By Some Miracle I Made It Out of There: A Memoir

by Tom Sizemore

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  Preface

  Introduction: Crystal

  Chapter 1: Detroit

  Chapter 2: Just Try and Stop Me

  Chapter 3: Making It

  Chapter 4: Losing It

  Chapter 5: Heidi

  Chapter 6: Full-Court Press

  Chapter 7: The Darkness Before the Dawn

  Chapter 8: Coming To

  Chapter 9: Today

  Acknowledgments

  Photographs

  About Tom Sizemore and Anna David

  For my two sons, Jayden and Jagger;

  my mother, Judy Sizemore;

  Monroe Allen; and Anna David

  “What if by some miracle we stay, then actually make it out of here?”

  —Sergeant Mike Horvath (Tom Sizemore), Saving Private Ryan

  PREFACE

  I NEVER EXPECTED TO be more infamous than famous. Before my arrest in 2003, the only things that the public knew about me were from my work. You knew about Heat and Natural Born Killers and Saving Private Ryan. The interviews I gave were, if not boring, then at least completely benign. Back when we were promoting Natural Born Killers and I was dating Juliette Lewis, if a reporter said, “So tell me about Juliette Lewis,” I’d know what they were getting at—the fact that we were having an affair—but I would play completely dumb. I’d say, “You saw that movie, and you saw her play Mallory Knox, and if you want to know anything else about her, I’d say you just have to watch the movie again.”

  They’d say, “What do you mean?” and I’d say something like “She’s just a wild child.” Something dumb, and it would get picked up. That’s actually one of the quotes I’m known for on Juliette: “She’s a wild child.” One of the stupidest things I’ve ever said.

  Still, because I said nothing, all you knew about me was the work. But then everything fell apart and there was a descent into complete fucking weirdness and non sequiturs. I went on A Current Affair in 2005 and talked about how I once couldn’t find my way home. I was making a joke and it was reported as serious news—“Actor Tom Sizemore Can’t Find His Way Home”—but my point is that I was supposed to be on television talking about being an actor. I think it’s safe to say that things are out of control when headlines are stating that you can’t find your way home.

  And here’s how I feel at this point: I’d never hire me. If I weren’t me, I wouldn’t hire Tom Sizemore to make coffee or throw confetti on himself. I’d think, “This guy went to prison. Are you kidding? He used a Whizzinator! I don’t want him in my building! You think I want him on my show?” I wouldn’t have given myself the chances other people have been generous enough to give me.

  I’ve led an interesting life, but I can’t tell you what I’d give to be the guy you didn’t know anything about. What I’d give to be someone like Tom Hanks, where, when you thought of me, you’d say, “Oh, Tom—he’s really something else, huh? America’s favorite neighbor. America’s favorite son.”

  Of course, that’s not me. I’ve done a lot of things that would make that impossible, and I know that telling you all about them probably won’t help me to become America’s favorite son. But it may help you to understand how everything happened the way it did and a bit more about what was going on behind those ugly headlines. For now, I’ve come out on the other side—found a way to get off drugs and build a career that I’m proud of again—but I also know that, as a sober addict, all I really have is today. And for that, I’m incredibly grateful.

  I’m also grateful that you still care about me. Without that, I’d never have made it this far.

  Tom Sizemore

  August 2012

  INTRODUCTION

  CRYSTAL

  REALLY, ALL I knew about crystal meth before I did it was that it was supposed to be an aphrodisiac of sorts: it apparently transformed men into Superman in bed. And look, you read “Makes your penis incredibly hard and Superman-like” and it’s going to get filed away in your mind, even if you’re sober—as I was in 2001.

  By then, my former heroin addiction and the rehabs I’d been to felt like they were pretty far back in the past. And the truth of the matter is that I didn’t really want to be sober.

  That’s part of why I don’t blame Heidi Fleiss for what happened. But before I get into that, let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t expect to fall for her. Still, I was hooked on sex with her from the beginning: Heidi had a quality that I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly, but she had the ability to make any shameful associations with sex disappear.

