Dreamseller

  I surrounded myself with yes-men who wanted desperately to be my pal. And they were willing to score me drugs to be accepted. Valium, Vicodin, codeine, Percocet, Xanax, Zoloft. These are a few of the socially accepted drugs to which many parents are addicted. And as Mom and Dad’s medicine cabinets were more accessible than street drugs, soon I was scoring handfuls of pills from my friends.

  My main source was the largest drug network in the world, the pharmaceutical companies. Through them, the most powerful psychoactive drugs known to man are legally and liberally dispensed to kids: lithium, Ritalin, and Prozac, to name a few. “Meds,” they are called. The abbreviated name washes away the stigma of child drug use. After all, if adults considered the possibility that their child’s poor academic and behavioral performance might be an indication of inadequate parenting, they would have to accept the responsibility to guide, teach, and help their kid improve. And so, these meds, seen as quick fixes to so many child “chemical imbalances,” were gladly handed over to me by students who wanted to fit into my world.

  One day when I was about sixteen, a friend gave me a bottle of his Ritalin, which I didn’t really like. So I traded it for some cocaine that another friend had stolen from his brother. Two small bags of coke. He also threw in a third bag of a light brown powder. When I asked him what it was, he told me it was Heroin. I stashed it under my bed and forgot about it.

  About a month later, I came across the bag again. At first, I couldn’t remember what it was. Then I remembered. Heroin. Well, I’ll try anything once, I thought. I sniffed a bit of the powder, and immediately fell to my knees. In the next moment, I ran to the bathroom as puke forced its way up my throat.

  And then I felt it. I had heard others refer to it as “euphoria” for years. It was a feeling like no other. Even though this drug had brought me to my knees and caused me to vomit, it also brought indescribable joy. I had found the ultimate high.

  I was afraid to use Heroin again after this. What would happen if I liked it too much?

  But when I met Dwight the following year, my attitude was to change. As my dealings with him increased, I noticed that his moods were sometimes dramatically altered. I knew he must have been doing something. Coke, perhaps.

  One night before going out to a restaurant, I saw him perform a ritual I would soon grow accustomed to witnessing. First, he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on his coffee table. One bill he folded, and into it dumped a bit of brown powder. The other hundred-dollar bill was rolled and used to snort the contents of the folded bill. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “What is it?”

  “This is heroin,” Dwight informed me, in the voice of a chemistry teacher presenting a classroom lesson. “Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks,” I told him.

  After Dwight became comfortable doing this in my presence, I realized he needed to have this drug before we cut up brick weed, before we counted money, before he went out of the house, before he did anything. He brought a small bag of it wherever we went, and if we were in public, he would dip a key into it and snort a little bit every so often. Every time he did this, he would ask, “Do you want any of this? Are you sure?”

  On one hand, I really wanted to use this drug with Dwight. To my impressionable high school mind, he made the Heroin lifestyle look cool. He had a nice car and a beautiful girlfriend. He was his own boss and he had plenty of money. Then I would look at the burn holes in his shirts caused by the many cigarettes that had fallen from his mouth as he nodded out. I don’t want to become like that, I thought.

  Soon his invitations to partake in his drug of choice became strong suggestions:

  “Come on, Brand. Just try a little.”

  “I’m telling you, this is the shit!”

  “Come on, just try some! Just once! This is the best drug in the world, Brand, believe me!”

  “Brand, I gotta say, I’m disappointed in you. I thought you would have been down by now.”

  And so, one day, when he asked if I’d try a little of his Dope, instead of saying, “No,” I said, “Yes.” He smiled. I had impressed him, and he now had a partner to do his drug with.

  A month or so later, Dwight and I are seated on a Greyhound bus. We are headed for New York City to visit his girlfriend, who is now a model. We took the bus because Dwight has Heroin and does not want to risk being pulled over by police on the road.

