13
Downtown Los Angeles glittered through the smog. It had always struck him as beautiful, rising up so abrupt, metallic and vertical out of a sea of drab industrial wasteland. Northern California almost by definition prides itself on its disdain of the south, especially LA, which many northerners believe is filled with shallow, materialistic people. Peter had never understood this. To him, Los Angelinos were impeccably real: they liked living in a perfect climate, idolized good looks and splendor and lived in one of the few major cities where you could park your automobile almost anywhere you pleased. True, millions were living unsustainably in a desert, sucking dry water resources that had to travel hundreds of miles via aqueduct, botox, breast implants and plastic surgery were the order of the day and the city was polluted with the particulate matter of its endless supply of cars. But for all its perceived shortcomings the place and the people were authentic, an undervalued commodity.
It was eleven-thirty. First post at Santa Anita was at 12:45. The city of Arcadia was fourteen miles north of downtown, so he figured that although there was plenty of time to get a hotel before the races began, it was prudent to head directly to the track. It would give him an opportunity to consult the program before racing began.
There was a complete absence of traffic, a surreal condition for anyone who is familiar with Southern California highways during daylight hours. Most folks were staying close to home, Peter surmised. Probably the rest of the week would be relatively slow. It took only fifteen minutes to get to the track. He took his time parking and meandered into the facilities, his mind elsewhere in slightly hung over daydreaming.
It was a perfect day for racing. The temperature was a welcoming seventy-two degrees. No clouds were present in the azure sky, though a single jet traced a thin vapor trail overhead. The turf, having just been watered, smelled musty and fresh; it was a scent that evoked feelings superior even to those achieved during the act of gambling, the perfume of anticipation.
A surprising number of patrons milled about. There were, generally speaking, two types. The usual track junkies were present: the voluble gaggle of diminutive, old Asian men, the well dressed blacks, the motley, decrepit Caucasian retirees and the Hispanic cowboys outfitted in denim. In addition to these there were the less regular track aficionados, the ones who patronized the ponies six or seven times a year, and always on Kentucky Derby day. These were well represented by a group of three twenty-something men accompanied by their dates. The young men were dressed in pseudo-fifties hipster fashion, complete with starched, short sleeved, open collared shirts displaying martini glasses or geometric patterns. They also wore dark slacks, well shined shoes and slightly cocked fedoras or Panama hats. Peter had thought the whole “swingers” phase had been pretty well done away with, but clearly that wasn’t the case. The ladies wore floral patterned summer dresses, high heeled shoes and wide brimmed, decorated sun hats. They weren’t naturally gorgeous women but their presentation made them look beautiful, especially in contrast to the rest of the betting public. A feeling of envy welled up in Peter’s chest, a relative stranger.
Properly handicapping races had never been his strong suit, so he had given up on it long ago. Mostly the horses were chosen by who the jockey or the trainer was, or, if there was no more logical method, by name or color. Grays were a particular favorite, if only because they were easy to follow around the track with a naked eye. Horseracing was a terrible bet and he knew it. But it was passive, easy and entertaining as hell. And it was the one gaming activity that always took place outside, which made it a pleasant change.
Unfortunately for Peter, the wagering results belied the temperate conditions. The first two races, he bet the heavy favorites across the board. In the opening race, a maiden claiming, his horse finished dead last. In the second, jockey Tyler Baze salvaged a show from the back of the pack, but it only paid $2.20, or in Peter’s case $110.00 on a three hundred dollar win/place/show wager. The next three races he played bets he thought were good values: an eleven to one shot that started the day 9 to 2, a six to one shot that was originally listed at 4 to 1 and a morning line 3 to 2 favorite that rose to 7 to 2 by post time. None of these picks finished better than third. It was at this point, after several Bloody Marys, that he became desperate to catch up, playing only long shots and exotic wagers for the last four races. A 30 to 1 shot placed in the seventh race, which garnered $1,855.80. Otherwise, there were no payouts. At the end of the afternoon he had lost over seventeen hundred dollars. Thoroughly dejected and defeated, Peter left with his tail squarely between his legs.
Losing stung more than winning manifested joy: this was a truth that he had always struggled with when bad times came. And although the amount involved on this day had been relatively small compared to some of the really tough losses of the past, for some reason this defeat hurt more than usual. When he did the math it was ridiculous to feel downtrodden about his luck since he had left the Bay Area. He was still down less than twenty five hundred dollars – a pittance in relation to the amount he had bet; less, in fact, than he was down upon leaving the Sands Regency, where he had been cheered at the thought of having got off so cheaply. Furthermore, he estimated that the total expenses of the trip totaled less than a third of the gaming losses. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed an extended vacation for so little. Nonetheless, a crossroads had been reached. Overindulgence was taking its toll. The thrill was gone. He determined not to gamble for a little while, if only to heighten his future excitement.
Upon reaching this decision, a feeling of relief and happiness settled upon him. He drove back toward central LA without a care, his worries having evaporated like a shallow pool of water in the desert sun. But it only took a few minutes for this relief at having relinquished the burden of gambling to transform into a new, urgent craving. It had been several days since he had gotten high, he suddenly remembered. And he then literally, coldly and deliberately thought these exact words in his mind: “some drugs will fill the void created by the lack of action very nicely.” A second later he acknowledged the illness inherent in such notions, and accepted that on some level he was a chronically sick person. But who wasn’t nowadays? At least he could admit it, he reassured himself.
***
East Hollywood is a good place to go if you want to get high. For lodging, Peter chose a run down Day’s Inn not far from an apartment building where he had once stayed on a weeklong drug bender with college friends. He remembered the location of the alley from the old days. And he would still recognize the faces. It didn’t matter if they were black, brown, yellow or white, he would be able to locate the nervous, wide-eyed, nocturnal countenance of the street pushers. Any real drug user knows, regardless of race or economic background. It comes with the territory.
He sat in the hotel room, watching television and pacing back and forth impatiently until eleven o’clock. The dealers never hit the ground until then, but they would stay on until just before sunrise. Walking was the best way to get around without risking police intercession, but out of practice with the street scene, Peter stood out like a sore thumb as he skulked suspiciously down Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding avenues.
It took a little while to find the old alley. Once he did though, it was obvious that he was in the right place. He saw the shaded, hooded faces and the attendant rasorial junkies, lurking around the source of their feed. The air was heavy with electricity and the metallic taste of chemical sweat. Nervous eyes followed him as he proceeded carefully into the gloom. Everyone present knew he was a stranger and regarded him with suspicion.
Finally an emaciated black guy wearing a grey sweater approached. His whisper was almost imperceptible.
“Hey man. Whatcha need, homie?”
Peter was anxious, but necessity propelled him forward. “Some blow.”
“Blow?
“Yeah. Coke.”
“You in the wrong place, man. No powder around here. We got some good rock, though. Primo. I’ll hook you up.”
Peter had freebased cocaine a few times years ago, and enjoyed it enough, but had never tried crack. It was basically the same thing, he reasoned. “If you can’t get any blow then the rock will have to do,” he replied.
The dude scurried around the alley, talking to several of the hooded gents. Peter immediately realized that he was dealing with a middle man and not the source. He knew what this would mean once the drugs had been procured. Momentarily his guy returned, holding something in his hands. It was three small white rocks. He handed them to Peter.
“That’s twenty’s worth,” he said, sweat pouring down his forehead and down into his cavernous cheeks.
Peter didn’t have a clue about the fair market price for crack, but knew that he was probably being ripped off. It hardly mattered. “I guess that’ll do,” he replied, handing over a bill in exchange for the drugs.
When the man ran off to transfer the money to the dealer, Peter turned and quickly walked away, hoping to escape his inevitable company. It was a futile effort. A second later a tap on the shoulder made it clear he was not to get off so easily.
“That was a good deal, my man,” he said. “Real smooth. What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say,” Peter replied in his most courteous tone.
“I gets it. Why take the chance, am I right? I’ll just call you salt and you can call me pepper.”
“What?”
“You know, cause you white and I’m black. Salt and pepper – go together on every dinner table. And I know you about to spread some vittles out for you and me. Why, to act contrarily would be very rude, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would,” Peter replied tersely, but with a surrendering smile.
“I knew you were all right.”
“But I’ve got no pipe, no fire and am a long way from where I stay,” he lied. “What can you do about that?”
“Everything! I got my shit hidden in a good stash spot. We gonna get high as fuck.”
Peter followed along as his new acquaintance led the way down a series of streets that led to an empty lot. In a corner of the property was an abandoned warehouse. Pepper approached the building in a familiar manner and dislodged a piece of corrugated siding from the wall which exposed a small hole in the edifice just large enough for a person to crawl through uncomfortably.
They sat down immediately upon entering the completely dark space. Peter could hear his companion fumbling with several items that sounded as if they were contained in a wood box. He could also hear the faint, high-pitched communications and movements of the scurrying resident rodents. In a moment, a light flashed as a Sterno can was ignited, illuminating the walls and surrounding metal containers in a warm, flickering glow.
“Gimme a rock,” Pepper instructed.
Peter reached into his pocket and pulled one of the pieces out. He handed it over.
“Mind if I hit this first, Salt?”
“That’s fine.”
Pepper carefully placed the kernel of crack in a glass pipe that looked disturbingly as if it had been constructed from discarded sections of a high school chemistry set. His bloodshot eyes bulged as he applied the torch lighter to the hardened chemicals, which hissed and bubbled as he inhaled. When he was finished, he tilted his head backward and held in the noxious smoke as long as he could. His extended exhale was the auditory exemplar of satisfaction. He passed the pipe over.
“It’s real nice, Salt, real nice. Now you give it a rip.”
Peter did so, inhaling slowly and carefully at first, but gradually with more force. Soon his lungs were engorged. He couldn’t hold the smoke for long, and exploded in coughs upon release. The drug left an aftertaste of soap in his mouth.
“Hee ha, ha,” Pepper laughed maniacally, “yeah, you feelin’ it now.”
And so he was. It began as a nauseous sensation in his stomach. Soon the queasiness evolved into a pleasant tingling that reminded him of the fluttering wings of a dozen butterflies. This feeling gradually rose up within him until it was centered in his chest. An uncontrollable smile spread across his face. His front teeth and the roof of his mouth went totally numb.
“Gimme another rock,” Pepper instructed, his hands clutching at empty air.
They smoked it and then finished off the third and final specimen. For a long while, perhaps as much as forty-five minutes, they sat silent, transfixed at the interplay of light and shadow on the walls. As the high gradually receded, they determined to return to the alley to procure more of the drug. Upon leaving the shelter, Pepper was careful to replace the siding as it had been before.
As they turned around they were unexpectedly confronted by two black men dressed in garish sweat suits. One of the men, not less than six foot three inches tall and weighing probably two hundred and fifty pounds, grabbed Peter by the shirt and pushed him up against the building. From out of the corner of his eye, Peter observed Pepper slinking off into the night. Betrayed, he thought.
“What the hell you doin’ around here, motha fucka?” the large man inquired while his smaller cohort simply stared, smiling amusedly.
“Nothing man. Just hanging out,” Peter stammered in reply.
His confronter looked him in the eye. “Shit nigga,” he chortled to his buddy. “This white boy’s been smokin’. Don’t you know you ain’t supposed to be gettin’ high in our hood, white boy?”
“I know that now.”
“We could fuck you up and take all your shit.,” the man replied, his grip tightening around Peter’s neck. “Nobody cares about what happens to junkies and crack heads down here. But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll just tax ya. Give me all your money and I’ll let you bounce.”
Peter reached into his pocket, which held close to a thousand dollars. Not a bad score, he thought ironically. It could have been worse, though. He had left several grand more back in the room.
