by Jay Begler
Eckstein was in a secure hospital room with a policeman outside his door. His appearance was so bad that his mother recoiled when she saw him. Unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, his expression was blank. He did not acknowledge his parents. Instead, he rocked back and forth and uttered his mantra: “I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.” A month later, while he was being held in a psychiatric ward, he decided that it would be a good thing if he smothered himself. This thought process was a typical symptom of people long deprived of Clarity. Psychiatrists called it, “Logical-illogical thinking.” After several false starts, he accomplished his goal; his wish came true.
Jewel Fontaine: Her parents sometimes wondered if Jewel was born with an unhappiness gene. It seemed to them that almost from birth Jewel never appeared to be happy or even enthusiastic about anything or anyone. Not that she was dour or was unfriendly or even unloving. It was that she rarely, if ever, smiled, and as best as they could recall, she never laughed. When she was a teenager, her parents had implored her to see a psychologist. After two sessions, however, the psychologist reported back that there was nothing wrong with Jewel. In his professional opinion she was not mentally ill. He said to her parents, “though she seems to have virtually no sense of humor, I would chalk it up to Jewel just being an extremely serious young woman.”
In college, Jewel saw a psychiatrist and complained that she never seemed to be happy or find things funny. After several sessions, the psychiatrist told her, “It’s likely that you suffer from a pathology called, Anhedonia. It is the inability to feel pleasure, and is often associated with depression. She prescribed some mild anti-depressants. After two weeks, with no change in her condition and some irritating side effects, Jewel stopped taking the medicine.
She did not give up, however, and turned to the most prevalent and most times totally useless tool for medical information, the Internet. Within a few minutes Jewel found multiple articles Anhedonia and an alternative word, “ennui.” She looked up the definition to make sure and it seemed to about right. Many of the sites made suggestions, ranging from using certain custom-made supplements sold only on a specific site to the use of certain esoteric sexual devices to overcome her condition. Rightfully so, Jewel realized that all the suggestions were hogwash. That she knew about her condition gave her some comfort, and she accepted it for what it was. She concluded that the original psychologist she saw as a teen was right after all when she counseled Jewel: “There’s nothing really wrong with you. You are what you are.” Given who she was, the reverse should have been true. Jewel was attractive, smart and rich in her own right, the result of a significant inheritance from her great grandfather, the former owner of the largest tobacco farm in South Carolina.
Her humorless condition did not mean that she had no friends, was unpopular, nor had any lovers. Like so many college sophomores, Jewel would run with a pack of her friends to many events, party, drink and occasionally use recreational drugs. While she rarely could get into the spirit of these happenings, Jewel took part to avoid being isolated.
She was driving with three other young women to a music festival about 100 miles from her college, USC, when she took her first dose of Clarity.
“What is it? It looks much too small to be X,” a drug which lifted her spirits by only an iota.
Her friend, Melinda, who she called a “New York Jew,” but did so because she admired her tough take-no-shit personality, replied, “It’s not. It’s a million times better. The street name is Clarity. Trust me, it’s the greatest thing you’ll ever take. It will change your life. We got it from Thomas, our local drug guy on campus and who, ironically, uses the drug money to pay for divinity school. He says it’s perfectly safe- no, better than safe. You’ve got to try it. It’s wonderful.”
Jewel had noticed that there was a change in Melinda. She seemed calmer, more in control and more self-possessed. “Give it three to five days.”
On the last day of the festival, while walking in a field to a small patch of grass her friends had claimed by laying down three large blankets, Jewel noticed something different about herself. She was smiling. As a nonsensical clown of a guy was attempting without success to juggle three empty bottles of beer passed her, she began laughing and attempted to juggle with him. At that moment she seemed to have a wonderful sense of life, which she knew immediately was due to Clarity. At that moment she experienced something wonderful: joy replaced ennui.
