On the morning our relationship ended, we sat in his dark, damp basement, surrounded by old broken needles, ties, empty bags, vials, old lighters, and assorted cookers. We were sick that morning and sat in silence as we packed our dime wraps and listened to the call of the Dope boys out front. Their voices rang out like church bells on Sunday: “Red and white out! Black and white here! John Gotti hittin’ in the hole!” These are the local brand names of Dope, which insure standards of quality and promote brand loyalty, just like Coca-Cola and Pepsi do for soda. Normally those were the words I prayed to hear, but on this particular morning, each time those voices echoed through the streets I grew sicker.
We pack six dime wraps and make our way to the business district, arriving at the bank just as it opens. Usually we were more prepared for this scam. We would shave, put on clean clothes, brush our teeth and hair, and get Celia, a twenty-one-year-old junkie who cleaned up nice enough to pass for a college girl, to do the exchange. But this morning we were too sick to take any precautions and looked to be exactly what we were, two dirty Dope-sick junkies trying to pull a scam.
As we enter the bank, Isaac walks to the desk to fill out paperwork, as if he wants to open an account. It is his job to hang in the back in case there’s a problem. I stand in the line trying to time the situation so that I could get the young female teller instead of the bald white man of sixty wearing thick bifocals. No such luck. “Next!” he calls to me.
This man looks like the typical crabby old son of a bitch who hates rap music, rock and roll, blacks, and kids who wear their baseball caps backwards. He thinks the moral fabric of society has deteriorated since he was a kid, which was probably the 1930s. My senses tell me to turn around and walk away, but all I can see is a bag of Dope. Not police, not jail, not the armed security guard at the door. Just a bag of Dope. The hope of a fix overrides the ability to make a rational decision.
The old man looks at me with disgust. “Can I help you sir?”
Trying to emulate the verbal skills of a Yale graduate, I reply, “Hello-Sir.-How-are-you-doing-today?” Did that sound too stiff?
“Fine.” He stares.
I reply, “Good. My grandmother gave me these rolls of dimes for my birthday so I figured instead of just letting them collect dust in the corner I might as well just trade them in on the way to class this morning.” Who the hell would ever say that?
He asks, “Do you have an account here?”
“No, sir, but my mother does.”
“Okay. Can you write her account number and name on each roll?”
This is an indication that things are going wrong, because they never ask this question. Obviously, he is suspicious and I feel as if he is stalling me, but again, I somehow manage to convince myself that this still might work. “Sure, no problem, sir.”
The elderly man hands me a pen and stares as I write a fictitious number on each roll. I begin to panic. Hell, I have no idea how many numerals are in an account number. Are there dashes? Are there letters? I just write as sloppily as possible so that the numbers cannot be read at all and cling to the hope that this will not make a difference.
By the time I finish scribbling on the dime wraps, my hand is shaking nervously. The teller takes the wraps directly to his boss, who is shuffling a stack of papers. The boss, in his early fifties, with a fresh haircut, shave, and manicure, has not so much as a wrinkle on his suit.
The old man, careful not to let me see his lips or facial expressions, speaks quietly into his manager’s ear. The boss’s eyes drift over to me. At this moment I finally realize this scam is not going to work, no way. And now I have something else to consider: how the fuck am I gonna get out of this bank without going to jail? I look over to make sure Isaac is aware of the situation. I catch his eye; he looks at me, then glances at the armed security guard. That lets me know he has got the guard.
As the teller makes his way back over to me, the manager picks up a phone and dials rapidly. I turn and walk away. The teller calls after me, “Excuse me, sir…excuse me, sir! Excuse me, sir!”
With the attention of every customer and employee fixed on me, the bloated armed security guard, who resembles the Pillsbury Dough Boy, steps in between me and the exit. “Excuse me, sir, could you step to the side? We would like to speak to you.”
“Sure, no problem,” I reply in a compliant tone. “Is there a problem, sir?” Of course there is, dipshit!
