At Bully Hills Ch1

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At Bully Hills: Confessions of an OxyContin Addict (Non-Fiction)

By Thaddeus DeLuca Chapter One-At Bully Hills

There are very few absolutes or certainties in this world. There is Absolute Zero (-273C) and the fact that once you are born, you are absolutely certain to die. Then there is withdrawal from OxyContin1—Cold Turkey2—for which there is absolutely nothing that can prepare you. Of this much I am certain, I know, I have been through it. OxyContin withdrawal is a One-Way ticket to Hell. No detours, no station stops. You have just boarded the express train for one of the worst experiences of your life. Please observe the no smoking signs and fasten your seatbelt. The train is leaving the station.

1 OxyContin ®; an opiod analgesic whose chemical name is Oxycodone, first synthesized from Thebaine in Germany in 1916, patented by Purdue Pharma L.P., Totowa, NJ (parent company: Perdue Fredrick Company Inc. Stamford, CT) in 1996 as OxyContin (delivery system) Extended Release (ER), generic brand by Endo Pharmaceutical Holdings inc. and Watson Pharmaceuticals; sold in 10, 20, 40, 80 & 160 mg tablets (160’s discontinued) See also: prescriptions for OxyContin reached 6.5 million in 2000, and in 2001 OxyContin was the highest selling drug of its kind 2 Cold Turkey; slang term for abrupt cessation of habitual narcotics use, usually accompanied by sneezing, sweating, fever, chills, feeling hot/cold, intestinal cramps/distress, nausea, vomiting, leg cramps, muscle aches, insomnia and goose flesh (i.e. goose bumps on skin resembling cooked Cold Turkey leftovers) See also: Cold Turkey; lyrics and music by John Lennon & the Plastic Ono Band, Apple records—1969

It was a Monday morning, December 6th, 2004, and my parents were picking me up for a couple of hours drive to a Rehabilitation Center to clean up my act. Both suitcases were packed the night before and a pot of hazelnut coffee was brewing in the Cuisine Art well before 7:00 O’clock in the morning. As their car pulled into my driveway I grabbed my second cup of Joe for the ride to Bully Hills, my destination of the morning’s drive. Spirits were high and expectations reserved. After I had put my suitcases in the trunk I sat in the shot-gun seat and we headed down the highway. My father was driving and my mother was in the back seat. “You can do this, son,” my Dad said, “we’re all proud of you.” “Yeah, sure I can…” I responded. Mom did not say a word. It was as if my father had just finished reading The Daily Racing Form, rating me as a thoroughbred for speed, endurance and past performance. Then he proclaimed with a chuckle, “You’re a proven track winner...in the money your last three outings.” Too bad the jockey was a monkey on my back, carrying 122 lbs. and a fresh bunch of Chiquita Bananas. Monkeys love it on your back, a free ride, and all they can eat. Anyway, by this time it was about 9:00 O’clock and I was being dropped-off at Bully Hills, with both suitcases in my hands and trepidation in my heart. “I wonder what these bastards have in store for us?” said that Little-Voice-in-my-Head. That Little-Voice-in-my-Head had comforted me as a child, alone and scared in the dark, that reassuring Little-Voice-in-my-Head that, when my world was crashing-in all around me said, “Everything will be alright, you’ll make it through the rough water, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

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“Carpe Diem,” I thought, Seize the Day. So with a deep breath taken, I strolled through the front doors. As I exhaled, I sighed, “Let’s do it…lock and load.” What a naïve soldier of the Drug Wars I was. To think that anyone in a rehab would give a Junkie3 an even break was a joke on me. Well, it had been at least 3 or 4 Tours-of-Duty for this soldier of the Drug Wars since 1980 and I hadn’t gone down for the count yet. At Check-In they took my bags and ushered me into a waiting room while they promptly searched my bags for contraband. I even surrendered my Leatherman ® multi-purpose utility knife from my belt. “They’re taking no chances,” I thought to myself The night before I had partied hard, it was the last go ‘round before the main event. I had taken about 12 or 13 OxyContin 80 mg. ER’s, that day and snorted half of them so that my head was packed just as full as my suitcases. Then I downed my usual buffet of assorted pills and prescriptions; Ambien, Klonopin, Fentanyl lollipops, Xanax and then topped it off with a nightcap of 150 mgs. of Trazadone and a chaser of phat lines of OxyContin 80 mg. ER’s, followed by a sprinkle of warm water up my nose. The Little-Voice-in-my-Head had squealed with excitement, “There, that ought to hold you a day or so. “ While still in the waiting room, I was greeted by a young woman named Melanie; she escorted me to the intake room. The morning was busy with paperwork, it went by quickly. Melanie rarely looked up at me; she just kept filling-out forms and shoveling them across her desk for me to sign. When I finally looked at my wrist watch it was 11:45 A.M. “Lunch Break, Lunch Break!” I thought. It had been nearly 6 hours since taking 2 OxyContin 3 Junkie; novel by William S. Burroughs II, originally used pen-name William Lee in Ace Books paperback novella —1953