Just as he had placed his hand around the money which was rolled up in his pocket, a metallic flash came out of the darkness and struck the would-be mugger on the head with a dull thud. The giant was felled, crumpling to the ground with all the force of his massive dead weight. Out of the darkness came Pepper, holding a large plumbing wrench in his hand and hopping from side to side energetically.
“What the fuck?” the smaller of the two men exhorted as he stood dumbfounded over his captain. “You gonna help this cracker, man?”
“This cracker’s my homie,” Pepper responded. “And if you don’t want some of the same, I suggest you back the fuck off.”
Spontaneously, the duo fled the scene, Peter’s heart pounding from the dangerous cocktail of fear, physical exertion and crack cocaine. But his accomplice was thrilled, sprinting like an intoxicated gazelle down streets and alleys, crying out triumphantly, “Salt and Pepper, Salt and Pepper.”
After some time they ducked behind a dumpster in a parking lot just off Hollywood Boulevard, both panting heavily.
“That was all right,” Pepper said. “Let’s go get some more shit.”
Peter realized that he was only a few blocks from the hotel, and figured that he had exhausted eight of his nine lives already. “Naah. I’m gonna get going,” he replied. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the wad of cash and handed it to his guardian angel. “I want you to have this.”
Pepper fingered through the bills and soon realized the enormity of his windfall. “My homie,” he said reflectively, his head shaking in amazement. “You realize I ain’t held this kinda money in ten years? I’m gonna stay high for weeks!”
“Just make sure you have fun,” Peter said. He then turned and walked away.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
A Quote From Ambrose Bierce
"Abstainer, n. A weak person who yields to the temptation of denying himself a pleasure."
- The Devil's Dictionary
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Twelve
12
On Christmas day he left the Hotel Nevada. A discontented feeling enveloped him, like the universe was somehow not in order. The holidays had never really symbolized happy times in his life: after Dad split in the middle of the night, he left as his legacy the lone kid in school that knew how to play poker proficiently and count cards at blackjack. Mom did her best to make things work, but was overwhelmed by debt, repeated workplace failures, an impressive drinking problem and a litany of bad men. Congenital heart failure took her suddenly in the middle of the night shortly after he turned eighteen. He was lucky she had made it that long: if she had died earlier the authorities might have placed him somewhere unpleasant.
Lesser adolescents might have succumbed to all this tragedy, but Peter had two things going for him – his relative intelligence and his association with the Rutherford family. The former got him good grades and a partial scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley and the latter gave him a second family who cared for him maybe more than his first ever did. It was at the Rutherford household that he had spent the majority of his Christmas’ after his mother’s death. And it wasn’t that they were totally unhappy events; Jeanette and Carol had done their best to make him feel comfortable during what were for him depressing times, buying him presents and giving him the honor of slicing the honey-baked ham at dinner, an honor that had in the past always been reserved for Eugene. Carol had also let the kids drink and smoke cigarettes as much as they liked, which was an obvious privilege and enjoyment. But deep down the month of December had always reminded Peter of his family’s interpersonal and financial inadequacy, highlighted with particular sharpness by the fact he was living in over-privileged Marin County.
But despite his past discomfort with the season, somehow, as the dramatic desert scenery moved through his field of vision, Peter felt a tangible sense of loss and displacement. The thought of Jeanette sitting alone in that huge house tugged at his emotions. For the first time since he had left Violet’s, he wished he had his cell phone.
He headed south on highway 6 until it linked with 318 through the settlements of Preston and Lund. Although his speed had slackened to a pace of only about 85 miles an hour, the land and time still flew by. Soon southbound highway 318 morphed into 93 and in a flash interstate 15 was within reach. Peter pulled over to consult his map.
The choice was fairly simple: east or west. To the east lay Arizona, or, if he followed the 15 in its north-easterly direction, the hitherto unexplored southern wilds of Utah. From here, he could head north toward Salt Lake, a virtual back track over the same longitudes he had just driven, or continue east toward Colorado, a state he hardly knew and had always wanted to explore. These options were very tempting, as they took him even further from the place from which he was running away. But something in his heart told him that west was the direction in which he needed to travel now. Ultimately the decision was that simple.
Having determined upon the direction, the next important choice could be summed up in two Spanish words: Las Vegas. He had lost count how many times he had been to “sin city,” but it was definitely more than twenty. Comps were available to him at most of the old downtown casinos as well as a few on the strip. It was conceivable that he could lose himself for several weeks gambling, drinking, drugging and, yes, even whoring his way through the wretchedness of that abominable town without ever once paying for a hotel night, meal or beverage. And for a moment it seemed as if his mind was made up to go.
But then another voice interceded. Vegas had always been to him the beast of consumption, the love of his vapid investment-banker colleagues. And although it was certainly the Mecca of gambling in the western hemisphere, and he did pursue his chemical vices with overwhelming vigor whenever he was there, Vegas had deteriorated in his mind from a Capitol of good times to a symbol of everything he was now turning against. The thousand dollar an hour prostitutes, mediocre, over-priced restaurants backed by absentee “celebrity” chefs, the Greek fraternity assholes and bachelorette parties, morbidly obese Midwesterners stuffing their faces at endless buffets, middle aged businessmen trying to resurrect their bygone youth and most importantly the ill-conceived, fatuous slogan that had become the mantra of every Joe and Mary beer can from coast to coast, “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas”: for these and many other reasons Peter decided he would forgo a visitation.
But the unstated truth of the matter was this: the place was a mirror he simply couldn’t look into.
And so he proceeded westbound down the 15 determined not to stop. And when he finally entered the city limits he felt nothing. As he passed downtown – classic Vegas, the district that still embodied some small part of what the city once represented to America – he saw the emblem of the Golden Nugget emblazoned on the horizon. His heart was not stirred. As the strip casinos paraded across his vision he saw the newly expanded Caesars glimmering. It too was a location that had once been close to his heart. Almost by instinct, he thought of a young James Caen in the 1974 movie The Gambler doubling down on eighteen and exhorting the dealer, “give me the three.” In the past, these thoughts and visions were too much for him to bear; he never could have simply driven through without stopping for at the very least a few hours. This day was different.
But it was not that different. For less than twenty miles outside of the city limits lay the border town of Primm, a cheesy amalgamation of slapdash casinos placed only yards from the state line in order to service two kinds of compulsives: those that couldn’t wait the extra fifteen minutes while heading into Vegas and those who couldn’t resist one last opportunity to piss the last of their money down the drain on the way out. Although Peter could not be grouped in either of these generalities – on this occasion, anyway – he felt at home upon pulling into the parking lot of Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino and getting out for a much needed stretch.
Inside, the casino was all but empty. Other than the few lonely and downcast patrons, the space was populated only by the sound of idle machines chattering to one another in a vain attempt to procure profitable occupation and the glazed eyes of the dealers, bartenders and management, their vacant looks seeming to ask collectively, “what the hell are we doing here?”
Fortunately for Peter, he knew exactly why he was there and was happy to see that he would have no trouble obtaining space at the tables. Even the bizarre scene of an empty casino on Christmas didn’t bother him.
For a few hours he bounced around the tables; he played blackjack, craps and roulette intermittently, dropping about fifteen hundred dollars. After a while he went to the diner and had a greasy hamburger, undercooked French fries and a coke. Subsequently he entered the dilapidated sports book and attempted to watch the lone college bowl game on television, but found himself unable to pay attention because he had not placed a bet. He looked at his watch: 4:30. There was no point in leaving now, he figured. At the registration desk they told him that the holiday special room rate was $24.99 a night. The fare was paid without protest, although he realized that he could have easily gotten the pit boss to get him an upgraded room for free. Indifference was the emotional theme of the moment and it felt fine.
After about an hour in the cheaply appointed room Peter felt stifled and returned to the quiet tables. He had been playing craps, drinking heavily and chain smoking for about two hours when the Changs arrived. The Changs were a Chinese family from Barstow comprised of five individuals: May, the octogenarian grandmother, Wesley, her fifty eight year old son, Sheila, Wesley’s wife, and Pat and Leon, their sons. They all had Chinese first names but used their North American counterparts with Americans. Between themselves, they often spoke in Mandarin, but always addressed Peter in English. Each cashed in for one hundred dollars in chips. When the waitress arrived Wesley ordered five margaritas for the clan.
“Do you gamble here often?” Peter inquired of Wesley.
“No,” he replied. “Three or four times a year only. But always on Christmas. It is a family tradition.”
“How long has that been going on?”
“Many years now, perhaps ten or fifteen. My father started it. This holiday means very little to us other than free time and there is nothing else to do.”
When the second round of margaritas was ordered grandmother May became much more animated, shaking the dice in her tiny clenched fist almost angrily before hurling them down the felt. Her face bore an expression of bold determination. The other members of the family shouted encouragements at her in Mandarin and English. Pat and Leon were especially vocal. As everybody at the table had a lit cigarette, the cavernous room quickly filled with smoke. Soon Peter found himself having a truly grand time.
As the third round of drinks was ordered, Peter switched from his customary vodka-tonic as a show of solidarity, even though he knew the tequila was going to hurt him the next day. The Changs cheered collectively to indicate their approval. With this, the luck at the table – which had already been fair – turned incredibly good. Sheila passed the dice for twenty minutes without a crap or a seven, hitting hard eight five times. Leon, the long green table reflected in his mirrored, wrap-around sunglasses, rolled for another fifteen consecutive minutes. Everybody at the table was making a killing. Peter had all the money he had lost earlier in the day back and each member of the family had turned their initial one hundred dollars into a bankroll of several hundred. There is no casino experience more joyous than a hot craps table, and this one was absolutely on fire.
Although the game demanded the majority of everyone’s attention, there was a limited amount of time between rolls for conversation. Peter discovered that the family owned a small grocery store in Barstow and every member, including May, worked their fair share. As neither Pat nor Leon had yet married, the whole family also still lived together under one roof.
Another round of drinks was ordered and consumed and then yet another. Fueled by booze, everybody at the table was barking at the dice as if their exhortations could somehow control the results. And since luck was still on their side, the correlation appeared to be proven.
Some time passed, but it all became a bit of a blur to the lone Caucasian. At some point Pat slapped Peter on the back as everyone at the table began raking in their substantial stack of chips.
“Let’s go brotha,” Pat said, proudly displaying a gold tooth in the front of his mouth, “it’s time to eat.”
Peter followed as May haltingly led the way into the otherwise empty restaurant, where a round table of six was already set. It was apparent that somebody had given instructions to add a seat for Peter. As they sat down, Wesley whispered something into the ear of the waiter. There were no menus.
Momentarily several bottles of wine appeared and glasses were filled. Numerous toasts were exchanged, the most significant of which Peter deduced was for the family patriarch, May’s husband, who had died some years ago after a long and painful illness.
And then the smorgasbord arrived: an array of incongruous foods that reminded one of a bargain-basement all you can eat buffet. Two whole baked chickens were the first items to arrive, followed by a large plate of pot stickers and spring rolls. A bowl of noodles came next, augmented by two oblong plates of onion rings. Following these items were a medium sized combination pizza, a Caesar salad, a plate of Mongolian beef and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. All of the food was placed in the center of the table to be enjoyed family style. There was a fleeting instant of calm before the company fell upon these selections with abandon, Sheila immediately tearing a drumstick off the chicken with her hands. It was a bloodbath of consumption. Leon, still wearing his sunglasses, which reflected the events of the meal like a carnival house of mirrors, stacked two pieces of pizza atop one another, so at both the roof and the bottom of his mouth he was biting into the bottom of the slice. Grandmother May was eating beef directly out of the bowl. Wesley was dipping onion rings in a thin sauce intended for the pot stickers.
For a moment Peter paused, struck dumb by the ferocity of the scene. But then, realizing his hunger and the fact that soon all the food would disappear, he threw himself into the fray. The meal took less than twenty minutes to complete.