  One of the first nights she came over to my house, she laid out a little bit of meth on the dresser in my bedroom. I had been lying on the bed with my back turned, but I heard what she was doing.

  “That’s coke, right?” I asked. Even though she knew I’d been in trouble with heroin years before, I hadn’t made a big deal about how I hadn’t been doing drugs. I really didn’t talk about it at all.

  “Nope,” she said. “It’s trailer park dope.”

  That’s when I got up and started walking around the bed. She wasn’t trying to get me to do it; she was just doing her thing. But I watched her do her thing with interest.

  “So that’s that meth shit?” I asked. Keep in mind that this was in 2001; there wasn’t a lot out there about meth yet. “That crystal shit?”

  She nodded, and that was all it took. I grabbed the straw from her.

  “Be careful—it’s strong,” she said.

  I was trying to be cool, so I said something like “I know how to do dope, bitch.” And then I did a line.

  Ten seconds later, I was flying—fucking flying. I hadn’t done coke in years, but this was nothing like coke. It was the most intense thing I’d ever felt. I was instantly more energetic and euphoric than I’d ever been—it was like hurling forward at the speed of light—and I knew, even though I couldn’t admit it at the time, that human beings simply weren’t meant to feel that good. I turned around and said, “What the fuck, are you trying to kill me?”

  She didn’t answer because she was already taking off her clothes. And that’s when I discovered that everything I’d read about the Superman powers was true. At that moment, I wanted to fuck her more than I wanted to breathe.

  Later, Heidi told me she’d never seen meth impact anyone the way it did me—sexually, that is. On meth, I could orgasm and never lose my erection. I’d come four or five times, and each one would be better—more intense—than the last. I was already rapacious before meth, but meth made me sexualize everything and everyone. I started to associate the drug and sex right away, whereas it generally takes other people some time before that occurs.

  Heidi had already been doing meth for a while by then. She was actually at the point where she was dreading having to do it and was ready to stop. But I was just getting going. I didn’t know how dangerous it was—it’s not like it came with some skull and crossbones on it—and people just didn’t know then. I thought I was doing something that was just going to lead to more fun and bring more pleasure to my life. I didn’t understand then, or in any way anticipate, that I’d soon have to do it to handle my every mood and feeling.

  I woke up the next morning and didn’t even think about it. Heidi went home, and I got up and worked out. If only I’d kno
wn then what getting involved with Heidi, and with meth, would do to me. I had no idea that my life would never be the same.

  CHAPTER 1

  DETROIT

  THE PART OF Detroit I was born in—Corktown—wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills. It was a small enclave of poor, working-class white people located near Tiger Stadium, a stadium that’s since been torn down but used to be where the Detroit Tigers would play. Although my family’s financial situation changed later, when my dad became a lawyer, we didn’t have a lot in the beginning. It was a very blue-collar, lower-middle-class upbringing.

  My dad—Thomas Edward Sizemore Sr.—was one of the more handsome men you might ever see, and he’s always been very intelligent. Though he came from southern migrant farmers, previous generations of Sizemores were more prominent citizens. If you go to Clay County, Kentucky, where most of them are from, you’ll see in the halls of the county buildings pictures, plaques of Sizemore men who were sheriffs, teachers, tax assessors, and collectors. Public minutes and records also show that Sizemore men were involved in the planning, construction, and maintenance of the roads there. Essentially, if you show up just about anywhere in Clay County and mention the family name Sizemore, you’ll probably discover that the person you’re talking to is related, married to, or knows a Sizemore. There’s even an old Kentucky saying: “Where there’s dirt, you’ll find a Sizemore.”

