her than what I got and in order to do that I couldn't dwell on my mother's behavior. I simply had to move on and not address it, just like I did with my tainted childhood so many years ago when I finally left her for good and moved into the city with Helmer. After all, this was unfinished business between Mother and me that had nothing to do with Savannah, so I decided to repress it along with everything else from back then.

Of course, I still wasn't sure how I felt about being a father because it was something I never considered or saw in my future. In high school and college I would occasionally hear friends discuss getting married and having kids and building big families to share holidays and s.h.i.t with and I really couldn't relate. And though I was exposed to some of those things by way of the Holst clan, the Rockwellian thing-the house with the white, f.u.c.king, picket fence-never resonated with me. But my new and immense responsibility did.

The morning after I allowed my mother to rape and pillage some more of my father's memory, Andrea and I got in the car and headed out east to the Montauk Yacht Club. Without traffic it was about a two-and-a-half hour ride from Stamford, and we made it there by mid-afternoon and quickly settled into a new routine.

Both of us worked six evenings a week at the Club's most exclusive eatery and would earn around $400 a night, though sometimes even more. But in order to maximize my earning potential I decided to spend three afternoons a week working lunches at Gosman's Dock as well, which was part of a family-owned, mini-complex of mostly seasonal restaurants and businesses. As a result, I was working about 70 hours a week which served a variety purposes.

Obviously, I needed to make money and between both jobs I was clearing almost $3000 a week which was critically important because regardless of where I was emotionally, I was financially unprepared for fatherhood. I not only needed to put something aside for the costs a.s.sociated with raising a child, but I needed reliable transportation. And certainly, I also needed to have as little free time on my hands as possible and avoid the temptation of taking the bus into Manhattan to score.

Unfortunately, at 7 a.m., on each of my 16 days off over the course of four months, I'd be en route to Manhattan on a bus I boarded by deceiving myself with either a craving for St. Marks Pizza or a desire to visit a friend-neither of which did I have any real intention of satisfying. And invariably, as the Hampton Jitney headed west on the Long Island Expressway and the skyline rose up in the distance, a smile would gradually creep across my face and I would consciously come to terms with why I was really going into the city. Then of course, the self-deception would be followed-up with a good helping of self-serving logic and the rationalization that I couldn't develop an addiction with such intermittent abuse and besides-I'd soon be heading back to Florida, anyway. At that point the excitement that always preceded a trip to the dealer would overcome me and I just didn't care anymore. I would savor every aspect of the score-getting off the bus and onto the subway, retaining the procurement services of a liaison with a familiar face and then getting high in the bathroom of my favorite Polish diner. Sixteen times the routine went unchanged and ended at Central Park in a nodding reverie where I accepted the fact that the mere notion of the city was a trigger and I could obviously never live there again.

Right after Labor Day Andrea headed to Boston where her kids had spent most of the summer, and on September 30th I departed Montauk after purchasing an old Isuzu Trooper from the bartender at Gosman's Dock. I might have stayed a little longer because there was still some money to be made during the early part of October, but a friend of mine was able to arrange an interview for a copywriting position that was scheduled for the following week at a company in Cape Coral.

The return trip to Florida was uneventful, until the morning of October 1st when a broken fuel pump left me and my Isuzu Trooper stranded on the side of I-95 in South Carolina. Thankfully, however, southern hospitality came rolling by in a tow truck and I was delivered to a mechanic who had me back on the road that afternoon for only $400, which included the tow and repair-as well as a gaping hole in the fuel tank that he was kind enough to install for nothing. Fortunately, it only took about 20 minutes and a little bit of daydreaming at the pump for me to discover his shoddy workmanship as I filled-up a quarter of the tank and most of the street with $200 worth of Super Unleaded.

I arrived in Florida early the next morning and later that afternoon crossed over the Midpoint Bridge and into the Cape. At Del Prado Boulevard I made a left turn and eventually stopped at a red light and beneath a banner that spanned the width of the road and read, "Cape Coral, It's Just Paradise."