Quiet fell upon the table as the tired combatants digested peacefully. Wesley rose from his seat and filled his wine glass to the absolute brim. Only surface tension and his remarkable balance kept the liquid in place. Everyone at the table was attentive.
“I raise my glass to our guest, who honored us with his presence and his appetite.”
All the Changs hurrahed and swallowed large gulps of wine. Presently the waiter arrived and presented the bill.
“If I may,” Peter said impetuously, reaching for his wallet, “I would like to buy dinner.”
A cold silence. Wesley stared at Peter with a look that appeared to be malice.
“We will forgive you this insult, Mr. Castellano, because you are an outsider and perhaps you do not understand. This is our family and our tradition. You are a guest here. Please do us the honor of accepting our hospitality.”
Peter felt humiliated by his gaffe. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have known better.”
“Don’t worry about it brotha,” Pat said with his golden smile, breaking the negative spell. “You are the lucky charm tonight.”
For a few minutes longer they talked and drank. And then, without warning, the Changs rose collectively and each said their goodbyes to Peter. May’s hand trembled as she mumbled something he couldn’t understand. Wesley gave Peter the name and address of the family store in Barstow, but the information was forgotten as soon as they were gone. He never saw them again.
On Christmas day he left the Hotel Nevada. A discontented feeling enveloped him, like the universe was somehow not in order. The holidays had never really symbolized happy times in his life: after Dad split in the middle of the night, he left as his legacy the lone kid in school that knew how to play poker proficiently and count cards at blackjack. Mom did her best to make things work, but was overwhelmed by debt, repeated workplace failures, an impressive drinking problem and a litany of bad men. Congenital heart failure took her suddenly in the middle of the night shortly after he turned eighteen. He was lucky she had made it that long: if she had died earlier the authorities might have placed him somewhere unpleasant.
Lesser adolescents might have succumbed to all this tragedy, but Peter had two things going for him – his relative intelligence and his association with the Rutherford family. The former got him good grades and a partial scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley and the latter gave him a second family who cared for him maybe more than his first ever did. It was at the Rutherford household that he had spent the majority of his Christmas’ after his mother’s death. And it wasn’t that they were totally unhappy events; Jeanette and Carol had done their best to make him feel comfortable during what were for him depressing times, buying him presents and giving him the honor of slicing the honey-baked ham at dinner, an honor that had in the past always been reserved for Eugene. Carol had also let the kids drink and smoke cigarettes as much as they liked, which was an obvious privilege and enjoyment. But deep down the month of December had always reminded Peter of his family’s interpersonal and financial inadequacy, highlighted with particular sharpness by the fact he was living in over-privileged Marin County.
But despite his past discomfort with the season, somehow, as the dramatic desert scenery moved through his field of vision, Peter felt a tangible sense of loss and displacement. The thought of Jeanette sitting alone in that huge house tugged at his emotions. For the first time since he had left Violet’s, he wished he had his cell phone.
He headed south on highway 6 until it linked with 318 through the settlements of Preston and Lund. Although his speed had slackened to a pace of only about 85 miles an hour, the land and time still flew by. Soon southbound highway 318 morphed into 93 and in a flash interstate 15 was within reach. Peter pulled over to consult his map.
The choice was fairly simple: east or west. To the east lay Arizona, or, if he followed the 15 in its north-easterly direction, the hitherto unexplored southern wilds of Utah. From here, he could head north toward Salt Lake, a virtual back track over the same longitudes he had just driven, or continue east toward Colorado, a state he hardly knew and had always wanted to explore. These options were very tempting, as they took him even further from the place from which he was running away. But something in his heart told him that west was the direction in which he needed to travel now. Ultimately the decision was that simple.
Having determined upon the direction, the next important choice could be summed up in two Spanish words: Las Vegas. He had lost count how many times he had been to “sin city,” but it was definitely more than twenty. Comps were available to him at most of the old downtown casinos as well as a few on the strip. It was conceivable that he could lose himself for several weeks gambling, drinking, drugging and, yes, even whoring his way through the wretchedness of that abominable town without ever once paying for a hotel night, meal or beverage. And for a moment it seemed as if his mind was made up to go.
But then another voice interceded. Vegas had always been to him the beast of consumption, the love of his vapid investment-banker colleagues. And although it was certainly the Mecca of gambling in the western hemisphere, and he did pursue his chemical vices with overwhelming vigor whenever he was there, Vegas had deteriorated in his mind from a Capitol of good times to a symbol of everything he was now turning against. The thousand dollar an hour prostitutes, mediocre, over-priced restaurants backed by absentee “celebrity” chefs, the Greek fraternity assholes and bachelorette parties, morbidly obese Midwesterners stuffing their faces at endless buffets, middle aged businessmen trying to resurrect their bygone youth and most importantly the ill-conceived, fatuous slogan that had become the mantra of every Joe and Mary beer can from coast to coast, “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas”: for these and many other reasons Peter decided he would forgo a visitation.
But the unstated truth of the matter was this: the place was a mirror he simply couldn’t look into.
And so he proceeded westbound down the 15 determined not to stop. And when he finally entered the city limits he felt nothing. As he passed downtown – classic Vegas, the district that still embodied some small part of what the city once represented to America – he saw the emblem of the Golden Nugget emblazoned on the horizon. His heart was not stirred. As the strip casinos paraded across his vision he saw the newly expanded Caesars glimmering. It too was a location that had once been close to his heart. Almost by instinct, he thought of a young James Caen in the 1974 movie The Gambler doubling down on eighteen and exhorting the dealer, “give me the three.” In the past, these thoughts and visions were too much for him to bear; he never could have simply driven through without stopping for at the very least a few hours. This day was different.
But it was not that different. For less than twenty miles outside of the city limits lay the border town of Primm, a cheesy amalgamation of slapdash casinos placed only yards from the state line in order to service two kinds of compulsives: those that couldn’t wait the extra fifteen minutes while heading into Vegas and those who couldn’t resist one last opportunity to piss the last of their money down the drain on the way out. Although Peter could not be grouped in either of these generalities – on this occasion, anyway – he felt at home upon pulling into the parking lot of Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino and getting out for a much needed stretch.
Inside, the casino was all but empty. Other than the few lonely and downcast patrons, the space was populated only by the sound of idle machines chattering to one another in a vain attempt to procure profitable occupation and the glazed eyes of the dealers, bartenders and management, their vacant looks seeming to ask collectively, “what the hell are we doing here?”
Fortunately for Peter, he knew exactly why he was there and was happy to see that he would have no trouble obtaining space at the tables. Even the bizarre scene of an empty casino on Christmas didn’t bother him.
For a few hours he bounced around the tables; he played blackjack, craps and roulette intermittently, dropping about fifteen hundred dollars. After a while he went to the diner and had a greasy hamburger, undercooked French fries and a coke. Subsequently he entered the dilapidated sports book and attempted to watch the lone college bowl game on television, but found himself unable to pay attention because he had not placed a bet. He looked at his watch: 4:30. There was no point in leaving now, he figured. At the registration desk they told him that the holiday special room rate was $24.99 a night. The fare was paid without protest, although he realized that he could have easily gotten the pit boss to get him an upgraded room for free. Indifference was the emotional theme of the moment and it felt fine.
After about an hour in the cheaply appointed room Peter felt stifled and returned to the quiet tables. He had been playing craps, drinking heavily and chain smoking for about two hours when the Changs arrived. The Changs were a Chinese family from Barstow comprised of five individuals: May, the octogenarian grandmother, Wesley, her fifty eight year old son, Sheila, Wesley’s wife, and Pat and Leon, their sons. They all had Chinese first names but used their North American counterparts with Americans. Between themselves, they often spoke in Mandarin, but always addressed Peter in English. Each cashed in for one hundred dollars in chips. When the waitress arrived Wesley ordered five margaritas for the clan.
“Do you gamble here often?” Peter inquired of Wesley.
“No,” he replied. “Three or four times a year only. But always on Christmas. It is a family tradition.”
“How long has that been going on?”
“Many years now, perhaps ten or fifteen. My father started it. This holiday means very little to us other than free time and there is nothing else to do.”
When the second round of margaritas was ordered grandmother May became much more animated, shaking the dice in her tiny clenched fist almost angrily before hurling them down the felt. Her face bore an expression of bold determination. The other members of the family shouted encouragements at her in Mandarin and English. Pat and Leon were especially vocal. As everybody at the table had a lit cigarette, the cavernous room quickly filled with smoke. Soon Peter found himself having a truly grand time.
As the third round of drinks was ordered, Peter switched from his customary vodka-tonic as a show of solidarity, even though he knew the tequila was going to hurt him the next day. The Changs cheered collectively to indicate their approval. With this, the luck at the table – which had already been fair – turned incredibly good. Sheila passed the dice for twenty minutes without a crap or a seven, hitting hard eight five times. Leon, the long green table reflected in his mirrored, wrap-around sunglasses, rolled for another fifteen consecutive minutes. Everybody at the table was making a killing. Peter had all the money he had lost earlier in the day back and each member of the family had turned their initial one hundred dollars into a bankroll of several hundred. There is no casino experience more joyous than a hot craps table, and this one was absolutely on fire.
Although the game demanded the majority of everyone’s attention, there was a limited amount of time between rolls for conversation. Peter discovered that the family owned a small grocery store in Barstow and every member, including May, worked their fair share. As neither Pat nor Leon had yet married, the whole family also still lived together under one roof.
Another round of drinks was ordered and consumed and then yet another. Fueled by booze, everybody at the table was barking at the dice as if their exhortations could somehow control the results. And since luck was still on their side, the correlation appeared to be proven.
Some time passed, but it all became a bit of a blur to the lone Caucasian. At some point Pat slapped Peter on the back as everyone at the table began raking in their substantial stack of chips.
“Let’s go brotha,” Pat said, proudly displaying a gold tooth in the front of his mouth, “it’s time to eat.”
Peter followed as May haltingly led the way into the otherwise empty restaurant, where a round table of six was already set. It was apparent that somebody had given instructions to add a seat for Peter. As they sat down, Wesley whispered something into the ear of the waiter. There were no menus.
Momentarily several bottles of wine appeared and glasses were filled. Numerous toasts were exchanged, the most significant of which Peter deduced was for the family patriarch, May’s husband, who had died some years ago after a long and painful illness.
And then the smorgasbord arrived: an array of incongruous foods that reminded one of a bargain-basement all you can eat buffet. Two whole baked chickens were the first items to arrive, followed by a large plate of pot stickers and spring rolls. A bowl of noodles came next, augmented by two oblong plates of onion rings. Following these items were a medium sized combination pizza, a Caesar salad, a plate of Mongolian beef and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. All of the food was placed in the center of the table to be enjoyed family style. There was a fleeting instant of calm before the company fell upon these selections with abandon, Sheila immediately tearing a drumstick off the chicken with her hands. It was a bloodbath of consumption. Leon, still wearing his sunglasses, which reflected the events of the meal like a carnival house of mirrors, stacked two pieces of pizza atop one another, so at both the roof and the bottom of his mouth he was biting into the bottom of the slice. Grandmother May was eating beef directly out of the bowl. Wesley was dipping onion rings in a thin sauce intended for the pot stickers.
For a moment Peter paused, struck dumb by the ferocity of the scene. But then, realizing his hunger and the fact that soon all the food would disappear, he threw himself into the fray. The meal took less than twenty minutes to complete.
Quiet fell upon the table as the tired combatants digested peacefully. Wesley rose from his seat and filled his wine glass to the absolute brim. Only surface tension and his remarkable balance kept the liquid in place. Everyone at the table was attentive.
“I raise my glass to our guest, who honored us with his presence and his appetite.”