80 mg. ER’s that morning. “Lunch Break, Lunch Break,” Lucy Van Pelt’s cartoon voice, from A Charlie Brown Christmas, echoed in my head. It was almost noon. “Perhaps I can slip into the bathroom and snort this last emergency pill before the afternoon turns ugly,” I thought. Not a chance, this young chick Melanie was not about to let me go anywhere. She had been hard at work all morning, filling out forms and shoving them at me to sign. Sign my name as I had done a thousand times before as a Civil Servant, the Building Inspector, in a life past many years ago. As we checked-off my laundry list of drugs on the menu the day before, Melanie exclaimed, “You’re trying to tell me you have taken all of these drugs everyday for the last 3 years?...I don’t believe you! That’s 800 mgs of OxyContin a day plus benzodiazepines, fentanyl, tranquilizers and Ambien…you’ve got to be kidding!” she shrieked. “Well, I did drink a lot of coffee,” I chuckled. “Jesus H. Christ, that’s a lot of dope, how can you function?” she asked. “How can I function? How can I function?” I asked myself incredulously. “I’m a jazz musician, Goddamn it! Doesn’t she know anything about jazz musicians?” I thought to myself, “Hasn’t she heard about Billie Holiday, Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, Chet Baker, Art Pepper, Charlie Haden, Ray Charles or even Etta James? All jazz legends addicted to Junk!” So then this little cunt started to read me the riot act about how bad Drug use was for me and Blah, Blah, Blah, Yadda, Yadda, Yadda—Drugs are bad for me and how my body will eventually give out on me. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, heard it all before.

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The only problem I was having at the moment was that I was due for my next dose of OxyContin and this little bitch was making me nervous. A little too nervous, if only I had a good Nodd going I could have ignored this noise. “Christ, she must be someone’s mother,” I thought, “no one could possibly rag on somebody this loud, for so long…who does she think I am? Her daughter? Fuck this shit! I’m here for help not a lecture.” So, after her big speech, we went over my 30 year Drug History—now there’s a story! To make a long story short, I told her how long I had been treated for chronic pain—ten years. I told her how I had been shopping for a pain management doctor for the last ten years. I told her that I had finally found an anesthesiologist in Rochester that understood pain management in a very humane way and that he used narcotics to allow me to live life virtually pain-free. I told Melanie how the Good Doctor in Rochester got me all jacked-up on OxyContin, et.al. I told her how after getting laid-off from my Civil Service job as Building Inspector for the City of Oswego, back in 2000, by Mayor John Gosek, I had taken a hard fall, and during the last 4 years I had basically gotten strung-out on narcotics. I explained how the Good Doctor got busted by the DEA and that the U.S. Attorney’s Office prosecuted him for Medicaid fraud and for over-prescribing narcotics. I told her that the Good Doctor wound-up getting a year and a day in Otisville—a Federal Lockup in the Catskills. I explained how the FBI investigated nearly every patient that the Good Doctor ever had. I told her how it turned out that I had two FBI agents in my kitchen interviewing me and my wife Nina about the high-jinks that went on in his office behind closed doors and did we know anything about that situation? Then I told Melanie that the last script the Good Doctor ever wrote for me was back in July of 2004, was a 3 months’ supply of OxyContin. I was supposed to walk-myself-down, he said with a wink and a smile.

