by Shani Krebs
Being an addict, not to mention my own worst enemy, learning life’s lessons the hard way was the pattern of my life. I would repeat the same mistake over and over, which caused me to lose jobs, girlfriends, the respect of my family, basically everything I ever possessed. When was I going to learn my lesson? What would it take for me to understand how destructive drugs were?
But when an addict wants his fix … Yes, you guessed it. I started freebasing again. The difference this time was that I was doing it behind Sarah-Lee’s back.
Just as alcohol is a gateway to marijuana and marijuana to other drugs, sniffing coke eventually leads to freebasing (also known as ‘parabatting’), and by then everybody was doing it.
At that stage, I used to sell little envelopes of cocaine in powder form. I did my own cutting. I had customers who were ‘sniffers’ and others who were ‘smokers’. Cooking coke was an art, so, instead of having my customers complain of the return, I started to cook the coke myself and sell it in rock form. At that time, nobody else was selling it already cooked, and so my business began to boom.
Sarah-Lee and I moved into a townhouse in Norwood together. While she continued to waitress at Late Nite Al’s, I ran around selling cocaine. My new girlfriend loved shopping and we were forever buying stuff, new furniture or clothes. During the day, Sarah-Lee would accompany me on my deliveries. She was a good cover.
Some occurrences in our lives are unforgettable. One such instance, which still leaves me wondering in utter disbelief, was when I had my worst freak-out while wired on cocaine.
Fridays and Saturdays were the busiest days in the drug business. Everybody got high at the weekend. On this night Sarah-Lee and I planned on going out for a casual dinner and afterwards to Rockey Street in Yeoville to listen to live music. We were about to leave our apartment when my pager buzzed. It was Burt Reynolds – for security reasons, all my clients who contacted me on my pager were given celebrity names. Burt was one of my most celebrated clients, and making a delivery to him was not too far out of our way. Burt and his wife, Goldie Hawn, lived in a three-storey mansion along the base of a ridge that divided the north from the northeast of Johannesburg, a winding road known as Sylvia Pass. The dimly lit road was lined with jacaranda trees, whose branches met above the road and made it look quite eerie in a half-light. In season, the trees were a spectacular mass of violet-blue, trumpet-shaped flowers, which, at the slightest wind, would float to the ground, transforming the road into a sea of petals. When you drove over them, they would make a popping noise under your tyres.
Burt’s house was enclosed by a concrete wall almost 2.5m high. Entry to the property was through a solid steel gate. It was early evening and the road was dark and deserted. Sarah-Lee chose to wait in the car, and even though I was concerned about leaving her there alone, I knew I’d be back in a few minutes. In the event that she should be harassed by anybody, I told her to hoot the car horn. I got out of the car and did a thorough survey of the road. There was nobody in sight. A drug dealer must be in a constant state of alert. Respecting your clients’ privacy and safety is an absolute priority. Anything less and you’d be suspected of being a rat. When doing a drop, I would first circle the block, always keeping a watchful eye in my rear-view mirror to see whether I had been followed. Once I was sure it was safe I would make the delivery.
I pressed the electronic buzzer on the gate and Burt’s laidback voice crackled through the speaker.
‘Is that you?’ he said.
I replied, ‘Your one and only friendly candyman.’
The gate clicked open. Goldie was waiting for me in the entrance hall. She was wearing a chic white bathrobe that hung loosely on her thin frame. Her small, firm breasts were completely exposed, as was the flimsy see-through G-string that clung tightly to her shaved vagina. Goldie was like a sister to me. If this hadn’t been the case, I could very well have fucked her right there on the doorstep. As I walked past her, she murmured, ‘He’s in the bedroom.’
