My Appetite For Destruction (39 page)

After seeing this and speaking with Mom, Jamie concocted a plan he knew I’d be helpless to resist. He told me about a friend of his and the house party he was presently throwing. This friend had a phat pad just minutes away, a steamer trunk full of painkillers, and the best weed this side of Negril.

I
groaned as we headed over to the house party. The pain was coming in waves, hard and fast. I’m no stranger to messing myself up, but this time the discomfort level was spiking off the charts. How do I get into these situations? Why is there always someone around who loves me more than I hate me? Why do they give a shit? Why can’t they just let me croak? And when did I start sounding like a whiny little bitch?

Troy and Jamie half carried me into the party house, the main part of an amazing compound ringed with smaller guesthouses, a pool, and a sizable fence. This dude had the sickest house ever, video games, sharks in a massive tank, personal chef, sound studio, pool table, 120-inch flat-screen, the works. Plus Jamie wasn’t kidding; this guy had the best weed ever.

I was practically drooling on myself as I was introduced to the play kingdom. The host took me over to the shark tank and I watched him feed the baby sharks. I was loving every minute of it. Then Jamie had the host check out my wretched gut, and before I could clamp my hands over my stomach, this guy took a peek. The situation was serious, but no worries, my host knew an Asian MD in Vegas who made house calls.

Soon, I was completely caught up in video games, and the weed had helped dull the ache some. At midnight, Dr. Feelgood showed up toting two briefcases. He took one look at me and asked me to lay down faceup on the sofa. He removed my shirt and began poking around. He told me I had several advanced-stage abscesses that needed immediate lancing and irrigation. Before I could respond, he asked Jamie and company to hold me down. That’s when I got nervous and told him I was fine. Could we please let this wait until tomorrow? Jamie couldn’t help but laugh, and the only thing more ridiculous than my request was the fact that I had let the sores get so bad in the first place.

The doctor numbed up my stomach and then started slicing and dicing. The incisions released the poisons, which shot out like little geysers. I started squirming like a baby and Jamie told me to chill; this was the sickest shit he’d ever seen.

This was definitely a new high for lows. He said this beat the infection I had on my arm that had also needed irrigation. The crap that shot out smelled awful, and I noticed that everyone but Jamie and the doc had left the living room. The doc must have shot me up pretty good with painkiller, because I no longer needed anyone to hold me down.

He told Jamie to keep me quiet and still and gave me something to help me sleep. I didn’t feel grateful, or relieved, or lucky. My last thought was a wish: I wanted them all to disappear so I could call my dealer and get fucked up.

My condition forced Jamie to put the Clapton rehab strategy on indefinite hold. It took me weeks to get better, and I did nothing to help the situation. Plus I got more and more frustrated. I just wanted to keep partying, but the dividends were becoming smaller and smaller.

W
hile healing up I felt like all the fun had gone out of using. Maybe I was just doing junk to avoid the torture of getting off the shit. I feared that worse than anything. It’s such a bitch when your body starts screaming that it wants more
now
! You pump more drugs into yourself, but the high is barely there. They call it “chasing the dragon”; they ought to just call it “chasing the drag.”

I got so depressed and fed up with the hopeless hole I’d dug for myself. This must have been one of the all-time lows for me, because I ended up slashing my arms pretty badly. I don’t remember doing it, I just remember Jamie’s being there to bandage me up and call the hospital. It was horrifying when I tried to recall my state of mind before I did something that might have ended my existence. Even though the wounds weren’t mortal, I wondered if I had chickened out or just fucked up.

Now, I knew Jamie was bracing for my refusing medical attention, so I just cashed out by telling him I would willingly check myself in if he’d buy me a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Jamie was only too happy to oblige, although he knew I would change my tune as soon as I walked into the ER. He humored me anyway, going along with my Krispy Kreme strategy.