“No, sir. We just need to speak to you for a moment.” I feign subservience, as if I am stepping to the side as per his order…. Suddenly, I break into a sprint toward the exit, but the back of my sweatshirt is grabbed by the hand of this lard-ass security guard.
“Get off me, fat boy!” I yell, grabbing my sweatshirt and pulling. The situation resembles a tug-of-war over my sweatshirt. As someone pulls the bank alarm, Isaac dashes across the bank and tackles the security guard, allowing me to dash out of the bank and make my escape. As I run down the street, looking to my sides, I realize that Isaac is not with me. I stop on the street, wondering if I should turn back. Suddenly a police siren kicks on in the distance. The fear takes hold and I run. I want to help my best friend, but there is nothing I can do.
Isaac and I, in the Tuerk House, sit in silence. Isaac plays with his beard and I rub my fingers through my hair.
The intercom clicks on. “Okay, ten minutes to lights out. Congratulations, gentlemen, on another day clean.”
“Well, I guess it’s that time,” I say.
Isaac replies, “Good night, Brandon.”
“Good night, Isaac.” We go our separate ways.
chapter eighteen
From the Beginning
I am in Mr. Leeper’s office, cradled in the softness of the armchair that was designed to comfort and relax those who sit in it. Why am I nervous?
Mr. Leeper is well dressed: a thin-striped tie, freshly ironed light blue shirt, brand-new navy-blue slacks, and a white pair of shoes, which appear to be worn for the first time. He even smells great. Recovered addicts take pride in their appearance, a symbol of an improved state of being.
“How you holding up, Mr. Novak?” Mr. Leeper asks.
“Okay I guess, given the circumstances.”
“It could always be worse,” Mr. Leeper replies.
“That’s what Dane told me,” I say to myself.
“I believe we got off to a great start yesterday. You exhibited several signs of your willingness to change. You know, Brandon, I have a lot of clients, some are willing, some aren’t. It is my job to treat each one in the same way. It’s up to you to accept or deny the advice and guidance I’m offering. Now, before we really start to get to the root of your problem,” Mr. Leeper says, “ask yourself: Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“So, Mr. Novak, I’ve read over your files. I know a bit about your past, your family life, and how it wasn’t the best. Unfortunately, paperwork is only face value so we’re gonna have to go over all that stuff.”
He continues with this bombshell: “After we talked yesterday, I called and spoke with your mother.”
A moment ago I felt excitement about this session. Now I’m angry, no longer receptive to his help. I don’t believe he had any right to call my mother without consulting me first. How could he tell me he is trying to build a trusting relationship, only to betray me?
“Don’t you want to know how it went?” asks Mr. Leeper.
I shake my head with a look of disgust on my face.
“Mr. Novak, we’re going to do this thing now, and truthfully, if you really want to go get better, there’s no need to sugarcoat anything.”
All my past decisions have left me in prisons or abandoned houses. So, at this point, I am pretty fucking vulnerable, and looking for guidance. Although Mr. Leeper is not perfect, he has achieved what seems to be impossible: quitting drugs, and right now he’s the only person in my life willing and able to guide me in that direction. So, I decide to give him my trust. You might call it a “lea
p of faith.”
“Okay, how’d it go?” I whisper.
“Well, Mr. Novak, I can tell you she’s ecstatic, but at the same time terrified.”
I open up. “I knew that before you said it. This is exactly why I didn’t even want to tell her I’m here. I’m infamous for building up her hopes and dreams only to shoot them down at the first chance I get to act on free will. Do you know how many times I’ve done that to her? Do you know how many times I’ve made her cry?”
“Well, what do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know, all right?! I want to get better, I want to stop doing drugs, but at the same time, not fifteen minutes goes by in this place that I don’t think of getting the fuck out of here so I can shoot up again!”
“Good,” Mr. Leeper says.
“What the fuck’s good about that?”
Mr. Leeper tells me. “Your honesty. Your truthfulness with facing yourself. And because you’ve been honest with yourself, you can begin to become realistic in your assessment of your future decisions.”
