Authors: Craig Goodman
When I stepped into my apartment Jon was there with his friend, Billy, each drinking a beer and listening to music. I showered, threw a burrito in the microwave and then joined my young friends who were in the living room watching MTV. Of course, by this point in my life I was
totally
over MTV.
“Put on VH1,” I told Jon.
“No way, Grandpa.”
“They’re playing an old Duran Duran concert!”
“No way, Grandma.”
“Hey, why don’t you grab a beer?” Billy said as he made a lame attempt to distract me with alcohol. “There’s a case of them sitting in the fridge.”
Taking a pass on the beer I took a seat on an old recliner and consumed my burrito while listening to Rage Against the Machine—which used to make me want to break things. Then, after a moment I sat staring at the little plastic bag containing the big yellow pills, and then after another I said what-the-fuck and
swallowed two of them.
I’m not exactly sure what inspired me to grab those pills, though I did have the drinks beforehand. At the time, I honestly wasn’t even
thinking
about serious drugs or “getting high” beyond the daily toke which at this point was almost purely medicinal, not only for me but the lives it was saving around me. Perhaps my decision was merely a knee-jerk reaction motivated by the lingering remnants of a youthful inclination to experiment, which, though initially fueled by artistic passion had clearly outlived its usefulness. After all, I now led a much more austere and less turbulent life while planning for the future as well as the eventual needs of my daughter, and there was no justification for drugs because creating bullshit resumes from real resumes that were mostly bullshit to begin with really didn’t require too much creativity.
At around midnight, right after Emily finished her bar shift, she made a brief appearance at the apartment before giving me a kiss and rushing back to her parent’s house. Not only did she have a curfew to contend with, but Tom was threatening to take her and her mother out on the boat at sunrise. Meanwhile, Jon and Billy were busy playing with a Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation device that belonged to Billy’s brother, David, and intended to help him regain the use of his legs after being paralyzed by the fallout of a relatively recent heroin overdose. Yeah, I know—
but you can’t make this shit up
. Well, at least I can’t. In any event, while Jon and Billy attached electrodes to various parts of their bodies, I began to feel the Percocet and the ravenous junky inside me suddenly sat up, looked around the room and decided to swallow two more pills.
Obviously, I was overindulging in the drugs at the expense of whoever else Jon was intending to share them with, but I was suddenly lost in the revelation that Percocet was really just a less consuming version of heroin! Who would’ve known?!? And though I assume most addiction experts would consider this a poor “recovery” strategy and one that could eventually thrust a former
junky into a full-flung relapse, for me it actually went a long way in deconstructing the myth, glamour and artistic image I’d associated with opiates ever since high school English class. Suddenly, the stories of Shelley, Coleridge and Thomas de Quincy smoking bowls of opium while conjuring-up canonized verse were stripped of their ethereal undertones because had they waited about a century or so they probably would’ve been popping pills—which is
soooo
much less…
Romantic
. There was really no fascination associated with
that
, and though snorting or shooting a derivative wasn’t exactly loaded with poetic sentiment, the aura surrounding it was a HELL of a lot more mysterious and intriguing than swallowing four yellow pills…make that
six
yellow pills as the gluttonous junky suddenly swallowed two more without a moment’s consideration for anyone who might be receiving or administering shock treatments from just a few feet away.
About an hour later I momentarily emerged from a pretty potent, pharmaceutically-driven nod and realized that for me the fun was just about over, though I was generous enough to put a halt to the gluttony and leave a couple of pills for whoever was yet to arrive, as these two seemed much more interested in the electrified therapy.
“Don’t worry—daddy’s gotcha, daddy’s gotcha,” I heard Jon say as he manipulated the machine somewhere nearby though it seemed to be coming from very far away.
With tremendous will power and a fair degree of effort I rose up out of a recliner that was swallowing me whole, and as Rage was once again raging on MTV I peacefully retired to my bedroom for the evening—but not before kicking the shit out of a wastebasket by the door.