As soon as I had inhaled those shiny sugar bombs, I was having second thoughts. But by then it was too late. He had already told the doctors that I had attempted to take my life (when was I not doing that?). Their policy mandated that they keep me for seventy-two hours of round-the-clock observation.

So there I was, furious but stuck. I planned to sneak out, but they put me in restraints. For three days I went through the most hellish withdrawal, squirming and sweating, my body wracked by a nonstop assault of the worst cramps and chills, the most heinous nausea, and the overall sense that I
was
going to die.

Fuck that. I wanted to die.
Please let me die.

J
amie showed up on the morning of the day they had to release me. He smiled, having told me he would have my “reward” for going through hell. He handed me a milk shake. What balls. But my bro knows me too well and even though I wanted to whip it at his face, I needed to chug it down even more. It turned out to be the tastiest shake I’d ever drunk, a frosty, thick vanilla frappé from heaven. At that point my body must have been craving anything sweet, because it actually helped settle me down.

Before I knew it, I was waking up in a car, and it was nighttime. “Where the hell am I?” Troy was driving, and he just said that he was taking me home and I should go back to sleep. We would be pulling up to the house pretty soon. For some reason his suggestion to go back to sleep seemed like the most perfectly natural thing to do, so I closed my eyes, and I was instantly out.

The next time I woke up, we were still in the car. What the fuck? I was immediately suspicious, but by then it was too late. Troy and Jamie had tricked me, and we were in North Hollywood. That frappé must have been laced with enough tranquilizer to stop a charging rhino. Fuckers knew that the only way they could keep an eye on me was to enlist a squadron of Jamie’s friends to help, and they all lived in L.A., not Vegas.

As we rolled up to the house, I knew I was in for some total hell time, because trying to kick what I was on without medical supervision is not only the most painful way to deal with withdrawal, but it is a guaranteed recipe for failure. It can be very dangerous too, because if it’s done too abruptly, it can bring on severe shock. I couldn’t blame Jamie and Troy though, because deep down, I knew that I hadn’t given them any other choice.

Later, I wondered whether the way they had gotten me to L.A. could be viewed as a federal offense. I have no evidence, however, no way of proving that they had deceived me, kidnapped me, and taken me across state lines against my will. Besides, they were trying to help me, and what’s done is done.

T
he first Hell House, at Santa Monica Boulevard and Poinsettia, was the place
GNR
partied. Now, I was at a totally different kind of Hell House. They were actually trying to wean me off of crack by cutting down my dosages, going from a $100 to $50 to $20 worth of rock a day. I spent the next month or so high (but never high enough) on crack.

Then, when I was near weeping, a complete mess primed for a total breakdown, they would slip me another awesome milk shake that was a spiked concoction that kept me in a haze while I was being shuttled from houses in Hollywood to apartments in Van Nuys. About the only good thing that happened during this time was that the abscesses on my stomach healed up nicely. Other than that, I was the most miserable human on earth.

F
inally I remember Jamie, Slash, and a few other friends who had been a part of this endless, grueling 24/7 ordeal sat me down and asked me how I thought I was doing. They patted me on the back and hugged me. They said they cared about me. Each had earned the right to be in that room, because each had made personal sacrifices to help me. They had all contributed significantly to the latest epic chapter of “Save the Asshole.”

I smiled my rock star smile, broad, gleaming, and self-assured. I took my time to look at all their faces, drinking each one in. As I nodded to each hopeful shiny face, I saw each smile back. I saw the love in their eyes. I even put my hand on Slash’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. I had their attention and I had their hopes. And I owed them. God knows I owed them.

But the only thing I owed them was the truth. So I told them that it didn’t matter if they kept me there for a month, six months, a year, or a decade. It didn’t matter if they tried to wean me off crack, or keep me sedated, or lock me in a room, or chain me in the cellar.

Why didn’t it matter? Because as soon as they let down their guard, I was out of there. And I promised them that I would go straight out and do more drugs than I had ever done before in my life. I would be the highest, most fucked-up ingrate in the history of mankind.