“I don’t know what decisions to make. I look at my life as a junkie, and I weigh it against a life where I have a house, a wife, a bank account…a toothbrush…. I get so fucking overwhelmed…. Can I really do this? When I recover, what will I do? Where will I go? How will I pay rent? How will I get an apartment with no money or credit? I don’t even have a bank account. I don’t even have a driver’s license. When the rehab process is complete, what will I be? I don’t even know who I am now!”
“These are things you will have to face. But you need to do this slowly. Like sobriety, your problems must be faced as they come, they must be taken, as the saying goes, ‘one day at a time.’ The decision is entirely yours. You can either face your problem, or run away from it and continue your life as an addict. Let me ask you, what is your problem, today, right now, at this very moment?”
“My problem is, that every time I go to a rehab, the withdrawal is the easy part. The pissing my pants, the throwing up, the diarrhea; it’s a passive process and I let it happen to me. It’s easy for me. After the physical pain leaves me, I have to examine my life and then the physical pain is replaced with an emotional pain. An emptiness.”
“Describe the ‘emptiness,’ Mr. Novak.”
“I look at my life, and all I see is a trail of ruined relationships. People who loved me and don’t trust me. Look at me. I’m a disgrace. My mother has spent over forty thousand dollars of her hard-earned money for a dozen inpatient rehabs, outpatient houses, and three-day detoxes, only for me to end up in this position.”
As the tears overpower my ability to speak, Mr. Leeper gives me a few minutes to gain control. Then he continues. “Your mother is quite impressed with your ability to take action by seeking out help. She said a few other things, as well. For one, she told me she has always served as the enabler. She knows it’s not the right thing to do, but her heart breaks to see you in pain and the only remedy that seems to make you better is a couple of dollars, which she knows you probably spend on drugs. But she feels powerless in the situation. Although she seemed very determined to make sure she doesn’t act as your crutch anymore.
“You’re twenty-five, right, Mr. Novak?”
“Yes.”
“At what age did you experiment with your first drink or drug?”
“I was about eleven years old. Me and a few friends smoked some weed in the woods.
“Well, what were your hobbies? Where did your interests lie before you found heroin?”
“Before I got wrapped up in drugs I was a skateboarder.”
“You did what?” Mr. Leeper asks.
“I rode a skateboard. For a living.”
“Tell me about this.”
I search my Heroin-infested brain for the proper way to begin the story, mentally turning back the clock to my childhood….
chapter nineteen
Bucky Lasek
Saturday morning. My mom is buzzing about the house like a whirlwind, simultaneously doing yard work, laundry, dusting, sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming, cleaning the house from top to bottom.
In less than one hour after I wake, I arrive at the crowded parking lot of the local shopping mall and skate toward the action: the Powell Peralta skate demo. A voice booms through a loudspeaker, announcing the names of the skaters; each trick they perform is met by a thunderous applause. Here were hundreds of kids paying homage to the living legends who brought inspiration: Tony Hawk, Mike Vallely, Steve Caballero, Tommy Guerrero, and of course, Bucky Lasek.
Bucky Lasek, then fifteen or so, was our hometown hero, born and raised in Dundalk, Maryland. In my eyes he was God, he could do no wrong. I studied him; I dressed like him and imitated his skating style. And around my neck, I wore a gold rope with the letter B, the closest I could find to the one I saw him wearing in a photo. My friends made fun of me, but I didn’t care because he was my idol. I wanted to be just like him.
The demo draws to a close. The professionals are bombarded by fans who line up for autographs. This was an opportune time for me to skate the street course, which was now open to the general public.
As I am about to make my run, from behind me I hear a voice ask, “You’re Brandon, right?” I turn and I am struck with an emotion somewhere between honor and horror. Bucky Lasek!
My first instinct was, actually, to run! I stand there for a moment, until I finally muster the courage to reply, nervously, “Yeah?”
Bucky smiles. “What’s up, man? What did you think of the demo?”
“It…it was awesome,” I reply shakily. “How did you know my name?”
“I’ve seen you around; I know who you are. I’ve been watching you skate today, and you definitely have a lot of talent. You’re really good, especially for your age. I can tell.”
