Long Past Stopping

by Oran Canfield

  My version of reality was questionable before I ever started using dope, and now it had split off into two distorted versions of itself: the one where for the first time in my life I felt comfortable enough in my own skin to talk to people and be witty, and charming, and tell them how great everything was going, and the one where I was in my room, chain-smoking Pall Malls, looking at pornography on my computer, doing dope, and telling myself what a fucking piece of shit I was until the inner dialogue got so brutal that the only way to shut it up was to smoke enough heroin to pass out.

  I didn’t have a plan for when these two realities collided. The first time it happened, I had broken one of my rules. I had a whole bunch of rules. One of them was not bringing dope to Heather’s house. As a result, I would wake up sick, in a puddle of sweat every morning, as if I had literally taken a shower in my sleep. I don’t know how she put up with it. Twice, though, I ended up at Heather’s house with dope on me because I hadn’t planned on going there, and as long as I had it with me, there was no way I could keep myself from doing it. I knew women faked orgasms all the time and got away with it, but I had never faked one before, and aside from my bad acting skills, there’s another far more obvious problem with men faking orgasms than women.

  The first time I did it, she didn’t say anything, but it made me feel fucking awful. I told myself I was a terrible person, which was nothing new, but I was used to only allowing myself to feel that way in the privacy of my own room, not in my girlfriend’s bed. The second time I tried faking an orgasm, she brought it up and I was caught totally unprepared. For all the rules and systems I had set up not to get caught, I hadn’t come up with a plan if I did. My two realities had collided, and it was as if I was as surprised as anyone else that I was a junkie.

  “Hey, I wanted to ask you this last time, but what happened?” Heather asked after I had recovered from my lame act of being out of breath and relaxed.

  “What?” I asked. I had heard her, but I needed time to come up with an answer.

  “What just happened?” she asked again.

  “What do you mean?” I was starting to panic.

  “You did that once before as well.”

  “Did what once before?” I was racking my brain, but I couldn’t come up with anything even remotely like an excuse.

  “You know…didn’t finish?”

  “Uh…well…shit…Oh man, you’re going to hate me.” I was looking for the right words. How do you tell your girlfriend you’re addicted to heroin?

  “I’m addicted to heroin,” I said, and immediately started crying uncontrollably. As much as I was afraid she would kick me out then and there (I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had), it was a relief to finally tell someone. Although my orgasm had been an act, the crying was real and fucking pathetic, and I couldn’t stop. I hadn’t expected to break down like I did, but keeping it a secret was killing me. Heather was staring off into space with a totally blank expression.

  “I should probably leave,” I blubbered. “Really, it has nothing to do with you. You shouldn’t be involved.”

  “How long has it been?” she finally asked. She was scrunched up in the far corner of the bed, against the wall.

  “I don’t know. Maybe five months now, something like that. I fucking hate it. I just got physically addicted is all, and I’ve been too stressed out and busy to quit. And I’m just smoking it,” I said, as if that somehow made it better. It sounded better to me at least. I believed every word I was saying.

  “Okay, listen. You don’t have to leave, and I don’t hate you. I’m actually relieved that you told me. I thought it was something much worse. But you have to stop. I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll help in whatever way I can. You have to take this seriously, even if it means getting out of town for a while. It’s way more important than your bands or your studio. I’m serious. You have got to quit soon.”

  I was amazed she didn’t throw me out. Jesus, I would have broken up with me years ago if I knew how. And she even said she would help. I started to regain my composure a little.

  “Hey, what could be worse than what I just told you?” Because I really couldn’t imagine what that could be.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What is it?” I said, and with that she burst out in tears.

  “I thought it was because I was too old,” she cried. I didn’t know what to say. It would have never occurred to me that she had been thinking that. I always forgot that she was a few years older than me because she definitely didn’t look it. Why didn’t I see it? What else would she have thought? What a selfish asshole I was.

  “Whoa. Heather, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. That couldn’t be further from the truth, I swear.” But I knew it wasn’t going to help. It wasn’t the issue.

  She kept crying, and I decided I was going to get clean for real. It was dawning on me for the first time that no matter how much of a secret I kept it, my drug use was affecting other people. I didn’t really care about myself, but Heather didn’t deserve any of this. If I couldn’t do it for myself, at least I could do it for her.

  WALKING HOME THE next morning, I noticed a small sign on the door of this fancy-looking acupuncture place on Valencia Street that said acupuncture for heroin addicts, $5, 7–9 a.m. It was unnerving. I wasn’t a big fan of signs from God, but I couldn’t ignore it after what had happened last night. Why had I never seen it before? It was about eight o’clock, and, despite a ton of apprehension, I walked in.

  The waiting room was dead silent and there wasn’t anyone at the desk. I was about to leave when a woman appeared, and simply said, “The sign?” pointing at the door. I nodded and she led me back to another room with six tables and motioned for me to lie down on one. I had no idea what to expect, but for five bucks it seemed like it was worth a shot. I lay down on the table and the woman tapped three needles into each of my ears and left. It felt like a lot more than an hour went by before she came back and took the needles out. As I walked back out to the waiting room, she was leading someone in, and without a word I handed her five bucks and left. It was about ten thirty, and I realized she had just left me there till her first real client showed up.

