“I need to go to Baltimore because…because I have to get…my favorite jeans!” (I can’t believe that’s the best I could do.)
Bam looked at me. I looked back with an expression of utmost seriousness. He rubbed his eyes from the onset of a tension headache caused by the fact that I could even make up such a preposterous lie and said, “Wait. Let me get this straight, you’re going back to Baltimore to get you favorite jeans? What’s so special about these jeans? Do they have a mouth built into the zipper and they suck your dick? What the fuck?”
“Bam, they’re my favorite jeans! Why would I lie? I love these jeans, Bam. They’ve been with me through thick and thin, through good times and bad. I’m a sentimental guy, you know that. I get attached to things, man. Just like I’m attached to you.”
My welcome at the Margera household eroded each day.
There was a bottle of prescription codeine in the bathroom medicine cabinet. As per the old junkie trick, I replaced the pills with aspirin. But my mistake was, there were ten codeine pills in the bottle and I had replaced them with eleven aspirin. By this time, April was keeping tabs on all medicines, and my ruse was discovered. I denied it, but, come on, who else would have done this? Phil?
At this point, it was a well-known fact and almost accepted that I had pillaged the sponsorship merchandise from the garage. But other items go missing from the house: spoons (used as cookers), a few pieces of April’s jewelry (sold at the pawn shop), CDs (sold at the music store).
One time I shot up in the upstairs bathroom and passed out with the water running. I woke up over an hour later with April pounding at the door. The tub had overflowed and ruined the drywall ceiling downstairs. I woke up, wrapped a towel around my waist, claiming that the bath had relaxed me to the degree that I had fallen asleep in the tub, although my skin was bone dry.
I would borrow Bam’s black Audi to “get a pack of smokes” and then take off for days. Of course, when I returned, the tank was always empty. When I parked, I didn’t pay the meters and received parking tickets, which I would laugh at and toss away. When Phil received the unpaid parking ticket notices in the mail, and Phil and April confronted me, I denied it and swore to God that I had never received a parking ticket in my entire life. When they presented me with several unpaid ticket notices from the city of Baltimore, incurred on dates when I had “borrowed” their car, I told them how kids in Baltimore liked to steal parking tickets from cars as a prank, and that this was a big problem there. I never so much as made a half-assed attempt at paying them back for the hundreds of dollars in parking fines. Why would I?
Bam began to frisk me on a daily basis. Several times, he made me stand by while he searched hiding spots around the house for my drugs. Then he would make me look him in the eyes and lie to him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if you’re on drugs! Go on, lie to me, right to my face!” he would demand. As if I really had a problem doing this!
One night, Bam, Phil, and April were invited to attend the MTV Music Video Awards. In their absence, I seized the opportunity to take the black Audi to Baltimore, pawn some of Bam’s merchandise, and score. By the time the Margeras arrived home, I was shooting up in the garage. Before they entered the house, I turned off the light and retreated to the basement and acted as if I were asleep. Little did I realize, in my junkie mind, they could see the garage light through the window. When Bam called my name, I limped up the stairs, acting as if they had just woken me up.
BAM: Where were you just now?
ME: I was asleep in the basement.
APRIL: Brandon, we just came home and the garage light was on. Now it’s off. What’s going on? Were you in the garage?
ME: I don’t know, I’ve been asleep.
BAM: Wait, you’re saying that you weren’t just in the garage?
ME: No, I just walked upstairs just now. I don’t see how the light could have been on. It must have been off. You must have imagined it.
APRIL: Brandon, we all saw the light was on. All of us.
PHIL: That’s true, we did, we all saw it, there’s no way we all could have imagined it.
ME: Really? Are you sure?
BAM: Dude, we’re fucking sure!
ME: (so obviously lying) Oh! I know what happened! I was getting something to drink in there so I had the light on. Then I turned it off.
BAM: But you just said that when we came home you were sleeping.
ME: No, I was, but I meant before.
BAM: Before what?
ME: Before you came home.