The onset of her depression came three days after the concert, when she no longer could get Clarity, despite tearful pleas to Thomas and Melinda, who suffered in silence for several days and then attempted suicide. The only thing that kept Jewel going was the promise by Thomas that within two weeks he expected a full ongoing supply. By the time Thomas contacted her, Jewel was already counting out sleeping pills for her suicide. Her tough friend Melinda had checked herself into a clinic.
Jewel paid $160,000 for a six-month supply of the drug and knew that she could now get Clarity for the rest of her life. Within four days, Jewel was happy again and at the time believed she would live happily ever after since she had the money to purchase an endless supply of Clarity. Her life was blissful until two years later when she noticed a yellowish cast to her skin, which her doctor diagnosed as jaundice, a marker of liver disease. At the time of her illness, the medical profession was unaware that Cirrhosis was a side effect of long-term use of Clarity. She continued to take Clarity, and, for the most part, was joyous until with Melinda holding her in her arms, she died
Twenty-Nine
•
The Crisis
For people like Jewel Fontaine, rich enough to sustain the Clarity life style, life was perfect, at least until she became deathly ill. Most users, however, were like Eckstein. Desperate to get Clarity when they could no longer afford it, they turned to crime. Many users engaged in bizarre acts. An old woman who took Clarity for depression, and exhausted her savings, somehow bought an Uzi on the web, walked into the bank and began firing at the ceiling while demanding cash. Fortunately for those in the bank near the woman, the force of the gun knocked her to the floor. When arrested and asked for an explanation of her actions, she said as if the answer were obvious, “Well, I needed the money.”
An elderly man walked into an insurance company, admitted that he just murdered his wife, but demanded payment so he could buy Clarity. These were examples of what psychiatrists called “logical, illogical thinking.” Once off the drug user’s mind sets went askew.
Ten months after Clarity’s introduction, the press, members of government, the CDC and the World Health Organization called the addiction to this new drug the “Clarity Epidemic.” The consequences of the Epidemic were so serious that health officials and the press said it was “The worst health crisis faced globally since the Corona-19 pandemic.” The difference, however, was that Clarity’s impact was not so much death, though a high percentage of users once off the drug committed suicide, but an unprecedented rise in crime by deranged users who could no longer afford it. What officials found strange and perplexing was that the demographics of the criminal population changed. Crimes that were once largely attributable to people on the lower end of the socio-economic ladder were now committed by middle class, upper middle class and even wealthy, mostly educated, individuals with unblemished records.
Federal and state courts were so overwhelmed by Clarity related cases that, as a stop-gap measure, they put all civil litigation on hold. A cadre of newly appointed judges, called “disposition judges,” had the sole function of sentencing individuals driven to commit Clarity related crimes. Most of those who appeared before a judge stood zombie like and accepted without objection whatever sentence the judge meted out.
Within two years, America’s prison population quadrupled, from three to twelve million. There was no more room in prisons. Abandoned army barracks and badly converted warehouses now housed felons. Federal and state governments established tent cities in open federal and state lands
for the overload. Ships were taken out of mothballs and converted to floating prisons. Alcatraz, once a tourist Mecca, was converted back to a prison, but with a significant difference. A hastily constructed glass monstrosity twenty stories high now stood behind and above the original prison. A large blue neon sign, which could be seen from every quarter of San Francisco, read “ALCATRAZ PENETENTIARY. “ The private prison business flourished until their prison facilities ran out of space. Nothing seemed to quell the growing number of prisoners. Courts barred attempts to ship prisoners to “host” countries like China as unconstitutional. It was a moot issue, however, since the prison overcrowding problem soon became a global phenomenon.
The financial impact of prison overcrowding was disastrous. Funds intended for education and infrastructure now went to prisons. Two coal mining states, Wyoming and West Virginia, whose coal mining revenues slowly evaporated as alternative green fuels replaced fossil fuels filed for bankruptcy. Economists predicted a severe recession or even a depression. The Stock Market plummeted as did everyone’s 401K’s or pension funds.