33
At around 6 a.m. I awoke though I think I had only about three hours of slumber by the time the Percocet wore off enough to let that happen. Fortunately, assembling these sorts of resumes required little original thought, so I knew the lack of sleep would have practically no effect on my performance.
I brushed my teeth and stepped into the living room where both boys were on couches, with Jon sprawled out only a few feet from where I situated myself at the computer. At around 7 a.m. his alarm clock sounded as he was expected to report to the airport for work by 8. I let it ring for a few seconds before I turned and leaned out of my swivel chair to give him a good poke.
Time suddenly stands still as successive and alternating waves of panic and horror and a crushing sense of universal injustice suddenly rolls over me as I slowly deflate and feel like I’m drowning. And then I’m somehow able to scream:
“BILLY!”
I must have said something else as well because Billy sprang into action and immediately called 911 before administering CPR, but everything else that followed are bits and pieces of a blur because the moment the tip of my finger pressed into Jon’s soft but cold and lifeless flesh I lost a part of me. It was just a small part, mind you, but nonetheless a vital if not vicariously fueled connection to whatever was left of my own innocence.
For a few moments I was…
shell-shocked?
Obviously, that isn’t quite right but I don’t know how else to describe the sensation of the moment that overcame me. I was there but I
wasn’t
there. I was
watching and waiting and yet hiding and horrified. And I couldn’t hear anything. And my brain was…
misfiring
.
As emergency medical personnel stormed into my apartment I decided I wouldn’t be writing resumes that day. But I would still need some money. I grabbed my debit card, put on my sandals and left the apartment just as panic, desperation and dismay ricocheted around the living room.
Rather than take the Trooper I decided to walk three blocks to the bank, but when I arrived I stood on line and waited behind two cars at the drive-thru ATM as opposed to using an unoccupied machine located inside the 24-hour air-conditioned vestibule. And why during that particularly inappropriate moment I suddenly decided to grab some cash, let alone stand in line at the drive-thru, I haven’t a clue. But I believe at some point during the clouded considerations of what was erupting around me I decided to walk to the bank because I didn’t want the Cape Coral Police—who were surely en route—to think I’d fled the scene.
Because I was guilty.
Guilty of not being responsible. Guilty of not acting my age. Guilty of not setting a better example. Guilty of being in relationships with kids that were too young to be hanging around a middle-aged mediocre musician and the saddest example of a business writer the business world had ever seen.
When I returned to my apartment the police were there, Billy was sitting cross-legged in the driveway with his hands behind his back and an overbearing lady-cop began interrogating me but I don’t remember what she said. Eventually, Billy was permitted to rise up from the gravel of the parking lot, and just before heading in the direction of his brother’s apartment he sort of gave me a sad nod and said something but I couldn’t hear him over the noise in my head. It was almost like
white
noise, but not as intense and abrasive and just loud enough to prevent me from understanding him.
Apparently at some point as time again stood still and I stood outside, the authorities had determined that no crime had been committed even though I was guilty as sin. And in a fog.
“Hey, man—come on in here a sec!” shouted an old black man from in front of a house situated directly across the courtyard and with great relief—like a frightened little kid lost at the mall—I looked at the ground in front of me and did exactly as I was told.
“Goddamn Florida sun,” angrily growled the old man who was apparently also my neighbor as I took a seat at a table in his kitchen while he shut the curtains to try to obscure the sun, but it was really just a veiled attempt to obscure the sight of Jon being wheeled out of my apartment. To help ensure his hidden agenda was a success, I turned and looked the other way for a moment and was surprised to find a very beautiful, very young Polynesian woman chewing on the tip of her forefinger and looking at me with profound sadness and a kind of muted fear.
“Hi,” I said in a half-whisper as I swallowed hard and tears streamed down my cheeks.
Through a partition between the old man’s curtains I was able to see the technicians remove Jon from my apartment, but from that vantage point I was unable to see the next leg of his journey. Then, after I heard the last official vehicle pull out of the driveway, I got up from the kitchen table and shuffled toward the front door.