BAM:(frustrated as hell) Dude, your story isn’t even making sense.
APRIL:(trying to catch me in a lie) Well, let me ask you this, if you were thirsty, why didn’t you get something from the refrigerator in the kitchen? Why did you walk all the way to the garage refrigerator?
ME: Oh, I really wanted a soda, not water, so I went to the garage.
BAM: (opening the kitchen refrigerator) Look! There are sodas in here!
ME: Oh, I didn’t think to look there; I just assumed there wouldn’t be any. That’s why I went to the garage to get my soda, just like I said.
BAM: Well where is it?
ME: Where is what?
BAM: Your fucking soda! The fucking soda you told us that you got!
ME: Oh, I saw you guys come home and I wanted to ask you about the awards, so I shut the light out and didn’t get it. That’s when I turned off the light, remember?
APRIL: But you just came up from the cellar and said you have been sleeping.
ME: No, I was sleeping, but that was before. Remember I said I was asleep? That’s when I got thirsty. Remember? Then I turned the light out. Why would I lie? What do you think I did?
BAM: I don’t know, but you were up to something. You’re obviously lying about this for some reason.
ME: No, you’re getting mixed up. I told you, I did turn the light out, totally. Remember? Why would I lie about nothing when I told you you were right?
By the end of the conversation, the Margeras were so frustrated they gave up and went to bed. I was so fucking high that I believed I had convinced them I was innocent. I envisioned myself as a suave con artist whose superior verbal skills and intellect allowed me to pull the wool over the eyes of the world. Little could my Heroin-polluted brain understand how everyone in West Chester viewed me. April saw me as a lying drug addict who was taking advantage of her son and her family. Phil wanted me to leave and get away from his family. Frantz saw me as a freeloader hanging by a thread to my last friend in the world. Ryan Dunn viewed me as pathetic. All of Margera’s friends were disgusted by me and my lifestyle.
Deep down I knew damn well I was a fuckup who didn’t deserve this opportunity that was being offered to me. But in my mind, everything was perfect, and I didn’t want it to change. I was in my own perverted drug-induced wonderland and I never wanted to leave.
One night, I laid in Bam’s basement, chain-smoking half a pack of cigarettes down to the last, in the midst of a Heroin and Xanex cocktail-induced stupor, utterly pacified in my little Dope world.
But it was soon to come to an abrupt halt.
Upstairs, I heard voices as a concerned mother, April, lectured her son. “Listen, Bam, you can’t make someone do something they don’t want to. You can’t make someone be who you want them to be. You can’t wish something for someone who doesn’t want it for himself. You want him to make a comeback as a skater, but he just doesn’t want it as bad as you do.”
And of course, fucking Frantz chimes in with his own goddamn self-righteous two cents. “Bam, the guy is using you. I know it sucks to admit, but he has no intention of cleaning up. Don’t take my word for it, just take a good look at his actions. When you look at Novak, do you see a guy who wants to better himself?”
Bam said, “No.” There was shame in his voice.
Frantz continued his little tirade. “And look what he’s done to your family! April has to sleep with her door locked and her purse under her bed in her own house.”
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“Is that true, Mom?” Bam asked.
“Yes,” she told him.
Fuck-face Frantz drove his point home. “Look, Bam, I know you feel guilty about this, but you shouldn’t. You’ve given Novak every opportunity here, and he’s rejected it. He hasn’t skated since he got here, and what’s worse is that he doesn’t do jack shit to earn his keep. He’s never taken out the trash, never picked up after himself, never put his own dishes in the dishwasher. He treats April like his personal maid! Look, right there, sitting on the fucking counter, there’s lunch meat, cheese, bread, and mayonnaise from a sandwich that Novak made. Not only didn’t he bother to put them back in the refrigerator, but he didn’t even put the fucking lid back on the mayonnaise!”
Oops.
April continues. “Bam, I know it hurts you to have to do this, but you have to be realistic. You’re not helping him. He’s not going to make a comeback. He’s made up his mind to stagnate and let his life waste away.”