  A long-standing Sizemore tradition—and one that I carried out myself—was to pull up stakes and move to a distant place in order to improve the lot you’ve been given in life and change the direction and future of the family. And my father’s father, Blevins Sizemore, did just that when he moved from Clay County to Detroit, Michigan, in the early 1940s with my grandmother Vina and their children—my father and his siblings Carl, Sally, Ernie, Keith, and Patsy. The children were born in that order except that my father was born after Carl. They also had another brother, Donald Edward, my grandparents’ firstborn, but he died when he was a year old. My grandmother always carried a picture of him in her wallet, and I used to look at it sometimes when visiting with her. I don’t think my grandparents ever fully got over his death, and it probably influenced to a large degree the permissiveness of the way they parented. For sure, the boys could almost do no wrong, however shocking their behavior might be to others. Carl and Keith both became full-blown heroin addicts, and Carl was dealing heroin out of the house to support his and Keith’s habit. They were also both thieves and fences. Ernie was smoking pot and dropping LSD, and Grandpa Sizemore always made sure they all had cigarettes.

  Even though it was wartime my grandfather Blevins couldn’t serve because he was blind in one eye. He’d actually been kicked out of school in fourth grade because the teachers back then thought his eye problem might have been contagious. Apparently, though, he simply had really bad cataracts in both eyes, though one eye was worse than the other.

  Despite his vision problems, Blevins started working for Micro-matic Hone Corporation, a machinist shop, where he honed and shaped steel. The family was dirt poor. They had just two chairs at the table for the two adults to sit in (the children stood to eat) and no phone. And Blevins was a really bad alcoholic. If Vina didn’t get ahold of Blevins’s paycheck before he did, he would be down at the bar, having spent the whole thing on booze and pissed himself. Vina was always sending Sally down to the bar to bring her drunken dad home.

  I remember as a kid seeing Uncle Carl get up from where we were all playing cards and go out to the entry vestibule, where he would make his drug deals. It was my first exposure to drugs and the way they had to be kept secret. Every half hour or so there’d be someone knocking at the door. Carl would let that person into the vestibule, which was closed off from the living room, find out what they wanted, then go into the basement where he kept the heroin, get the requested amount, return to the vestibule, and make the deal. When I asked my aunt Sally what was going on, she said, “Your uncle’s selling drugs.” I remember saying to her, “That’s what I thought! Is it dangerous?” She said, “Oh no. Not at all, Tommy. He’s a good drug dealer.” I think I was nine when that conversation took place.

  But the truth is that I really liked Uncle Carl and Uncle Keith. Carl was a kind of bebop jazz aficionado and Keith was something of a hippie who loved the Rolling Stones. I remember one year when Keith returned home for Christmas. I was about twelve and asked him what he’d been reading. He said, “Tom, this drug problem has gotten out of control and I just decided to read the dictionary—I figured all the books were in it.” They were both characters.

  Somehow, even though he was in that environment, my father never did drugs, and he was the only one out of all his siblings to graduate from high school. I know that he once took a hit off a joint that his brother Ernie suggested he try and he later told me that it felt like the floor opened up and every monster and insecurity in his life came out and laughed at him. He never did a mind-altering drug again. He used to say that his addiction was reading. In retrospect, he really picked an addiction that fit his very private, almost shut-away, personality. You could talk to this fool for a half hour while he read, and if you asked him what was for dinner, he’d say, “Food.” You’d ask what kind and he’d say, “Ask your mother.” You’d ask where she was and he’d say, “Thomas, can’t you tell that I’m reading?” That was actually kind of a funny routine we had.

  My mom’s family came to Detroit under circumstances not unlike the Sizemores’, and there was a bit of mystery around my grandfather Sam Schannault’s racial heritage. He always thought of himself as a white man, but he was the product of a union between an American Indian sharecropper named Nina and a Georgia plantation owner of French ancestry named Mr. Chennault; I believe my grandfather later changed the spelling to Schannault. Mr. Chennault was married and had a bunch of children who lived in the plantation’s main estate—a very large, luxurious home that I think is now an historical site in Georgia. When Mr. Chennault died, Nina and her kids, including my grandfather, who was maybe four years old, were expelled from the plantation.