All the Changs hurrahed and swallowed large gulps of wine. Presently the waiter arrived and presented the bill.
“If I may,” Peter said impetuously, reaching for his wallet, “I would like to buy dinner.”
A cold silence. Wesley stared at Peter with a look that appeared to be malice.
“We will forgive you this insult, Mr. Castellano, because you are an outsider and perhaps you do not understand. This is our family and our tradition. You are a guest here. Please do us the honor of accepting our hospitality.”
Peter felt humiliated by his gaffe. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have known better.”
“Don’t worry about it brotha,” Pat said with his golden smile, breaking the negative spell. “You are the lucky charm tonight.”
For a few minutes longer they talked and drank. And then, without warning, the Changs rose collectively and each said their goodbyes to Peter. May’s hand trembled as she mumbled something he couldn’t understand. Wesley gave Peter the name and address of the family store in Barstow, but the information was forgotten as soon as they were gone. He never saw them again.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Affront
Friday: my brother and I had agreed on a late lunch at the Buckeye in Mill Valley. I arrived ten minutes early, got a nice corner table and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio, trying my best to drink it slowly so that I wouldn’t end up drunk at five o’clock in the afternoon. He arrived on time from the City and ordered a beer. We were both in fine spirits.
The waitress took our order. He was to have the Petaluma Chicken and I the cheeseburger. We were to open with an appetizer of wings with bleu cheese dressing – always a good move. We began discussing a possible trip to Reno during the week. We then got on the topic of a bachelor party weekend that was going to take me out of town for a couple of days.
“Hey, I’ll watch the cat for you, if you like,” he said, taking a long gulp off his beer.
“Really? That’s so great, because you know how I hate to leave her behind alone.”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing going on that weekend anyway.”
“Man, I really appreciate that. Takes a load of my mind.”
And then the sound came from my left, long and loud, lasting approximately six or seven seconds. I’m not exaggerating.
“Shh.”
I turned and saw the mummified visage of a sixty-something woman, the bane of some man’s existence, no doubt. Our eyes met. I was still not sure.
“You’re very loud,” she informed me.
Now you probably don’t know this, but I find the shush to be the single most insulting utterance in the human language. It is the essence of passive aggressiveness, a tool used by social cowards and neighborhood despots. Ask me nicely; I know I’m a little loud but it’s not intentional. Ask me rudely; call me an asshole. At least I’ll know exactly what you’re thinking and can react in kind. But never, ever shush me in public like some kind of ill behaved child. That is an affront I cannot accept. So I stared at her for seven, perhaps eight seconds, using my most intense Manson lamps to lamely convey my powerful feelings of anger and indignation. She appeared unmoved. I slammed my butter plate down on the table – complete silence descended over the full room.
“I won’t sit here…next to you,” I stammered, dumbstruck. I’ve…I’ve, never been treated so rudely.” I got up and began to walk toward the host stand. A table of older diners stared at me aghast. “Pardon me,” I said to them generally, a little embarrassed.
My brother arrived at the host stand a minute later, beer in hand. I suggested we sit somewhere else in the restaurant.
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he said, shaking his head gently.
“Why not?”
“Cause when you walked away that lady looked at me and said, ‘He’s very emotional.’ So I said to her, ‘Well, if you ask me lady, you’re kind of a cunt.’”
“You didn’t,” I said, laughing.
“Oh yes I did.”
“Thank you so much. I can always count on you to back me up.” I felt like hugging him.
“It really has nothing to do with backing you up. She got exactly what she deserved.”
The dining room manager came out and wanted to know what had caused the commotion. I tried to explain, forgetting the last part of the story. So, just as he was about to approach the offending woman my bro added, “Oh, and I called her a cunt.”
“You did?” he asked, incredulous.
“Sure did.”
“Oh, not good.”
We volunteered to leave the restaurant but he asked us to wait a moment. He returned quickly and said, “Guys, I got a lot of angry women in that room.” He was very nice so we left without a fuss. I couldn’t have enjoyed a meal there, anyway, not after what had transpired. At least he bought our drinks for us and allowed us to leave with our dignity intact.
Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at our table at Marin Joes. I was sucking down my first of several martinis which would eventually turn into a raging drunk later that night. My brother and I were rehashing events. Neither of us felt we had done anything wrong, but he put it best in words I will never in my life forget.
“You know what? If I could take it all back, I wouldn’t.”
Amen.
The waitress took our order. He was to have the Petaluma Chicken and I the cheeseburger. We were to open with an appetizer of wings with bleu cheese dressing – always a good move. We began discussing a possible trip to Reno during the week. We then got on the topic of a bachelor party weekend that was going to take me out of town for a couple of days.
“Hey, I’ll watch the cat for you, if you like,” he said, taking a long gulp off his beer.
“Really? That’s so great, because you know how I hate to leave her behind alone.”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing going on that weekend anyway.”
“Man, I really appreciate that. Takes a load of my mind.”
And then the sound came from my left, long and loud, lasting approximately six or seven seconds. I’m not exaggerating.
“Shh.”
I turned and saw the mummified visage of a sixty-something woman, the bane of some man’s existence, no doubt. Our eyes met. I was still not sure.
“You’re very loud,” she informed me.
Now you probably don’t know this, but I find the shush to be the single most insulting utterance in the human language. It is the essence of passive aggressiveness, a tool used by social cowards and neighborhood despots. Ask me nicely; I know I’m a little loud but it’s not intentional. Ask me rudely; call me an asshole. At least I’ll know exactly what you’re thinking and can react in kind. But never, ever shush me in public like some kind of ill behaved child. That is an affront I cannot accept. So I stared at her for seven, perhaps eight seconds, using my most intense Manson lamps to lamely convey my powerful feelings of anger and indignation. She appeared unmoved. I slammed my butter plate down on the table – complete silence descended over the full room.
“I won’t sit here…next to you,” I stammered, dumbstruck. I’ve…I’ve, never been treated so rudely.” I got up and began to walk toward the host stand. A table of older diners stared at me aghast. “Pardon me,” I said to them generally, a little embarrassed.
My brother arrived at the host stand a minute later, beer in hand. I suggested we sit somewhere else in the restaurant.
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he said, shaking his head gently.
“Why not?”
“Cause when you walked away that lady looked at me and said, ‘He’s very emotional.’ So I said to her, ‘Well, if you ask me lady, you’re kind of a cunt.’”
“You didn’t,” I said, laughing.
“Oh yes I did.”
“Thank you so much. I can always count on you to back me up.” I felt like hugging him.
“It really has nothing to do with backing you up. She got exactly what she deserved.”
The dining room manager came out and wanted to know what had caused the commotion. I tried to explain, forgetting the last part of the story. So, just as he was about to approach the offending woman my bro added, “Oh, and I called her a cunt.”
“You did?” he asked, incredulous.
“Sure did.”
“Oh, not good.”
We volunteered to leave the restaurant but he asked us to wait a moment. He returned quickly and said, “Guys, I got a lot of angry women in that room.” He was very nice so we left without a fuss. I couldn’t have enjoyed a meal there, anyway, not after what had transpired. At least he bought our drinks for us and allowed us to leave with our dignity intact.
Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at our table at Marin Joes. I was sucking down my first of several martinis which would eventually turn into a raging drunk later that night. My brother and I were rehashing events. Neither of us felt we had done anything wrong, but he put it best in words I will never in my life forget.
“You know what? If I could take it all back, I wouldn’t.”
Amen.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Eleven
11
The next morning Peter awoke with a sharp headache and the sourness of lime on his lips. He tossed and turned for over an hour, trying to find just the right position to return to sleep, but despite the tiredness all his efforts were thwarted by an angry little sensation within him that refused to be ignored. After a while he turned the television on. The nonsense of a national a.m. talk show distracted his mind in a way he found agreeable, though he had never enjoyed the program before.
For some reason his thoughts kept coming back to the conversation with Gene. There were a couple of things that stood out in Peter’s mind. Primarily, he couldn’t get over the fact that the man paid two hundred and fifty dollars a month rent and lived in his own pad. Certainly, Ely wasn’t the Bay Area. But it was almost inconceivable to him, someone meeting their monthly housing needs on such a meager amount. The Mark Hopkins hotel in San Francisco was over three hundred a night, and that was for a basic room.
The second issue that his mind fixated on was more abstract – at first even Peter didn’t realize what conclusion his thoughts were drawing toward. It started with a series of images that were inspired by the tale he had been told. First he imagined Gene deciding to take Highway 50 instead of the much quicker Interstate 80. Then he envisioned the somewhat strange looking man staring up at the night sky on the middle of the lonely road, his fluffy brown moustache and feathered, 1980’s style hair, for whatever reason, blowing in an invented wind. Peter pictured him in the bar waiting for the woman who was never to come, downing shots of bourbon, though the dealer had never told him exactly what he had been drinking on the night in question. He witnessed in his mind’s eye the pull over and subsequent incarceration, even his day in court and the menacing countenance of the elderly judge who sentenced him. Finally, he saw Gene at the end of a long shift in the Gambling Hall sidling up to the bar and getting drunk, then stumbling home down the dark streets of the sleeping town.
And as his visions came to a close, Peter realized what is was that so transfixed him. It was the fact that the protagonist of the dealer’s story – for it was impossible to say whether the tale Gene told and the effect it had on his listener’s imagination was an accurate depiction of the life of the man who told it, even if the events he described were more or less true – lived a life in almost perfect proportion of slavery and freedom. On stage was presented a man who was admittedly powerless against his impulses, even when they drove him to do stupid things, one who would drive hours out of his way on the off chance a bartender might still work, and be currently on shift, at a bar he had once drank at, a man who openly confessed that alcohol seriously impeded his goals and achievements, who forfeited jobs and apartments and his drivers license the way most people lose pocket change.
And yet, floating above these obvious truths was an individual who simply didn’t seem to care, one completely at peace with himself, who embraced the reality of his existence in a way that few of us ever do, a man who would gladly take a job and live in a two horse town because it was the road of least resistance. A slave, no doubt: but one content with his chains, even though they brought him with each passing day successively and inexorably closer to the ground.
Peter could not help but think of Carol Rutherford that day in the hospital.
After a while he got up, his head still hurting from drink and dehydration. He remembered the bad wine at the restaurant the night before and believed that somehow it was the primary culprit. After a shower that once again vacillated between stinging extremes of hot and cold he decided to walk around for a while, unsure of what he was going to do with his day.
He sauntered down the abandoned street imagining himself a character in one of the old Spaghetti westerns: not Clint Eastwood, mind you, nor one of the myriad bad guys or law men he encountered and always somehow defeated. No, as Peter moseyed with the piping hot Starbucks coffee in his hand – for even in land-locked Ely the caffeinated mermaid had found her way – he saw himself more as one of the intimidated and outgunned townsfolk of the overrun outpost, the barber or perhaps the saloon owner and whoremonger. He would never have been brave enough to have chosen the life of a gunfighter, he mused.
After some distance he approached a real estate office housed in a small wooden structure of dubious quality. Although the office was closed and the interior dark, there were a number of advertisements displayed on the window. He read several with interest:
“Three bedroom two bath house on the east side of town near shopping and schools, 1495 sq. ft., very large fenced lot, renovated bathroom and kitchen, ready to move in: $122,999.”
“Double wide two bedroom, one bath trailer located ten minutes outside of city limits on two acres of land, level site near highway perfect for your dream home, $39,999.”
“Producing gold, silver and copper mine fifteen miles south of McGill. Last operated in 1985. Gross revenue during final year of production: $365,868. This may be your last opportunity to get in on the burgeoning metals industry. A bargain at $49,500.”