Five minutes of silence followed.
I heard the cellar door open. I knew the sound of Bam’s footsteps, having listened for them on many nights while cooking up a shot. But tonight, they were a bit heavier. In my Heroin-infested brain, his skate shoes resonated like a judge marching through the halls of a marble-floored courthouse.
Bam threw a duffel onto my stomach. As I lifted my head he told me, “Here’s a bag. Pack your shit, you’re going back to Baltimore!” He turned and fled up the stairs, so hurt that he couldn’t even look at me.
My old friend Bam. I had taken him, like so many others, on a journey through which he finally realized that the only one who could help me was myself. There was no bullshitting my way out of it this time.
Oh well, it was fun while it lasted, I thought.
I searched my pockets for any drugs I may have forgotten about. Empty. Shit.
No drugs, no money, no cigarettes, and no home.
How did I end up in this position, once again?
I looked at the empty bag Bam had thrown on my stomach and wondered how much of the merchandise from the garage I could stuff into it prior to my departure from West Chester, Pennsylvania.
“So, Guy, they finished the movie Haggard, along with a documentary called The Making of ‘Haggard.’ The documentary ended up being about how Bam and the guys dealt with me and my addiction. During one of my sobriety kicks, I showed the film to my mom, and the next day she went out and bought me a funeral plot, and herself a plot right next to it.”
Guy Leeper must have sensed that I was exhausted. After a minute, he said, “All right, Brandon, I think we’re off to a great start. You’ve faced a lot here, your guilt, and I hope that through this you can see yourself more clearly, and can prepare yourself to remove your shortcomings. If you put as much motivation into your recovery as you have demonstrated to me today, there’s no doubt in my mind you will succeed.” He rises out of his seat, walks over to me, staring. I have no idea what’s about to go down, but I’m nervous. He reaches out to me, grabs me, and pulls me in for something that resembles a bear hug. I have no idea what to do so I follow Guy’s lead and wrap my arms around his body. Affection. I have forgotten it for so long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time,” Guy says.
I look above his head to see the old-style black-and-white analog wall clock. Its hands read 2:30. I’m shocked. “Didn’t we start this session at eight thirty?” I ask.
Guy stares at me with delight. “Yes,” he replies. “This doesn’t happen often.”
“What doesn’t happen often?” I ask.
“A client who ventures so deep into the nature of his problems that he forgets about time, about lunch, about everything in the world except getting in touch with his past, in hopes that he may eventually recover.”
chapter twenty-nine
Dealing with Reality
Dinnertime. Pathetic. At age twenty-five I’m standing in a single-file line of men, eighteen to sixty, as we follow the directions barked out by the monitors. Structure.
In this rehabilitation facility, there are three types of addicts. The first are the junkies who are tired of their old lives and desperate to kick the habit. The second are here to convince their family and friends they are trying to clean up, but have no intention of doing so. The third group are inmates on temporary leave from prison, who have arranged some sort of plea bargain that requires them to attend a rehabilitation center. This type of addict enters the Tuerk House in orange jumpsuit and shackles and exits the same way after completing the program. Returning to jail, they wait for their parole board to take their rehab progress into consideration upon their next review.
The guy standing behind me in the dinner line is in this third group. His name is Cecil. He stands six-foot-four, about two hundred forty pounds. His skin is light black, almost white, and freckled. His hair is an enormous semi-curly afro that is matted into uneven sections, perhaps purposely. His teeth are as yellow as piss, and he smells like a greasy cheesesteak with onions.
Cecil’s comments have an aggressive tone. “White boy piss me off, rich pussy faggot come here and think all that! Fuck this, nobody here want no rich breakfast-in-bed motherfucker!” The more I ignore him, the worse it gets. “That’s right, you don’t hear me, right? You deaf now, right? You deaf cuz you know you best be deaf.” Cecil’s ploy to decimate my self-confidence is working, and I’m getting nervous. This guy seems unstable, and I’m fairly certain he could snap at any moment. I try my best to keep ignoring him, but it isn’t easy when someone over twice your weight and a head taller you is delivering threats into your ear.
