The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

  I say nothing.

  “We got no choice. He wants to meet you.”

  “Me? Why, John?” My voice is panicked.

  “He wants to know who called him that night I was arrested.”

  I look at John in disbelief, remembering that night, the claustrophobic narrowness of the phone booth and the way my body shook when I spoke with the heavily accented drug lord. He’ll kill you and dump your body in the desert. Don’t fuck up. He’ll kill you. If he asks you your name, don’t tell him. Don’t tell him anything. He’ll kill you. John’s warnings are still very clear in my head.

  “Who did you tell him I was, John?”

  “At first I didn’t tell him anything, baby, but he got pissed off. Then the fucker stopped paying me for deliveries.” His fist hits the steering wheel. “He’s starting to not trust me; doesn’t think I’m loyal if I don’t tell him.” He angrily looks down at the exhausted base pipe. “Now he’s real mad, baby, and I, I tried not to say anything, but he wants to meet you.”

  “No! John! Who did you tell him I was?” I ask again, mortified that he is planning to take me to meet Nash—Eddie Nash.

  “Baby, baby.” John turns to hold my hand. “Baby,” he murmurs.

  I am crying now. Streams of tears run down my face.

  John brushes them away, holds my chin, and looks me dead in the eye. “You’re my niece, from Oregon. You’re eighteen…”

  “I’m nineteen, John,” I correct, interrupting his cold tutorial.

  “Tell him you’re eighteen and your birthday is in a few days. He’ll be generous.”

  Oh my God, he’s serious. I sob.

  “Tell him you’re a nursing student from Portland. Tell him…”

  Blocking out the noise of his words, I let his voice trail off. I watch as his mouth fervently continues to move, but no sound registers. His face squints and frowns in animation, yet I hear nothing. It feels safe here within my tears. He grabs my arms and shakes me. “Are you listening? He’ll kill you! If you don’t get this right, he’ll kill you. He’ll cut your head off! And, and your body will be dumped in the desert with the rest of them…and believe me, no one will ever find you!”

  “I’M LISTENING, JOHN!” I shout, halting his familiar torrent of fear. “What—is—my—NAME?”

  “Gabrielle. Your name is Gabrielle.” There’s a long silence. John’s face twists as if he is going to cry, until I acknowledge him with a curt nod and lower my head. “Thank you. Thank you, baby,” he gushes, kissing my face all over. “It’s just work, baby, right? It doesn’t mean anything. Just a job, okay?” He pulls me in close, then gets dead serious. “He’s no one to fuck with, baby. He’ll offer you drugs. You can’t let him know you know how to smoke base. Tell him you only tried it once before, and ask him to show you how to hold the pipe. He’ll like that.” John nods, seeming to agree with his own plan, and runs his fingers nervously through his greasy curls. “Now listen carefully. Are you listening?”

  “Yeah…I’m listening.”

  “There will be a bodyguard at the door, a big black dude. He’s one mean fuck. Don’t talk to him. He’ll show you into the living room and ask you if you want anything. Say no!”

  I nod and absently roll my tongue over the peeling skin on my cracked lips.

  “The bodyguard will leave you there, in the living room, probably for a long time. If you see anything—anything at all…coke, money, jewelry—don’t touch it! Don’t touch anything! Do you hear me? ANYTHING!”

  “I, I understand, John.”

  He jerks me toward him; eyes glare like cold blue steel. “I mean it! There are two-way mirrors all over the house, even the bathrooms. If you touch anything—I mean anything—you are a dead girl with her arms cut off!”

  I am scared. What if I mess up? Oh God, what if he can tell I’ve done drugs before? Fear turns my blood icy. Eddie Nash kills people, and John’s selling me out!

  “And if he asks if you have a boyfriend, tell him, yeah, you have one back at school, but he doesn’t mean anything to you—mostly a friend.”

  All I can hear is the thrumming of my heartbeat in my ears. I want to block out his voice; I wish he would just shut up.

  “Stick to talking about nursing, Dawn. You know, the way you learned from Sharon…and play dumb with everything else.” John finally connects with the fear in my eyes. “Don’t worry, baby. Just do everything like I said, and it will be okay. Eddie will see that he can trust us again and then…then everything will be all right, baby. We won’t have to do this anymore. He’ll let me do the big runs again. Okay, baby, okay?”