As he continued down the street, Peter’s imagination crafted a new fantasy, one that for a brief moment actually felt realistic. He would sell his condo in the City and settle permanently in Ely, investing a quarter of a million in a quality residence. He would buy the mine, hire the proper experts and set aside another two hundred thousand to initially fund operations. The rest of his money he would put in an annuity or in tax free municipal bonds, which would provide him with a more than ample yearly income by eastern Nevada standards. Foregoing everything he had been in the past, he would lose himself in the high desert by learning to ride horses, shoot guns, and chew tobacco. Camping in the Great Basin National Park for weeks at a time would become a regular activity, he a veritable Grizzly Adams, addicted only to clean air, the freedom of the outdoors and personal isolation. Here was a place he could make a fresh start.
It was a glorious dream that carried him away for almost fifteen minutes. When it had run its natural course he knew it was time to leave.
***
It wasn’t that he had been blind to the decorations for the past week. Peter had seen them all clearly enough: the white and multicolored lights hanging from trees and the exterior of houses, the plastic snowmen, candy-canes, Santa Clauses and reindeer littered like so much garbage on lawns and rooftops, the fir trees covered with ornaments in the frames of windows. But it took a greeting from the girl at the front desk to remind his conscious mind of the season.
“Merry Christmas,” she said. Her smile was one of large, white, perfect teeth.
“Jesus Christ. What day is it?”
“The twenty-fourth of December. It’s Christmas eve.”
“Happy Holidays,” he replied, scolding himself as he walked away for the response almost immediately upon speaking the words. He had always hated the phrase, a byproduct in his mind of not only mind numbing political correctness and meaningless, condescending pluralism, but also the secular and scientific war on religion and hope, a Nietzschian victory over the useful and productive contemporary mythology that is Christianity.
Peter was tempted by an overwhelming urge to forgo his final night, pack his bags, leave the hotel and get in his car right then and there. He actually took several steps in the direction of the elevator with this in mind. But as he did so he noticed the Leroy’s sports betting kiosk in a corner of the casino and decided to see if there were any football games to be played that evening. Sure enough, the San Diego Chargers were hosting the Denver Broncos, the “Bolts” favored by eight points. Immediately his mood changed. He decided to stay around for the night, betting San Diego and laying the points. It took him several minutes to complete the wager of twenty-two hundred dollars. It was odd, placing such a large bet by feeding hundred dollar bills into an inanimate object. But regardless of the method, the bet had been placed; he had the tickets to prove it. And somewhere within him an inner peace blossomed.
As game time approached an uncommon nervousness came over him as he reminded himself that he was no longer employed. It was one thing, he thought, to wager huge sums of money when he was making tens of thousands of dollars a month, but it was quite another when nothing was coming in. This revelation heightened his sense of gamble to a fever pitch. His mouth was dry; his hands trembled with excitement. He felt as he had as a grade-schooler, betting his lunch money on hands of blackjack in the bathroom stalls between classes.
While the pre game analysts babbled Peter sidled up to the bar and drank shots of Jagermeister backed by Budweiser. The alcohol had little effect because of his nerves, so he drank more than he should have. By the second quarter he was thoroughly drunk, screaming at the television on every play – favorable or not – and questionable call by the referees. Fortunately for the other denizens of the room, once the Chargers took control of the game they never looked back, which had a subduing effect on his interest. Once your team is up three scores, the game loses its most essential element, hope, and circumstances can only get worse. For most of the second half he just sat there staring vaguely into a blurred distance, cold sweat gathering on his pale, unshaven face.
The game ended with San Diego winning by twenty points, easily covering the spread. A patron Peter had been talking with earlier slapped him on the back.
“You did it buddy. Piece of cake. Easy money.”
Peter alighted to the reality that the game had finally ended in his favor. He stood atop the second rung of his stool, wavering slightly, and called out, “Merry Christmas! The next round’s on me. God bless us, every one!”
A halfhearted cheer emanated from the crowd.
The next morning Peter awoke with a sharp headache and the sourness of lime on his lips. He tossed and turned for over an hour, trying to find just the right position to return to sleep, but despite the tiredness all his efforts were thwarted by an angry little sensation within him that refused to be ignored. After a while he turned the television on. The nonsense of a national a.m. talk show distracted his mind in a way he found agreeable, though he had never enjoyed the program before.
For some reason his thoughts kept coming back to the conversation with Gene. There were a couple of things that stood out in Peter’s mind. Primarily, he couldn’t get over the fact that the man paid two hundred and fifty dollars a month rent and lived in his own pad. Certainly, Ely wasn’t the Bay Area. But it was almost inconceivable to him, someone meeting their monthly housing needs on such a meager amount. The Mark Hopkins hotel in San Francisco was over three hundred a night, and that was for a basic room.
The second issue that his mind fixated on was more abstract – at first even Peter didn’t realize what conclusion his thoughts were drawing toward. It started with a series of images that were inspired by the tale he had been told. First he imagined Gene deciding to take Highway 50 instead of the much quicker Interstate 80. Then he envisioned the somewhat strange looking man staring up at the night sky on the middle of the lonely road, his fluffy brown moustache and feathered, 1980’s style hair, for whatever reason, blowing in an invented wind. Peter pictured him in the bar waiting for the woman who was never to come, downing shots of bourbon, though the dealer had never told him exactly what he had been drinking on the night in question. He witnessed in his mind’s eye the pull over and subsequent incarceration, even his day in court and the menacing countenance of the elderly judge who sentenced him. Finally, he saw Gene at the end of a long shift in the Gambling Hall sidling up to the bar and getting drunk, then stumbling home down the dark streets of the sleeping town.
And as his visions came to a close, Peter realized what is was that so transfixed him. It was the fact that the protagonist of the dealer’s story – for it was impossible to say whether the tale Gene told and the effect it had on his listener’s imagination was an accurate depiction of the life of the man who told it, even if the events he described were more or less true – lived a life in almost perfect proportion of slavery and freedom. On stage was presented a man who was admittedly powerless against his impulses, even when they drove him to do stupid things, one who would drive hours out of his way on the off chance a bartender might still work, and be currently on shift, at a bar he had once drank at, a man who openly confessed that alcohol seriously impeded his goals and achievements, who forfeited jobs and apartments and his drivers license the way most people lose pocket change.
And yet, floating above these obvious truths was an individual who simply didn’t seem to care, one completely at peace with himself, who embraced the reality of his existence in a way that few of us ever do, a man who would gladly take a job and live in a two horse town because it was the road of least resistance. A slave, no doubt: but one content with his chains, even though they brought him with each passing day successively and inexorably closer to the ground.
Peter could not help but think of Carol Rutherford that day in the hospital.
After a while he got up, his head still hurting from drink and dehydration. He remembered the bad wine at the restaurant the night before and believed that somehow it was the primary culprit. After a shower that once again vacillated between stinging extremes of hot and cold he decided to walk around for a while, unsure of what he was going to do with his day.
He sauntered down the abandoned street imagining himself a character in one of the old Spaghetti westerns: not Clint Eastwood, mind you, nor one of the myriad bad guys or law men he encountered and always somehow defeated. No, as Peter moseyed with the piping hot Starbucks coffee in his hand – for even in land-locked Ely the caffeinated mermaid had found her way – he saw himself more as one of the intimidated and outgunned townsfolk of the overrun outpost, the barber or perhaps the saloon owner and whoremonger. He would never have been brave enough to have chosen the life of a gunfighter, he mused.
After some distance he approached a real estate office housed in a small wooden structure of dubious quality. Although the office was closed and the interior dark, there were a number of advertisements displayed on the window. He read several with interest:
“Three bedroom two bath house on the east side of town near shopping and schools, 1495 sq. ft., very large fenced lot, renovated bathroom and kitchen, ready to move in: $122,999.”
“Double wide two bedroom, one bath trailer located ten minutes outside of city limits on two acres of land, level site near highway perfect for your dream home, $39,999.”
“Producing gold, silver and copper mine fifteen miles south of McGill. Last operated in 1985. Gross revenue during final year of production: $365,868. This may be your last opportunity to get in on the burgeoning metals industry. A bargain at $49,500.”
As he continued down the street, Peter’s imagination crafted a new fantasy, one that for a brief moment actually felt realistic. He would sell his condo in the City and settle permanently in Ely, investing a quarter of a million in a quality residence. He would buy the mine, hire the proper experts and set aside another two hundred thousand to initially fund operations. The rest of his money he would put in an annuity or in tax free municipal bonds, which would provide him with a more than ample yearly income by eastern Nevada standards. Foregoing everything he had been in the past, he would lose himself in the high desert by learning to ride horses, shoot guns, and chew tobacco. Camping in the Great Basin National Park for weeks at a time would become a regular activity, he a veritable Grizzly Adams, addicted only to clean air, the freedom of the outdoors and personal isolation. Here was a place he could make a fresh start.
It was a glorious dream that carried him away for almost fifteen minutes. When it had run its natural course he knew it was time to leave.
***
It wasn’t that he had been blind to the decorations for the past week. Peter had seen them all clearly enough: the white and multicolored lights hanging from trees and the exterior of houses, the plastic snowmen, candy-canes, Santa Clauses and reindeer littered like so much garbage on lawns and rooftops, the fir trees covered with ornaments in the frames of windows. But it took a greeting from the girl at the front desk to remind his conscious mind of the season.
“Merry Christmas,” she said. Her smile was one of large, white, perfect teeth.
“Jesus Christ. What day is it?”
“The twenty-fourth of December. It’s Christmas eve.”
“Happy Holidays,” he replied, scolding himself as he walked away for the response almost immediately upon speaking the words. He had always hated the phrase, a byproduct in his mind of not only mind numbing political correctness and meaningless, condescending pluralism, but also the secular and scientific war on religion and hope, a Nietzschian victory over the useful and productive contemporary mythology that is Christianity.
Peter was tempted by an overwhelming urge to forgo his final night, pack his bags, leave the hotel and get in his car right then and there. He actually took several steps in the direction of the elevator with this in mind. But as he did so he noticed the Leroy’s sports betting kiosk in a corner of the casino and decided to see if there were any football games to be played that evening. Sure enough, the San Diego Chargers were hosting the Denver Broncos, the “Bolts” favored by eight points. Immediately his mood changed. He decided to stay around for the night, betting San Diego and laying the points. It took him several minutes to complete the wager of twenty-two hundred dollars. It was odd, placing such a large bet by feeding hundred dollar bills into an inanimate object. But regardless of the method, the bet had been placed; he had the tickets to prove it. And somewhere within him an inner peace blossomed.
As game time approached an uncommon nervousness came over him as he reminded himself that he was no longer employed. It was one thing, he thought, to wager huge sums of money when he was making tens of thousands of dollars a month, but it was quite another when nothing was coming in. This revelation heightened his sense of gamble to a fever pitch. His mouth was dry; his hands trembled with excitement. He felt as he had as a grade-schooler, betting his lunch money on hands of blackjack in the bathroom stalls between classes.
While the pre game analysts babbled Peter sidled up to the bar and drank shots of Jagermeister backed by Budweiser. The alcohol had little effect because of his nerves, so he drank more than he should have. By the second quarter he was thoroughly drunk, screaming at the television on every play – favorable or not – and questionable call by the referees. Fortunately for the other denizens of the room, once the Chargers took control of the game they never looked back, which had a subduing effect on his interest. Once your team is up three scores, the game loses its most essential element, hope, and circumstances can only get worse. For most of the second half he just sat there staring vaguely into a blurred distance, cold sweat gathering on his pale, unshaven face.
The game ended with San Diego winning by twenty points, easily covering the spread. A patron Peter had been talking with earlier slapped him on the back.
“You did it buddy. Piece of cake. Easy money.”
Peter alighted to the reality that the game had finally ended in his favor. He stood atop the second rung of his stool, wavering slightly, and called out, “Merry Christmas! The next round’s on me. God bless us, every one!”