  We arrive at Dwight’s girlfriend’s loft apartment, which was financed by Dwight. The building security guard informs us that regulations require guests to produce a form of identification in order to gain entrance. I grit my teeth and look to Dwight, who says, “What, you don’t have ID on you? You serious?” I am nervous. The last thing in the world I want to do is inconvenience Dwight, my boss.

  “All right, come on!” Dwight sighs.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “To get your ass an ID!” Dwight leaves the apartment building, walking at top speed through the cold New York air, in a display of anger for this inconvenience. I follow in silence behind him, hiding from his line of sight to avoid reminding him that we are walking the streets of New York City in sub-zero temperature because of me. I am left with the feeling of sickness at the thought that he might be upset with me.

  Dwight leads me to a corner bodega in which there is a photo booth featuring options for several laminated ID cards on which your picture can be printed. Three minutes later, I look at my new photo ID that reads, “Medical Alert Card.” The photo of me is so out of focus, I can hardly recognize myself. A ten-year-old could tell you that this ID card is bullshit, but Dwight assures me it is fine.

  We walk away, and Dwight leads me in the opposite direction from his girlfriend’s apartment. “Hey, Dwight, it’s this way,” I point.

  “We got a stop to make. It’s this way.” Outside a deli, several Puerto Rican men are standing. These guys are intimidating, to say the least. The leader is two hundred and forty pounds, dark, with medium-length slicked-back hair, several lines shaved into his eyebrows, and precisely pointed sideburns. He wears a blue and black Gore-Tex jacket, Timberland boots, a gold watch, a gold rope necklace, and a small gold-hoop earring. As Dwight scores from them, I go into the deli and buy a pack of smokes.

  Back at Dwight’s girlfriend’s apartment, the same security guard glances at the fake ID and lets me sign in.

  As Dwight and I sit with his girlfriend in her apartment, a television news report announces that a snowstorm is approaching the area, which they are already referring to as the Blizzard of 1996, the storm would eventually leave over a hundred people dead. Dwight realizes we need to leave now or run the risk of getting snowed in. So, Dwight and I snort another bag of Heroin and hop a cab back to the Greyhound station.

  As we wait for our bus, we are approached by two Port Authority officers.

  “What are you, a runaway?” asks Officer Jenkins.

  “No,” I reply.

  “Why are your eyes so pink?” asks Officer Farnan.

  “I’m tired,” I say.

  “Let’s see some ID,” demands Officer Jenkins. Dwight produces his driver’s license. The officers glance at it and hand it back. I hand them my brand new ID, my fake fucking “Medical Alert Card.”

  “This isn’t a legal form of identification,” says Officer Farnan, handing it back. “Do you have anything else?”

  I swallow. “No, that’s all I have with me. I left my driver’s license at home.”

  The officer looks at Dwight. “We’re going to have to ask your friend here some questions. Are you related to him?”

  “No, we’re not related,” Dwight replies. The police release Dwight, and he takes a cab to Baltimore.

  In the Port Authority office, the officers force me to empty my pockets, and find four bags of Heroin.

  I start to cry. Deep down I knew that, by virtue of the life I had been leading, jail was inevitable and a debt overdue. The most disheartening part of this ordeal occurred when I wa
s being transported to Central Booking. From the backseat of the squad car, I had a clear view of the “Brooklyn Banks,” a famous skate spot I had been shredding since I was eight years old. I could almost see a young version of myself, laughing with my friends, learning new tricks, skating under the warm evening sun.

  Inside Central Booking, I am fingerprinted and led through my first booking process, a procedure to which I would soon grow accustomed.

  The cop behind this desk obviously hates his job, hates his life, and hates me. A few days prior, I had gotten my tongue pierced, and seeing the metal stud sparks his anger. “What’s that in your mouth?” he snaps.

  “I got my tongue pierced the other day,” I say.

  I can tell this is the type of cop who gets off on verbal abuse of those charged with criminal offenses, so I accept the fact that I can do no right in this angry, frustrated man’s eyes. I am sure he feels he has been overlooked for promotions, has a failing marriage, and is a closet alcoholic, and he is going to take it all out on me, the living depiction of the ills of society and the manifestation of all his problems. “You got your what?” he asks in a malicious tone.