I walked down the corridor and found Burt. The bed was unmade, items of clothing were lying all over, the windows were closed, and the curtains were drawn. Drug paraphernalia was spread methodically on the surface of the dressing table. The lights had been turned low and the smell of sex and cigarette smoke hung in the air. Burt was wearing faded jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed in a while. His bleached and torn T-shirt showed sweat stains under the arms and his silver-white hair was uncombed. When I walked in, he was standing in front of the mirror, fixed on the reflection of the flame from the two Bic lighters he held in each hand as he concentrated on allowing just enough heat to melt the rock of coke resting on the wire mesh that was fitted to the front of his glass pipe. At his leisure he inhaled the smoke that came out as the substance melted, holding his breath for as long as his lungs permitted. Then he slowly exhaled. Watching him going through the ritual, and knowing that all too familiar feeling of heavenly buzz, my own craving was triggered …
Burt offered me his pipe, but I declined, explaining that my chick was waiting outside in the car, and adding that we were going out for dinner. I doubt he heard or understood a word I said. He placed the pipe in my hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t speak exactly, it was more like he breathed the words ‘Give me three grams.’ Then he insisted I have a hit. Burt was a good ten years my senior and a drug connoisseur from the old school, who remained calm and collected no matter how stoned he was. He kept his own pocket electronic scale to ensure that nobody short-changed him. I was still the only dealer in town who sold his product already cooked. A solid rock with a couple pieces weighed out to 0.7 of a gram, which measured almost three points more than any other dealer’s coke when cooked.
Giving in to temptation is the story of my life. My palms sweated and my mouth watered at the thought of having a hit. I reached into the bag that contained 15g of cooked cocaine – each gram was meticulously wrapped and folded into a small paper envelope no more than 2.5cm in diameter. I passed Burt three envelopes, keeping out one for myself. Then I resealed the plastic bag and put it back in my pocket. I opened the envelope, broke the rock in two and hit it in Burt’s pipe.
To start with, I was not in the right frame of mind, but it was too late. I sucked the pipe, holding the smoke, and that all too familiar rush was so incredible – as intense as the feeling of ecstasy. Right away, I could also feel myself being overcome with paranoia. Burt, I assumed, was in the bathroom. Nervously, I made my way to the living room, which was in total darkness. Peering through a gap in the curtains, I stared out, surveying everything in sight. I saw the shadows of people moving around on the branches of the trees in the garden. I tried my utmost to clear my mind, trying to convince myself that this was only a figment of my imagination. I even slapped myself in the hope of having a lucid moment. The images were so fucking visual, though, I could swear on my life that what I was seeing was real. The first thought that went through my mind was that Burt had set me up. My heart was pumping and a distant but distinct voice in the back of my mind was telling me to run and get the fuck out of there. I touched the wooden handle of my revolver, as an indication that I was prepared to shoot if anybody tried to apprehend me.
Regaining my confidence, I moved away from the window and saw Goldie standing near the dining room. The light from the passage projected her silhouette across the length of the carpet, giving her shadow the appearance of a prowling creature. It crossed my mind that maybe she was colluding with Burt and that this was part of a conspiracy to trap me.
I had been dealing and using drugs for almost 16 years. The drug squad had a pretty good idea of who was who in the underworld. Being extremely vigilant, so far I had always managed to keep under their radar. I never lived in one area for too long. I was constantly on the move. I even had my cars resprayed from time to time. My instincts were as sharp as those of a wild animal. I was well trained and I could sense danger. When it came to plainclothes police, I could spot them in a crowd. I used to joke th
at I could smell a pig a mile away.
I wanted another hit before I got out of the house. My eyes locked on Goldie’s as I made my way back to their bedroom, and she gave me what appeared to me to be a sinister smile. I could have sworn I was able to read her mind. She disappeared into one of the many other rooms in the house, and when I got to their en-suite bedroom Burt was not there. I did a quick search under the bed, but the base was too low for anybody to crawl under it. I even checked the wardrobe. Burt was not there. Shit. All this time Sarah-Lee was waiting in the road in the car, and I was sure by now she was freaking out. Making my way to the dressing table, where I had left the half of my rock and pipe, I noticed that the rocks were missing and that the resin from the glass pipe had been scratched.