I checked into a room at a rundown resident motel that reminded me of tawdry dwellings from the past. Fortunately, however, it was less than a mile from the Willie Whitman Wealth Center, which was where my interview would be held the following week and where I would be hired on the spot as a professional business writer for ten dollars-an-hour.

21.

On November 27th Savannah was born in the early evening. The following week, I suppose as something of a symbolic gesture, I completely shaved my head and then climbed into my bright red Trooper for what would be the first of many, six-hour, 300-mile, round-trip treks across the state of Florida. The 150-mile jaunt on State Road 80 from Cape Coral on the west coast to Jupiter on the east coast was a moving, socio-economic and ecological commentary on a culture and quality of life that seemed to flourish at the sides but not so much in between: Beach houses, condos, boathouses, gators-ranch houses, farmhouses, lake houses, gators-prison, poverty, sugarcane, gators-sugarcane, poverty, prison, gators-lake houses, farmhouses, beach houses, gators and then back again approximately 300 times during a five-year period and NOTHING ever changed.

Of course, the first trip was most memorable as I met Savannah for the first time, and when I arrived at the condo of Amy's new stepmother I nervously walked by the crib without looking in as if that might've been somebody else's newborn baby within it. Each week I would make the same visit and watch Savannah grow in little spurts that I regretted missing. And as the months pa.s.sed and the visits mounted I occasionally noticed her looking at me as if we shared some sort of unbelievable secret that no one else knew-and I'm still waiting for her to tell me what it is.

Indeed, I knew right from the very beginning that Savannah was a miracle. Not only did she manage to be conceived through a loveless relationship, but she danced through a genetic minefield and came out on top with my brains and her mother's disposition-which is a good thing else she would've been an irascible, unpleasant and unpopular little girl...with no one to do her f.u.c.king homework for her.

Meanwhile, my new job at the Whitman Wealth Center left a bit to be desired, beyond the ten dollar-an-hour wage which was initially eight dollars-an-hour until I put my foot down. But most problematic was the fact that I was expected to write persuasive copy to help sell products and services I didn't believe in, and even though I despised the work and was being paid like a slave I was terribly good at it. In fact, I was so good that after my very first month I was given a pat on the back and a promise of more lucrative opportunities in the future. Unfortunately, I knew there wouldn't be much of a future for me at the Whitman Wealth Center because the only one getting wealthy was Willie Whitman.

Although the Wealth Center billed itself as a real estate education company, it was essentially a seminar-marketing firm with a variety of self-help products and services supposedly intended to help people improve their lives while striking it rich in the real estate business. However, I soon realized the company over-promoted its success stories while downplaying more typical results in a clever way that left little doubt to what appeared to be the effectiveness of its services. Ultimately, however, it was evident that the brilliance of the Wealth Center's marketing department could never be matched by its line of products, many of which provided consumers with little more than empty promises and pie in the sky. Nonetheless, I was resigned to remain at Whitman for a year or so in order to gain some experience, and in the meantime accepted a part time position as a staff writer for Route 41, which at the time was the largest regional music and entertainment publication in Southwest Florida. And though the $50 I was paid for each story helped supplement the incredibly paltry wages I was earning at Whitman, it was the unusual a.s.signments I was given that provided real solace and relief by allowing me to flex my creative muscles. As a result I covered events ranging from rock concerts and celebrity boxing matches-to clothing drives sponsored by nudist colonies and loved every minute of it as my editor expected me to editorialize to my heart's content.

