Authors: Craig Goodman
“Gooooooooood morning everybody! In a moment we’ll be pulling into Fayetteville. We’ve got about an hour to kill before we hit the road again, so if you’re hungry or just wanna step off the bus and walk around and stretch out you’re more than welcome to, or of course you can just stay right where you are and relax. But if you do leave, please be back by 10:15. And thanks for riding with Greyhound.”
I opted for Option 2 as I realized I wasn’t even halfway to Florida yet and was completely out of dope. But I was still high. Not
time-travelling
high, mind you—but high enough. High enough to completely retreat inward. High enough, in fact, to not even really notice the well-dressed gentleman sitting next to me.
“Good morning,” he said to me at some point.
“How’s it going?” I responded in a purely perfunctory way and emerged a little, not at all thrilled with the prospect of wasting what was left of my final nod on a stranger in a suit.
“How’s it going with
you
? You know, you had me worried there for a little while.”
“Why’s that?”
“You weren’t making a whole lot of sense earlier.”
“Oh, yeah—that’s right,” I said as the stranger jogged my memory. “Sorry about that…occupational hazard.”
“Oh, really? What do you do?”
“Whaddaya got?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
I was suddenly faced with a decision.
“I’m a…
drug addict
,” I decided to admit. “So what do
you
do?”
“Cocaine, mostly, and a little Constitutional law on the side but I swear it’s only recreational.”
After fully disclosing our respective dysfunctions and a little bit about our backgrounds, I would learn that Marlon Schumacher was the 30-year-old editor of a law review for a prestigious university in the District of Columbia—in addition to being an unrelenting cocaine addict who’d suffered several relapses over the past several years. He’d had a privileged upbringing and was raised in Miami with his mother and brother but partially without a father who’d passed away when he was in junior high school.
“I’m gonna visit an old girlfriend in Sarasota first,” he said. “But then I’m heading back home for a while to be with family so I can get away from all the drugs in D.C. before I fuck everything up again,” he said.
“Good idea—they don’t have any cocaine in Miami.”
“It doesn’t matter what they have in Miami. I’ve never done drugs in Florida. Drugs for me have always been a D.C. thing and
besides, my mother’s down there and that’s the most important thing. Where’s home for you?”
“New York.”
“So why are you headed south?”
“Because I’ve never done drugs in Florida either and besides,
my
mother’s not down there and
that’s
the most important thing.”
“Oh, come on now!” Marlon scolded me. “During times like this your family’s where it’s at, man, I’m telling you. When everyone else has given up on you and turned you away,
family
is who you need to be with. That’s what they’re there for. Anything less and you’re just asking for trouble. Trust me.”
“Do you have a big family?”
“Huge,” he said. “But right now I think I need my mother most of all. Sounds sort of ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds fucking insane.”
“Listen, I loved my father. I
still
do. Just like yours he was an amazing, brilliant man. He was a tremendous provider and protector—the kinda guy that would fuck anyone up for even looking crooked at his kids—but sometimes it seemed like it was more a matter of course with him, like it was his duty or some obligation or expectation or something. But with my mother it’s always been different, you know? She’s always been so plugged into her kids in such a completely different way. And what’s weird is that I always felt so much safer,
stronger
, and more confident around her. It’s crazy. I
still
feel that way, and I never really felt that way around my dad. Trust me—there is no love like a mother’s love. It’s unshakeable and indestructible. No matter how badly you fuck up your life—you can always go back home to mom.”
“Fuck you and your mother.”
“Whaddaya mean?!”
“I can’t relate—I never had that sort of relationship with my mother,” I said as for some reason I suddenly felt able to speak plainly. “Sometimes I really can’t even stand the thought of her.”
“WHAT??? That’s doesn’t sound too cool, man,” he said. “Look, your dad died when you were five and your mother raised you and your little sister all alone. You have to recognize that and appreciate it for what it is. You grew up in a big fancy building, she sent you to college and then
you
got
yourself
all fucked-up. It’s got nothing to do with her and it’s not her fault.”
“I never said it was.”
“I think you just have to reflect a little on the really important things mothers do—the
motherly
things,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean like
what
specifically?”