Motherfucker Burt had helped himself to my coke! My hands trembling, I removed the plastic bag from my pocket, opened another small envelope, and carefully loaded the pipe, also adding the remainder of the coke on the dressing table. I melted it and took one fat fucking hit! My brain seemed to come apart at the seams. My jaw started clicking and blowing imaginary smoke in the air, my lips went numb, and my heart beat at such a pace that my entire body shook. As my breathing was growing heavy, Burt came into the room and told me that someone in the street outside had been blowing a car horn repeatedly. Fuck! How was I going to face Sarah-Lee? I was out of my mind. I couldn’t feel my feet.
Somehow I tiptoed to the front door and then to the security gate. Without moving my head, my eyes darted in every direction. Shadows of trees and bushes were taking on the forms of human figures and closing in on me. I peeped through a gap in the security gate and saw Sarah-Lee in the car. The inside light was on and there was a plainclothes cop in the driver’s seat and two really hefty pigs in the rear, interrogating her. My mind snapped. I turned and went back into the house, but by this point neither Burt nor Goldie was anywhere to be seen.
Convinced they had set me up, I went into the bathroom and flushed all the coke I was carrying down the toilet. I waited a minute or two and then I flushed my pager, too. I removed my revolver from my hip and stealthily made my way to the kitchen, then out the back door and down the concrete stairway that ran at a 45-degree angle to the house. The back yard was paved in slate and there was an outhouse there. Beyond the 3m brick wall that separated Burt’s house from his neighbour’s was a fence about 3.5m high and topped with razor-sharp barbed wire. Although I cut myself in several places, I clambered over this fence with relative ease and jumped down – a drop of at least 4.5m – into the courtyard of an empty block of flats. The ground was overgrown with weeds and grass and I landed hard. I rolled into an infested damp-smelling pit of rotten foliage and dried branches of some trees that had been chopped down. I imagined being bitten by snakes and spiders. Tripping and crawling, I eventually got through the maze of rubbish and took on the challenge of another high barbed-wire fence, the last obstacle that stood between me getting away from my pursuers. I found my way into the ground floor of the abandoned building, the taste of dust, sweat and dirt clinging to my mouth. I was sweating profusely. I dusted myself off as best I could and adjusted my jeans and revolver. The door to the lobby was half broken off, barely hanging on its hinges. I could hear the noise of traffic. The scene of Sarah-Lee with the cops in the car kept replaying in my mind. Fuck! I couldn’t think rationally. All I knew was that my world was caving in and everybody was out to get me.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that the building was in a state of ruin. There was a layer of dust as thick as a rug covering everything. The windows had all been either smashed or removed, and the door handles and any brass or copper accessories had been stolen by vandals. Cardboard boxes and empty beer bottles were scattered all over the show. Squatters were known to seek sanctuary in abandoned buildings, and I wondered if the place was haunted. My instincts were pressing me to get the fuck out of there. Staying close to the wall, I made my way to the lobby. Litter and human faeces were everywhere.
Finally I walked out and onto bustling Louis Botha Avenue.
Breathing in a mix of fresh air and exhaust fumes, I re-evaluated my situation. Thinking that I would make my way back to where I had left my car, acting like any normal pedestrian, I began to stroll in that direction. Then I noticed a car turning into the same street I was heading towards. I saw the driver turn his head and simultaneously throw his car into a U-turn. Convinced that he had recognised me, my adrenaline pumping, I ran across the road, dodging and weaving between the flow of cars. The headlights seemed like eyes, following my every move, and the neon signs of the shop windows along the road made it even more surreal. I removed my shirt, thinking people would think I was a jogger, even though I was wearing jeans.
I found myself doing what I was best at – running. Running for my life. Only this time the enemy was real, or so I thought. Running was so deeply ingrained in me that no matter whether the impetus was friendly or hostile, that moment of escape, the sense of freedom and solace I found in running, was as exhilarating as flying.