“Thank you,” I said to the old man and the young lady before stepping out of their apartment and into that Florida sun.
I felt for the keys and bolted for the Trooper. I had to get away from my apartment and what was engulfing it so I could think a little more clearly. And though my thoughts were scattered they revolved around the tragic news that—for all intents and purposes—only Billy and I were aware of while Emily and
Momma Marcott were stuck out on that goddamned boat in that goddamned Gulf and probably not having the best time given the caliber of company but still, blissfully unaware of the awful reality awaiting them ashore.
I decided to drive to my mother’s apartment in Bonita Springs, obviously not to seek refuge in maternal comforts during a time of tragedy—but to pillage her supply of Xanax. Unfortunately, by this point as I pulled out of the driveway my hands were shaking and I couldn’t see the road for the tears, but I knew I somehow needed to flee this terrible place in order to get to that other terrible place.
I made it to Bonita Springs without incident, at which point I quickly gave Mother the details before demanding her Xanax which she handed over without a word. I then swallowed a few before locking myself in the spare bedroom.
And then I finally had the breakdown.
34
“Uhhh—hello??? Uhhh yes, we have a body??? A young man??? A Mr. Jonathan…”
Yes, indeed.
Upon returning from the Gulf—and just after listening to a recorded, rambling and barely coherent series of vague but tearful apologies from me—Emily and Momma Marcott were made aware of the horrible tragedy by this tactful message the City of Cape Coral deemed appropriate enough to leave on a
FUCKING ANSWERING MACHINE…
and their lives were changed
forever
. And this is yet another example of why anyone with even a hint of sophistication laughs in mockery at this place—this huge, desolate, intellectually-barren and embarrassingly backass stretch of treeless landfill where intelligent life is hard to find, though for some reason it appeals to the Burrowing Owls but even
they
hide underground.
So, early that evening in Bonita Springs I eventually emerged from a Xanax-induced place of total absenteeism and it all came rushing back. And almost as if on cue, the phone suddenly rang and I was sure it was Emily and it was and she told me to come over and I did.
When I got to Momma Marcott’s house many friends of the family had already gathered as Emily was waiting for me teary-eyed in the driveway. With a deep, terrified breath I stepped out of the Trooper and the moment I did Momma came out of the house and immediately began ripping into…
her daughter
. From the remaining muddled and berating echoes still ringing in a head that was hardly screwed on right I can’t recall exactly what she said, but Momma was upset about a memorial she’d already assembled to honor her son which included photographs of Jon and a poem written by him that was so moving, beautiful and hauntingly prophetic I was immediately overcome. Apparently, however, Kinko’s fucked-up the final product and Emily was the messenger.
I stepped into the house and proceeded out back where most had gathered, some of whom put on brave faces while others were unconcerned about appearances and openly wept as so many found it difficult to accept what was impossible to believe. Others, still, were trying to determine what could have caused the sudden demise of a healthy 22-year-old, and as those discussions erupted my guilty conscience and a failure to rise to the occasion compelled me to scurry away. Billy had yet to arrive and aside from Emily, Momma and Tom, no one seemed aware of my involvement in the tragedy and I certainly wanted to keep it that way because I was ashamed of myself. Momma trusted me with
her son’s well-being and he died in my care. I was either way too old to be hanging out with her children or the worst babysitter in the world.
Unfortunately, I can shame myself into silence for only so long, and when I heard some pimply-faced redneck I didn’t even recognize attempting to play Andy Griffith I began to get…
itchy:
“You know—Jon liked Xanax,” he said with a hillbilly twang.
“So what?” responded another Florida Cracker.
“So maybe he took too many by accident or something.”
“I doubt it. I’ve never even seen him fucked-up.”
“Well, you know,” said the pimply-faced redneck investigator who was already beginning to get on my last nerve. “You drink a bunch of beers, get a little wasted and swallow some pills and that’s what happens.”