  Us? I think sarcastically and wonder how else I fit into his scheme.

  John turns the ignition and grabs the charred pipe for one last, desperate pull of dope. He lets the flame go long against the translucent glass, till the heat is unbearable and he can hold down on the striker no longer, his finger black with soot. He curls his lip, throws his head back, and lets out a stream of hot, colorless butane. I can tell there’s nothing left to smoke, but I have no shame. I want to disappear and can’t stop the urge to taste the pipe, hoping desperately that John will offer me a turn. Instead, he slams the briefcase shut and puts the car in gear.

  We backtrack our way down the road toward the Dona Lola cul-de-sac. This time John deliberately parks in front of the white stucco ranch-style house. The Christmas lights hanging from the gutters of Eddie’s massive roof flicker on, and I remember again what day it is. Am I supposed to be a Christmas present? I wonder dryly. I robotically look down at myself and notice the clothes he laid out for me to wear. University of Oregon—how long has he been planning this?

  John gives me a nervous once-over, making sure I look my part, and then scans the other houses on the street for an all clear. “Come on. He’s waiting.” He opens his door, keeping his distance to shake off any kind of familiarity that could make it look like we are a couple.

  I straighten up and follow the haunting echo of John’s boots against the concrete footpath, over the valley, and into the twilight, up to the colossal brass knocker of Eddie Nash’s front door.

  As John described, a large black man opens the door and lets us in. He’s wearing a thick gold necklace and matching bracelet.

  “Uh, Eddie here?” John twitches.

  “John. Yeah. Wait here,” the man at the door commands firmly and points at a space inside the door. We stand in the front entranceway as he disappears far into a back room. The lights in the house are dim, as if the occupants might be ready for bed, except for a glaring light that comes from our left. In front of us sprawls a formal dining room adorned with an elaborately carved table and chairs upholstered with plush velvet seats that stand in majestic formation. An enormous coat of arms hangs from the wall and casts an ominous shadow across the well-polished table. I sneak a glance over at John and see he looks worried and is pacing his breath to not look as if he is jonesing. I take my cue and do the same.

  The hulking man returns. “Okay, folks. Eddie will be a little while. She can wait for him in the living room.” He gestures toward the darker side of the house and gives a half-cocked smile. “John, you can go.” He places his body between us, edging John back toward the door. “Come back in the morning.” He waves him out. John’s brow creases as he darts a worried look my way, then turns to leave without a word and without a glance back.

  “This way, hon,” the man says, changing his expression to a friendly smile. “Can I get you anything to drink?” He leads me to the right into a huge, sunken living room, where a man and woman stand together speaking melodically in some Middle Eastern language. Their conversation halts as we approach. They are both dark-featured, but the younger woman is taller, striking, as she casts a hardened gaze with her large almond eyes.

  The gentleman, dressed in what looks like a maroon bathrobe, cracks a smile. “You must be John’s niece,” he says politely and cocks his head.

  I grin and nod nervously.

  There is an uncomfortable silenc
e as they continue to scrutinize me. “This is my daughter. We are just saying good night.” He reaches over to place something small into her palm and kiss her fondly on each cheek, mumbling again the strange notes of their language. In her black, flowing shift, she walks past me as if she’s gliding on ice, with a demeanor just as cold.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” the black man interrupts, taking the lead again and guiding me into the sunken living room, allowing the gentleman to disappear behind the bodyguard’s massive build. He walks me through the grand room and gestures for me to have a seat on an expansive, deep red velvet sofa. Before me, the ornate brass and glass coffee table immediately grabs my attention. A solid gold Rolex, a fully loaded money clip, and remnants of cocaine in full view send my heart pounding.

  “Umm, no. I’m fine. Thank you,” I say, barely able to speak and trying hard not to stare at the table. I pry my eyes away and am stunned by my gaunt reflection coming from across the room in an elaborate gold-framed mirror that covers almost the entire wall. That’s the two-way mirror John told me about. I sit up tall and pull a loose strand of stringy hair behind my ear. The room appears enormous now, as if every picture and piece of furniture has its eyes on me. I break into an anxious sweat and force every muscle in my body to maintain a perfectly nonchalant appearance.