Although I wasn't sure working at Whitman was any more fulfilling than working at Wendy's, with the creative outlet provided by Route 41 I was content enough, and with the exception of a joint before and after work I was completely drug free. And though there was this unrelenting need to be-well not necessarily high, but at least altered-there was really no specific craving for dope, whereas I knew for certain had I been within 200 miles of New York that wouldn't have been the case. Of course, I had yet to even see heroin, much less be offered any since fleeing New York, but thanks to the fact that I was 2000 miles away from the city and had no history of doing dope in Florida, there were none of the usual triggers, enticements or routines that would typically fuel my addictive behavior: The subway lines that lead directly to the dealer's doorstep, the street corners where the deals went down and the same old junkies lingered, the sidewalks I wandered aimlessly while listening to music and being out of my f.u.c.king skull were ghosts of the past. None of those things were present in Florida and I finally realized how important it was for me to escape New York and not make the same old mistake in a brand new place. But again-I was still smoking weed. Not a huge amount, mind you, but enough to keep my brain preoccupied. Enough to provide a calming effect. Enough not to slit my f.u.c.king wrists while crafting the dry, misleading and manipulative copy I was paid so poorly to write. And though for whatever reason marijuana had lost that unique, borderline, hallucinogenic effect I experienced primarily in college, it was absolutely imperative that I have my morning and evening tokes, fend off depression and fill that void which I obviously created by abusing my brain chemistry to begin with. Unfortunately, however, what was done was done and though it wasn't like I'd lose my s.h.i.t and go off the deep end if there wasn't anything to smoke, I'd obviously cleared a s.p.a.ce in my head that needed to be filled with something and again, every day I didn't do dope was a good dayand we do the best we can.

22.

Young, single, mothers in financial hardship are-along with sandy white beaches, Burrowing Owls and the Everglades-an abundant natural resource in Southwest Florida. Consequently, it wasn't long before a damsel in distress made me a proposition: "You wanna get out of that s.h.i.thole you're living in and rent a room from me?" Kristen asked one afternoon when I b.u.mped into her at Publix while she was shopping to feed a hungry brood. "My a.s.shole roommate got busted driving drunk with a suspended license in Tampa last week and I don't think he's gonna be back for a while. Besides, the busy season's here and since you're suddenly a 9 to 5 yuppie I might occasionally need some help watching the kids while I'm working nights at the restaurant."

"I don't know about that."

"Why not?" she asked in somewhat of an insulted way. "Or do you take a liking to disgusting f.u.c.king motels full of drug addict losers and f.u.c.king degenerates?"

"Like a f.u.c.king fish takes to f.u.c.king water."

"That's ridiculous, Craig-and that's about the last place you need to be right now," said Kristen who was well aware of my past indiscretions. I'd recently begun disclosing some of my past issues with certain people because it was simply impossible to develop any genuine relationships without being truthful about where I'd been and what I'd been up to over the past decade. Of course, in Small Town America that disclosure certainly had its disadvantages, but I thought it was time to stop living a lie. The drug use, arrests, warrants, failures and the enormous waste of time had such a profound impact it was impossible to gloss over and still remain even remotely genuine.

"Alright," I said. "We'll do that thenbut just for the sake of your brats."

So in February I moved in with Kristen while continuing to churn-out misleading marketing collateral for the Whitman Wealth Center and it was beginning to weigh heavy on me. So many Whitman "students," as they were referred to, were really just lower and middle income earners interested in becoming homeowners-not millionaire real estate moguls. Still, each week scores of hopeful future homeowners hailing from all over the country would be met at the airport and then delivered to the Wealth Center for a three-day workshop at a cost of $1,595, and from my office window I would watch them step off the bus and file into the building with bright smiles and big plans for the future.

These days, due to the horrific fate that awaits the vast majority of homeless and of course, abused companion animals-I seldom find myself sympathetic when it comes to the plight of human beings; however, as far as Whitman students were concerned there were so many times I just wanted to run out of the office and give those idiots a good kick in the a.s.s and suggest they seek a refund and a more conventional path to owning a home. And certainly, this was really just the tip of the iceberg because at the conclusion of the workshop "instructors" would immediately begin hawking additional programs in a.s.set protection and property management to a room full of people with no a.s.sets to protect or property to manage.

By the end of the month I received a call at Kristen's from Marlon, who was somehow able to track me down and get my number from the Wealth Center. He was planning to visit his old girlfriend in Sarasota on the following Sat.u.r.day and wanted to meet for lunch in Fort Myers beforehand. Although we'd spoken a few times since sharing that bus ride to sobriety I hadn't seen him in over two years and was excited to hang out and catch up.