I ended up in drug treatment again, this time at a secular facility. Attending my first recovery meeting, I found many of my friends were starting off their own recovery this way. In the course of a “reconciliation” effected by the rehab facility, my wife made it clear we were through. Whatever spark she once carried for me had long since flickered out.
Moving on, I tried to figure out how to be a good parent, but I still hadn’t even figured out how to remain abstinent. During the short bursts of recovery I did manage, I’d show up with presents or for some daddy time.
Even as a toddler, my son made his interest in athletics clear: He would clamor to watch any sport with a ball on TV, even golf. As a boy, I’d always done terribly in sports. During my childhood, I’d watched with growing alarm, and then envy, as my older brothers developed into excellent athletes. So why, I wondered, had God made me the father of this sturdy, sports-minded boy? With each relapse, I grew more cynical. Soon all my friends were celebrating their first years in recovery, and I was still mired in addiction.
During this time, there was a guy I knew who had been a heroin addict himself but had been in recovery for about five years: Buster B. At the time, it seemed unimaginable to me that anyone who had once used heroin could go so long without the drug. Buster was stocky with an open, friendly face. He had a receding hairline and wore his blond hair in a carefully greased crew cut, a slick curb of clipped hair rising and falling across his forehead like a McDonald’s sign. To ward off the coming winter, he wore a long pea coat. Buster liked to wear black Wayfarer sunglasses, a host of gold rings on his fingers, and thick ropes of gold chain around his neck. He had a beautiful girlfriend, a busty redhead who smoked long brown cigarettes. Buster always drove a new Ford sedan with dealer plates attached by magnets to the trunk. When dopefiends get into recovery, they invariably seem to do one of two things to make a living: car sales or drug and alcohol counseling. Buster worked at the big Ford dealership on Paxton and Cameron Streets, but he liked to show up to the recovery meetings and do a little impromptu counseling on the side. We envied his jewelry, his shiny sedan, his pneumatic girlfriend. But it was his recovery time that held us in awe. Milling about during a smoke break at the meeting, we sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups and listened to whatever Buster had to say.
“There are only two things you need to do to stay in recovery,” Buster said.
We all raised our eyebrows. We’d heard in meetings that there were at least twelve things, even if we couldn’t articulate exactly what those things were. Yet here was Buster talking about doing only two. Seemed like a bargain. We all shuffled in a little bit closer.
“First,” Buster said. “Don’t get high.”
This was an obvious first step, and a little chuckle rose up from the seven or eight of us standing there. If you’re not an addict, it may seem like this solves the entire problem. It does not. The list of things that can impose a moratorium on street drug use is endless. Someone gets pinched somewhere along the distribution chain and suddenly there are no drugs available. You have to stop. Or one day you might not be able to get your money together. And, you can always get busted yourself. Not getting high is as much a part of getting high as being able to poke a vein or get your money together. And let’s not forget about the legal highs like sex, gambling, and alcohol. The trick isn’t to stop using, but to remain abstinent for the long haul.
“Second,” Buster said.
And here he paused for effect and held up two fingers. This was the money step: the crucial information we needed to stay in recovery. The signet ring on Buster’s stubby pinky glittered in the afternoon sun. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I couldn’t help but feel that I was about to hear something momentous. I leaned in a little closer.
Buster had a little half-smile on his lips as he sipped his coffee and adjusted his coat.
“Boys,” he said. He glanced to his left and then to the right. When he was sure he had our undivided attention, he said, “Change your whole fucking life around.”
He laughed heartily at his own little joke and stroked his tummy. The rest of us stood there in silence. Buster crushed out his cigarette and grinned. “Come on,” he said, walking past us. “Let’s get back to the meeting.”
Fucking Buster B.
He was just toying with us then, but I have come to realize that Buster B’s little joke wasn’t all that far from the truth. To make the most of recovery, I would have to change just about every aspect of my life: I would need a spiritual, emotional, and intellectual makeover of the most sweeping kind.
Of course, I didn’t understand any of this back then. None of us did.
We all groaned and smirked and scowled. Someone shook his head. Another person laughed good-naturedly and mumbled, “Cocksucker.” We were a forlorn little group of barely recovering addicts, who thought we had stumbled upon a good deal. Instead we had the same old dusty twelve “To Dos” we started with.
The only way to get where I wanted to go, it seemed, was to do all twelve.
And in New York, this is exactly what I did. It was a good thing, too. As it turned out, my son grew from a beautiful blond boy to a strapping hulk of a young man. Today, he towers over me, his eyes still blue, his hair still clipped short. Over the years, he has looked skeptically at my long locks, my affinity for faded black jeans and combat boots, and my deep disinterest in athleticism of any kind. The one thing we have in common is a penchant for self-destruction: This is the most recognizable piece of me that I have found in him. The only way I could hope to offer him much as a parent was to first find my own way through the maze of addiction to recovery.
Here, then, is my story in twelve chapters: a chapter for each step, a step for each chapter.
After getting booted from high school three times, I joined the military. Three years into my enlistment, the Navy cut me loose. I moved back to Pennsylvania and got married, but soon after our first child was born, my wife split, taking our baby boy with her.
I was a twenty-four-year-old cyclone of poor decisions.
In time, I landed in county jail. At least nobody gets thrown out of jail. Drug treatment followed, but even that didn’t work: I went to recovery meetings high. One night a woman named Wendy R pulled me aside and hissed: “You are going to die!”
I told her the obvious, “We’re all going to die, Wendy.”
Another court date loomed. I was too soft for more jail. In a bid for leniency from the judge, I decided to enter drug treatment again. Although the rehabs in Pennsylvania refused to take me back, they suggested a facility up in the Bronx.
I assessed my situation. New York City seemed like a long shot, another poor decision, in a lifetime of poor decisions. But it seemed as if it’d be the only shot I’d have.
I took the Greyhound to Times Square, arriving with the chilly December daylight. Steam billowed from grates, cars packed the streets, and long morning shadows fell like knives.
I made my way to a drug bazaar in Alphabet City. My last fix, my last twenty dollars. I walked to 99th and Amsterdam for an intake appointment, and what would be my last stop before the Bronx. Around 3:00 p.m., a social worker named Roberto started my paperwork. He had greasy hair and wore a button down shirt that appeared to have been created from a Puerto Rican flag. He asked when the last time I got high was. I was nervous and thought a joke might lighten the mood.
“What time is it now?” I asked.
“You got high today?” Roberto scowled. Instead of sending