  As if he didn’t hear me, the bodyguard comes back with a glass of water and sets it down. “It’ll just be a while. You don’t mind waiting, do you?” he asks, giving a hard sideways glance at me and the table.

  “N, no. Thank you,” I say politely, and he leaves. I take a drink and sit back, wringing my hands to keep them occupied, and I conspicuously look everywhere…except at the table.

  A nearby clock ticks torturously slow. What seem like hours pass. My bones ache from the tense stiffness of my posture, and my gut churns from hunger and the need for drugs. As the twilight turns to blue, then the deepest shades of black, I am finally called in to see Eddie Nash. Escorted to a back bedroom in silence, I am announced and stand frozen at the door. The same small, dark, curly-haired man I met in the living room sits on the side of the bed, his maroon bathrobe lying open, his bikini underwear exposed. He smiles seductively when he sees that I notice his appearance, and he raises his face. “Come. Come on.” His accent is thick, and he waves me in. I walk toward him, eyes engaged with his round, bulgy, bloodshot ones. His stare pierces through me, and I jolt at the flash of callousness I see. “You need anything, uh? Your name again?”

  “D—Gabrielle.” I’ve waited so long I’ve almost slipped up and forgotten the name John has chosen for me.

  Eddie catches on and shoots me a mean look. “Sit,” he tells me and pats the bed next to him. He reaches over to lift a large water pipe from his bedside table and places a fat rock of yellowish freebase on the screen. “Sit down; sit down,” he insists and points to the floor this time. “So, uh, you’re a college student? Eighteen, eh?”

  “I’m eighteen. I’ll be nineteen in a few days,” I tell him as I kneel down on the floor at his feet.

  Eddie looks me over intensely, watching my eyes as he moves the pipe from one hand to the next. An ominous air charges the room. He turns his attention to the side table and picks up a small propane torch. “Do you, uh, like this stuff?”

  It’s a test, my mind screams. Act cool! But I am helpless. With every ounce of strength in me, I try to feign innocence; yet my body is fixating, my mouth watering, all for a taste of the drugs paraded before me. I know Eddie sees me. “Well, I don’t know…uh…is that that cocaine stuff you can smoke? I think I’ve tried it. Once. I think.”

  Eddie raises his eyebrows at my rambling and gives me a leering nod. Then he lights the torch and begins to melt the rock down, rolling it from side to side till it is completely dissolved. Quickly he dives in to pull on the pipe and suck the thick brown smoke off the bubbling water. He holds the smoke in his lungs and looks over at me. Instinctively I rise up to be ready to take his exhale. He pulls away, surprised, and releases a cloud around my face. “You know how to do this?”

  I realize I have messed up again and shake my head. God, I’m doing terrible.

  “Come here.” He holds the pipe to my mouth and heats the stem. I lean toward him, purposefully trying to make my movements look awkward. This time the ache in my rib cage makes it easy for me to appear new at handling the pipe. Eddie notices and falls into his high, relaxed.

  I draw in the dense smoke and almost choke. Eddie smiles at my weakness. Then I make a final mistake. When inhaling the smoky cocaine, I suck in my breath and hold in the hit the way John taught me, the way a pro would. Eddie’s head snaps up, and he glares hard in my direction.

  Oh no! I blew it. He knows this isn’t my first time. He knows I’m lying! Panic seizes me as I quickly release the hit and steal a peek at him. Face stone cold, a man in total control, he watches my reaction. The room begins to whir, and my head starts spinning. My stomach lurches into my throat, and I think I’m going to be sick. He’s watching everything you do! John’s words swirl in my head. But I can’t help it. I have to lie down. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I let my guard down and fall back on the bed. What’s happening? What is this stuff? the voice in the back of my head yells out. Oh God. Is this heroin? Everything hums, and I can’t focus beyond two feet away. Covering my face, I can hear a steady laugh—Eddie’s—float past my body into the background. I brace myself to see him, but the door slams shut and the laughing stops instead. Sitting up through the fog of numbness, I try to understand what is going on. Did he say something? I wonder. I try to bring my eyes into focus and look around the room. The drugs and pipe are still on the nightstand, and the closet next to it is ajar.