“Like…the fucking Yankees, man!”
“What?”
“Me and my brother were
obsessed
with the Yankees when we were little, and once a year my mother would surprise us with a trip to New York to see them play,” he said as he paused for a moment and seemed to reflect fondly on his childhood. “You’re a kid from New York! Didn’t your mom ever take you to Yankee Stadium?”
“No…but she once beat me up with a Yankee batting helmet.”
“That’s fucked up!”
“I know. I missed the game.”
“Huh?”
“When I was eight I played softball at camp on ‘The Yankees,’ and I had this really cool counselor who bought each of us one of those novelty Yankee batting helmets to wear to the championship. So anyway, the night before the big game she whacked the crap out of me with it. That stupid helmet was broken into pieces and the next day I was the only one to show up without it. I was totally humiliated and decided to spend the day hiding in the bunkhouse…which, come to think of it, is probably why I’ve never been much of a Yankee fan.”
“Man, that’s
totally
fucked up.”
“I know…Elmer’s glue can’t fix everything.”
13
“Jacksonville, Florida—next stop is Jacksonville.”
“Excellent, we’re almost there,” I said assuming the journey was finally nearing an end and was about to commemorate the occasion with a celebratory toast as I hastily retrieved the meth from my backpack.
“We’re not even close yet,” Marlon said while looking quizzically at the orange medication swishing around a bottle of green tea. “What the fuck is that shit?”
“Methadone,” I told him as I was undeterred by his dose of regional reality and determined to celebrate my poorly perceived proximity with at least half the container’s contents.
“Yo—let me have a swig of that,” he said jokingly, but only
half
-
jokingly. Part of him, perhaps
all
of him really wanted a sip of that shit, and though at first I thought it odd for a coke addict to have a hankering for methadone, I would soon personally experience the same, vague, desperate craving to be high on something—
anything
at all.
“Sorry, my man—too late to jump on the bandwagon.”
“How much more of that do you have left?”
“What you see is what you get.”
“Is that gonna be enough?”
“Enough for me not to shit my pants. But I think I’m gonna be a sad and sleepless little boy for a while.”
“Hey, man—by the way,” Marlon said. “I think you packing up and getting out of Dodge was a good idea. I mean, it really sucks that your mother’s a cunt and you don’t really have that whole family thing to fall back on, but it would still be hard for you to pull it together in the same place you’ve been getting high. Obviously, I’m not an expert on staying clean, but even I know you have to get away from the things that remind you of being fucked up. So it’s actually a
good
thing that you’re completely changing your surroundings and getting away from the things that remind you of getting high and shit. By the way, where are you gonna be staying?”
“With the guy I used to shoot-up with and his pothead granny.”
The bus pulled into the Jacksonville station at around 5:30 p.m., and as I stepped off to stretch out I was surprised by the temperature outside. Of course, it was nearly the end of November and we were in the northern-most reaches of Florida, but it seemed almost as chilly as it was in Connecticut. And I
liked
it. I liked knowing that it wouldn’t be getting much colder, and I appreciated the change of scenery. I appreciated the
change
.
By around 6 p.m. we left Jacksonville en route to Orlando and during a controlled nod sponsored by 80 milligrams of meth, I reminisced about a trip to Disney World which occurred not long after my dad had died. Of course, it was only for a few days before we moved on to Fort Lauderdale which was more my mother’s speed, but while we were there we certainly got the royal treatment: a huge hotel suite with fresh fruit, cheese baskets, pastries and champagne for the monster—as well as cake, candy and Disney trinkets for Celine and me. But the nostalgia and sweet reflections inspired during the two-and-a-half-hour journey to the Magic Kingdom completely dissipated after spending a four-hour layover in the city’s less enchanting bus station, and by the time we departed at around 1 a.m. I was ready for the fun to be over. But that was hardly the case and by the time we made it through Lakeland, endured another six-hour layover in Tampa and then arrived in St. Petersburg it was 9:30 in the morning, I was at my wit’s end and about to prematurely dive into my last bit of narcotic.