“Good-Luck!” the Good Doctor said. He knew he was going away to Federal Prison for a year and a day. No doubt about it, he was fucked-by-the-Man; fucked in the ass good, by the Man. “900 Pills,” Melanie shrieked. “900 Oxy 80’s all at once,” she shrieked again, “you’ve got to be kidding me, nobody gets 900 Oxy’s all at once.” Well I did, there was a Federal licensing loophole that allowed a doctor a onetime free ride to prescribe a three months supply of Schedule II narcotics only in times of extreme emergency. Yeah, like going to prison for a year, or an extended vacation in Florida near a golf course. “Hey, check the pharmacy records,” I said, “no shit, that was the last draw from my account,” the Good Doctor was going away for a long, long time, NO MORE SCRIPTS! “So, how many did you sell?” she secreted, “you had $9,000.00 dollars worth of pharmaceutical dope in your hands, do you know how much money that is on the street?” How the fuck should I know? This was my last hurrah and I was not sharing my last bag of dope with anyone—ya’ dig? Around and around we went with the selling of Oxy’s thing and finally I was getting more than a little pissed off. “Listen, you’re accusing me of a Class-A-Felony!” I shouted, “And I don’t like what you’re insinuating!” My blood was hot and the hair at the back of my neck was standing on end. I’ve had two FBI agents in my kitchen asking me questions about the Good Doctor and I didn’t fold. So I didn’t think this young whelp of a rehab bitch was going to break me. “Get Fucked!” I yelled. As you can imagine things quickly went from bad to worse—FLASH! She took my picture with a Polaroid instant camera.

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“What’s that for?” I asked, “Are finger prints next?” “What have you gotten yourself into this time?” the Little-Voice-in-my-Head asked of me. “The Polaroid is for our records…so we can do a Before and After picture…to show what a dramatic difference our program has done to help you,” Melanie assured me, “Ya’ know…after Detoxification.” I had no idea what the word Detoxification really meant, it was like traveling on a highway when there’s a road sign up ahead—it’s in the distance, but the words are too faint to see, so the meaning isn’t clear until the sign is just in front of the windshield—Next Exit Detoxification. After the third degree was over we squared off. Like a matador facing a bloodied bull, Melanie drew her last sword, ready to make the final plunge, she sized me up. “Well, this fucking bull ain’t goin’ down for this chick,” I comforted myself, and believe you me; I’ve been in tougher spots than this one before. As she held her sword, the moment-of-truth was upon her, poised to make that fateful plunge. Then she did something unexpected. She blinked—she blinked twice, held her breath waiting to be gored, then exhaled and in almost a whisper she said, “Let’s move on to the next phase.” The matador had decided not to make that final plunge. Her attempt to bring down the bull was aborted. Smart move, I was ready for her.

Phase II, I met with a pretty, blonde haired Arian woman in a white lab coat in her office. She looked strangely familiar, I had met her once before. She was Dr.Dungaree’s assistant, his girlFriday, so to speak. She smiled a knowing smile and looked over my chart. As I sat in front of her desk she got up and went to a white phone mounted on the wall and speed dialed

Dr.Dungaree, dialed him directly. He was busy at the time so she was referred to the on-call physician, Dr. McCartney. “Yes, yes he’s sitting right here in front of me, that’s right, OK…we will begin shortly,” she spoke softly. “So, can I get some Methadone now?” I asked with a sense of urgency. “I’m not feeling so good…I could use a shot of Demerol,” I thought out loud, “ring my bell with 90 cc's of Meperedine…that’s the ticket…that will hold me for the night.” “No, there won’t be any Methadone for you today,” the blonde haired Arian Woman in the white lab coat spoke decidedly, “or any Meperidine either.” “No Methadone?” I questioned her words with desperation in my voice, “No Methadone?” As it turned out there would be no Methadone or any other narcotics on the menu for this Junkie at Bully Hills, not today or any other day. Not on her watch. “No, there won’t be any Methadone for you today,” the blonde haired Arian Woman in the white lab coat said decidedly, “we have a support protocol for your Detoxification, to help you get through it.” “No Methadone?” I questioned her words again with desperation in my voice, “No Methadone?” All hope faded, so I went on the offensive, “I had specifically asked, on the telephone, before I came here if you had Methadone at this facility and they told me Yes.” “Well, yes they do, they hadn’t lied, but No…not for you!” the blonde haired Arian Woman in the white lab coat attested. “Dr. McCartney has prescribed some support measures for your Detoxification. She ordered meds to control your blood pressure and some Buspar for your panic attacks.” The blonde haired Arian Woman in the lad coat said calmly, “but there will be no narcotics of any kind