For Daniel, once optimistic and as well-adjusted as he could be to prison, life became intolerable. At a particularly low point, he wrote another letter to Rebecca, though he was certain that she would never get it.
“Dear Rebecca,
I’m writing to you on a note pad because we no longer have access to computers.
When we spoke soon after you disappeared, you promised you’d be back in six months. It’s been years. I doubt that I will ever see you again.
Neither of us has ever been religious, but I find myself praying, literally, every night for you to return. It’s not just because I love and miss you. I desperately need to get out of here. When I first arrived, this was a decent place considering it was a prison. My cell was 12 by 13, though small, it was large enough. Everything changed after the “Clarity Epidemic.” I assume you are familiar with it.
Our facility began to take on more prisoners than it could handle. I had to share my room with two prisoners, not great and barely tolerable. A month later, the prison installed bunk beds for two more prisoners. Now, there are six of us in the cell. The cell has one open toilet. There are beds everywhere. The library is no longer usable because it’s now a dorm; the same for the chapel. Inmates are everywhere. It’s difficult to walk to places. Tents fill the prison yard, a wide expanse of six square acres where we once exercised. Now, our exercise area is a narrow strip that circles the field. There is talk that the perimeter will be pushed out by twenty feet to accommodate more tents. Then, we’ll have no place to exercise and we’ll just vegetate.
Personal hygiene has become a joke. We can shower briefly, five minutes tops every ten days. When I first arrived at prison, there was an overall antiseptic scent that pervaded the hallways and cells, now that’s been replaced by body odors, urine and shit. A month ago, all of our toilets backed up. It’s too awful to describe.
The facility periodically runs out of things, like food and even toilet paper. I’ve lost about twenty pounds. I hardly sleep. We are all infested with bedbugs and lice. We have rats! Suicides, once rare occurrences here, are common. Virtually every inmate has some form of illness. If one person get’s sick everyone else get’s sick. I’ve had a sore throat, maybe strep, for three weeks and am on a waiting list for an antibiotic.
Because of the overcrowding, security has totally broken down. It is virtually impossible to control contraband smuggled into the prison. That means that some prisoners have weapons. On a routine lockdown, the guards found two AK-47s and stun grenades. They have no idea how they got there, but when you have 700 personnel for thousands of prisoners, there is little you can do. Murder and suicide rates are through the roof. Six months ago, they found a dead inmate behind a building. He was under a pile of leaves. He had been missing for ten days and no one knew he was missing. We even found a live goat in one of the cells. A goat!
One of my roommates, maybe the oldest inmate here, named Plata, tells me that back in 2001 his grandfather sued the governor of California about prison overcrowding. Conditions were so bad that the Supreme Court, judged them to be “cruel and inhuman punishment” and made the state drastically reduce the inmate population. He said, ‘compared to this, I’d call those conditions ‘Yale days.’
Three of my “roommates” are lifers for violent crimes. Gangs are forming and shaking down prisoners. I had to pay off one gang for “protection.” Fortunately, the family still has some money. Some prisoners provoke fights to get into solitary, but that no longer exists because of overcrowding.
I don’t know how long I can last.
Love, Daniel”
Throughout the country, there was outrage at these awful conditions. Demonstrations, larger and more vehement and violent than those held for victims of racially motivated police shootings became a daily occurrence. Republicans blamed Democrats and vice versa. Conspiracy groups published wild theories and, insanely, laid blame on the Vatican. While courts characterized the conditions as worse than those in the Plata case and ordered a reduction of the prison population, prison officials threw up their hands, asked, “how?” For every five prisoners released, ten new inmates took their place.