  “My tongue pierced.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ! Hey, would you look at this fucking kid?” He draws the attention of the other officers and continues, “A fucking pierced tongue! Well, your momma must be proud! What a goddamn fucking faggot!” The other cops chuckle. “Well, let’s see what your cell mates think of your little tongue piercing. Get up, little faggot. We’re going to the Cage.”

  The Cage. A holding tank in which the criminally charged await their arraignment, an ordeal that can take over twenty-four hours. The exact length of time of this paperwork process is determined by several factors, the most relevant being the officer’s interest in completing the work. There are many reasons why, if the police so desire, the length of your stay in the holding cell might increase. For example, your paperwork might “get lost,” they may be forced to “do it over,” their computer system may temporarily “be down,” or they might simply be “too busy.” These dissatisfied cops, who deal with the scum of the earth on a daily basis, are anything but enthusiastic about helping a junkie like me get home. In short, if they decide they do not like you, “your ass is going to sit in the slammer for a long time.”

  The Cage. A small cell, crammed with approximately twenty people. A set of locker room-type benches allow some people to sit. Floor space is precious. The toughest, most hardened criminals claim the most space by lying down. The first-timers either sit with folded legs or stand in this oppressive environment.

  In the corner is a small stainless steel toilet. The seat is covered with piss and reeks of shit. Of course, there is not a single piece of toilet paper in sight.

  The cell is freezing cold. I’m not sure if the holding tank is under renovation, or just designed this way, but a narrow gap in the ceiling is open to the outdoors. Through this hole, snow is falling into the cell, accumulating on the floor and creating a stream of melt water. The water drips into a hole between the floor and the wall forcing several rodents out to scurry among us. The cops have taken the inmates’ clothes, except for our pants, T-shirts, and shoes, which have had the laces removed. We have been told this is for our own protection because we might use the shoestrings and other articles of clothing to hang ourselves or suffocate each other. However, they offer nothing to prevent us from contracting pneumonia.

  “Hey, you!” I hear someone call out. I don’t turn around, hoping he’s not talking to me. “Hey, you!” Oh no, he is talking to me! I turn to see the Puerto Rican guy from whom Dwight had bought the dope. He’s with his crew of dealers, and I pray that they don’t have a problem with me.

  “Hey, you remember me, right?” he demands as his friends stare me down. Am I supposed to say yes or no?

  “Ah, yeah, from the deli, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah! What’s you in for?”

  “I got shaken down and they found some bags on me. How “bout you?”

  The Puerto Rican man spits, “Tsss! Dude who runs the deli called the cops on us and we had to make a split. Motherfucker always does it to us, we know it’s him. We didn’t get caught, but we came back later, rolled up on the motherfucker. Beat his pussy ass, and shoved some sticks in his eyes. Before you know it, the cops roll up on us. So here we are.”

  They shoved sticks in the guy’s eyes? Jesus Christ! Luckily, the Puerto Ricans weren’t interested in giving me a hard time. They were more interested in asking about my Jason Lee prototype skate shoes that I got at a trade show, which hadn’t yet been released in stores.

  After hours on the wet, freezing cement floor next to the piss-covered toilet, I can no longer feel my fingers or toes.

  Finally, I am presented to a judge for arraignment, who issues a time and date on which I must appear before another judge and grants my release. I jump a cab to the Greyhound station, which was in the process of closing down because of the blizzard, but still hoped I could catch a bus.

  Ten hours later, a voice booms through the loudspeaker, “Attention, attention. We are sorry to inform you that Greyhound is officially closing down all routes due to current weather conditions.” No! Here I am, stranded in New York City with no friends, no recollection of where Dwight’s girlfriend lived, in the middle of a major blizzard, wearing only a fleece jacket and a T-shirt. What the hell am I going to do?

  Outside, freezing in the snow, I beg a police officer for help. He informs me that only three blocks away is a shelter for kids, and I run as fast as I can to make it before I freeze to death.