The amount of food they give us is meager. Each meal consists of a sparse tray on which all the food groups are represented: a piece of meat, potatoes of some sort, a vegetable, a dessert, and a fruit drink. One serving of each, no seconds. Today, the menu offers meatloaf, instant mashed potatoes, corn, chocolate cake, and orange drink. The clients, as usual, are partaking in the daily mealtime barter system: drink for cake, smokes for potatoes, cake for meat, and so forth.
Fruit drink seems to be the most precious item on the barter plate. After all, a junkie going through withdrawal secretes an array of fluids that must be replenished: sweat, mucus, diarrhea, saliva, piss, vomit, and tears.
I spot Dane, Toby, and Sean Williams, sitting together. As I approach, Toby is providing levity and keeping the table laughing while Dane watches over him like a proud father. As usual, Dane, via his connections, has provided extra food for me: a piece of meatloaf and potatoes.
As I sit, one of the guys at a neighboring table reaches for my cake, saying, “You don’t want this, right?” Dane snags his wrist, squeezes it tight, and glares into his eyes for about five seconds before letting go. The guy says, “Just shittin’, Dane! Shit, man. This place got you, man. You goin’ off!”
From the other table, the guys project comments under their breath but audible to us:
“What is white boy paying you for those kickbacks?”
“What is he, Dane, your bitch?”
“So how is that white boy at sucking your dick, Dane?”
Dane sits, chewing his food, degraded as a man, with his street credibility affronted by the men seated at the nearby table. Dane, an O.G., or “original gangster,” is now, because of his affinity towards me, faced with a dilemma. He can either bring the situation to the next level and pick a fight—in which case he might lose his street cred by showing that these men have bothered him—or ignore the comments in hopes the other men knock it off. I can tell that Dane is burning to strike out in anger, but knows it is better to exercise discretion.
Toby does what he can to moderate the situation, in his own humorous way. “Now, why are you boys so interested in dick suckin’ all the sudden? For a group of supposed straight men, you think an awful lot about a man’s dick in another man’s mouth. I don’t know about y’all!”
During the verbal melee, Dane stares straight ahead at nothing in particular, beaming a l
ook of subdued humiliation and rage. Sean Williams quietly eats his meal.
The last smoke break of the day. It’s the time when almost everybody lets down their guard, smiles and laughs more than usual. I always seem to walk away from this smoke break feeling as though life isn’t so bad.
Toby is making everyone laugh with off-color sex stories. Dane pays his young protégé no mind and makes eye contact with me. I can tell there is something he wants to tell me. We step to the side where we can talk one on one.
I start off. “Look, Dane, I want you to know, I really appreciate all you’re doing for me in here. The extra food, the support…and that episode at dinner, I’m sorry if—”
Dane cuts in, “Shut the fuck up! I did what I did because it needed to be done, and I don’t want to hear another mention about it.” He changes modes. “Did you talk to your mother today?”
“Nah, Dane, why you ask?”
“Just curious,” he replies, but I know him well enough to understand there is a deeper implication.
“Why, what’s up, Dane?”
“White boy, don’t take this wrong, what I’m about to tell you. But, I was cleaning the room up a bit and came across a letter titled, ‘Dear Mom.’”
I knew the letter he was talking about:
Dear Mom,
I write you this letter for a much more important reason than to let you know how I’m doing. As I am currently in rehab, the question people keep asking me is: Who is your role model in this world? If you had the inner strength, whose morals and values would you like to emulate? My answer came with great confidence and without hesitation, “My mother,” I said. I can’t quite find the words that truly sum up my feelings. But I want so bad to change. And now I know that this change needs to manifest itself in actions, not words. When blessings arise or nightmares fall, you come to mind. When opportunities are presented or failures occur, Mom, I think of you. Little do you know, truly, my whole journey, and every decision I make starts with you and ends with you. Now, in this place, you are my source of strength. I love you. You will be proud of me one day.