A halfhearted cheer emanated from the crowd.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Feelin’ Fine
Glancing furtively at my watch for the tenth time in an hour, I knew that if I hung around for another thirty minutes and let the clock go past midnight I’d be at it till sunup, if not much later. A new bindle was tossed on the glass, even though there was a small portion still remaining in the first. A newly met companion began chopping at the powder with methodical, almost technical precision. Dr. Loud’s girl nodded off on the couch. She wanted out too. My first move was snagging the almost empty bindle. I’d need something to revive me when I got home.
“I’m gonna take this little bit and get out of here,” I announced to the group.
“Ahh, c’mon,” Dr. Loud exclaimed.
“Gotta do it. Things to work on tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“And you know I’ve gotta give you a hard time about it, too. We each have our role to play in this dialogue.”
I smiled, then said my goodbyes. It had been a good night: a cold martini at Waterbar, Thai food on Howard Street, an only twenty minute wait for the man before a short but sweet session at an apartment I had never been to before. Good people, good food, good fun: but the jig was up. It was Tuesday, after all.
Upon getting home the cat greeted me sleepily. I finished my little bit and downed a couple of Budweiser tall boys. It kept me up till 3:30 listening to Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and some other selections, which suited the cat fine. She spent most of the night on the porch pawing at an inchworm that had somehow landed there during the rain. When I went to bed I was prepared for the worst in the morning.
But somehow, I woke up at 7:15 and all was well. Huh, I thought. This can’t last. But here it is 11:45 and I’m rolling through the day. A rare reprieve from the toll taker; I think I’ll go to lunch now.
“I’m gonna take this little bit and get out of here,” I announced to the group.
“Ahh, c’mon,” Dr. Loud exclaimed.
“Gotta do it. Things to work on tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“And you know I’ve gotta give you a hard time about it, too. We each have our role to play in this dialogue.”
I smiled, then said my goodbyes. It had been a good night: a cold martini at Waterbar, Thai food on Howard Street, an only twenty minute wait for the man before a short but sweet session at an apartment I had never been to before. Good people, good food, good fun: but the jig was up. It was Tuesday, after all.
Upon getting home the cat greeted me sleepily. I finished my little bit and downed a couple of Budweiser tall boys. It kept me up till 3:30 listening to Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and some other selections, which suited the cat fine. She spent most of the night on the porch pawing at an inchworm that had somehow landed there during the rain. When I went to bed I was prepared for the worst in the morning.
But somehow, I woke up at 7:15 and all was well. Huh, I thought. This can’t last. But here it is 11:45 and I’m rolling through the day. A rare reprieve from the toll taker; I think I’ll go to lunch now.
Monday, January 11, 2010
A Quote From Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Every vice is only an exaggeration of a necessary and virtuous function."
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Ten
10
He was staying in the Lyndon Johnson room. A stroke of good fortune, the front desk assistant informed him enthusiastically. As he entered, he immediately realized that it was true. The quarters were a little bit nicer than the Wayne Newton and Gary Cooper rooms, which he had occupied on past visits. It was comfortably appointed and complete with framed news clippings and Life magazines featuring the enigmatic man who had once occupied the White House and – perhaps even more significantly – completely dominated the United States Senate in his prime. LBJ had been a legendary drinker, Peter reminded himself.
The hotel had been a stopping point in the old days for movie stars traveling from Hollywood to Sun Valley, Idaho on vacation. The layout of the public areas, the small rooms and faulty plumbing reflected the advanced age of the place, but it had a ton of charm and was saturated with its own history. And Peter liked it because it felt private: the kind of place he could stay and rest assured that he’d be left alone. But it was more than just the sense of privacy that he enjoyed – there was an intangible element, a heightened sense of self that he experienced whenever he visited. Here in the middle of the high desert, in a town nobody knew, in a hotel that time had forgotten, he felt like he was somehow more significant, as if the isolation and small population created an artificial premium on humanity.
After an hour in the room and a shower that ran from scalding hot to freezing cold several times, he made his way down to the “gambling hall” intent on a few drinks and some gaming. He went first to the bar, deposited a hundred bucks into the video poker machine and ordered a Stolichnaya-tonic, which went down fast and smooth, warming his insides and creating a tingling sensation all over his skin. After three of these his hundred dollars was all used up, so he proceeded to the lone restaurant and enjoyed a medium-rare T bone steak, baked potato and salad accompanied by a terrible house red wine that suited him perfectly. After his meal he lingered over a cigarette that was so satisfying he seriously considered calling it a night right then and there. It was hard to imagine that the evening could get any better than it already was.
And although he was certainly tired enough to turn in, he knew that it would be impossible to end the night without at least a little blackjack. So he ventured further downstairs to the subterranean bunker where the card games were dealt. Fortunately, there was a single game going with only one seated player, a quiet, skinny old timer with a wild head of grey hair. Peter took the first seat and attempted to cash in for a thousand dollars.
“You don’t need that much, buddy,” the dealer said as he saw the stack of large bills.
“You don’t know how much I bet,” Peter retorted.
“Maximum is twenty-five a hand.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How long’s that been going on?”
“Quite a while. We had card counters came in here a while back – they cleaned us out. Had to drop the maximum.”
At first Peter was floored with disappointment. He had no drugs left and now he couldn’t get the action he wanted on the tables. Two out of his three main vices were being denied him. “Well, if that’s the case,” he began as he pulled half of the money off the table, “I’m going to need a drink ASAP.” The thought that at least booze was available twenty-four hours a day quelled his initial frustration.
“That I can do for you,” the dealer responded, sensing relief in the air.
“Can I play more than one hand?”
“Sure thing.”
Peter put a green chip on four spaces.
The game moved along pleasantly enough. The old man didn’t say much but he was a decent companion. The cocktail waitress came down every fifteen minutes like clockwork. And the dealer, a forty-something character named Gene, kept the game and conversation lively.
“What brought you to Ely, Gene?” Peter inquired.
“DUI.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me right. I was driving home from Salt Lake City to Reno. Shoulda taken the 80 but I had been through this town once before and I liked a little bar on the east side that had one of the prettiest bartenders I’ve ever known. So, like a moron I came south through Provo and hit the 50. It was a spring night – beautiful. I pulled over twice just to look at the stars in the sky.”
“Just get on with the goddamned story,” the old timer interjected, his first words since Peter had arrived at the table. “I’ve heard it a million times.”
“Okay, Joe. There’s no reason to get your panties in a bunch. So anyway, I had half a dozen or so pops at this bar – the woman I had come to see wasn’t even there, it was her night off – and I decided it was time to head out. It must have been two o’clock in the morning. I didn’t get five miles down the highway before I was pulled over. They arrested me and threw me in jail for the night. At that point, I had to stay around for court, which was a couple of weeks later. My intention was just to plead guilty and head back home. But the funny thing was, by the time the two weeks went by I had already lost my job and been evicted from my apartment, where I was four months late on my rent. So in reality I had nothing to go home for. The shit in my apartment wasn’t worth a thing: nothing but raggedy clothing and a soiled mattress.”
“So then what?”
“I plead guilty to driving under the influence. But the judge assigned me all these classes I had to take and there were fines I had to pay off over time, so I just figured it was easier to stay here while I was dealing with the hassle. It only took me a day to get this job and I’ve been at it ever since.”
“How long has it been?”
“Two and a half years.”
Peter was astonished. “But you must have taken care of all the legal requirements by now. You probably could have left town eighteen months ago.”
“That’s about right.”
“So what’s the deal? You must really like living here.”
“Not really.”
“The job pays well?”
“Fair to midland.”
“So how is it you’ve been here for so long?”
“I got a sweet little bungalow I stay in; it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Not many places in this world you can have a place of your own for two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Besides, I get a break on drinks at the bar after my shift and I can crawl home whenever I want to. It’s not so bad, really. Beats the rat race in Reno.”
The rat race in Reno? Peter had never heard it so described. He was about to say something, but decided it was best not to play the contrarian. “So do you think you’re here to stay, Gene?”
“I doubt it. I’ll probably take off in a year or so. I’m thinking of going to Eastern Washington, Spokane maybe. Who knows? I’ve gotta save up some dough first.”
“Well, with the cheap rent that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“That’s true. On the other hand, I drink, which is working against me a little bit. I guess it’s about a wash in the end.”
Peter understood exactly what he meant.
He was staying in the Lyndon Johnson room. A stroke of good fortune, the front desk assistant informed him enthusiastically. As he entered, he immediately realized that it was true. The quarters were a little bit nicer than the Wayne Newton and Gary Cooper rooms, which he had occupied on past visits. It was comfortably appointed and complete with framed news clippings and Life magazines featuring the enigmatic man who had once occupied the White House and – perhaps even more significantly – completely dominated the United States Senate in his prime. LBJ had been a legendary drinker, Peter reminded himself.
The hotel had been a stopping point in the old days for movie stars traveling from Hollywood to Sun Valley, Idaho on vacation. The layout of the public areas, the small rooms and faulty plumbing reflected the advanced age of the place, but it had a ton of charm and was saturated with its own history. And Peter liked it because it felt private: the kind of place he could stay and rest assured that he’d be left alone. But it was more than just the sense of privacy that he enjoyed – there was an intangible element, a heightened sense of self that he experienced whenever he visited. Here in the middle of the high desert, in a town nobody knew, in a hotel that time had forgotten, he felt like he was somehow more significant, as if the isolation and small population created an artificial premium on humanity.
After an hour in the room and a shower that ran from scalding hot to freezing cold several times, he made his way down to the “gambling hall” intent on a few drinks and some gaming. He went first to the bar, deposited a hundred bucks into the video poker machine and ordered a Stolichnaya-tonic, which went down fast and smooth, warming his insides and creating a tingling sensation all over his skin. After three of these his hundred dollars was all used up, so he proceeded to the lone restaurant and enjoyed a medium-rare T bone steak, baked potato and salad accompanied by a terrible house red wine that suited him perfectly. After his meal he lingered over a cigarette that was so satisfying he seriously considered calling it a night right then and there. It was hard to imagine that the evening could get any better than it already was.
And although he was certainly tired enough to turn in, he knew that it would be impossible to end the night without at least a little blackjack. So he ventured further downstairs to the subterranean bunker where the card games were dealt. Fortunately, there was a single game going with only one seated player, a quiet, skinny old timer with a wild head of grey hair. Peter took the first seat and attempted to cash in for a thousand dollars.
“You don’t need that much, buddy,” the dealer said as he saw the stack of large bills.
“You don’t know how much I bet,” Peter retorted.
“Maximum is twenty-five a hand.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How long’s that been going on?”
“Quite a while. We had card counters came in here a while back – they cleaned us out. Had to drop the maximum.”
At first Peter was floored with disappointment. He had no drugs left and now he couldn’t get the action he wanted on the tables. Two out of his three main vices were being denied him. “Well, if that’s the case,” he began as he pulled half of the money off the table, “I’m going to need a drink ASAP.” The thought that at least booze was available twenty-four hours a day quelled his initial frustration.
“That I can do for you,” the dealer responded, sensing relief in the air.
“Can I play more than one hand?”
“Sure thing.”
Peter put a green chip on four spaces.
The game moved along pleasantly enough. The old man didn’t say much but he was a decent companion. The cocktail waitress came down every fifteen minutes like clockwork. And the dealer, a forty-something character named Gene, kept the game and conversation lively.
“What brought you to Ely, Gene?” Peter inquired.
“DUI.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me right. I was driving home from Salt Lake City to Reno. Shoulda taken the 80 but I had been through this town once before and I liked a little bar on the east side that had one of the prettiest bartenders I’ve ever known. So, like a moron I came south through Provo and hit the 50. It was a spring night – beautiful. I pulled over twice just to look at the stars in the sky.”