I am unable to contain my excitement. “Really?!”
“Really,” he assures me. “Hey, I’ll tell you what, after the demo I’m headed over to Sport Elite to hit the miniramp, you’re more than welcome to come if you want.”
“Hell, yeah!” In an instant, I make a decision: I am going to rise to this occasion, prove myself, and befriend Bucky Lasek, my hero. I push my foot to the asphalt with all my might and zip across the parking lot. I hit the quarterpipe, and in midair I grab my board backside, closer to the front of my front truck, and begin to spin 360. A quarter of the way through, I karate-kick my right foot out and tuck it back; then when I’m about to land, I let go of the backside, grab right before I place my foot back on the board, and ride away from the three-sixty Judo Air like it was just a warm-up trick.
The announcer yells over the P.A., “Wow! And it looks like our Baltimore crowd needs to extend fifteen minutes of fame for a young hometown hero! Let’s hear it for the little guy…whatever his name is!” Everyone at the demo claps, and as I turn around, Bucky shoots me a big smile.
On the way to Sports Elite, I think about Bucky at the demo. He saw something special in me. He recognized that I had talent and skill, and not only that, he seemed to like me. Is this a dream?
As we enter Sports Elite, I am greeted by Pat Alban, the owner, who speaks with a thick Cuban accent. “What’s up, slim?”
“Not much, Pat.”
“I hear Bucky invited you back to skate,” he says. “The pressure is on, slim. Everyone is already in the back. Follow me.”
Pat walks me through the shop and through the legendary back door, which leads us to the ramp area where a session is in full force. Bucky sees me. “Well! Looks like you made it!”
I climb to the top of the ramp and await my turn to drop in. Somehow, the stress acts on my mind as a motivator. I edge my foot over the coping, my whole body quaking with nervous energy. Well, here it goes, do or die! Somehow I pull off a flawless run: A drop in, pivot-to-fakie, Caballero-to-fakie, chink-chink brought back forward, a blunt-to-fakie, and as I pull out of the ramp, everyone in the place is cheering!
At the end of the session, Pat Alban approaches. “S
lim, do you ride for anybody?”
I answer, “No.”
Pat says, “Well, you do now!” He walks away, and in a minute he returns with a box full of team shirts, stickers, a skateboard, trucks, wheels, and accessories. Everyone watches as he hands me this gift and pats me on the back, saying, “Welcome to the Sports Elite team, Brandon!” As the skaters applaud, I turn to look at Bucky, and the world seems to slow down, as in a slow-motion movie sequence. This was all for me. The applause, the cheers, the smiles. I had earned them. In one day, my life had completely changed.
As the months passed, Bucky took me under his wing. I watched him closely and carefully; I analyzed his skating, emulated his lifestyle, and listened to his advice in personal matters. What he did, I did; what he said, I said. I was in awe.
Bucky had become my father figure. In time, Bucky spoke on my behalf with Todd Hastings, the team manager at Powell, and he allowed me to start traveling with the Powell Peralta team. To me, this was by far the greatest opportunity I could attain. At times I needed to remind myself that I was actually living, not dreaming, this experience. I was skating, living, and eating at the very same table as all my childhood heroes—the greatest skateboard ensemble in the history of the sport!
The highlight of my excursions was a cross-country trip to Tony Hawk’s house in California. Tony had the ultimate backyard setup that was every skater’s dream: a vert ramp with spine to miniramp, then spine to a bowl. When I saw it for the first time, I stood motionless. I was speechless to think that even the possibility of such a lifestyle existed in the universe. There, for several days, I shared in Tony’s backyard paradise, pushing the boundaries of my physical stamina.
Tony was gracious and made me feel at home. He awoke every morning in tremendous spirit, skated with tenacity, and encouraged other skaters. He held daily barbecues for his guests and straggling visitors. His business matters were conducted quietly and with patience, and any stress he may have felt was well managed and not apparent. If our stay in his home was an imposition, he did not show it in the slightest way. Tony allowed me and Bucky to use one of his cars so that I might fully enjoy the experience of seeing California for the first time.
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