Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

  About an hour later I momentarily emerged from a pretty potent, pharmaceutically-driven nod and realized that for me the fun was just about over, though I was generous enough to put a halt to the gluttony and leave a couple of pills for whoever was yet to arrive, as these two seemed much more interested in the electrified therapy.

  “Don’t worry—daddy’s gotcha, daddy’s gotcha,” I heard Jon say as he manipulated the machine somewhere nearby though it seemed to be coming from very far away.

  With tremendous will power and a fair degree of effort I rose up out of a recliner that was swallowing me whole, and as Rage was once again raging on MTV I peacefully retired to my bedroom for the evening—but not before kicking the shit out of a wastebasket by the door.

  33

  At around 6 a.m. I awoke though I think I had only about three hours of slumber by the time the Percocet wore off enough to let that happen. Fortunately, assembling these sorts of resumes required little original thought, so I knew the lack of sleep would have practically no effect on my performance.

  I brushed my teeth and stepped into the living room where both boys were on couches, with Jon sprawled out only a few feet from where I situated myself at the computer. At around 7 a.m. his alarm clock sounded as he was expected to report to the airport for work by 8. I let it ring for a few seconds before I turned and leaned out of my swivel chair to give him a good poke.

  Time suddenly stands still as successive and alternating waves of panic and horror and a crushing sense of universal injustice suddenly rolls over me as I slowly deflate and feel like I’m drowning. And then I’m somehow able to scream:

  “BILLY!”

  I must have said something else as well because Billy sprang into action and immediately called 911 before administering CPR, but everything else that followed are bits and pieces of a blur because the moment the tip of my finger pressed into Jon’s soft but cold and lifeless flesh I lost a part of me. It was just a small part, mind you, but nonetheless a vital if not vicariously fueled connection to whatever was left of my own innocence.

  For a few moments I was…shell-shocked? Obviously, that isn’t quite right but I don’t know how else to describe the sensation of the moment that overcame me. I was there but I wasn’t there. I was watching and waiting and yet hiding and horrified. And I couldn’t hear anything. And my brain was…misfiring.

  As emergency medical personnel stormed into my apartment I decided I wouldn’t be writing resumes that day. But I would still need some money. I grabbed my debit card, put on my sandals and left the apartment just as panic, desperation and dismay ricocheted around the living room.

  Rather than take the Trooper I decided to walk three blocks to the bank, but when I arrived I stood on line and waited behind two cars at the drive-thru ATM as opposed to using an unoccupied machine located inside the 24-hour air-conditioned vestibule. And why during that particularly inappropriate moment I suddenly decided to grab some cash, let alone stand in line at the drive-thru, I haven’t a clue. But I believe at some point during the clouded considerations of what was erupting around me I decided to walk to the bank because I didn’t want the Cape Coral Police—who were surely en route—to think I’d fled the scene.

  Because I was guilty.

  Guilty of not being responsible. Guilty of not acting my age. Guilty of not setting a better example. Guilty of being in relationships with kids that were too young to be hanging around a middle-aged mediocre musician and the saddest example of a business writer the business world had ever seen.

  When I returned to my apartment the police were there, Billy was sitting cross-legged in the driveway with his hands behind his back and an overbearing lady-cop began interrogating me but I don’t remember what she said. Eventually, Billy was permitted to rise up from the gravel of the parking lot, and just before heading in the direction of his brother’s apartment he sort of gave me a sad nod and said something but I couldn’t hear him over the noise in my head. It was almost like white noise, but not as intense and abrasive and just loud enough to prevent me from understanding him. Apparently at some point as time again stood still and I stood outside, the authorities had determined that no crime had been committed even though I was guilty as sin. And in a fog.

  “Hey, man—come on in here a sec!” shouted an old black man from in front of a house situated directly across the courtyard and with great relief—like a frightened little kid lost at the mall—I looked at the ground in front of me and did exactly as I was told.

  “Goddamn Florida sun,” angrily growled the old man who was apparently also my neighbor as I took a seat at a table in his kitchen while he shut the curtains to try to obscure the sun, but it was really just a veiled attempt to obscure the sight of Jon being wheeled out of my apartment. To help ensure his hidden agenda was a success, I turned and looked the other way for a moment and was surprised to find a very beautiful, very young Polynesian woman chewing on the tip of her forefinger and looking at me with profound sadness and a kind of muted fear.

  “Hi,” I said in a half-whisper as I swallowed hard and tears streamed down my cheeks.

  Through a partition between the old man’s curtains I was able to see the technicians remove Jon from my apartment, but from that vantage point I was unable to see the next leg of his journey. Then, after I heard the last official vehicle pull out of the driveway, I got up from the kitchen table and shuffled toward the front door.

  “Thank you,” I said to the old man and the young lady before stepping out of their apartment and into that Florida sun.

  I felt for the keys and bolted for the Trooper. I had to get away from my apartment and what was engulfing it so I could think a little more clearly. And though my thoughts were scattered they revolved around the tragic news that—for all intents and purposes—only Billy and I were aware of while Emily and Momma Marcott were stuck out on that goddamned boat in that goddamned Gulf and probably not having the best time given the caliber of company but still, blissfully unaware of the awful reality awaiting them ashore.