All I knew was that there was no way I was going to allow a low-life fucking cop to catch me. I must have run a good 300m on the main road; turning left, I raced down one of the side streets that bordered the suburb of Norwood, predominantly a Jewish area. I took another left turn down a road that, in contrast to the bustle of traffic on the main road, was completely deserted. As I jogged along the road, there wasn’t a single vehicle in sight and I felt very vulnerable. Then, in the distance, I saw the headlights of an approaching car. I looked around for a place to hide and my first reaction was to climb up a tree. I dismissed the idea quickly, though; I would be trapped up a tree. Instead I entered the driveway of the nearest house and there I squatted down between two garbage cans. When the car had passed, I slipped out from my hiding place but remained in the shadows until I was able to see the car disappear around the corner.
My throat was dry and I was drenched in sweat. I realised that I was not too far from where one of my clients lived. Cathy was a high-class prostitute who worked from her home. Still in a state of frenzy, I set off in her direction at a brisk pace. I kept looking around, but I believed I had managed to elude my pursuers. On Cathy’s street there were cars parked outside almost every house. Diagonally across from her place was a car with two people in it. Paranoia washed over me once again. My heart began to race. I jumped over the wall of the house next to Cathy’s, crept over her wall unnoticed and saw that the light in her bedroom was dimmed. Standing there in the shadows, I waited a few minutes, believing that I owed it to Cathy to warn her that the shit had hit the fan and that she was being watched. Very gently, I tapped on the window with the back of my fingers.
‘Skin!’ I whispered urgently.
A light went on almost immediately and Cathy pulled the curtains open. She was completely naked. ‘That was quick,’ she greeted me, pushing a hand that clutched a handful of notes through the open window. ‘Give me two grams,’ she added.
What the fuck was she talking about? Had I just walked into another trap? My first reaction was to punch her in the face, but instead I hissed at her, ‘The pigs are parked outside your house across the street!’
‘Fuck!’ she replied.
Before she could say anything else, I bolted around the back of the house, desperately searching for a way to escape again. In a strange way I felt a certain degree of satisfaction in evading my enemy. I pulled myself up onto a brick wall that was over 2m high and climbed up onto the roof of some domestic quarters, where I lay flat on my stomach. From there I had an excellent view of Cathy’s street, and I observed two or three cars pulling over. When I heard their doors slam, I went into survival mode again. It was time to move. Fucking bitch is also involved, I thought to myself. Her time will come. I would bring a few of my friends from Newclare round and teach her a lesson for fucking with me.
Almost in one movement, I got to my feet and leapt into the neighbouring property. I landed on a neat lawn. The dwelling seem
ed different somehow. There was no clutter of stuff lying about. A grapevine had been trained in such a way that it offered covering for a car parked underneath it, and there were two fruit trees whose branches had been pruned back. To the side of the house was a washing line with a few items of women’s clothing hanging on it. The back door was open and the kitchen light was on. I could hear voices, but I didn’t have much time to think. I ran straight into the house. There were two women in the kitchen, an elderly lady and a young girl of about 15. My sudden dramatic entrance, and no doubt my wild appearance, left them open-mouthed and shocked.
I quickly took stock of the situation. This was a mother and her daughter. Seeing my gun holstered down the front of my jeans, at first they just gaped at me. Then the elderly woman plucked up the courage to speak. ‘Take whatever you want,’ she said bravely, taking her daughter’s arm and pulling her close. ‘Please, all I ask is that you leave us alone!’
I was quite surprised. I had no intention of doing these people any harm. I raised both my arms in protest and said, ‘No, no, you don’t understand. I’m being chased by robbers.’ I could see immediate relief on their frightened faces. ‘All I want is to use your phone,’ I added politely. Then I explained that ‘they’ had guns and that I was outnumbered. The mother, logically, suggested that we call the police.
Fuck! What was this woman thinking?
‘Please,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to involve the police!’
Registering the seriousness of my tone and probably seeing my expression changing, the woman agreed to do as I felt necessary. The mention of police had sent a chill up my spine. I’d heard the Norwood police had a file on me, and there was no way I could allow this woman to call them. I asked if she had a beer to calm my nerves and then asked if she would give me a lift to where I’d left my car. She agreed. She would probably have agreed to anything, just to get me off her property.