  I went home, starting to feel pretty shitty. I looked through the phone book under “addiction” and called a few advice hotlines. One place was right around the corner, and I made an appointment to go talk to them.

  “So how long did you say it’s been?” this older black guy asked me from across his desk. I had made the appointment for three o’clock, and I managed to hold out on buying dope till about two thirty. I always ended up getting too high when I held out so long.

  I zoned out for a second and had to ask, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “How long you been using dope, man?”

  “Four or five months…something like that.”

  “Uh-huh, and you think you could kick by getting acupuncture, and coming here for counseling?” he asked me with a hint of boy you must be crazy in his voice.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m only smoking it. It shouldn’t be that bad. Right?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Our clients usually detox at the Salvation Army or somewhere and do the counseling to stay clean, not get clean.”

  “But it could work? Maybe?” I really wanted him to agree with me.

  “Maybe it could. We start at eleven in the morning. Come by if you feel like it.”

  I never went back. I tried the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic next, and they gave me a bag of Extra Strength Tylenol and some shit for stomach cramps. The stuff was worse than a placebo; it actually made me feel shittier. Heather didn’t bring it up too much, but about once a week she would ask me what was going on and I’d give her a doctored-up progress report. I was managing to cut down a little, but shit came up all the time that seemed like a valid excuse to use. I couldn’t do a full day in the studio if I was sick. I couldn’t play those Sleigher songs if I was sick. I couldn’t go out if I was sick, and I defi
nitely couldn’t tell people how great I was doing if I was going through heroin withdrawal. About all I could do was lie down on a table with needles sticking out of my ears. Since that first morning I walked into the acupuncture place I hadn’t exchanged words with the woman who worked there. I would go in and she’d stick the needles in my ears until the first customer arrived. I was the only person who showed up for the 7–9 a.m. junkie special. I felt guilty toward the acupuncturist too. She must have been waking up at six in the morning for five extra bucks, and I really wasn’t showing much progress.

  AFTER ABOUT A MONTH of this really trying routine, I got a phone call from a bass player, Jeremy, who asked me if I could go on tour in three days with his band, Caroliner. Their drummer, Mike, had just quit over some girlfriend drama.

  “I’ve never heard them. What kind of music is it?”

  “You’ve never heard of Caroliner? How is that possible? They’ve been around for sixteen years. I thought everyone knew about them.”

  “I’ve heard of them, but I thought it was just some generic noise band. I didn’t know you and Mike were in it.” Mike was an amazing drummer.

  “Yeah, we’ve been in it for a few years now. I can’t believe you’ve never seen us. It’s perfect for you.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t keep up with Mike, that’s for sure.”

  “You don’t have to. Just do whatever you want. It’ll be perfect. I promise.”

  “Shit. Three days? Let me call you back in a minute.”

  I hung up and called Heather at the photo gallery she worked at to tell her about the phone call from Jeremy, and without any hesitation she said, “Call him back and say yes. Don’t think about it. Just tell him you’re going.”

  “Yeah, but I mean I’ve never even heard them before. What if it’s the worst thing ever?”

  “That’s not what it’s about. You have to go,” she said. “Listen, I got to get back to work. Call that guy back and tell him you’ll do it!”

  “Okay,” I said, getting ready to hang up.

  “And find out when you’ll be in New York. I’m going there for work in two weeks.”

  Typically, I would have liked at least to hear the music, and maybe meet the folks in the band, but Heather was right. It had nothing to do with whether I liked the music or the people, for that matter. I had to get the fuck out of San Francisco. I spent the next few days with Jeremy, a banjo player named Thomas, and Cheryl, the violin player, going over the songs. It was the best band I had heard in San Francisco, and I was surprised I had never seen them before.

  The singer was apparently too busy dealing with last-minute tour stuff to come to rehearsal. When I told Sean I was leaving, he asked me what I thought of Grux.

  “What?” I couldn’t understand him. It sounded like he was eating a piece of celery and talking at the same time.

  “You mean you don’t know Grux? Oh, man…”

  “Wait. Say it one more time. I might have met him.” It was a weird name. I couldn’t be hearing him right. Grux?

  “Grux! The main guy! The singer!”

  “No. I haven’t met him yet, he’s been busy trying to reschedule a bunch of shows since we’re leaving three days late.”

  “Well, seriously, man. You should try to meet him before you get in a van with him for a month.”

  “Why? Is he weird?”

  Sean laughed at that one. “Is he weird? Dude, his name is Grux, and he’s been doing obscure noise music for sixteen years. He is the textbook example of weird.”

  “Well, I’m pretty used to weirdos by now, and I already said yes.”

  “Yeah, but…Oh well. I guess you’ll find out.”