  I decided to drive to my mother’s apartment in Bonita Springs, obviously not to seek refuge in maternal comforts during a time of tragedy—but to pillage her supply of Xanax. Unfortunately, by this point as I pulled out of the driveway my hands were shaking and I couldn’t see the road for the tears, but I knew I somehow needed to flee this terrible place in order to get to that other terrible place.

  I made it to Bonita Springs without incident, at which point I quickly gave Mother the details before demanding her Xanax which she handed over without a word. I then swallowed a few before locking myself in the spare bedroom.

  And then I finally had the breakdown.

  34

  “Uhhh—hello??? Uhhh yes, we have a body??? A young man??? A Mr. Jonathan…”

  Yes, indeed.

  Upon returning from the Gulf—and just after listening to a recorded, rambling and barely coherent series of vague but tearful apologies from me—Emily and Momma Marcott were made aware of the horrible tragedy by this tactful message the City of Cape Coral deemed appropriate enough to leave on a FUCKING ANSWERING MACHINE…and their lives were changed forever. And this is yet another example of why anyone with even a hint of sophistication laughs in mockery at this place—this huge, desolate, intellectually-barren and embarrassingly backass stretch of treeless landfill where intelligent life is hard to find, though for some reason it appeals to the Burrowing Owls but even they hide underground.

  So, early that evening in Bonita Springs I eventually emerged from a Xanax-induced place of total absenteeism and it all came rushing back. And almost as if on cue, the phone suddenly rang and I was sure it was Emily and it was and she told me to come over and I did.

  When I got to Momma Marcott’s house many friends of the family had already gathered as Emily was waiting for me teary-eyed in the driveway. With a deep, terrified breath I stepped out of the Trooper and the moment I did Momma came out of the house and immediately began ripping into…her
daughter. From the remaining muddled and berating echoes still ringing in a head that was hardly screwed on right I can’t recall exactly what she said, but Momma was upset about a memorial she’d already assembled to honor her son which included photographs of Jon and a poem written by him that was so moving, beautiful and hauntingly prophetic I was immediately overcome. Apparently, however, Kinko’s fucked-up the final product and Emily was the messenger.

  I stepped into the house and proceeded out back where most had gathered, some of whom put on brave faces while others were unconcerned about appearances and openly wept as so many found it difficult to accept what was impossible to believe. Others, still, were trying to determine what could have caused the sudden demise of a healthy 22-year-old, and as those discussions erupted my guilty conscience and a failure to rise to the occasion compelled me to scurry away. Billy had yet to arrive and aside from Emily, Momma and Tom, no one seemed aware of my involvement in the tragedy and I certainly wanted to keep it that way because I was ashamed of myself. Momma trusted me with her son’s well-being and he died in my care. I was either way too old to be hanging out with her children or the worst babysitter in the world.

  Unfortunately, I can shame myself into silence for only so long, and when I heard some pimply-faced redneck I didn’t even recognize attempting to play Andy Griffith I began to get…itchy:

  “You know—Jon liked Xanax,” he said with a hillbilly twang.

  “So what?” responded another Florida Cracker.

  “So maybe he took too many by accident or something.”

  “I doubt it. I’ve never even seen him fucked-up.”

  “Well, you know,” said the pimply-faced redneck investigator who was already beginning to get on my last nerve. “You drink a bunch of beers, get a little wasted and swallow some pills and that’s what happens.”

  “That’s not what happened!” I finally snapped as I felt my horns come up.

  “How do you know?!”

  “BECAUSE I ATE ALL THE DRUGS!”

  After clearing that up—along with any question about the effect a decade of heroin addiction had on my tolerance for opioids —I felt as though I really needed to put a knife in the rumors, especially where Jon was concerned.

  I snuck away from Momma’s house and drove to my apartment, though I wasn’t entirely sure why I was going or what I expected to accomplish, and when I arrived it took several moments for me to gather the composure I needed to enter. When I did, the first thing I noticed were two empty beer cans sitting in the battered wastebasket by my bedroom door, which were apparently the same two that Jon and Billy were sipping on the previous night when I returned home as 22 unopened cans remained in the refrigerator.

  With alcohol eliminated as a contributing factor I instinctively began looking for the remaining drugs because I knew Jon would never recklessly swallow a bunch of pills and more than anything I wanted to prove it. So I began the search in earnest which was easier said than done because the cluttered condition of my apartment made it difficult to find the furniture let alone the pills. However, after scanning the apartment for about ten minutes the first of the missing drugs was discovered as I was somehow able to distinguish two, yellow, Perc-10’s abandoned and almost completely obscured by a mountain of colorful mess in the middle of a completely cluttered table.

  “Excellent!” I rejoiced with a sense of profound relief and extreme vindication for my friend as I carefully leaned over the messy table, rescued the valuable pieces of evidence and washed them down with a beer. Now all I needed was to find the missing Xanax.