  When he grew up, my grandfather Schannault worked three jobs to keep his family off welfare. He’d do the morning shift in one factory and the evening shift at another, and also worked at a gas station. He also made their house into an after-hours joint in order to make extra money. You couldn’t buy liquor after 2 A.M., so Sam would open up his doors and sell it, running what is called a blind pig. Everyone in town who liked to drink—including, on occasion, Blevins Sizemore—would show up there. Sam wasn’t an alcoholic but he and my grandma Schannault both drank. They really only had the club to make extra money. As a little girl, my mom hated all the people traipsing through the house late at night, talking loudly and laughing as drunks do, making the place stink of beer and cigarettes.

  Sam didn’t age all that well: welding in the factory eventually gave him multiple hernias and made one of his arms significantly longer than the other. I also believe he slept about three hours a night because he worked roughly twenty-one hours a day. Still, he was the toughest man I ever met in my life. As a teenager he was about five foot nine but all brawny steel, and he and his brother Frank would go to bars in Tipton, Georgia, where they’d bet everyone there that Sam could beat anyone in a fight. And that’s exactly what he’d do—beat everyone. I hear his record was 119-0. My great-uncle Frank would supposedly say, “Sam, I’m afraid you’re going to end up killing one of these men one day.”

  My mom was the fifth of Sam and Mildred Schannault’s kids. The order went Barbara, Shirley, Ronnie, Jerome, my mom, Larry, and Barry. Ronnie was friends with my dad, whom he very affectionately called “Big Ed,” and the two family houses were just a few streets away from each other. Later, Ronnie realized he was gay and ran away to New York. It was a different time, and I think he was sort of hiding out in shame. My mom was really the only one in the family who stayed in touch with him and he didn’t come home again until years later—the early 1980s—when he had AIDS and was dying.r />
  Jerome ended up becoming a big pimp in Detroit. He had these two massage parlors that were really whorehouses called Foxy Ladies and Gentleman’s Retreat and everyone in Detroit (including the Detroit News and Detroit Free Press) called Jerome the Fat Man or the Slob because, honestly, he was kind of overweight and generally didn’t dress well. He was a total character. He’d say things like “Here I am providing a social service—do you think most of the slobs walking through my door could get that kind of pussy on their own?—and those corrupt, no-good rats want to incarcerate me. For sellin’ honey? Doesn’t it make you sick? Disgusting. It’s disgusting.” He’d go off on these rants about how “the most twisted” whorehouses in the world were in Washington, D.C. (and he knew firsthand, since he’d been to them all!) and here the authorities were bothering him.

  My mom, Judith Kay Schannault, met my dad when she was thirteen and he was fourteen. Apparently they even had some sort of “faux marriage” back when they were kids. My mom was incredibly beautiful and had a lot of boys wooing her.

  Like I said, my dad was incredibly smart: it literally said “Boy Genius” beneath his high school senior yearbook picture. And one day when he was nine years old, his teacher brought him home from school so he could talk to his parents. The teacher said to Blevins, “Your son’s too smart to be in this school—he needs to go to a smart kids’ school.” Blevins was drunk at the time and couldn’t really hear what the teacher was saying, so he pulled out a shotgun and told the teacher to get off his porch. And then, because Blevins was so much to deal with, my grandmother didn’t want to confront him and upset him further, so my dad never did end up switching schools.

  And yet even though he came from those circumstances, he ended up getting a full scholarship to Harvard. He went there for his freshman year and cleaned dorms to make pocket money. But he felt entirely out of place in his Salvation Army clothes. He came from a family of hillbillies who lived on a dirt floor, and all the Harvard kids were from another world. And even though he was getting straight As, he could never adjust to the Harvard environment. So one Friday he left his last class, walked to the bus station, and took the bus to New York’s Pennsylvania Station. He was thinking about becoming a writer—he was artistic and well-read—or joining the Foreign Legion, but after about a day walking around more or less aimlessly, he realized he had just enough money to take a bus home to Detroit.