Crystal Clean (13 page)

Chapter 12

Around the time we moved in with Allan, two significant things happened. The first was Garnett’s release from jail. He’d been there nearly three months, but he was worse than when he went in. With nowhere to go, he was forced to live with his parents, whom he despised, and he was furious with Kilo and me for what he saw as cutting him out of business. Kilo would still sell to him, but Garnett no longer had any customers. All his friends, even those he’d known since high school, decided to stay with me rather than put up with his craziness. I met with him to give him the key to the storage unit where all his belongings were stored, and let him know when and how the monthly rent was to be paid. All the money I made from selling the meth he had at the time of his arrest, I’d put toward his expenses while he was in jail, so he had no money, but he told me he’d take care of the storage bill. Other than that, he wouldn’t look at me and barely said a word. He never thanked me for anything I’d done for him, and as he walked away, I had an uneasy feeling.

About two months later, the storage company called to tell me I had five days to pay the past due rent or they were going to lock me out of the unit and sell my things. They were also pissed off that there was a chain and lock on the unit, which were expressly forbidden according to the contract. I told them I would be in to see them later that day, and went to find Garnett.

He wouldn’t answer my calls, so I drove around until I saw his van parked in front of a friend’s house. The friend was at work, but Garnett was there...in bed with the wife of a man he’d known since junior high.

I pounded on the door, yelling that I knew he was in there and I needed to talk to him, and he eventually opened it, pulling on his pants while the woman hopped up and down behind him putting her socks on.

He was smirking at me, which was the first thing that pissed me off. “The storage place called and said you haven’t paid any rent.”

He giggled. “So?”

“So? You need to pay that rent. They also said you put some kind of lock and chain on the unit. What’s that about?” He pushed by me and headed for his van. I followed him. “Did you
hear me? You need to pay that or they’ll auction off all your stuff.” I put a hand on his arm as he was opening the driver’s side door.

He shook himself like a wet dog. “So fucking what? It’s your problem, Kiiiimberly. Not mine.” He started giggling again. “Did you forget whose name the unit is in? I’ll get around to it when I feel like it. IF I feel like it.”

“But Gar...”

“Fuck you! Fuck you and all your monkey friends! I know what you’re doing.”
Still with the monkeys
?

“And you and Aaallllllan better watch out. And that ugly fucking retarded kid of yours, too!”

Sorry
?

Now he was in the van with the door closed, sneering and giggling at me. “That’s right. Leave it to an ugly bitch like you to fart out a stinking mongoloid piece of afterbirth and call it a kid. Jesus Christ! How can you stand to look at the little fucker? He’s so fucking ugly.” He let his tongue fall out of his mouth, rolled his eyes up in his head and made moaning noises. “Way to go, Kimbo. Why don’t you go home to that UGLY FUCKING RETARD? HA HA HA HA HA HA!” His tires screeched as he jerked his van down the street. I could still hear him laughing and moaning.

I felt a cold calm wash over me and in that instant, I knew what I was going to do. I took just a second to check for any feelings of guilt I might have had, and found none. He could have done anything. He could have
said
anything...except for what he did say. I don’t know if it was temporary insanity and he didn’t know what he was doing, or if he simply didn’t see me as a threat. Either way, it didn’t matter.

I drove to the storage place, paid the past rent and explained the situation: that I let a friend store his things there and he was supposed to pay the bill.
So sorry for all this confusion. What’s the typical procedure if someone doesn’t pay their bill? Oh, really? Well, how about we just speed things up a little, what do you say
?

So I terminated my contract on the unit, and they used bolt cutters to cut the lock and chain. Rather than waiting and selling the contents at an auction, which is what they typically do, or donating everything to Goodwill, which is another option, they took one look, declared the contents to be junk and hauled everything to the city dump the following morning.

Everything he owned: every book, yearbook, guitar, photograph and stick of furniture. All of it. Thirty-some-odd years of memories, gone.

When I told Allan, he was stunned. He couldn’t believe what I’d done. “Holy shit, Kim! He’s going to go nuts. You probably shouldn’t have done that.”

When word got around, people used words like, “gutsy,” “ballsy” and even “crazy.” Not one of them used the word “retarded.”

The other major event that coincided with Andy and I moving in with Allan was Kilo’s arrest.

He had just left my house and was going to make a drop to someone else when the police pulled him over. The reason for the stop was that he didn’t wait until his rear wheel was completely across the line before turning off his signal when he switched lanes. The police had probable cause to search him because he had a warrant. They found a quarter pound of meth as well as marijuana.

The truth was Kilo was on their radar. The police already suspected him of dealing meth. He had connections to people who were already in the system on drug charges, and he had an outstanding warrant related to his previous criminal history. Once you catch the attention of the authorities, it’s only a matter of time before you go down.

His arraignment was the following morning. Jill had to write the actual bond because of the amount: $125,000. For a bond that large, someone had to have property to put up as collateral, as well as $12,500 in cash. I arranged for his cousin to put up his house, and I came up with the down payment for the cash. Kilo paid me back when he was released, and paid off the balance to Jill sooner than she required. He was a model client, checking in with her weekly, as she required, and attending all his court dates. She was thrilled.

I hired an attorney I’d heard about over the years from different people. Word around the campfire was that Larry originally wanted to be a doctor before switching to law. In the era when Ken Kesey was forced to hide out in Mexico to escape prosecution for possession of two joints, Larry felt that the “heads” needed one of their own to represent them. Whether the legend was true or not, I admired the idea of a man with such integrity and idealism. I took Kilo to Larry.

I also hired Larry to handle Allan’s case. He was sentenced to one year of probation, weekly drug classes and one hundred hours of picking up garbage on the side of the road. He didn’t work for more than six months, and when he wasn’t fulfilling his court ordered obligations, we spent our days together at home playing games on the computer and listening to music. He’d play his guitar for me and sometimes people would stop by, but mostly we got high. All day, every day, we would get high and have sex, and to me it felt like bonding. I didn’t care that he wasn’t working. In fact, I liked that he was home all the time with me. In my meth soaked mind, I thought I was living a dream. I was with the man I loved twenty-four hours a day, had all the drugs I wanted and didn’t have to worry about money.

I didn’t live like the drug dealers you see in movies like
Scarface
or
Blow
, but I was doing well and we wanted for nothing. I was bringing in six to eight thousand dollars a month, which was more money than I’d ever made in the legitimate world, and was spending it just as fast as it came in.

I didn’t see an end. Part of me knew that it wouldn’t last forever, but I didn’t let myself think about that. Kilo sometimes talked about getting out
-
about saving some money and going legit
-
and had spoken of it more often since his arrest. But I honestly never thought much beyond the here and now.

It wasn’t always that way. I planned on going to graduate school for applied behavior analysis. I wanted to do clinical work with people who had developmental disabilities. It was a dream I’d had since before Andy was born. But, his medical condition was serious and I was having flashbacks during classes. As I got older, my depression became harder to control and when I started self-medicating with drugs, all my dreams vanished in a cloud of smoke.

The jobs I had between my stints at school always ended in disaster. Keeping my depression a secret, my mood swings and meltdowns were unexplainable. I’d forget my meds and crash. The doctors would adjust my medication, but it would take time for them to work. I’d cry at work, excusing myself to the bathroom where I’d sob uncontrollably for too long, only to return with red, puffy eyes. Feeling like a freak, I’d become withdrawn and anti-social, and eventually, I’d lose the job.

When I started dealing meth, my moods didn’t matter. There was no clocking in or out, no consequences for being late because I could barely function and no building in which I was trapped all day, hiding in the bathroom trying to stop my tears. I felt like my dreams were unattainable because of my mental illness, and I felt better excelling on the fringes of society rather than failing inside of it.

I thought about the future as far as knowing I wanted Andy to graduate from the local high school, which meant staying in the house for the next five years. Allan and I talked about it and that’s what I thought was going to happen. We would stay in the house until Andy graduated and then...but we never talked about what would happen after that. If I were sober, I probably would have seen that as a warning sign, but I wasn’t, and I didn’t. We never talked about the future in any serious way. Allan always said that one day he’d pay me back. “Just keep track of everything,” he told me. “It will all come back to you. Don’t worry.”

There are only two ways out of the drug life: prison or death. I’ve never known anyone who saved enough money to retire and live happily ever after. There’s no gold watch at the end of this gig, no pension plan, no retirement party or 401K.

I would listen as Kilo and Craig talked about saving enough money to start a legitimate business. Josh envisioned himself as the Donald Trump of the Boise meth market. Shadoe was determined to keep on the way he was until the police tried to drag him out of his house, at which point he would, “go out with guns ablazin’.”

Me? I say I never thought about it, but as I sit here reflecting, I realize that even if I didn’t admit it to myself, I thought that my “out” was with Allan and the money he owed me. That’s not something I’m comfortable admitting, but the more I think about it, the more valid it seems. The reason I never thought about the future was because I assumed that what he meant by paying me back was taking care of me once he became stable. Once Andy and I moved in with Allan, we were partners for life as far as I was concerned. From my point of view, we got along exceedingly well, bought a house together, paid our bills together and shared holidays at each other’s parents’ houses. We did everything a married couple would do.

Of course, my view was skewed because there was no “we.” Not in his mind, anyway. I think Allan was as trapped in the situation as I was. At any point, either of us could have said, “Look, enough is enough. Let’s cut our losses and go our separate ways.” But we both stayed, pursuing our own agendas, and neither of us was honest with the other. My agenda was love; Allan’s was financial. I often wonder how different things would have been had he not been pulled out of line at the airport that day.

Chapter 13

My brother, Chuck, moved into an apartment just a block away from us. He was driving cab at that time and had visitation with his two children every other weekend. It was nice having him so close because when my niece and nephew stayed there, Andy could visit them. The three of them adored each other and when Andy spent the night, it was like party central for kids: pizza, movies, video games and lots of time at the playground of the schoolyard that bordered Chuck’s backyard.

My brother has his share of downfalls, but the one thing I will say for him is that he’s great with kids. Especially his nephew.
When Andy was born,
Chuck was living on a beach in Hawaii with nothing but a knapsack in which he toted his few belongings. As soon as he heard that Andy had arrived, he somehow bummed an airplane ticket off a woman he didn’t even know, and was home within forty-eight hours.

Jaden and Majel grew up with Andy as their older cousin, and there were never any questions about why he was different from other kids or why he talked so funny. They just accepted him as a surrogate big brother and loved him unconditionally.

Chuck worked nights, so our hours were similar. He was usually getting off work about the time Andy left for school. Allan started working again, and most mornings he left as soon as Andy’s bus was gone.

For a while, Chuck’s visitation schedule was opposite that of Allan’s and his son, so Andy was able to spend time with his uncle and cousins one weekend, and with Allan and his son the next. My brother and I spent our time together on weekday mornings.

“Okay” I say, clicking the phone shut. “Any bets?”

“What? Who was it? Kelly? Man, that guy’s a pain in your ass, isn’t he?” My brother, Chuck, and I are in my living room getting high at 8:30 in the morning.

“Uh huh.
What’s your bet?”

“Mmmm...
hole
in the pocket. No wait!
Left it in his other pants.”

“Okay. I’ll go with the hole in the pocket. Is that empty?” I take the glass pipe, reload and melt down the rock of meth in the bowl. “I told him to meet me at Lou’s at eleven.
You about ready?”

“Let’s just finish this bowl and then I will be. The bet’s the usual,
right?
Double Jager?”
We finished what was in the pipe and headed for
Lou’s
.

Lou’s is one of a couple of bars in Boise that open at nine in the morning, serving only breakfast the first couple of hours, but no alcohol until eleven-thirty.

I’m sitting perched on a barstool in front of a video slot machine toward the back of the bar. Bars
aren’t built
with daytime in mind, and a hard jag of sun spots me as if I’m a vaudeville act every time the back door opens. The vendors are crashing dollies bearing kegs into the back door and walk-in as they change out the empties. Liquor bottles clink and tinkle as the obscenely cheerful a.m. barkeep restocks vessels, some amber, some clear. The smell of soap steaming from the dishwasher chases the loitering stench of cigarettes and spilled beer, and the jukebox is still unconscious from last night.

It’s jarring, this early morning scene, and it sets my teeth on edge. I feel wired, weird, wanky and uneasy with the mechanics of my own body, like an aardvark trying to gavotte. The back door closes a final time and I feel the delivery truck in my chest as it rumbles out of the back lot. The bar has turned its back on the sun and I ease into the shadows cast by the lights over the pool tables while the warm glow of neon signs speak to me in jingles from the walls.

Three or four sagging figures hunch over the bar with nicotine-tinged fingers and trembling hands, waiting for the alcohol to flow. I avoid eye contact because I feel their despair in the marrow of my bones, but I wonder what their lives must be like to bring them to this shadowy place every morning. I think that demons have chased them from the sunlight and better days, when tomorrow held more than the promise of drink. I think they come here to hide. They come here to forget about the sun.

The brotherhood I share with these men is utterly lost on me. The four yards that separate us are my moat of denial. I don’t reflect these men directly, but I am their sister in a sideways world: a parallel existence where, while the details differ, we walk the same path.
I am female
,
they are male
.
They are alcoholics
,
I’m an addict
.
They appear closer to the end of their lives than I do, yet in this sideways place, the path simply is, and time is irrelevant.

As I settle into my morning routine, high on a stool in front of the machine, I feel a tug at the corner of my heart. Denial of what I’ve become allows me to feel pity for my brothers. I don’t see myself as they are. I’m different. I am different. I am different. I am different. I’m a good person. Getting high is how I feel normal, and most importantly; if no one knows (my parents, society, law enforcement, my boss, my son’s teachers, etc.) then there’s no problem.

Shortly after eleven, a beam of light assaults the dim room, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Kelly coming through the back door.

“Hey,” he sidles up to me. He always sidles, like a snake. I point to the cigarette box on the table to my left. “Thanks,” he says slipping the box into his pocket. “Uh,
listen,
I only have half the money. I guess I must have left the rest in my other pants, but I can get it to you later today if that’s okay.”

“Chuck!” I yell. “You win! Go order yourself that drink and tell them to put it on my tab. And order me a Diet Coke, please.
Extra cherries.”

“What’s that all about?”

“Nothing.
Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about later today. I don’t want to see you more than I have to. Just bring the money next time.” I’m still playing my machine, barely giving my attention.

“Oh, okay. Sorry about that. I guess I must have put on the wrong pants and...”

“Yeah.
I know, Kelly. Look, I need to get going here pretty soon so...” I don’t even look at him throughout the exchange. It’s always the same with him. The only thing I can count on with Kelly in the three years he’s been picking up from me is that he never has all the money with him. He’s a weasel and a pain in the ass, but he’s a consistent buyer and always ends up paying eventually.

“So dancer-boy left, huh?” Chuck says bringing the drinks to our table. He’s missed Kelly’s exit, so I go into my routine for him.

“Yeah,” I say standing up. I start doing a little soft shoe. “Hey! Hey! Look over there. Don’t look over here at what I’m doing. Hey! Hey! Look over there.” My animated Kelly impression
makes anyone who’s ever met him laugh. It’s the only other reason I keep him around: he provides great material for shtick.

William S. Burroughs said, “Junk is the ultimate merchandise. The junk merchant does not sell his product to the
consumer,
he sells the consumer to the product. He does not improve and simplify his merchandise; he degrades and simplifies the client.”

Burroughs was writing about his days as a heroin addict, but I think the same is true for all drugs. I was a junk merchant. Simplifying and degrading my clients, if only to myself, helped solidify the “us and them” mentality that kept me trapped in my poison ivory tower.

“Well,” I say half an hour later, “I have to go.” Chuck is already nodding out at his machine and I’m starting to fade, too. I need to sleep.

At home, I bury myself in my down comforter. I’m so tired that I don’t remember laying my head on the pillow. Sleep comes quickly and completely. It’s hard, cold sleep that I imagine death to be
-
dreamless and dense. I sleep until I hear the van in the driveway dropping off Andy, and my instincts as a mother supersede those of self-preservation.

As I transfer the bail bond line to my phone, I listen to the voices outside my window exchanging goodbyes. I smile at the sound of little boy shoes running up the sidewalk in that funny cadence that’s my symphony of delight.

It’s difficult to explain, the way Andy runs, but any parent of a child with Down syndrome knows exactly what I mean. It’s something in their gait that has to do with the hyper flexibility of their hips. It’s one of a handful of things
-
folds at the eyes, square hands, stick-straight hair, speech
-
that unify people with Down’s. You might not notice there’s anything out of the ordinary unless you or someone in your family has
Down’s

When the front door opens, I tip my head back, close my eyes and smile at my favorite sound in the world.
“Oh, hi Mom.
It’s
me
. I’m home.”