“Just get on with the goddamned story,” the old timer interjected, his first words since Peter had arrived at the table. “I’ve heard it a million times.”
“Okay, Joe. There’s no reason to get your panties in a bunch. So anyway, I had half a dozen or so pops at this bar – the woman I had come to see wasn’t even there, it was her night off – and I decided it was time to head out. It must have been two o’clock in the morning. I didn’t get five miles down the highway before I was pulled over. They arrested me and threw me in jail for the night. At that point, I had to stay around for court, which was a couple of weeks later. My intention was just to plead guilty and head back home. But the funny thing was, by the time the two weeks went by I had already lost my job and been evicted from my apartment, where I was four months late on my rent. So in reality I had nothing to go home for. The shit in my apartment wasn’t worth a thing: nothing but raggedy clothing and a soiled mattress.”
“So then what?”
“I plead guilty to driving under the influence. But the judge assigned me all these classes I had to take and there were fines I had to pay off over time, so I just figured it was easier to stay here while I was dealing with the hassle. It only took me a day to get this job and I’ve been at it ever since.”
“How long has it been?”
“Two and a half years.”
Peter was astonished. “But you must have taken care of all the legal requirements by now. You probably could have left town eighteen months ago.”
“That’s about right.”
“So what’s the deal? You must really like living here.”
“Not really.”
“The job pays well?”
“Fair to midland.”
“So how is it you’ve been here for so long?”
“I got a sweet little bungalow I stay in; it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Not many places in this world you can have a place of your own for two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Besides, I get a break on drinks at the bar after my shift and I can crawl home whenever I want to. It’s not so bad, really. Beats the rat race in Reno.”
The rat race in Reno? Peter had never heard it so described. He was about to say something, but decided it was best not to play the contrarian. “So do you think you’re here to stay, Gene?”
“I doubt it. I’ll probably take off in a year or so. I’m thinking of going to Eastern Washington, Spokane maybe. Who knows? I’ve gotta save up some dough first.”
“Well, with the cheap rent that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“That’s true. On the other hand, I drink, which is working against me a little bit. I guess it’s about a wash in the end.”
Peter understood exactly what he meant.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Tyranny of Chinese "Drug Treatment"
This article was posted today from the New York Times. Kafkaesque. The author is Andrew Jacobs:
Fu Lixin, emotionally exhausted from caring for her sick mother, needed a little pick-me-up. A friend offered her a "special cigarette" - one laced with methamphetamine - and Fu happily inhaled.
The next day, three policemen showed up at her door.
"They asked me to urinate in a cup," she said. "My friend had been arrested and turned me in. It was a drug test. I failed on the spot."
Although she said it was her first time smoking meth, Fu, 41, was promptly sent to one of China's compulsory drug rehabilitation centers. The minimum stay is two years, and life is an unremitting gantlet of physical abuse and forced labor without any drug treatment, according to former inmates and substance abuse professionals.
"It was a hell I'm still trying to recover from," she said.
According to the United Nations, as many as a half-million Chinese citizens are held at these centers at any given time. Detentions are meted out by the police without trials, judges or appeals. Created in 2008 as part of a reform effort to grapple with the country's growing narcotics problem, the centers, lawyers and drug experts say, have become de facto penal colonies where inmates are sent to factories and farms, fed substandard food and denied basic medical care.
"They call them detoxification centers, but everyone knows that detox takes a few days, not two years," said Joseph Amon, an epidemiologist with Human Rights Watch in New York. "The basic concept is inhumane and flawed."
On Thursday, Human Rights Watch issued a report on the drug rehabilitation system, which replaced the Communist Party's previous approach of sending addicts to labor camps, where they would toil alongside thieves, prostitutes and political dissidents.
The report, titled "Where Darkness Knows No Limits," calls on the government to immediately shut down the detention centers.
Under the Anti-Drug Law of 2008, drug offenders were to be sent to professionally staffed detox facilities and then released to community-based rehabilitation centers for up to four years of therapeutic follow-up.
But substance abuse experts say the system, part of a stated "people centered" approach to dealing with addiction, has simply given the old system a new name. What is worse, they say, is that it expands the six-month compulsory detentions of old into two-year periods that the authorities can extend by five years.
The community-based rehabilitation centers, treatment experts add, have yet to be established.
Wang Xiaoguang, the vice director of Daytop, an American-affiliated drug-treatment residence in Yunnan province, said the government detox centers were little more than business ventures run by the police. Detainees, he said, spend their days working at chicken farms or shoe factories that have contracts with the local police; drug treatment, counseling and vocational training are almost nonexistent.
"I don't think this is the ideal situation for people trying to recover from addiction," Wang said in a phone interview.
The Office of National Narcotics Control Commission did not respond to requests for comment.
Fu Lixin, emotionally exhausted from caring for her sick mother, needed a little pick-me-up. A friend offered her a "special cigarette" - one laced with methamphetamine - and Fu happily inhaled.
The next day, three policemen showed up at her door.
"They asked me to urinate in a cup," she said. "My friend had been arrested and turned me in. It was a drug test. I failed on the spot."
Although she said it was her first time smoking meth, Fu, 41, was promptly sent to one of China's compulsory drug rehabilitation centers. The minimum stay is two years, and life is an unremitting gantlet of physical abuse and forced labor without any drug treatment, according to former inmates and substance abuse professionals.
"It was a hell I'm still trying to recover from," she said.
According to the United Nations, as many as a half-million Chinese citizens are held at these centers at any given time. Detentions are meted out by the police without trials, judges or appeals. Created in 2008 as part of a reform effort to grapple with the country's growing narcotics problem, the centers, lawyers and drug experts say, have become de facto penal colonies where inmates are sent to factories and farms, fed substandard food and denied basic medical care.
"They call them detoxification centers, but everyone knows that detox takes a few days, not two years," said Joseph Amon, an epidemiologist with Human Rights Watch in New York. "The basic concept is inhumane and flawed."
On Thursday, Human Rights Watch issued a report on the drug rehabilitation system, which replaced the Communist Party's previous approach of sending addicts to labor camps, where they would toil alongside thieves, prostitutes and political dissidents.
The report, titled "Where Darkness Knows No Limits," calls on the government to immediately shut down the detention centers.
Under the Anti-Drug Law of 2008, drug offenders were to be sent to professionally staffed detox facilities and then released to community-based rehabilitation centers for up to four years of therapeutic follow-up.
But substance abuse experts say the system, part of a stated "people centered" approach to dealing with addiction, has simply given the old system a new name. What is worse, they say, is that it expands the six-month compulsory detentions of old into two-year periods that the authorities can extend by five years.
The community-based rehabilitation centers, treatment experts add, have yet to be established.
Wang Xiaoguang, the vice director of Daytop, an American-affiliated drug-treatment residence in Yunnan province, said the government detox centers were little more than business ventures run by the police. Detainees, he said, spend their days working at chicken farms or shoe factories that have contracts with the local police; drug treatment, counseling and vocational training are almost nonexistent.
"I don't think this is the ideal situation for people trying to recover from addiction," Wang said in a phone interview.
The Office of National Narcotics Control Commission did not respond to requests for comment.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Piccolo Teatro, Sausalito, California
In a small restaurant in one of the coolest towns in one of the superlative counties in America a diamond is being born. I say “being born” because this aptly named “Little Theater” seems to be in a constant state of becoming, of evolution in a lively synthesis of regional cuisine, sustainability, originality and tradition. The management points to the influence of the Veneto Regione of Italy as a starting point for a discussion involving the cuisine. But to me this restaurant is so much more than can be described by the lexicon of any one region or style of cooking.
Located at 739 Bridgeway in the heart of downtown, Piccolo Teatro is a sophisticated blend of simple, time tested and classic comfort food with innovative twists reflecting the diversity of the Bay Area. A side dish as simple as the sautéed winter greens dances with the perfect balance of garlic, chile and lemon. The pasta and meatballs would be more appropriately named “meatballs and pasta,” if one were to accurately reflect the percentages. The Ragu of rabbit and polenta is rich but the flavor is cut perfectly with pecorino cheese. Don’t forget to order a salumi plate as an appetizer: the quality of the prosciutto, sopressata and coppa is simply unrivaled. And you’ve got to try the butter beans, an otherwise straightforward side that is coated luxuriously in truffle oil.
Piccolo Teatro serves lunch daily and breakfast on the weekends, but my four visits have always been at dinner time. This allows me a one hundred percent certainty of enjoying their excellent bar before I get into my meal. They have, hands down, the best martini olives I have ever tasted. Their wine list is discriminating, and well represented by a healthy number of unique Italian selections.
And if all that I have described isn’t enough to bring you in, let me tell you with absolute certainty that the service equals if not exceeds the quality of the food, wine and spirits. From the management to the servers, bartenders and even the bussers, cordiality and knowledge are the touchstones. These are people that are proud to work at this restaurant and want to share that pride with its patrons. Run, don’t walk, to Piccolo Teatro.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Nine
9
The Jag started rough. It not been driven for several days and the temperature was quite cold. It was a funny old car: it needed constant attention and was always breaking down with great attendant expense: that part at least was expected. But it was also temperamental when left to rest for a few days, like an elderly person who has slept too long and too deeply. Peter always thought that a little break should be good for an automobile, but this was simply not the case with his. He would have gotten rid of the car years ago were it not for the fact that he loved her so: the long, aerodynamic hood that contained the V12 engine, the simple luxury of the leather and wood trim interior and most importantly the fact that she was over twenty years old and completely anachronistic in form, especially in the context of his erstwhile workplace, where the she had been surrounded in the parking lot by the latest model Porsche and Mercedes.
Once he was through Sparks and on the open road she started to purr and he knew that there would be no problems in the immediate future. Beyond the town of Lockwood he passed through the scenery of the Hafed and Clark Bluff Canyons and into the town of Mustang, from where the famed whorehouse took its name. Continuing down Highway 80 through Patrick and Wadsworth, he turned onto Highway 95 near Fernley and began heading southeast. Along this stretch he witnessed a long cargo train bearing yellow and black Union Pacific cars; a living fossil, he thought, still viable in the digital age, a sturgeon of the desert plains, a horseshoe crab, a crocodile.
Before Ragtown Highway 95 morphed into Highway 50 and Peter knew he had reached the first significant milestone in his new journey: the aptly-named “loneliest road in America,” which, after the town of Fallon, opened long, wide and empty into the great and mysterious Nevada wilderness.
At the town of Cold Springs he noticed that the car was running a little low on gas, so he pulled into the first filling station he saw, which, he regretted, was a full thirty cents more expensive than several he had passed only half an hour earlier. It struck him as odd that he would consider losing twenty-five hundred dollars gambling over a period of a few days a bargain, but would shudder at an additional five dollar expense in gasoline. Nevertheless, this was how he felt.
The pump was a virtual antique and the gas came slow, a tenth of a gallon every few seconds. As it was quite obvious that filling the large capacity tank was going to take some time, Peter proceeded into the attached store to buy a soda.
Behind the counter was a middle aged man sporting a worn baseball hat and a burning cigarette between his cracked lips. Smoke curled directly into his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He stared at Peter with a look that was part confusion and part apathy. He wore a bushy moustache that was completely grey under his nose, but gradually became a yellowish brown over his upper lip. Peter wondered whether this was a natural pattern or if perhaps years of smoking had discolored the bottom portion. From his knowledge of used ashtrays and nicotine stains, he was inclined to think the latter.
Peter pretended to peruse the soda selection carefully, but really he just wanted to break the silence that brooded over the room. It seemed fortunate when the stranger spoke first.
“Ain’t often that we see them kind of cars around here.”
“No, I guess that’s true.”
“What year is it?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Nope, we don’t see many of them, that’s right. California plates, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter was becoming a little unnerved from the tone of the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so off balance in a dialogue.