  I get to the shelter and am let in by an elderly woman who listens to my story and invites me to stay for the night. Within minutes I am surrounded by thirty Dominican kids, ages twelve to seventeen, who insist that I part ways with my Patagonia fleece jacket:

  “Yo, that’s a sweet-ass jacket, Holmes. It’d fit me real nice.”

  “Hey, man, why don’t you kick down that jacket, man?”

  “Tell you what, you need to let me wear your jacket for a while.”

  “You want to come into here, you gotta learn to share. And you can start with your jacket.”

  Scared out of my mind, I phone my mother, who is able to find Dwight’s phone number in my room. I call Dwight repeatedly, begging God for him to answer. At two in the morning, I am able to reach him. He gives me his girlfriend’s address and I have a cab bring me to her apartment. Here I again present my fake-fucking “Medical Alert Card” to security. I enter her loft and collapse from exhaustion for two days until Greyhound is up and running. When I get back to Baltimore, I am sick for a week with the flu.

  For most people, this experience would be a deterrent against breaking the law again. But the addict learns quickly to lower his standards of living in order to adapt to this lifestyle. A filthy way of life becomes normal. Sad but true, this episode has altered my mind, and I have now taken a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn for the worse. I see nothing wrong with this. Sometimes, the simplest things in life are the hardest to grasp…at least, when your perception is clouded by the disease of addiction.

  chapter twenty-five

  Downward Spiral

  Guy Leeper says, “I can guess where this story is going. This sounds like where things are about to fall apart.”

  “You’d think that I would have learned my lesson,” I tell him. “Anybody else would have. But, no, not me. I still had a fighting chance to gain back everything I had let slip away, but I had lost sight of what I was losing.”

  In the months that passed, my business relationship with Dwight deepened with our mutual appreciation for Heroin. A snort of several small lines of brown powder through a hundred-dollar bill would give me a euphoric complacency, accompanied by the illusion of success and social rank. In the same way skateboarding had filled the void in my life, now the profits of a substantial drug deal made me feel like a productive member of society.

  Heroin was one of the most accessible drugs i
n Baltimore City. Fifteen dollars at any corner Dope shop and I was holding. A score at the Dope shop instilled in me a sense of accomplishment. My mind was now gone, and my vision was too clouded to see it. The small bag of powder erased all my responsibilities, self-discipline, and aspirations.

  One morning after smoking pot with some friends, I went to school reeking of marijuana. This fact, compounded by my reputation as the school druggie, got me expelled, only a few weeks prior to graduation. My poor mother met with the principal in order to try to prevent this. However, this issue was only one of several dozen she was dealing with in my descending lifestyle.

  At this point, I began doing drugs, any drugs, all the drugs I could, nonstop.

  My last tour with Powell Peralta was a struggle.

  On the first day of the tour, we load into the bus. Old friends shake hands and catch up with each other, discuss professional progress, and look over the itinerary.

  The mainstays of the Powell Peralta team at the time are Steve Caballero, Danny Wainwright, Charlie Wilkins, Jayme Fortune, Jeff Taylor, Rachman Chung, Gershon Mosley, and Bucky Lasek, whom I have not seen for several months.

  Bucky approaches and says, “Brandon. It’s been a long time. What have you been doing to yourself? You look like shit.”

  I meet his statement with humorous sarcasm. “Thanks, buddy!” But Bucky’s face does not change, and I realize he wasn’t joking.

  Todd Hastings has now moved on, and Mike Vallely is in his place as team manager. Mike is not much taller than me, but he is twice as wide. Huge chest, broad shoulders, thick neck. His style of skating is so aggressive that you can hear him skate from two blocks away; every land cracks like thunder. Mike has a reputation as an ultimate professional, a tell-it-like-it-is, clean-cut, straightedge, no-nonsense white boy who will not hesitate to confront anyone who makes apparent disrespect for him, or what he stands for. And as far as managing the team, he is making sweeping changes. He approaches; we shake hands. “Hey, Novak. You doin’ all right?”