There are some things that are only funny if you were there. This is the kind of thing that’s only funny if you weren’t there. I haven’t seen Jeff in eight years. That was eight years of unanswered letters. Eight years of unreturned phone calls. Eight years of poisoning myself. Jeff meets me at the airport, as arranged.
“Long flight?”
“Oh well,” I say, “you know.”
“Didn’t drink on the plane did you?”
I shake my head side to side.
“Carrie’s excited to meet you.”
“Hey, I just wanna make love. Not war.”
“I’m serious though,” Jeff says. “She’s very excited.”
“She hasn’t turned against me?”
“No. She doesn’t know anything about you.”
“What have you told her?”
“I said her daddy’s an important writer in New York and that’s on the other side of the country from here.”
“I used to be an important writer.”
“She just needed to know there was something between you. Even if it is just a country.”

It took me a long twenty years to get to this point. My first completed novel, Breathing Holes, detailed a psychiatrist’s spiritual re-awakening after a plane crash and the eventual formation of a terrorist group in the name of Jesus. It was heavy with satire and had a tight, fully clenched narrative. It got nowhere. The second novel, Ice Castles in the Sky, was a somber and sometimes humorous exploration of life, love, and the meaning of it all. This one was picked up by a publisher and quietly thrown into the world. At the time, Jeff and I were living together in Los Angeles. We shared a house with a friend in the San Fernando Valley. It was an artist collective, as we were all artistically inclined. Jeff was going to film school while I worked a menial job to pay the bills. Ice Castles was released with little fanfare and then my world changed. The book started selling. Word of mouth and glowing reviews from the critics launched the book onto the bestseller lists. I gave up the day job and settled down to write full time.

“I almost backed out at the last moment,” I tell Jeff.
“Backed out of what? Your contract?”
“The smartest lawyer in the world couldn’t get me out of my contract. They own me lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Backed out of what?”
“Of the trip. Coming to see you.”
“I don’t think you have much choice anymore.”
And he was right. I didn’t have any choice. My follow up to Ice Castles was comprised of the best pieces I wrote for my failed first novel, the one I attempted before I wrote Breathing Holes. It was called Dead End Etiquette. Once again, it was heavy with satire. It traced the lives of two 20somethings living on opposite coasts. Brian, in New York City, was fighting a losing battle for his sanity while Jamie, in Los Angeles, struggled to find originality and inspiration in a city with no soul. Once again, there was a huge critical response and I was touted as the “voice of a generation”. Right on the heels of Dead End Etiquette came my defining work, Living Through the Smoke. It was a dystopian novel and it re-wrote the genre. As it peaked in sales, a whirlwind of media appearances and magazine interviews whisked me away from my hermitic lifestyle.

At this point, Jeff made his first feature film. He had produced a fairly good indie movie examining the lives and relationships of a group of teenagers. It was met with a lukewarm response and a decent box office total. Ironically, Jeff was leveled with the same jabs that I was. Namely, that our characters had no moral compass, they were completely off the map. There were cries that we didn’t know how to use story arcs, that our characters were mindless cretins lacking in development. Jeff’s feature film, Black, was a Tarantinoesque tale of two hitmen’s journey to eliminate the president. It was a fine film, well shot and acted. But it was box office poison. Jeff was labeled derivative of the genre and lacking in originality. It was to be Jeff’s last time in the director’s chair although we didn’t know it at the time.

“Are you excited to see her at all?” Jeff wants to know.
“I’ve got my mind on my luggage,” I respond. “One thing at a time. That’s what they teach you in all those twelve step courses.”

My follow up to Living Through the Smoke was a coming of age story called Patient Refuses to Come Down. While I considered it to be my finest work, much better than the much hyped Living Through…, most of the world greeted it with a total lack of enthusiasm. I was bashed for straying from my well-tested formula. This was a drama, this was a spiritual book, this was a novel about growing up in a culture where god has been replaced by a dollar sign.

Jeff helps me carry my bags to his car. “Don’t look at anyone,” he tells me as he slams the trunk.
“I’m not here to score if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say.
“Score what? Women or smack?”
“Both.”
“You’ve already got a lady in your life. She’s eight years old and she’s waiting for you.”
“Women aren’t a problem,” I say.
“I’d say four paternity suits in a single decade is a problem.”
“You giving me the hucklebuck?”
“Is that the high hat?”
“I’ve missed you, man.”
“Just don’t look at anyone. On the freeway.”
“Why’s that?”
“New gang thing. The latest fad is they drive around and when someone looks at them, they drive up next to them and shoot the car up.”
“I haven’t heard about this on the news.”
“And there are rats in the sewers. The crawl right out of the toilet. We keep the lid down with a brick on top.”
“Is Carrie housebroken?” I ask.
“Josh, she’s eight. She’s not retarded. And I believe you meant ‘potty trained’. Housebreaking is for pets.”
“Fair enough.”
“I was always surprised you never came out of the closet.”
“My career’s not quite done yet. That’ll be my last resort,” I say with a smile. And we pull into traffic, headed for the freeway. I keep my eyes pointed downward.