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prescribed for you.” The cruel irony hit home like a knife—OUCH! “You mean I have to go COLD TURKEY…are you people Nuts?” I exclaimed. Now, COLD TURKEY is every Junkie’s worst nightmare come true—THE GREAT SICKNESS—that can only be staved off by more dope. “Fall back and re-group,” the Little-Voice-in-my-Head guided me, “keep control of the situation.” “Well that does it! I’m going home,” I declared. I knew I had one day’s supply of medicine left at home in my bathroom medicine chest and that beats COLD TURKEY any day. So, the bargaining began. Finally, I was braced on my hind legs, like a lone hyena making its last stand before being eaten by an angry pack. “Dig your heels in, make one last stand Old Boy,” the Little-Voice-in-my-Head shouted. Not only had I been accused of selling drugs, but the greatest indignity of all was—No Methadone—where’s the fucking door? Subsequently, I met with the Director at Bully Hills, and her husband, the Assistant Director, and of course, Melanie. I was ushered into a conference room of sorts where we discussed my situation. The Director was a pleasant Southern Bell named Sandra from somewhere in the Carolinas, her drawl had just a dollop of molasses. Her husband, Henry, covered her back, “Check-Six,” they always say in a fire fight. Henry, the Assistant Director, was from the North and had a mustache. We all talked about my situation. “My staff tells me that you are unhappy with the treatment you are receiving here at Bully Hills,” Sandra spoke softly, “what seems to be the problem?” “The problem?...I’ll tell you what the problem is,” I started, “the problem is…I need

something to step-me-down a little bit, before I get into this Detoxification thing.” “What do you mean step-you-down?” Henry asked. “You know, click me down from 800 mgs. of OxyContin a day to something reasonable,” I spoke in desperation, “if you people think I’m going Cold Turkey off this habit I’ve got going on, you are sadly mistaken…I want some help and I want it now.” “What kind of help did you have in mind?” Sandra asked. “We could start with some Methadone,” I pleaded, “and then click me down gradually from there.” “Methadone is one option,” Henry spoke in an authoritarian voice, “but it would take weeks, maybe even months.” “And we generally don’t let our patients dictate their own treatment programs,” Sandra jumped in, “we try not to let the inmates run the asylum.” We all laughed. “And on top of that, I don’t like what Melanie has been insinuating,” I became defensive, “that somehow I’ve been selling my pain medication instead of taking it, I don’t like her accusations.” “Well it does seem like an incredibly high dosage of OxyContin,” Melanie retorted, “it’s kind of hard to believe anyone could be taking that much medication and still be walking around.” “Listen, I didn’t start taking this much all at once, I built-up to it over a six year period,” I explained, “it takes a while to get where I am today, I’m not proud of it…but here I am.” “It is an extraordinary amount of pain medication for anyone to be taking,” Melanie defended herself, “don’t you agree?”

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“Hey, it doesn’t matter how I got here, but here I am,” I defended my habit, “I’ve been suffering with chronic pain for over ten years now, it wore me down…I’m just tired of being tied to a bottle of pills every day.” “That’s why you’re here now isn’t it,” Sandra explained her mission, “we here at Bully Hills have been helping people in your situation for years…why don’t you let us help you?” “When people’s lives become unmanageable, that’s when they need professional help,” Henry bargained with me, “we provide a place for people to work on putting their lives back together.” Henry and his wife Sandra were working the Good Cop/Bad Cop thing very well. Or Bad Cop/Good Cop as the case may be. “We here at Bully Hills-sss are your only hope of Recovery,” Henry hissed like a snake. “Your life has-sss-spiraled out of control…you are hopelessly addicted to drugs…your life has-sss become unmanageable.” Henry had decided for me that my life had been spiraling out of control and that I was hopelessly addicted to Drugs. He assured me that I had a life that was unmanageable. I’ll bet he was counting the shekels on my tally sheet for a two week stay at his resort and spa treatment facility. “What can you do for me then?” I asked, “I’m not going Cold Turkey…I’m not stepping off this habit without some kind of help.” “What we can do is…I’ll call our Medical Director, Dr.Dungaree and see if he can prescribe an equivalent medication to Methadone,” Sandra bargained with me in her polite Southern drawl, “will that suffice you enough to stay?” “Hey, I need something…something to help step-me-down off this habit,” I held my ground,