That’s how I’m doing, fuckers.

Then I saw the light go out of their eyes. I saw their smiles die. I saw some of the dearest people in my life shift in their seats and look down at their hands. I watched those hands clench into fists. I watched their brows furrow and the muscles in their necks tighten. I saw their hopes fade and their resentment flare and I didn’t care.

No matter how much anger they felt, it couldn’t come near to the raging contempt I felt for myself at that moment. Fuck ’em.

I.

Don’t.

Care.

They got up and left. I quickly made a couple of calls, and by midnight, I was back in Vegas, lying on my filthy rug, my heart thumping out of my chest, high on the rock of ages. I really went for it this time, a five-day bender. On the last day I drank so much Jäger I passed out before I could kill myself. And that’s why I’m still alive to tell you this story, because I tried to kill myself partying and fucked it up. Again.

I woke up on that rug, lying in a pool of piss, and slowly blinked through the cobwebs. Finally, I focused on a crack pipe not ten inches from my face. It had a healthy amount of rock still nestled in it.

How sweet. Breakfast of Champions.

T
his went on and on until I heard the crying. Every human being on earth knows this sound, because we all cause it to happen at some point in our lives. It’s the sound of our mother crying. And it’s the saddest sound in creation. I could hear her as she tossed my clothes into a suitcase and grabbed some things out of my closet and bathroom. I asked her what the hell was going on, and she told me I had called Jamie and uttered one sentence, then hung up. And that was the reason she was in my house. That was the reason she was crying, but they were “happy tears.”

I asked Mom what I had said. I didn’t remember, but I was definitely curious. My mom isn’t surprised by anything I say anymore. She straightened, dabbed her eyes, and said that I had called Jamie to say, “I’m ready now.”

To my sheer amazement, I didn’t argue or deny what I had said. I felt so fried, so hollowed out, that there was nothing left of me to bitch. I’ll be damned, I
was
ready.

I remember looking down at my hands. They hurt so much from lighting and relighting the pipe. I’d get so high I would watch the flame burn down until it was licking my fingertips; but it didn’t matter. Butane torches are much more efficient for smoking rock, but when you’re all fucked up on crack, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You’ll light yourself on fire to get high. And that’s what I was doing, because my fingertips were all blistered and burned. My mouth felt charred, and I had this horrible chemical taste on my tongue. My head felt cold and empty and my body completely gutted.

I thought, “So this is what it’s like.” I had
finally
hit bottom. Rock bottom.

I heard my mother pleading with me to hurry up. Her eyesight isn’t the greatest and she doesn’t like to drive at night. We needed to get on the road if we were going to be in L.A. before nightfall.

Okay, Mom. I just need to hit the bathroom. Incredibly, I was still using. I know that makes no sense, but this is what actually happened. Forty-five minutes later my mom was banging on the bathroom door. I stared at the glass pipe in my hands and figured that with one more good hit, I could make it out to the car and we could get going. I told her I’d be right out.

A half hour after that announcement, Mom was back at the door banging and threatening to call off the whole trip. I guess this got me out of the house, because the next time I was hitting on the pipe I was completely turned around in the front seat of the car. I was leaning over the head rest pretending to look for something in the backseat of the car. But I wasn’t fooling Mom for a second.

“Steven, stop that.”

“But, Ma, I ain’t doing nothing!” It’s the same way I talked to her when I was twelve. So there we were, heading down Interstate 15, daylight dwindling along with my once bountiful supply of crack.

I
t was too cold outside to open the windows in the car, so Mom was begging me to stop “smoking that stuff.” I nodded okay, then went right back to hitting it. About twenty minutes later, Mom realized we were completely and utterly lost. She somehow got off the highway, and now we could have been in Bumfuck, Idaho, for all she knew. She was very upset. Poor Mom; I told her not to worry, I’d get her to L.A. I heard her laugh, a shrill unnatural giggle. Uh-oh, maybe Mom picked up a little secondhand smoke!