After Patient Refuses to Come Down, I was scared. I thought it was my greatest writing ever and it was passed over by the public, universally panned by the critics. I was 30 years old and they were already saying that I’d lost it. Whatever ‘it’ was. They just said I didn’t have it anymore. I turned to painkillers to help get me out of my slump. I turned to them and they quickly turned on me. Before I knew it, I had rekindled the heroin habit I had dropped over a decade before and began my ever quickening descent into drug-fueled hell. Along the way, I slept with supermodels, actresses, groupies, pretty much anyone that would have me. By the time it was all over, I had six children by five women. The paternity suits began piling up and book sales were dropping. Royalty checks disappeared. I had to claw my way back from the brink. After two years of this madness, I entered the hospital with the heading “mental exhaustion”. It was the only way to get away from the tabloids, one of which I was in the process of suing over a story about my sex life.
I kicked drugs in the hospital and promised myself that I would stay clean. Now repeat this process a half dozen times over a decade and you’re brought up to date.

Meanwhile, Jeff was getting nowhere in Hollywood. His winning indie offering had no pull with the corporate big wigs who had lost over forty million dollars when Black tanked. They gave Jeff the runaround. They would attach him to projects and then pull funding right before shooting. They would promise him another big break and then leave him hanging. He eventually settled into a job as director of photography on a string of music videos and commercial spots. Melinda came through him to get to me.

The thing you have to realize about quitting heroin is that it’s not just the cravings and the withdrawal that hurt you. At your weakest moment, you have to be stronger than you’ve ever been in your life. And after you’ve kicked the junk and cleaned your life up, it’s still got that pull. Knowing full well that I couldn’t kick it on my own, I left New York and moved in with Jeff for a month. Melinda was already there waiting for me.
“So you’re the famous Josh Campbell,” was the first thing she said to me.
“And you must be Melinda,” I replied.

Melinda had moved in with Jeff just two months after they met. She was a bit plump, would talk your ear off, and freaked out if she saw a spider. This was the first girl that Jeff ever lived with. How I got the monkey off my back was by engaging in a love affair with Melinda. There would be missed days at work, meetings at seedy hotels near Chinatown. And we had to remain passive in front of Jeff. Half the thrill was in the getting away with it. After I was clean, I had no need to be with Melinda. I was over the hump, I had gotten the drugs out of my life. It was now that Jeff found out about the two of us. Angry words. My eyes pointed at the ground, unable to meet my vindicated accuser. Tears of regret by all parties. Then there was the baby. Carrie Leia Campbell. The rather dubious idea of doing a DNA test to determine paternity was suggested by Jeff. I was ready to wash my hands of the whole situation. Results came back. I was once again a father. Jeff was, for the first time, more than a father. He was a dad.
Carrie was the light of his world. Darkness was the only bright spot in mine.

The car crash that killed Melinda was a gruesome affair. By this time I had moved back to New York to work on my great new novel. I was determined to sit down and write the great American novel, the one that everyone goes on about. I don’t think I’ve ever read it. But I was going to write it. There was gravel on the road so when the car in the other lane, trying to pass a slower moving car, pulled into Melinda’s lane and she slammed on the brakes, the whole car turned sideways and the eager beaver smashed straight into the driver’s side door. Melinda wasn’t killed instantly but she died before she got to the hospital. Jeff was, for the first time in years, completely alone. Alone plus one.

In my waning spotlight, I struggled to find the voice that had reinvigorated the literary world. I was a major player in a revitalized medium. But everyone agreed my time had passed. I had written one epic novel and a few good ones. But the general consensus was that I had lost it. That enigmatic it.
Jeff had never lost it. Jeff just hadn’t been well received. After the Melinda thing, I couldn’t look in Jeff’s eyes.