“as long as you give me an option other that Cold Turkey I’ll stay.” “I’ll get our Medical Director on the phone and see what he can do for us-sss,” Henry hissed some more, “sss-so I’ll tell the sss-staff you’ll be sss-staying then?” The conversation continued on for some time, and then they finally beat me down, 3 on 1, in a small room with bright lights and no windows. They must have taken lessons from BCI interrogators. Get the subject into a small room with no windows, bright lights and no way out. Cover his retreat. Outnumber the subject at least 3 to 1 and yip and yap at him with staccato bursts of rapid fire interrogation. First one, and then the other; don’t let up on him or allow him any quarter. No breaks in the interrogation until he breaks. The interrogation would be over in very short order. I was starting to feel the shit sickness in my stomach in a very big way. It was creeping into my bones and my skin was feeling very hot. “Goddamn it! I’m getting sick here and these fuckers won’t let up ‘till I fold,” I thought. If only I could slip into the bathroom and snort this Bindle of OxyContin 80mg. hidden in the change pocket of my Levi’s, I would be on top of my game—ready to eat these fuckers for lunch. But I couldn’t. They had covered my line of retreat. There was no way out. They had won. I was hungry—hungry for a blood meal, their blood and viscera. If only I had my Leatherman® utility knife, I’d cut one of these fuckers and somebody in this room would bleed. I didn’t care which one; I wouldn’t kill anybody, just bleed ‘em good, just to let them know I was seriously desperate. I’d even cut myself if I had to, just so there was some blood spilled in that room, just to let them know. It was the law of the jungle now, kill or be killed. The monkey on my back was screaming; he had run out of Chiquitas and was starting to squeal into my ear, “Let’s get some dope…Feed Me!”4

4 Little Shop of Horrors; movie by Roger Corman—1960, Off-Broadway musical—1982, movie w/Rich Moranis, Ellen Greene, Vincent Gardenia, Steve Martin, John Candy & Jim Belushi—1986, Broadway musical—2003

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Christ, if only I were home in my bathroom, safe, with the door locked, all would be well. No more sickness and Bonzo the chimp would be sitting on my back, phat and happy once more. A good load of Oxy in my head, and I would have been back on-the-Nodd. Just the thought of taking the administration at Bully Hills down in ashes sustained me, “They would get theirs…every dog has his day,” I promised myself. Finally, I had had enough, I was feeling sick to my stomach and had started sweating profusely, “Yeah, I’ll stay…I’ll stay.” “Good, then we’ll make all the final arrangements,” Henry smiled and gathered up all my paperwork, “Melanie will introduce you to our medical staff.” Sandra looked relieved and smiled at her husband as if to say, “Good work.” They had triple teamed me, had broken me down. I acceded to their will. Still, I wondered about going home for the night and finishing off the baker’s dozen of OxyContins I had left in my medicine chest at home. Yet, I had made the decision to stay at Bully Hills and kick my drug habit. Maybe there was something in Henry’s words that rang true, that resonated within me, my life had been spiraling out of control—unmanageable, there was no doubt about that. I had to do something to fix my broken life. “Suck it up and get with the program,” the Little-Voice- in-my-Head demanded, “Let’s Do It!” “Alea iacta est,” or; The Die is Cast,” just as Julius Caesar proclaimed in 49 B.C. After he conquered Gaul, Caesar marched his legions over the Rubicon River on his triumphant return to Rome. Now I was resolved to cross my own Rubicon; the decision was made, there would be no turning back. Caesar marched his army across the Rhine into Germania on a bridge his own

engineers built. After he returned to Gaul in 57 B.C., Caesar burned his own bridge behind him. And just as Julius Caesar had done, I burned my own bridge behind me. There would be no retreat. I would finally get the monkey off my back. I had committed myself en toto, mustered my troops and began the campaign to conquer my drug habit. Although the battle plan was not entirely clear, the objective was in sight—to defeat an enemy which had enslaved me. I remembered a Latin phrase: Nemo liber est qui corpori servit or; No one is free who is slave to his body. OxyContin was the primary target, with collateral damage expected for the benzodiazepines, sedative/hypnotics and sleeping pills. Looking back, it was a 10 year drug habit that began with Lortab and Xanax, just after my car accident back in August of 1994, while working as Building Inspector, back in the 1990’s. Jerry Garcia was right, “…What a long strange trip it’s been.” 5

I was now entering Phase III, Check-In and acclamation to the new environment. After being greeted by a nurse with long corkscrew blonde hair and bangs, I was introduced to the medical staff, whereupon my bags were searched for contraband, yet a second time. What had once been a neatly folded collection of my pants, shirts, socks and underwear, were now a matted mess of crumpled clothing. “Christ!” I thought, “I hope these people have a steam iron around here somewhere, probably part of the rehabilitation process.” “Just as life is like a mess of wrinkled laundry, so shall you Iron-Out your problems and straighten out your life…Grasshopper,” said the Little-Voice-in-my-Head, speaking to me like a blind Chinese Monk—Master Po—to Kwai Chang Caine in an episode of Kung-Fu. “Yeah, a Chinese Monk from a Chinese Laundry,” I thought. 5 Truckin’; lyrics and music by the Grateful Dead, American Beauty album, Warner Bros—1970