“Don’t turn to drugs
now
, dude—it’s almost over; only Sarasota and Port Charlotte stand between you and a peaceful life on the farm,” Marlon said but I didn’t like the way it sounded.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe you should save what’s left to help you come to
terms with your new…
surroundings
,” he suggested with a smile but I didn’t like the way it looked.
We left St. Petersburg at around 10:20 and were in Sarasota in less than an hour.
“Hey man, it’s been a pleasure,” Marlon said to me after we exchanged contact information and he held out his hand and readied himself for the first phase of his own recovery, just as I finished the last of my methadone. “If you ever find yourself on the east coast give me a buzz.”
“Will do—
definitely.”
With that I wished him luck as he stepped off the bus and I continued on my own journey alone. Within an hour I arrived in Port Charlotte, Florida and called Perry from the station to prepare him for my arrival in Fort Myers.
“When do you get here?” he asked.
“In about an hour.”
“All right, then—we’ll leave in a few minutes.”
“I said an
hour
.”
“I know. We’re about 40 minutes away.”
“Then why’d you have Randy get me a ticket to Fort Myers?”
“Because that’s the closest stop to Lehigh.”
“You’re 40 minutes away from the closest bus station? What the fuck did you get me into, Perry?!”
“Oh, you’re gonna find out soon enough,” he said and then
immediately hung up.
What an asshole.
So, on November 24
th
at 1 p.m. on a sunny Sunday afternoon in 1996, I arrived in Fort Myers, Florida with no idea of what to expect…or how long to expect it.
“Hey, man—glad you made it,” Perry said as he and his grandmother were there to greet me as soon as I stepped off the bus.
“So am I.”
“How was the trip?”
“Miserable. Four transfers, twenty stops—ten of them in Florida.”
“It’s a brutal ride,” Perry agreed and then suddenly remembered. “Hey, Grandma—this is Craig.”
“Hi Craig,” said Granny. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Granny.”
“Guess what I’m making for Thanksgiving Dinner.”
“Pot brownies?” I asked as Perry suddenly looked at me with fear in his eyes as if I’d just said something I shouldn’t have.
“Nope,” Granny said while staring at me suspiciously for a moment. “I’m frying a turkey. Did you ever fry a turkey, Craig?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m not too handy in the kitchen.”
“That’s okay. Ever shoot one?”
“By the way,
Craig
,” Perry suddenly interrupted. “That was a joke.”
“Sure as hell was,” confirmed Granny. “I’ll shoot the damn thing myself.”
“I mean about the weed,” Perry inconspicuously whispered in my ear while gritting his teeth in an obvious display of discomfort. “Grandma doesn’t really smoke weed.”
“‘Doesn’t really’ as in she
doesn’t smoke a lot of weed
—or ‘doesn’t really’ as in she
doesn’t smoke weed at all
?” I felt the need to clarify as I not-so-inconspicuously whispered in his own ear.
“The second one—
definitely
.”
That turned out to be true. In fact, Granny was basically what you’d expect for a 70-year-old, gray-haired granny, and was one of those people who—like Casey the Cop—seemed to have a specific animosity toward the ganj. Certainly though, Casey was damaged goods from the Just Say No Generation who believed that marijuana was the devil himself and though he witnessed me boot at rehearsals on many occasions without ever saying a word, I knew from his rhetoric that if he ever caught me dragging on a joint he’d pull out his gun and shoot me. With Casey, it was almost as if on some level he understood and almost made an exception for the deadly and addictive nature of heroin, but as far as he was concerned it was stupid marijuana that left the gate open and was ultimately the
real
culprit. He never once considered the educational shortcomings that factored into everything and as a result it wouldn’t take much for him to become unhinged if somebody even
mentioned
weed. Thankfully, Granny didn’t have quite the hard-on for pot that Casey had, but she still harbored a healthy animosity for the drug that was not to be toyed with and besides—
she
had a rifle. But one thing Granny and I did share in common was a hearty animosity for her daughter, Felicia—who
always believed
I
was in some way the cause of her son’s drug problem. Of course, it was Granny who for all intents and purposes was Perry’s
real
mother as she’d raised him from infancy and had always resented her daughter for overlooking the responsibilities of motherhood in order to chase a dream. And needless to say, she
really
loved Perry.