“What in the world brings a fella like you around here, headed into the big nothin’.”
“The big nothing?”
“I saw which direction you came in from. You’re headed east.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothin’ out there.”
“There’s plenty out there.”
“Like what?”
“That’s my business, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so. Just curious.”
Peter sighed. It was better to not be defensive. “I’m just driving. And it’s not the first time I’ve covered this country. Call it a vacation, if you want.”
“Seems a little odd to me, a grown man just drivin’ for the sake of drivin’ – vacation or not.”
“It’s not so odd, really,” he replied with attempted enthusiasm. “Actually, if you think about it, it’s about as American an activity as you’ll ever encounter. Though it’s perhaps becoming more rare, with the price of gas nowadays.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, just think about the great books on the subject, for instance: Kerouac’s On the Road, Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, even Nabokov’s Lolita are all perfect examples of the road trip narrative in American literature.” The moment he spoke the words, Peter became embarrassed, knowing that his thoughts had been wasted and came off as haughty.
The stranger snorted and looked in another direction. It was obvious he considered the discussion finished. Peter decided against the drink but still had to pay for the gas. He approached his unnecessary nemesis with a strange trepidation.
“Tank full yet?” he inquired.
“Yup. Fifty-eight eighty five.
Peter threw three twenty dollar bills on the counter and turned immediately. “Keep the change,” he said over his shoulder as he left. The man said something contradictory in reply but it was too late. His customer had made a very hasty exit.
***
The last half joint was burning fast between his fingers due to a good wind, and was about to expire after only a few hits. He tossed it to the ground, neither happy nor sad to have finally done away with the remainder of the pot, but aware that he was unlikely to come across any more in his current location. His head felt right, for the moment anyway, as he stared blankly at the dramatic white-capped peaks of the Toiyabe mountain range, which rose from the floor of the landscape like a jagged saw tooth.
It was not exactly silent. There was the wind, which was the source of a satisfying background noise that reminded him of the now distant ocean. From somewhere within the Jaguar came small pops, creaks and pings as the engine cooled in the brisk air. Once every ten minutes or so a car passed in either direction and sped off into the distance, a fleeting companion. The sun was high in the clear light blue sky, casting a filtered winter light on the ground. It was peaceful here on the side of the road, he thought; everything seemed to be in its proper place.
Peter got back into the Jag, fired her up once again and flew down Highway 50 at an eventual speed of ninety-five miles an hour. He only had to slow down for the towns: still Austin went by in a flash. On the road he felt whole and satisfied, a man at harmony with his life. At times thoughts and memories drifted into his mind and were completely processed, enjoyed or resolved as circumstances dictated. Alone with his conscience, memories and emotions, he would burst into laughter one instance and his eyes would well with tears the next. Other moments were filled with an absolute absence of thought – a profound emptiness, a lack of consciousness even of his own being which could only be achieved behind the wheel of a hurtling automobile, a state of mind as close to Zen as he could ever get.
It was with his psyche thus vacillating between these several states of mind that he continued his journey, passing through Eureka without even really noticing it. And when he saw the sign that indicated he had arrived at his final destination for the day he was almost disappointed and considered driving on into the dusk. But the town of Ely was too special a place to pass up and he was getting hungry. He pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, parked and got out of the car. It was quiet, the air was very chill and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. The town of nine thousand souls felt like it contained more like nine hundred. In the contiguous United States there is no settlement of similar size more isolated than where Peter stood. This thought gave him great satisfaction.
The Jag started rough. It not been driven for several days and the temperature was quite cold. It was a funny old car: it needed constant attention and was always breaking down with great attendant expense: that part at least was expected. But it was also temperamental when left to rest for a few days, like an elderly person who has slept too long and too deeply. Peter always thought that a little break should be good for an automobile, but this was simply not the case with his. He would have gotten rid of the car years ago were it not for the fact that he loved her so: the long, aerodynamic hood that contained the V12 engine, the simple luxury of the leather and wood trim interior and most importantly the fact that she was over twenty years old and completely anachronistic in form, especially in the context of his erstwhile workplace, where the she had been surrounded in the parking lot by the latest model Porsche and Mercedes.
Once he was through Sparks and on the open road she started to purr and he knew that there would be no problems in the immediate future. Beyond the town of Lockwood he passed through the scenery of the Hafed and Clark Bluff Canyons and into the town of Mustang, from where the famed whorehouse took its name. Continuing down Highway 80 through Patrick and Wadsworth, he turned onto Highway 95 near Fernley and began heading southeast. Along this stretch he witnessed a long cargo train bearing yellow and black Union Pacific cars; a living fossil, he thought, still viable in the digital age, a sturgeon of the desert plains, a horseshoe crab, a crocodile.
Before Ragtown Highway 95 morphed into Highway 50 and Peter knew he had reached the first significant milestone in his new journey: the aptly-named “loneliest road in America,” which, after the town of Fallon, opened long, wide and empty into the great and mysterious Nevada wilderness.
At the town of Cold Springs he noticed that the car was running a little low on gas, so he pulled into the first filling station he saw, which, he regretted, was a full thirty cents more expensive than several he had passed only half an hour earlier. It struck him as odd that he would consider losing twenty-five hundred dollars gambling over a period of a few days a bargain, but would shudder at an additional five dollar expense in gasoline. Nevertheless, this was how he felt.
The pump was a virtual antique and the gas came slow, a tenth of a gallon every few seconds. As it was quite obvious that filling the large capacity tank was going to take some time, Peter proceeded into the attached store to buy a soda.
Behind the counter was a middle aged man sporting a worn baseball hat and a burning cigarette between his cracked lips. Smoke curled directly into his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He stared at Peter with a look that was part confusion and part apathy. He wore a bushy moustache that was completely grey under his nose, but gradually became a yellowish brown over his upper lip. Peter wondered whether this was a natural pattern or if perhaps years of smoking had discolored the bottom portion. From his knowledge of used ashtrays and nicotine stains, he was inclined to think the latter.
Peter pretended to peruse the soda selection carefully, but really he just wanted to break the silence that brooded over the room. It seemed fortunate when the stranger spoke first.
“Ain’t often that we see them kind of cars around here.”
“No, I guess that’s true.”
“What year is it?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Nope, we don’t see many of them, that’s right. California plates, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter was becoming a little unnerved from the tone of the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so off balance in a dialogue.
“What in the world brings a fella like you around here, headed into the big nothin’.”
“The big nothing?”
“I saw which direction you came in from. You’re headed east.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothin’ out there.”
“There’s plenty out there.”
“Like what?”
“That’s my business, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so. Just curious.”
Peter sighed. It was better to not be defensive. “I’m just driving. And it’s not the first time I’ve covered this country. Call it a vacation, if you want.”
“Seems a little odd to me, a grown man just drivin’ for the sake of drivin’ – vacation or not.”
“It’s not so odd, really,” he replied with attempted enthusiasm. “Actually, if you think about it, it’s about as American an activity as you’ll ever encounter. Though it’s perhaps becoming more rare, with the price of gas nowadays.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, just think about the great books on the subject, for instance: Kerouac’s On the Road, Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, even Nabokov’s Lolita are all perfect examples of the road trip narrative in American literature.” The moment he spoke the words, Peter became embarrassed, knowing that his thoughts had been wasted and came off as haughty.
The stranger snorted and looked in another direction. It was obvious he considered the discussion finished. Peter decided against the drink but still had to pay for the gas. He approached his unnecessary nemesis with a strange trepidation.
“Tank full yet?” he inquired.
“Yup. Fifty-eight eighty five.
Peter threw three twenty dollar bills on the counter and turned immediately. “Keep the change,” he said over his shoulder as he left. The man said something contradictory in reply but it was too late. His customer had made a very hasty exit.
***
The last half joint was burning fast between his fingers due to a good wind, and was about to expire after only a few hits. He tossed it to the ground, neither happy nor sad to have finally done away with the remainder of the pot, but aware that he was unlikely to come across any more in his current location. His head felt right, for the moment anyway, as he stared blankly at the dramatic white-capped peaks of the Toiyabe mountain range, which rose from the floor of the landscape like a jagged saw tooth.
It was not exactly silent. There was the wind, which was the source of a satisfying background noise that reminded him of the now distant ocean. From somewhere within the Jaguar came small pops, creaks and pings as the engine cooled in the brisk air. Once every ten minutes or so a car passed in either direction and sped off into the distance, a fleeting companion. The sun was high in the clear light blue sky, casting a filtered winter light on the ground. It was peaceful here on the side of the road, he thought; everything seemed to be in its proper place.
Peter got back into the Jag, fired her up once again and flew down Highway 50 at an eventual speed of ninety-five miles an hour. He only had to slow down for the towns: still Austin went by in a flash. On the road he felt whole and satisfied, a man at harmony with his life. At times thoughts and memories drifted into his mind and were completely processed, enjoyed or resolved as circumstances dictated. Alone with his conscience, memories and emotions, he would burst into laughter one instance and his eyes would well with tears the next. Other moments were filled with an absolute absence of thought – a profound emptiness, a lack of consciousness even of his own being which could only be achieved behind the wheel of a hurtling automobile, a state of mind as close to Zen as he could ever get.
It was with his psyche thus vacillating between these several states of mind that he continued his journey, passing through Eureka without even really noticing it. And when he saw the sign that indicated he had arrived at his final destination for the day he was almost disappointed and considered driving on into the dusk. But the town of Ely was too special a place to pass up and he was getting hungry. He pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, parked and got out of the car. It was quiet, the air was very chill and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. The town of nine thousand souls felt like it contained more like nine hundred. In the contiguous United States there is no settlement of similar size more isolated than where Peter stood. This thought gave him great satisfaction.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A Quote From Oscar Wilde
"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."
- The Picture of Dorian Gray
- The Picture of Dorian Gray
Monday, January 4, 2010
Addict Recommends: (Bar) The Eight Ball, Cotati, California
It was well over a year and a half ago, and I was at the Eight Ball with a lady friend who was soon to move on to greener pastures. I know for sure that it was a Tuesday night, because I recall belting out some karaoke Sinatra and the gal performing a surprisingly decent rendition of “Loving You” (It’s easy ‘cause I’m beautiful) while she stared at me as if I was the only person in the room. I’ll gladly tell you I was the envy of more than one of the many guys in the bar that night.
We were outside having a smoke after indulging our inner lounge singer when a twenty something blonde, skinny girl came up and asked us for a light. I surmised from her sweatshirt that she was a student at Sonoma State University just down the street. The place is literally teeming with these types, so if young, dumb and drunk is what you’re into, you’ve come to the right place. Anyway, this one was drunk for sure and the three of us began conversing.
“What are you up to tonight?” my girl asked.
“Whatever I can get into,” Blondie replied. “I'm fuckin’ pissed at my boyfriend."
“Why is that?” I inquired.
“Sonofabitch took off earlier tonight with some other chick. I told him, ‘hey, you’re supposed to be goin’ home with me.’ But he didn’t give a shit. ‘I’m a poon hound and you knew that,’ he told me. ‘We have an open relationship.’ Well fuck him! You know what? I’m a peen hound, and I’m gonna get some dick tonight if it’s the last thing I do!”
“Damn, too bad I’m with somebody,” I chuckled.
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” my girl replied.
And this pretty much sums it up for the Eight Ball. You will be hard pressed to find a bar before Berkeley to the south and Eureka to the north with more young, drunk chicks looking to get laid. In addition, the drinks are stiff and cheap, the bartenders are relatively friendly, (Brett is an especial favorite of mine) the juke box is well stocked and the pool tables are straight and clean. And yeah, it’s a dive. So you’ll feel right at home.
The only thing I can’t understand is why I’ve never been able to score coke at a place called the Eight Ball.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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