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“No tickee…No laundry,” I laughed. Having missed lunch, it was now approaching 5:00 O’clock; surely they would have to feed us supper. I was starved and asked, “When do we eat supper?” The nurse with the long corkscrew blonde hair said, “Not ‘till you meet your roommate and get settled into your room.” So I was trundled off, suitcases in hand, to my room adjacent to the Main Nurses’ Station. We passed the Station/Desk, a credenza that stretched a good 18 feet, and was roughly 4foot high. It was a formidable barrier between patient and staff. A barrier never to be breached unless invited. Rules were rules, the better to protect the staff from the patients. Battle lines had obviously been drawn, a line in the sand not to be crossed. As I entered my room, a double with two single metal beds side by side, I was greeted by a portly young man with ruddy cheeks named Dan. “Hi, I’m your roommate,” he said as he gripped my hand firmly. We bonded with a hearty handshake. “I’ll give you the nickel-tour after you unpack, kind of show you around the place before we eat,” Dan smiled and our eyes met, we both knew why we were here at Bully Hills. After my clothes were neatly placed in the proper drawers and my shirts hung-up in the armoire, I was shown the place. Dan led the way and pointed excitedly to each room in the long corridor behind the medical area. “Here’s where Group Therapy is…this one is for each councilor’s individual sessions,” and so on and so forth, Dan said. “And here are the bathrooms!” Dan exclaimed. The one in our room had a shower, toilet and sink but no lock on the door. Surely this one

would afford me some privacy. I could probably feign having to take a shit and hustle up a Bindle of OxyContin from the change pocket of my Levi’s, but no time for that, we were on the move. Dan would have no part in stopping the nickel-tour; like a kid in elementary school showing his new friend the way to his classroom; Dan hustled me further down the corridor toward the main dining hall. “Wasn’t it Cool?” Dan asked excitedly. “Uh, Yeah Cool…real Cool Dan,” I didn’t know what he was talking about, what was so fucking Cool? Had I missed the floorshow in the formal lounge? Had they recreated the JungleRoom from Graceland? 6 “I just love the way this whole place is laid-out, it kind of makes you think they thought a longtime about the lay-out, just to make it easier on us, ya ’ know while we’re going through such a tough time in our lives,” Dan thought out loud. “You mean they actually hired an architect to design the layout before this $27 million dollar facility was built?” I shouted in my head, “Now there’s a revelation.” It was obvious to me that Dan hadn’t the slightest idea of the preplanning that went into a place like this. The multiple sets of plans, the drawings, revisions, topographical landscape maps, engineering studies, code compliance reviews, etc, etc,etc. 7 I guess 10 years as a Building Inspector, enforcing the New York State Uniform Fire Prevention and Building Code, weren’t totally wasted. I knew the intimate details of the construction schedule needed to erect the facility at Bully Hills, the whole shmear. Just as the nickel-tour had ended, we were called to supper. 6 Graceland; Elvis Presley’s estate in Memphis, TN See also and listen: Graceland; title song of album by Paul Simon, Warner Bros.—1986 (Graceland won two Grammy Awards; Best Record of year & Best Album of year in 1986) 7 Etc. etc. etc.; The King and I; Broadway Musical—1951 See also: The King and I; movie w/Yule Brenner, by Walter Lang, 20th Century Fox—1956

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We were all herded into the main dining area like cattle. It was a rustic dining room with 20 foot ceilings that had exposed beams and a peaked roof high above us. An open floor plan with high ceilings, architects loved this look—Splash—they called it, supposed to make us say, “Oooh, Aaahh.” The front walls had a lot of glass in them, especially near the top so we could see the sunlight and the open sky. So we could see the overlook, the view of the outside world. Even in December the vista was stunning at Bully Hills; nestled in the rolling hills of Upstate New York, it could have easily been mistaken for a giant ski resort from the outside. With the rustic look and the stone fireplace, the dining room could have doubled as a ski lodge for weary skiers, cold and wet, looking to get warm. However, for all the splash and splendor, high ceilings, exposed timbers, stone fireplace and breath taking view, the architects had missed their mark. There was something about the dining room that screamed “Hospital!” Maybe it was the stackable chairs or the orderly arrangement of the furniture. For whatever reason, the whole place shouted, “Institution, locked down, secure facility, play by the rules, no one leaves without a card key!” It was finally time to eat, so I grabbed a plastic food tray and got in line. My mind was wandering as I scanned the cafeteria style food line. Pick up your tray and move-on-down-the-line. Then some Gomer named Goober would slop this shit on your plate and grunt an affirmation that it was time to move-on-down-the-line. The entire kitchen staff looked like they were AWOL from Mayberry. I envisioned Barney Fife working the grill, Aunt Bee at the oven/stove, with Floyd the barber as Sous Chef and prep man. Of course Ol’ Andy would have been supervising, with corn fed teeth accenting a huge smile, keeping an eye on Goober serving at the food line and Ernest T. Bass, clean-up man and dish washer. “Oh and don’t fer’git the fruit cup, yer’ salad and raisin cake fer’ desert…y’all come back now y’