  John told me about the safe being in the floor of his closet. Oh shit! I’m being tested again. Don’t look at anything, Dawn. Don’t look at anything! I tell myself frantically. If he’s not here, he’s mad. Oh God. I don’t want to end up in the desert! Please! I hold on to the side of the bed, keeping my balance and gazing downward. Just don’t look at anything, I chant in my head, over and over and over…for hours…

  The groan of the bedroom door tells me someone is finally here. I look up from my drugged paralysis, my vision cloudy and blurred. I hear steady mumbling and see a shadow approach me, then loom overhead. A hand reaches down to pull me up and guide me onto the bed, laying me slowly on my back. My clothes are pulled off, and instantly I am self-conscious; bruises cover my body. An image, the outline of a dark-haired man, stands before me. He casts off the maroon blur of his robe, and his face comes closer to mine. This time it is real; he is here, next to me. I cringe as I feel his breath on my neck, then my cheek, and register the lack of compassion in his eyes. He knows I am helpless, and he takes obvious pleasure in me and even in my fear. But I can close my eyes…I can still disappear…and I gratefully vanish.

  It is barely morning when John raps on the door to pick me up. The bodyguard returns and gets me from Eddie’s room, where I have been waiting alone. Acting nervous and jumpy, as usual, John leads me out onto the front pathway. My head is in a fog.

  “Can I see him, man?” John begs, referring to Eddie.

  “No, John,” his booming voice fires back firmly. “He said call him later. You got everything he wants to give you.” The figure stands defensively, as if to say, That’s it.

  We walk silently to the waiting Malibu. My eyes squint from the rising sun. John’s jaw is clenched, pulsating. Is he mad? I wonder vaguely as I count every step closer to the safety of the car and farther away from Eddie Nash. Briefly relieved once we turn onto Laurel Canyon, I face reality in only a moment. I am shaking and hollow inside. The daylight hurts every part of me, and I don’t want to think. Please, God, keep everything out. Drained, I slump down in my seat.

  “What happened?” John snaps as we continue driving.

  “Whaaat?” I ask, dazed, then realize he must want me to recap the night. I begin. “First the bodyguard…”

  “No! I mean w
hat happened?” John’s veins bulge at his temples, and his nostrils flare.

  I look at him in disbelief. He is mad! Oh my God! “What do you mean, John? I’m telling y—”

  SMACK! The back of his hand hits me hard across my mouth.

  “No!” I scream. “No!” Desperately, I scramble for the door. I’ll jump…like I did before. I’ll jump! my mind instructs me. Not again. This can’t happen again!

  John sees me fumble for the handle and reaches over to roughly grab my hair at the scruff of my neck. “You’re not going anywhere! He only paid me half! Half of what he promised! Now, tell me what the fuck happened! What did you do?” He whips my head back and forth.

  I am trapped. John is stronger than me, and he knows I will try to run. I can’t speak. Fear paralyzes me. I feel my lip swell from his backhanded blow and the steel-force tug of his hand at my neck, and I start crying. Then, as if I’m standing outside of myself, I only register the distant monotone howl of my voice.

  “Noooooooooo…” The cries shriek through my being, blocking everything else out.

  When consciousness returns to me, I am under the covers in the bed of another dark, run-down motel room. I know what John did, but strangely I see it as only a memory of what happened, as if I weren’t there, as if I left my body. I take a mental inventory of myself and my ribs. John is sitting in the corner of the room at the table, naked and sucking frantically at the freebase pipe. It seems the more he does, the less high he gets. But that’s not the way he sees it.

  “This isn’t even the good shit!” He cringes, sweat pouring down the side of his face. “What the fuck?”

  I bury my head farther under the covers. What day is this? How long have we been here? I try to get oriented. John keeps mumbling curses at the pipe as I tap into the memories of his brutal interrogation of my night at Eddie’s. This time he was careful not to touch my ribs. God, why not? I think. Why doesn’t he just end it for me?