For Morales and Rebecca, life was never better. By stark contrast to Daniel’s quarters, the suite at Spanish Bay in Pebble Beach that Morales and Rebecca occupied on the day that Daniel wrote his letter, was enormous, as was its terrace which faced the pristine golf course and the Pacific beyond it. With Clarity well underway, both had ample spare time and twice before had snuck off, once to Buenos Aires and once to Tokyo. Both times, Rebecca wore a disguise and used a passport identifying her as Mrs. Hector Morales. He loved being with Rebecca; loved her. He hoped that she felt the same way about him. He fretted, however, that at any moment she might opt to return to her family, but she gave no indication that would happen.
It is a lovely and long tradition at Spanish Bay that just prior to sunset, guests would take their drinks onto its back terrace, sit before fire pits, and wait for the sound of bagpipes from an approaching bagpipe player who walks towards the terrace from the golf course. Morales, stood on their terrace with Rebecca in front of him and his arms around her, and said, “Maybe we should take up golf?”
Rebecca laughed, “Why ruin your perfect life.”
More seriously, he said, “Have you thought about what you are going to do?”
She turned and kissed him lightly. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about that. When I first came to the hacienda, I counted the days remaining. And then, after a few months, I stopped. Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughters and Daniel, but I love you too Hector, and I love the life with you and the hacienda. Daniel is a sweet and terrific guy. Still, returning to that lifestyle would be impossible. And what am I going to say to law enforcement officials? I now feel like I’m part of the Cartel. If you said that I’d feel that way when I first came to the hacienda, I would have laughed in your face.”
“Did you ever think that at this stage that Daniel has moved on with his life?”
“I do from time to time and wouldn’t blame him.”
He stepped back from her slightly, pulled out a cell phone, pushed the photo icon, scrolled and showed what he had pulled up. The first photograph was of Daniel and Miriam kissing on the boardwalk in Coney Island the night before he went to jail. The second was the video of them in the car directly outside the jail. Morales held these for just the proper moment, and this seemed like the time.
“I’ve had these for a while, but didn’t want to upset you.”
She had a momentary sense of outrage and blurted out “How could he do such a thing,” and then realizing how stupid that was, said “Wait, that’s ridiculous.”
They looked out at the sun, a gigantic red ball sinking slowly in the Pacific and at the approaching bagpiper who was playing “Amazing Grace.” She touched his arm and said, “Thank you, Hector. In a way, that helps. I’ve really been struggling with t
his; it’s emotion versus duty or obligation. I’ve always said that guilt is a second-rate emotion and I’ve rarely, if ever, let guilt interfere with my decisions. I’m thinking I should return to my family. I owe it to Daniel. I owe it to my daughters. But how can I leave you and this life? You know, the irony of our involvement in drugs is that I can say I’m addicted. I’m addicted to you and the life.”
He stroked her hair. “I’ve never thought of it that way. Then, I’m addicted to you and I suppose that since we were teenagers, you’ve been my addiction, my crystal meth, or maybe I should say my Clarity.”
She said, “I sometimes think of how it was making love to Daniel and then you came along. We’ve talked about this. It’s such an incredible difference. I don’t even know if I could make love to him. In a way, showing me the photos made my decision easier. I think if I came back from the dead, so to speak, that would be unfair to Daniel; though I would love to see my daughters, but if I have to watch them from afar, that’s the price I’ll pay to be with you.”
“I can get you monthly photographs and videos if you wish. You’ve made me very happy, Rebecca. I just need to ask you two things and I need you not to ask me why I’m asking you.”
“OK, what?”
“First, I would ask that you solemnly promise never to inquire about Daniel; never put his name or even your name in Google. You need to treat him like he never exists. And the same goes for your daughters, though we will give you periodic reports.”
She was about to ask him why, but held back and said with total sincerity. “It won’t be easy, but I will do as you ask, and you have my solemn promise on that.”
“What’s next?”
He smiled and was just on the edge of laughter. “I very much want you to be my wife.”
She burst out laughing. “Hector that would make both of bigamists. And what about your actual wife, Isabella?”