hear!” Andy Griffith hollered as ‘60’s daytime television rolled in my head. Some dietician had probably carefully planned a healthy meal for all of us, to keep us happy and healthy as we all marched our way through the program to a better life. I put my tray down on a round brown Formica topped table and took a seat with a group of men; I just sat there staring at the food on my tray, unable to eat. After going through the cafeteria style food line all of us men were seated at the round Formica topped tables with our dinner trays. Dan murmured, “Mmmm goulash.” I heard Homer Simpson’s voice echo in my head, “Ahhh, donuts.” I envisioned Homer’s cartoon mouth dripping with saliva. “They’re calling me,” Homey said with a smile. “I love goulash, my favorite meal in this place,” Dan said with delight. “Yeah, fucking goulash…I hate fucking goulash,” was my response, like some mishmash of leftover peas, pot roast and flat noodles, it sat there on my plate. Goulash that was thrown together with sliced carrots, peas and potatoes dumped over egg noodles, topped off with thick brown gravy and left over biscuits. “Yum, Yum,” I was so hungry that even this ghoulish gruel on my plate was starting to smell good.

As I sat there my mind wandered, I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, my mind was continually expanding outward like the universe. Thoughts were waif ‘ting through my mind like the thick summer’s fog of San Francisco. The fog, that rose gently off the Pacific Ocean each summer morning blanketing the Sunset District; by late afternoon it built-up to the mountains of Twin Peaks where is stalled. The Fog 8 would gently roll across Market Street and 8 The Fog; poem #76, by Carl Sandburg—1919: “…comes on little cat feet...silently…”

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glide down 18th Street in quick wisps each summer’s day at about 4:00 O’clock. The wisps of fog could be seen running silently on little cat feet down 18th Street; filling the Castro, on to Noe and Church streets, and then past Dolores, washing over the Mission District, layered in a high tide of clouds. The fog was deep in the mists of my mind. I followed the fog to the Mission. “I used to live in the Mission with my Old Lady Nina, back in the early ‘80’s,” I thought to myself. “Man, those were the salad days.” Our studio apartment sat just a half block off Dolores Street on 18th Street at the corner of Oakwood. I briefly revisited the shenanigans that went on in our apartment. I thought of my old neighborhood near Dolores Park. Ahh, my sweet sister was named Dolores. Dolores Street began just south of Market Street, where a bronze monument stood on a white granite base, memorializing the California Volunteers of the Spanish American War.9 Dolores was an impressive street; a promenade lined with huge royal palm trees down the center median that divided it east and west. It ran south past Mission Dolores and divided the Mission from Noe Valley. Dolores Street continued on down towards South San Francisco. It separated the Bad from the Good. My mind wandered some more. I revisited Dolores Park. It was part of my old neighborhood and sat directly across 18th Street from Mission—Let’s Get—High School (a graffiti artist’s tag). Ahh, Dolores Park, to be free again, with its verdant acres, swing sets, basketball and tennis courts, jungle gyms, and palm trees, it climbed a steep hill to give a Post Card’s view of downtown San Francisco. Many a

9 Monument to Volunteers of Spanish American War, by Douglas Tilden—1898, installed as permanent part of Civic Art Collection, City & County of San Francisco—1903

sunny day was spent relaxing in Dolores Park lying down on my back under a palm tree, listening to a Tito Puente beat, as the rhythms of congas, cowbells, timbales and guiros drove the groove, while a gaggle of Cholos chanted the Chorus of Oye Como Va.10 It was a time of freedom in my life that I had never experienced before, a freedom of mind that allowed my thoughts to wander and explore the deepest recesses of my imagination. I was so far from home, on the California Coast, that it seemed almost anything was possible if I could have just let go and allowed it to happen. Free again to lie in the thick green grass on a hill, listening to the J-Church electric LRV clack its way into its tunnel to a samba beat. Free again to lie on my back under the California sun smoking a joint of Humboldt-County-Green-Bud, Stoned-out-of-my-mind.

“Hey, you gonna eat that raisin cake?” Dan shouted, as he jolted me out of a daydream. “Nah, you can eat it,” I replied. “How the fuck am I going to eat this shit on my plate?” The peas and carrots were now moving around on their own; the Roast-Beef-Chunks-‘NGravy were barking at me. I had begun to hallucinate. “Hold on soldier,” the Little-Voice-in-my-Head told me, “eat, eat something, you need food in your stomach, remember an Army marches on its stomach.” So I took a deep breath and tried to eat, even just a little. And so it went, me chasing my peas and carrots with a fork; moving my food around, taking ‘eaty-beaty-bites, while everyone else was chowing down. After the men were seated and eating, the women were let in the dining area from a different wing of the facility. “Now there’s a breath of fresh air,” I thought, “co-educational dinning.”

10 Oye Como Va; song by Tito Puente, El Rey Bravo album—1963 See also; re-released; Oye Como Va, Carlos Santana, Abraxas album, Columbia records—1970

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The women filed in as a group and remained—A Huddled Mass Yearning to Breathe Free— words from the poet Emma Lazarus’ The New Colossus, graven on the Statue of Liberty’s star shaped base. As a group, the women remained en masse, giggling, jostling and pointing at the men as they smiled and waved. Some of the men even waived back. “We don’t mix with the women!” Dan exclaimed pointedly, “Not a good thing in Recovery.” “Oh, so that’s why we’re here, Recovery is it?” I thought, questioning the word Recovery. I thought it was 3 squares a day, a hot shower and a warm bed to sleep in while I kicked a Drug Habit. “What’s this Recovery bullshit all about?” I thought again. “So what are you in here for?” I asked Dan, we were seated at the round sterile table. “Uh, Pot, I’m in here to try and stop smoking Pot every day,” Dan remarked in a low voice. I almost spit my peas and gravy all over his face as I laughed. “Pot…Pot? You mean you’re in here for 28 days for Pot?” I asked him. “Why would you want to stop smoking Pot? Pot is nothing, Pot is natural, Pot is your friend, it makes you feel good, what’s wrong with Pot?” I questioned him. “A-a Drug, is a D-drug, is a Dr-r-ug,” Dan said with a stammer of sloaganism, “s-so what are you h-here for?” “Uh, me? Oh, I’m in here for OxyContin Detoxification…and a whole lot of other shit too,” I declared, asserting myself as Top-Dog in the pecking order of the Drug World hierarchy, “you know, the Hard Stuff.” Dan rolled his eyes and looked at the other men at the dinner table, who were still eating their supper. Each man nodded his head as if to say, “I think we have a winner, there’s a Junkie at the

table.” I had barely choked down six or seven bites of this nasty looking mess of Beef-Chunks-‘NGravy 11 topped-off with dried-out biscuits, when the nurse with the long blonde corkscrew hair came and got me. “We have to go now,” she said, “time for meds,” and she pulled me by the arm. “Well, it’s about time,” I thought. “Maybe with a handful of Darvocet N-100’s I could shake this creeping sickness that has stolen my appetite.” Just a little junk in my system would stall this sickness, settle my stomach and take away the muscle aches and sweating that had begun. My opiate receptors were all hungry for dope. It had been almost twelve hours since my last dose of OxyContin and I could have used a quick blast up the nose. Still no shakes or shivers, but my nose had begun to run a little bit. “Maybe this won’t be too bad,” the Little-Voice-in-my-Head whispered to me. Little did I know, but I was about to be shown just-where-the-bear-shits-in-the-buckwheat, by a little orange hexagonal pill known as Suboxone.12

11 Beef Chunks-’N- Gravy, Gay Pornographic magazine; sold in San Francisco newspaper/magazine shop on Castro Street, circa 1981 to 1982 12 Suboxone; Buprenorphine/Naloxone combination (2:1 ratio) approved by FDA as schedule IV drug—2002 See also: Buprenorphine is an opiate ligend taken from the morphine molecule See also: Naloxone (an opiod agonist) is synthesized from Thebaine See also: Naloxone is given intravenously for opiate overdose under the trade name Narcan® See also: Naloxone is not to be confused with Naltrexone (an opiod antagonist) and is synthesized from Thebaine

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