  He wasn’t the only one to ask about Grux. It seemed that everyone I called to say good-bye to, or reschedule recording sessions with, said the same thing.

  “What do you think of Grux?”

  “I haven’t met him yet.”

  “What! And you’re…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…I heard he’s weird.”

  “Weird? That’s a bit of an understate—”

  “Listen, I have to make some other calls,” I said, cutting them off.

  How bad could this guy be? I was only going to kick dope anyway. I didn’t see how this guy could make matters worse than they already were.

  I devised a system to taper off by filling a nasal spray bottle with heroin and water, and the idea was to sniff just enough of the stuff to get well when I was really hurting. Then every night I would top off the bottle with water, slowly weakening the solution. I would supplement as little dope as possible with large quantities of alcohol to take the edge off. I could only hope that the two hundred bucks I had spent on heroin was going to be enough.

  The plan may have made sense logically, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be so easy.

  seven

  In which the boy finds himself living among misfits, radicals, anarchists, and robots while performing daring feats with a band of clowns

  I ARRIVED AT THE SANTA FE Community School only to leave the next morning for their annual field trip to the International Free School Convention. The previous year we had spent a fun month driving to Boston and back, and this year the convention was in Miami. There were about fifteen of us in an old International school bus, and as nice as it was to see Ed, Denis, and the rest of the group—especially after being around the born-again Christians—it just wasn’t the same without Kyle.

  When we got to Houston, we were closer to the ocean than many of the kids had ever been, so we took a detour down to Galveston. It was the ugliest beach I had ever seen, covered in spots of crude oil and surrounded by offshore wells and tankers. Ed told us that anyone who wasn’t back in forty-five minutes wouldn’t get to go to Disneyworld.

  Never having seen waves before, most of the others were scared to get in. It wasn’t even the ocean, it was a gulf for Christ’s sake. Ignoring the severe undertow signs, I put on my shorts and went for a swim. When I turned around a few minutes later, I could barely see the bus parked on the side of the road. I started swimming back, but I wasn’t making any progress. So I tried harder, even though it didn’t seem to make a difference. Panicking, I put even more effort into it, but I could only keep it up for so long. The moment I started treading water to catch my breath, I could feel myself getting sucked back out. I panicked again and put everything I had into it, but I was starting to have trouble staying up. Then I really started freaking out. I began to scream for help, but that wasn’t helping me catch my breath either, and I could barely keep my head up. I never stopped struggling, but at some point, my efforts just weren’t helping anymore and I started going under.

  I don’t know how he found me, but out of nowhere an arm reached down into the water, got me in a headlock, and pulled me up. It was Denis, the physics teacher. The timing was eerie. Another few seconds and it might have been over.

  When we got to Orlando, Ed made good on his threat of not letting me go to Disney World and made me wait in the parking lot. I tried every combination of crying, swearing, yelling, and blaming, all to no avail. For five hours I sat in the bus, seething. I thought it went against Ed’s whole philosophy of learning from our mistakes, but he said that when our mistakes affect other people, those who are affected get to decide the consequences. I had held up the group for over an hour while I was out there drowning.

  The trip was terrible, but during the month I was away, Mom had moved out of the houseboat and into a huge mansion rented in San Rafael. When I got back, I was happy to finally be reunited with Mom and Kyle. Even Laurel, our old housekeeper, had come out to join us. Mom wasted no time in finding me a new juggling teacher, and Kyle and I started taking gymnastics and breakdancing classes as well.

  On Sundays Laurel took Kyle and me to her church, which couldn’t have been more different from the one I had gone to with Fred. Laurel’s crowd sang, danced, started shaking, and fell down. Even though the preacher read from the same book, it came out sounding total
ly different. I still wasn’t buying into it, but at least they were having fun. Even I couldn’t help dancing once the gospel band got going.

  It was just like old times with all of us back together again, and Kyle and I even got to experience public school for a few months, until Mom asked me what I thought about the idea of joining a circus.

  THE AUDITION WAS at a big compound called The Farm in San Francisco’s Mission District. I juggled in front of a few people, who then asked me why I wanted to join the circus. I told them, “I just want to make people happy,” which was the stock line I had been using whenever I was asked why I juggled. This explanation always made me feel like a liar and a fraud, but no one ever questioned it. After seeing my mom hand a check to the woman who appeared to be in charge, I was informed that I had been accepted. The exchange of money was never mentioned to me, but it was hard not to wonder how much passing the audition had to do with that check. It worked the other way around with the rest of the performers. At the end of the week, Leticia, the director, would walk around and hand them checks. It bothered me that I had been accepted because of a payoff rather than my skill as a juggler. Granted, I had just turned nine years old, but I was by far the best juggler there. I tried to put it out of my mind, thinking this was just a trial period. Once they realized how talented I was, they would start paying me instead of the other way around.

  Shortly after my audition, Mom worked out a deal with my school where I was able to get credit for “life experience” in the circus, so I stopped going to class and started taking the bus to San Francisco every day for intense rehearsals.