“She takes after you, you know,” Jeff says in the car.
“Great,” I reply. “I mean…whatever.”
“She’s got your eyes.”
For years, all I ever heard about was my eyes. It was such a relief to read my first review because it said nothing about my eyes.
“I’m sorry we didn’t do this sooner,” I say.
“I’m not too sure I want to do this now.”
“I don’t want to be a burden. I could put myself up in a hotel.”
“Josh, I know you don’t have that luxury.”
And he was right.

After the slump I fell into, the royalty checks weren’t blowing my mind. I made barely enough to survive as it was and I was paying child support to four women. I had begged, borrowed, and stolen every dime I could get out of my friends. Now with my contract almost up (and no indication they would want to renew it), I had no real work to show for nearly a decade of inactivity. The drugs had taken away most of my savings. Now I was stuck with Jeff. Coming out to Los Angeles again to dry out. Stuck with Jeff and the woman we both have in common. I’ve seen all this before. Like I said, it’s only funny if you weren’t there.

“Are you my daddy?” Carrie asks me. I look to Jeff for confirmation. He gives me a nod.
“I’m your father,” I say.
“Why don’t you live here with me and my other dad?”
“I live in New York.”
“Daddy, he’s doing it.”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Not answering questions. Daddy said you do that.”
“Hey, I just got off a plane. Give me a break.”
“Are planes fun?”
“The first hundred times.”
“How many times have you ridden on a plane?”
“What kind of grammar is that?”
“Rode on a plane?”
“That doesn’t sound right either.”
I look to Jeff but he just shrugs.

“He’s doing it again,” Carrie tells Jeff.
“I’ve been on lots of planes,” I tell her.
“How many?”
“I don’t keep count.”
“I would. I’ve never been on one.”
And it hits me that this is really a child. My child. That my brother’s been raising ever since the woman who cheated on him with me died in the car crash that made Jeff a widower at 35. And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

“I wanna show you my room,” Carrie tells me. I hold my hand out and she grabs it and drags me towards the back of the apartment. As I go past Jeff’s room, I see a Super 8 camera mounted on a tripod. I remember when he bought that, right before we moved to LA. We made silly little silent films together. I could really use a drink. The vodka’s worn off already and I’m feeling anxious. I feel like I’ll be climbing the walls in no time.
“And this is my bed,” Carrie tells me. “It’s not very big. But this is a poster of my favorite group, Big Time.” Fucking Big Time? The teen pop sensation? How can this possibly be my daughter?
“And in this box,” Carrie continues, “I’ve got all the things I have that remind me of my mom. Here’s a lock of her hair, and here’s a glove she wore, and here’s a picture of the three of us together, and here’s a picture of you, and here’s a picture of me and mom, and here’s a picture of dad with mom…”

After dinner, after Jeff’s put Carrie to bed, we just sit and talk for a while.
“You got anything to drink?”
“Just some Mountain Dew and water,” he tells me.
“No vodka?”
“You’re not drinking.”
“Can we go to a bar or something?”
“No, of course not.”
“You don’t have to say it like that.”
“You’re here to dry out from substance abuse problems. This is your last resort in the world to clean your life up. And I’m not fucking taking you out drinking.”
“Actually, I can’t stand the taste of alcohol. I’ve never liked it. I only drink vodka. And I mix it down so much that there’s barely any alcohol taste in it. That’s the only way I can drink.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Jeff asks.
“Shoot.”
“Why did you sleep with Melinda when you knew how much I loved her?”
I was afraid of something like this happening. This is why there was eight years of unanswered letters and unreturned phone calls.
“I was so fucked up at the time,” I say. “I was coming off heroin and coke. I had a drinking problem. I-“
“You didn’t have a drinking problem, past tense, you still have a drinking problem, present tense.”
“Melinda was just there. She took me out of myself for a bit. Got me away from all my own misery.”
“You could have had anyone else,” Jeff says. He’s staring at the floor. “Anyone in the world you wanted, you could have had.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Don’t argue semantics with me. Don’t get into a ‘oh, I couldn’t have her if I tried’ thing with me. Because I’m not talking literally, I’m talking metaphorically.”
“You’re losing me in the drama.”
“I’m trying to keep this civil.”
“Fine, I know what you mean.”

“You could have had anyone and you went for the one girl I was in love with.”
“She was there. She was available. And she came on to me.”
“Don’t fucking say that.”
“Fine, don’t believe me.”
“She was fucking better than you deserve.”
“That’s kind of hostile.”
“Look at the tragedy that is your life and tell me if you really think you deserved everything you’ve gotten.”
“It depends on what you mean.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ve had both sides now. I’ve been through the lowest of drug addicted lows and the highest of the highs. I’ve been interviewed on national television about my artwork and I’ve shared needles with long time felons in shooting galleries.”
“The fame and fortune,” Jeff says. “Did you ever deserve any of it?”
“I can’t comment on that. You know how deeply my self loathing runs.”
“You never even wanted any of it.”

“What do you want me to say? That I hated every minute of it?”
“Yes.”
“Well I didn’t. Sure there were bad times. There were times when I’d get recognized at McDonalds even though I had grown a full beard and was wearing a bathrobe. And I hated people for feeling the need to tell me that my books touched them. Because it wasn’t for them, it was for me.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“What?”
“I said shut the fuck up. If it was just for you, you never would have published any of it.”
“Were your films just for the audience?”
“My film didn’t find an audience.”
“But who did you make it for? Was the story of two hitmen building inside you? Was it like an exorcism to get it out?”
“No, of course not. That was made to please the audience.”
“Then you don’t know. Ice Castles was me coming to terms with the past.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I need to use the restroom.”
I stand up and walk in the bathroom. I stole as many bottles of vodka as I could get off the cart on the airplane. They’ve been residing in my pockets and every time I take a step I flinch a little as they click together. But as far as I can tell, no one’s noticed.

And I hate to do it. I hate to drink alcohol with no chaser. But I don’t see that I have much choice. So I down two of the bottles back to back, fast as I can. I flush the toilet and open the medicine cabinet. Nothing. No percodan, percocet, codeine, valium, nothing. I shut the cabinet and go back to the couch.
“What are you working on now?” Jeff asks.
“I don’t know. It’s all jumbled in my head.” I’m pleased to notice that I’m not slurring my words yet. I’ll have to play this one carefully if I’m going to keep it a secret.
“I was never your biggest fan, you know,” Jeff tells me.
“I know,” I say. “But I was your biggest fan.”
“If there had been ten million more of you, I wouldn’t have…”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What are you doing these days?”
“The same stuff I was doing the last time we were together.”
“I don’t wanna talk about the last time.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
Great. Here we go. “You’re probably right.” That’s one of the things I learned in the twelve step program. When people call you names and list your crimes, just agree with them. It’s the easiest way. But this just seems to make Jeff more angry.
“I’m not kidding,” Jeff tells me.
“I know.”
“The way you’ve treated me.”
“I can’t do anything except apologize,” I tell him. “There’s really nothing more I can do.”

“You never did what you promised.”
“What did I promise?”
“You said if your books were ever optioned, you’d fight for me to be the director.”
“When a book is optioned, the writer isn’t treated so well. They take your vision out of your hands and put it into someone else’s. I couldn’t do anything.”
“You could have put up a fight.”
“I needed the money. I didn’t want to rock the boat.”
“What about what you did with Melinda?”
“Apology, apology, apology. What else do you want from me.”
“I want it to have never happened.”
“I’m sorry it did. I was going through a rough time.”
“I never would have done that to you.”
“I know,” I say. “But you never even liked any of my girlfriends.”
“Even if I had, I would have swallowed it.”
“You were never this angry with her.”
“What the fuck do you know?”
“I can’t believe you’re raising Carrie all on your own.”
“I don’t have much choice.”
“But she’s not even yours.”
“Paternity is not a prerequisite for fatherhood. I’m more of a dad to her than you’ll ever be.”
“I know.”
“You’ve never even visited. This is the first time she’s ever seen you.”
“I tried to come back for the birth.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I was still very angry with you then.”
“And you’re not now?”
“Now I can avoid the urge to rip you to shreds.”

“Come on, Jeff, we’re too old to fight.”
“That’s the difference between me and you. You never grew up.”
“I grew up.”
“No, you didn’t,” Jeff says. “You went from being a teenage fuck up to being an adult fuck up, but you never had to accept responsibility for anything.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“You arrogant prick!”
“It’s true.”
“That’s what separates us. You’ve always thought that I failed in life because my movie career never took off.”
“We’re both failures. I haven’t had anything published in over a decade.”
“Because you never grew up. There was always someone there to clean up your messes for you. Now you’ve got me in that role.”
“Jeff, I’m real fucking sorry that Black tanked and you never got to direct again. I know it hasn’t been easy for you.”
“At least I had the guts to do it. What the fuck did you ever do?”
“Try a dozen interviews a day. Try getting saddled with the ‘voice of a generation’ tag. You have no idea how hard it was for me. It drove me to fucking drugs.”
“You drove yourself to drugs. And don’t think you had a hard time in the artistic world. You were taken seriously. You were respected. How do you think it feels to have my name prefaced by ‘writer Josh Campbell’s brother’ in every news item?”
“You’ve always resented me for the success you never had.”
“It’s not about you, you fucker!”
“Don’t wake Carrie up.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re just jealous of my PEN award.”
“I’ve never been jealous of you.”
“Because you think I’m a hack.”

“I’ve always thought you have a lot of talent. But you never grew up. You never had to face the consequences of your actions.”
“This is about you raising Carrie, isn’t it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I’ve fucked up my life. Did it ever occur to you that I love my life?"
“I don’t know what I feel about you.”
“Well I love you. I always have.”
“You could have shown me sometime instead of always being so critical with me.”
“I was the only one that would be critical. I was the only voice of reason.”
“You’re jealous.”
“No, I’m just not one of your sycophants. After a couple of decades of it, you may be surprised to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“I know that.”
“No, I don’t think you do. All you’ve had for years was people whispering into your ear what a great writer you are. That you’re the best thing in literature. And I’m sick of your attitude.”
“No need to be impolite. Please, tell me what you really feel.”
“You’re such a stuck up prick.”
“Don’t blame me because you never made it. That had nothing to do with me.”
“I don’t blame you, you asshole. I’m happy with my life. I’m happy with Carrie. This just sums you up. You make a mess and walk away and I’m left to clean it up.”
“But you never became rich and famous like I did.”
“And I don’t hold that against you. I never even wanted that. Did I want to be a successful director? Of course. But life didn’t deal me a shit hand.”

“I need to go to the bathroom again.”
“You haven’t even had anything to drink.”
“Even so,” I say and get up.

That night, after Jeff’s gone to bed, I sneak into Carrie’s room. I shake her shoulder and whisper her name. “What is it?” she asks me.
“Shhhh,” I say.
“Is something wrong?” Now she’s really waking up.
“I need to go somewhere,” I say. “Would you like to come with me?”
“Did my dad say it was alright?”
“Sure did,” I tell her. I hold up the keys. “He even said I could use his car.”

“Why did you leave my mom?” Carrie asks me. This is in the car as the sun’s coming up.
“I never left her,” I reply.
“Dad says you did.”
“He’s not your father. I’m your father.”
“He raised me.”
“Well you’re young yet. Give me a chance to raise you a little.”
“But why did you leave her?”
“That was a very fucked up situation,” I say.
Her face falls into a grimace. “You said a swear,” she says with distaste.
“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m a bad person.”
“You did it again.”
“Well fuck!”
“Stop doing that!”
“I don’t mean to. Really.”

“Dad says that swears are for older people. That you have to grow up before you can say them.”
“He’s right.”
“He also says they’re only for smart people. But dumb people use them more than anyone.”
“So he said that I left your mom?”
“He said you were living together and you just left her.”
“No,” I say. “The three of us weren’t exactly living together.”
“No, you were living with mom.”
“I was…”
She waits patiently.
“Do you know what drugs are?”
“Daddy says those are for losers.”
“He’s a smart guy.”
“Smartest one I know.”
“Back in the day, I could have given him a run for the money. Not anymore though.”
“Do you do drugs?”
“I’m here to stop doing them.”
“Why did you do drugs?”

I think about it for a minute but I can’t figure out a way to explain it. So I just say, “He really told you that we were living together?”
“Isn’t that what happened?”
“No. We were all living together.”
“Who was?”
“Me and Jeff and Melinda.”
“That’s my mom?”
“You don’t know your mom’s name?”
“I forgot it.”
“Anyway, we were all living together at the time. It wasn’t a permanent thing.”
“Why wasn’t it permanent?”
“I was here to quit drugs.”
“Just like you’re doing now.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just like now.”
“So you and mom were living together?”
“With Jeff.”
“With dad.”
“Call me dad.”
“I can’t call you dad. I call dad dad because he’s my dad. I’ve never met you.” And I can’t see any fault in her logic.

“Were you and mom in love?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Was dad in love with her?”
“Yes, he really, really was.”
“But she had already picked you.”
And by now I realize that I’ve screwed up by telling the truth. Like an idiot. Like my usual self. In Jeff’s version of events, he had absolved me of my crime. Now I had to tell her what a horrible person I am. That’s what I get for telling the truth finally.

I call Jeff from a pay phone outside of Barstow.
“Bring her home now.”
“Have you called the cops?”
“Not yet. Bring her home now so I don’t have to.”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”
“It’s called a felony. Multiple felonies.”
I pop another one of the percodans I got out of my luggage before the ill-advised run I made.
“Jeff, I’m sorry.”
“You’re a lot more than sorry. You’re a complete fucking asshole. Bring her back now and I won’t call the cops. Think about your career.”
“I don’t want to think about anything.”
“Why did you take her?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I had some idea about us bonding.”
“Josh, you can’t bond with anyone. You’re beyond that ability. Everyone has to be down on their knees in front of you to even get your attention.”
“I think I’m going to hang up.”
“Where are you?”
“Barstow.”
“Where’s that?”
“Between LA and Vegas.”
“You were taking my child to Vegas?”
“I don’t know where I was headed. This is just where I ended up.”

“Have you been drinking?”
“No, of course not.”
“Truthfully?”
“Okay, a couple of those airline bottles.”
“Bring her back. Now.”
“I will. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
We don’t talk much on the ride back. There’s no explanation for my actions. Jeff is beyond pissed. He’s ready to go ballistic on me. He’s cradling Carrie in his arms like a baby and glaring at me. I hold up the keys to him. He takes them. “Carrie, honey, why don’t you go in your room and try to get back to sleep?”
“I’m not tired,” she says.
“Then why don’t you go draw?”
She scampers off with a smile.

“I want you out of my apartment right now,” Jeff says as soon as she shuts her door.
“I know I fucked up.”
“FUCKED UP?!” he roars. “You call kidnapping my daughter, stealing my car, and doing drugs again just fucking up?”
“I know you have every reason to hate me.”
“This was already your last resort,” he tells me. “I think you’re out of options now.”
“Please don’t throw me out,” I say. “I can explain.”
“Go ahead.”
And I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting him to take me up on the offer.
“Really,” I say. “There’s seriously a good reason I did this.”
“First off, empty your pockets.”
I pull everything out and lay it on the coffee table. He grabs the perc bottle and walks over to the sink. He pours them down the drain and then turns on the garbage disposal. He looks back at me. “I’m still waiting,” he says.

“Okay, I don’t know. I don’t know why I did that.”
“I don’t really care why you did it. All that matters is that you did.”
“Do I really have to go?”
“I can’t even fucking look at you right now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’ve lost that shine.”
“That shine?”
“People used to tell me that there was a spark in me. Now it’s gone. Now I’m just a fucked up old man.”
“How could you take my daughter?”
“Tell me everything you hate about me.”
“Too much to list.”
“How about just one?”
“How about you get out now?”
“Would you like to split a bottle with me?” I ask holding up one of the vodka bottles.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“One for old time’s sake?”
“Just get out.”
I start crying. “I can’t leave,” I beg. “They’ll eat me alive out there.”

“You make all your own choices. You chose to help my girlfriend cheat on me. You chose to run out on her pregnancy-“
“I didn’t know she was pregnant when I left.”
“Well you never sent for her when you found out.”
I just stare at the floor.
“You chose to do drugs. You chose-“
“You don’t understand the kind of pressure I was under. Drugs were the only way I could cope.”
“You’ve wanted to be famous your whole life.”
“I just want to be loved.”
“Then why do you make it so hard to love you?”
I wipe my eyes and look up at him. “Do you not love me anymore?”
“Love is what you need most. And I can’t help you anymore. You’ve abused me at every opportunity. Just like you’ve abused everything else you’ve ever come into contact with.”

“Remember growing up? How you used to think you were too cool for me?”
“That was for a short time.”
“But I never forgot it. It’s never left my mind. My single goal in life was to be cooler than you so you would want to be friends with me. For you to think that I’m better than you.”
“Your single goal in life is to consume everything around you. Girls, drugs, alcohol, attention, whatever. Anything within your reach, you took advantage.”
“You never believed in me!”
“I saw your talent,” he says quietly. “And I saw you waste it at every opportunity. I can’t believe in you because you can’t do anything right.”
“I can write,” I say. “I could always write.”
“And where has it taken you? What have you written lately?”
“So that’s it?” I ask. “That’s what’s to blame for my whole life turning to shit?”
“No, that’s the one thing that’s saved you. I was thankful every night that your last book tanked.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re a real humanitarian.”

“It’s not jealousy or anything,” he says. “Don’t go thinking that. I’ve never been jealous of you.”
“Then what the fuck is it?”
“Because I saw what fame has turned you into. It turned you into the kind of guy that would sleep with my lover. It made you a drugged out loser. It made you a womanizer.”
“So now you think it was all the fame and not my fault?”
“You sure didn’t fight it.”
“Well which is it, Jeff? Am I an asshole because I didn’t succeed or because I did succeed? Because the drug problem didn’t pop up again until I failed.”
“Your success made you think that nothing bad could happen to you. It fueled your ego and made you think that life owed you something.”
“Is this about me or you? Because I hear you condemning me for being everything you’re not.”
“And that’s a bad thing? Jesus Christ, Josh! Take a look at where you are in life! Would you say you’re better off than me?”
“Well I-“
“Shut up. I’ve got steady work. A healthy family. No medical problems.”
“I never wanted any of that.”
“You wanted more than that. You wanted fame, fortune, respect. Well now you’ve had it. And you’ve pissed it all away by giving into every little vice there is.”

“You just hate me because I got everything you never had.”
“I don’t blame anyone. I took my shot. It didn’t go my way but at least I played. What about you? As soon as you fail, you give up entirely. Have you written anything in the last ten years?”
“I…”
“Yeah,” he says. “that’s what I thought.”
“Just give me another chance.”
“You don’t need another chance. You need to grow up. So it’s time for tough love. It’s the only thing I can do. Fuck, take the liquor with you if you want. I don’t care anymore. I’ve got to wash my hands of you.”
“Can I have a hug?” I blubber.
“No,” he replies. “I don’t even want to look at you. Now get out of my apartment.”

First order of business is to hit a bar and make some connections. Find a place where I can crash on the couch for a bit. Find a doctor that’s loose with the scripts. Find my life again. No, no thoughts of the future. When you’re a drug addict, the future itself is irrelevant. Everything is condensed down into the now. It’s not the high that you end up missing. It’s the bottom. When everyone’s turned their back on you (and by now surely everyone has turned their back on me), when there are no expectations. There’s no responsibility. Everything else dissolves. There’s just you and the spoonful of salvation that will make the pain go away. I don’t miss the high, I miss the low. I miss not having anything to shoot for because the only thing that matters is getting so high that everything else is beside the point.

I’ve got my luggage with me. (An important thing you learn when you travel as much as I had to, you never pack more than one carry-on bag. Checking luggage is just asking for trouble. In addition to the duffel bag I have a shoulder strap black leather bag that holds my laptop.) Inside the duffel bag I have my standard clothes. A Radiohead shirt that I bought twenty years ago that still fits my skeletal frame. One pair of slacks, white button up shirt, and a black tie. Vintage tie, thin 60’s style.

The drinking is not so much an escape as a desperate plea for help. I drink until the bartender eighty-sixes me. Then it’s off to another bar to repeat the process. Along the way, I lose my bag. Goodbye clothes. Now it’s just me with my laptop. And the future is so right over the horizon. It hasn’t hit yet, the hangover. But I can tell it’s waiting in the wings.
A frantic struggle to buy a ticket back to New York. The woman behind the counter is not helpful and ruins my plans. It doesn’t help that I’m crying while telling her how desperately I need to get home. It’s all plastics now. I’m surviving on my credit cards because my cash has been liquidated. There’s just nothing left for me anymore.
I call Jeff and beg him to let me come back. He hangs up on me. I call back and he doesn’t answer.

I hit another bar and run into a speed freak.
“You need to get right?” he asks me.
“This is a red letter day,” I say solemnly.
“Gotta be careful in this place,” he tells me. “Pigeons everywhere.”
“Why do pigeons bob their heads when they walk?”
He gives me a sidelong glance. I can’t tell if I’ve offended him or if he just doesn’t get the joke. “How long you been wrong?”
“Been drinking since noon,” I reply.
“Wanna boost?”
“Dying for some H.”
“All I’ve got is the glass.”
“You read much?” I ask him.
“Just Playboy.”
“For the articles.”
“For a lot of things.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Is that so?”
“Used to be. Haven’t written in years.”
“Write anywhere that I’ve heard of?”
“New York Times Bestseller List? Does that ring a bell?”
“So you’re one of the big boys?”
“I’m a fish out of water. Get me back to the water.”
“You live here? We go back to your place?”
“I don’t have a place. I’m a nomad.”
“You travel the country looking for drugs?”
“Looking for the American dream. But drugs will work. Maybe that is the American dream.”

“Why don’t you travel with luggage?”
“I lost it at some point.”
“If you don’t even have luggage, you’re not so much a traveler as a hobo.”
“You got people you can call?”
“For the luggage?”
“No, to get me straight,” I say.
“How do I know you’re not a cop?”
“How do I know you’re not?”
He unbuttons his shirt and spreads it open so I can inspect his chest. There in the middle of his chest is a large tattooed slogan. It says Aryan Brotherhood. “Know any cops that have this?” he asks me.
“How can I prove myself to you?”
“I trust you, man. You’ve got the desperate look that cops don’t have.”
I’m silently grateful for my own unmistakable appearance. The need seems to be oozing out of me.

We go back to his apartment and he takes mercy on me and dishes out a couple lines of meth. I’m so high that I’m bouncing off the walls. He offers me a beer and I turn it down since I’ve never liked beer. Speed just makes you crave alcohol but I can’t have any beer anyway.
“How did you get here?” he asks me.
“We don’t even know each other’s names.”
“I don’t really care, dude. Do you?”
“I guess not.”
“So how’d you get here? Ride the rails?”
“No, I flew.”
“Why don’t you go back to wherever it is you came from?”
I just stare at my hands. Blood pumps through these, I think.

“So,” I say after a couple minutes, “can you get ahold of some H for me?”
“Let me make a call.”
Three short hours later the meth has worn off, I’m no longer clawing at my skin. And my “partner” has scored some Mexican black tar heroin. As I heat it up in the spoon, I realize that I’ve reached a crossroads in my life. If I put this down right now and walk out of here, I can save myself. I can start a new life. I can get back on the horse that threw me and write another book. I can do anything I want to do. All I have to do is put this spoon down and leave. I think about the new life I will live as I’m shooting up.

A few days go by and I know I’m not hooked yet. I mean, sure, I start freaking out if I don’t have a new injection every three hours. And most of the time my mind is preoccupied with scoring again so I won’t be without. My credit card has a five thousand dollar limit and I’ve eaten up about half of that between the trip and the drug use. That gives me twenty-five hundred to gouge away at. I want to leave. I want to call my agent and tell him to tell the publisher that I’m working on a new book. And I want, even more than that, to actually start working on a new book. This is my ticket out of here. If I could just stop shooting up long enough to do it.

We go to a nightclub and I haven’t shot up and I’m starting to feel sick. My stomach is cramping and I sweat profusely. The beat from the drum and bass mix is pounding into my skull, setting every synapse on fire with the message that this is too loud, too hard, too out there. That this is exactly what I don’t need. When the guy I’m with (I still don’t know his name), asks me to front him a couple hundred dollars to score for us, I balk. I’d rather do the scoring on my own. At least see it with my own two eyes.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes. Just out in the alley. That’s all it’s going to take.”
I tell him no and he says he’s not going to keep scoring for me if I think he’s going to rip me off. I reluctantly walk down to the ATM machine on the corner and take out five hundred dollars, my credit card’s daily cash withdrawal limit. I give him all the money and wait for him in the club.
After twenty minutes, I go out the back door into the alley and no one’s there. He’s gone with my money. I’m not surprised in the least. I think about going back to his apartment but I don’t see the point. He’s bigger and stronger than me. There’s nothing I can do.

No more calls to Jeff. The airline still says all their flights are booked because it’s a holiday weekend. I reluctantly buy a ticket back home for Wednesday morning. That’s still five days away. I check into a hotel downtown and go through my withdrawal. No matter how prepared you are for the sickness, it always overpowers you. At one point I pull myself together enough to go out on the street looking to score. But there’s no one dealing and I reluctantly return to my hotel room to fight the withdrawal on my own. Sweating, it feels like blood pouring out of my veins. Each bone feels like crushed glass, jagged and gouging away at my nerve centers. This is my pain. It’s not a white ball of healing light, it’s a grain. It’s not something that’s going to make me better, it’s the worst feeling imaginable.

There’s fire in my joints. Pain centers are overloaded. This goes on for days. When I wake up on Tuesday, I’m in a pool of my own vomit. I’ve shit myself. Disgusting diarrhea shit that’s run all down my legs as I’ve laid face down on the floor unconscious. I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I step inside it and it is cold no matter how much I turn up the heat. I’m freezing in here. After I’m cleaned up, I realize I really am cleaned up. Offer me a pound of heroin right now and I would turn it down. Give me a bottle of vodka and I’ll pour it down the sink. Goodbye, junk. I don’t need you anymore.

There’s no way to describe it. I feel benevolent. I want to call people I don’t like, people who don’t like me. And I’ll just tell them how great it feels to even be alive. To know that I’ve survived this. I sit down at the desk and open my laptop. With all the newfound enthusiasm that now resides in my heart, I begin to write. This whole twisted life I’ve been living, it’s got to be leading up to somewhere. And as I write the first words I’ve put to paper in almost a decade I realize the truth. You don’t end up here, you choose to be here.