  For two hours I searched high and low in every nook and cranny of that apartment but came up empty. Exasperated, I took a seat on the couch where Jon spent his final night and for some reason instinctively stood up, walked across the living room and found myself looking through a pile of laundry that at some point had been relocated to the coffee table. And beneath that heap of clothing I soon stumbled upon a CD case which I’d never seen before but was certain it belonged to Jon. Almost as if the collection of music was my own, I unzipped and opened the case and flipped past the plastic sleeves before uncovering a Velcro-sealed compartment attached to the back cover. Without having to reveal the contents of that compartment, but with the same conviction and certainty of whom the music belonged to, I knew the missing Xanax was in that sealed little space and of course they were…all four of them.

  I returned to the house and gave Emily the Xanax, and as the last few friends departed the residence Momma felt she needed to see where Jon slept the previous night. Truthfully, the last thing I wanted was for Emily’s mother to see the perpetual clutter I lived in but of course I couldn’t and wouldn’t ever deny her, especially under the circumstances.

  As we headed down Cape Coral Parkway I still couldn’t believe what was happening—what continued to happen—as I was now well into my 30’s and still willing to live so recklessly and escape unscathed while the innocents continue to go down around me. Nothing seemed fair.

  Though I agreed to Momma’s request the moment it was made, as I unlocked the door and ushered her into my dark and dirty dwelling the reality of the situation quickly came to light and I was embarrassed and upset at having to reveal such sloppy living conditions. But really—who else was there to blame?

  “Wow, they really made a mess in here during all the commotion, huh?” Momma somberly said to me while referring to the emergency personnel from earlier that day.

  “YEAH…dirty fucking cops.”

  35

  Mother of mercy, hold me close,

  Don't you leave me or let me go 'cause I hear these angels singing hymns of praise,

  I guess I forgot my way,

  Give me another day.

  Candles burning, set the sky in flames,

  Holding on but it's hard to tame,

  I hear the angels, they start calling my name.

  Did I forget to breathe?

  I swear I couldn't see.

  (But you don't believe me)

  Oh mother mercy, then take me up higher.

  I guess I'll come up with you and rest awhile.

  But I never wanted it to end this way, a forgotten dream in a broken day.

  I fell asleep.....

  Jonathan A. Marcott

  Jon’s funeral was a heart-wrenching affair made only more upsetting by the official cause of death, which, provided by the city—was so vague, essentially meaningless and ultimately forgettable that it lived up to its potential, but these days I feel it isn’t worth the anguish of researching and rehashing for anyone that was affected by it. Certainly, however, at the time we knew something was amiss when the medical examiner—or whoever’s responsible for determining the cause of death in a city of ding-dongs—came banging on the door and asking for more information. And of course, I told him there was no more information to give because I ATE ALL THE DRUGS. And though by now I’d already discussed this critical detail on several occasions with just about anyone who would listen, I decided not to mention it to Jon’s father when we first met for the first time to bury his son—who took a piece of me away with him.

  Jon’s passing seemed to necessitate relocating from my apartment, which Emily was now understandably adamant about especially since we had plans to live together. And given the tragic situation it wasn’t long before Empathizing Emily decided to invite Billy along as she thought it better for us to live together, until I broke my fist on his forehead and she thought it better for us to live apart. With that it wasn’t long before she and I secured a comfortable, two-bedroom apartment on the other side of town and of course, the second bedroom was for Savannah when she was visiting which continued on as usual.

  That summer and fall were difficult to get through for everyone, especially Emily and Momma Marcott, and the winter holidays would quickly escalate the anguish as only a few days separated Jon’s birthday from Christmas. And on that first Christmas Day without her son, a despondent Momma Marcott called to ask if it would
be alright if Emily, who was supposed to be spending the day with her, could instead join Savannah and me at my mother’s condo in Bonita Springs because she was too distraught to celebrate and besides, my mother would be going through the motions.

  “Hey, Emily’s coming over for dinner tonight, okay?” I asked my mother simply as a matter of course because I couldn’t imagine her taking issue, especially given the still recent tragedy and the time of year. After all, Christmas Dinner—in fact the entire holiday for my entire life—was never anything beyond a performance and even with that it was never a showstopper, so I assumed an additional mouth to feed wouldn’t be too much to contend with but—

  “Oh, Craig! How could you spring this shit on me at the last second?”

  “Spring what?!”

  “I’m not prepared for another dinner guest!” Mother had the audacity to say especially when her holiday recipe wasn’t all that complicated.

  “Just call and order another one!”

  “ANOTHER ONE OF WHAT?!”

  “ANOTHER ONE OF WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU ORDERED!” I shouted as I returned volley in the stupid screaming match that I was already tired of playing.

  “It’s Christmas and they’re closed!”

  “Well then she can have mine!”

  “You know—you’re nothing but a selfish, fucking, heroin addict!”

  Holy crap! Coming out of the clear blue that was not only the first time my mother ever referenced my drug addiction, but the first time I realized she was even aware of it and I was suddenly at a loss for words. But then that went away: