ADDICTION

Addicts will break your heart. Not just once, but every time one remembers. I have two such memories, never far from the surface. Although the outcomes were different, the feelings are the same. I sometimes wonder how I escaped? Is the simple answer the lack of an addictive personality?

In 1969, two friends and I opened a restaurant. Our place was located in a older building on Wacker Drive along the Chicago River. It was, at the time, a unique place for downtown Chicago. Other area restaurants were of two types: white tablecloth with expensive menus and perfectly coiffed waiters, or snack shops with Formica counters and cutesy waitress uniforms. Ours had the flavor of an old English pub. Our booths were dark oak. Our walls had dark paneling with old farm equipment and other unidentified wooden implements mounted on them. An old school clock with a windup key was prominently situated. The back-lit bar soffit was constructed from old stained glass windows rescued from a demolished building. The  lighting was subtle and unobtrusive. Instead of a jukebox we installed a sound system to play the kind of music we liked. Sometimes customers would bring in records they wanted us to play. We usually made fun of their taste and playfully refused to use their records. We knew everyone by their first name and greeted them when they entered. Some male customers brought their dates, thinking that being called by their first name by a bartender would increase their chance of “scoring.” And the main attraction for our suit and tie clad lawyer and accountant customers were our waitresses. We didn’t care about uniforms. Most of the women were young and broke. One of them made leather halter tops and sold them cheaply to their co-workers who wore them as the unofficial uniform. Those bare backs brought in any prurient clientele within sniffing distance. We were definitely where the action was.

In our 10-story building, many of the floors above street level contained practice rooms used by bands trying to make it in the burgeoning music scene. Most band members had only part-time jobs, if any. A few worked for me. Many of the others I fed. This led to friendships with several starving musicians who lived surreptitiously in their studios. One was a man named Peter, the leader of a blues band, whose music I loved. Peter lived in the basement of this old building in a large, decrepit area with a not quite discernible odor. I usually visited Peter after the lunch rush to relax, smoke some pot and listen to some great tunes. When Peter wasn’t playing his piano and other band members were still sleeping it off, we listened to old blues records. It was an easy life to slide into and pleasurable in many ways.

One day, about a year after getting accustomed to this schedule, I met Joe, who opened Peter’s door to my knock. Joe was a thin, ascetic looking six-footer clean shaven with long dirty blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses covering alert blue eyes. Peter introduced us and mentioned that Joe was the new singer for the band. Later Peter and Joe came up to the restaurant. I bought them lunch and sat to share a pitcher of beer. So began my friendship with Joe.

Sometimes at night we would all hit the club scene. There were so many clubs vying for our patronage and providing live music, that we usually frequented several places in one evening. Between the alcohol and the various drugs that surrounded us, we were pleasantly stoned all night.  I never questioned our choices until the night Joe and I, sitting in my car smoking a joint, discussed health and mortality.

By then I had given up smoking cigarettes, which I had started at a very young age. This was partially a product of realizing their adverse effect on my health, but mainly due to my children. My young daughter would climb into my lap and hug me, while she poached my cigarettes from my shirt pocket. She would hide them behind her back until my son could grab the pack, race down the hall to the kitchen, and throw them in the garbage. It was easy for me to quit. I just switched to pot.

Joe was a heavy smoker. He also liked his Jack Daniels in shot glasses. But his pick me up of choice was cocaine. While we were sitting in my car talking late one evening, Joe was coughing heavily into his handkerchief. It was more than a casual Smoker’s cough. The mucous he coughed up was laced with blood. Startled, I suggested he quit smoking, at least until his health improved. He told me that all great blues singers led tortured lives and died young. I told him about an excellent doctor to visit.

“I saw my doctor two days ago,” Joe said.

“What did he tell you,” I asked?

“He said, if I don’t quit booze, drugs and cigarettes for  a while, I would be dead in two years.”

“Well,” I said. “when are you quitting?”

“This is the life I chose. I always expected to die before thirty. My life is the blues.”

I was shocked into silence. Eventually I drove to a store where Joe could buy more cigarettes.

I later talked to Peter about my unsettling conversation. “I’ve been through this with Joe,” said Peter. “I won’t discuss it anymore with anyone.”

Joe and Peter continued coming into the restaurant as if all was the same. But I cut down on my visits to Peter’s basement hideaway, though I continued to buy the occasional lunch and drinks. Although the word enable never entered my mind, I had mixed feelings about assisting the slow, suicidal life Joe was living. I always thought Joe would change his mind about living once his health deteriorated. I couldn’t conceive of anyone rejecting life that way. Apparently hitting bottom for Joe was death. Each time I saw him, he looked worse. Eventually he stopped eating. I would bring a bowl of chicken soup to the table, but all Joe wanted was a shot of Jack. My naivete about Joe’s decision   vanished the night that Peter came into the restaurant without him. 

“Where’s Joe,” I asked?

“Dead,” said Peter. “Give me a shot of Tequila.”

My heart rose in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I was robotic as I brought a bottle and two shot glasses to the table. Neither of us spoke. We just drank. I didn’t feel good that night. I was happy my children were asleep when I arrived home. I was always cognizant of the effect my behavior and those around me had on my children. I never wanted to bring anything negative into their lives. Thinking of them and modifying my behavior was second nature to my life. Perhaps that is what saved me.

One of my partners in the restaurant was a CPA, who hated accounting. That was why Harry was in the restaurant business. We were good friends. Our wives had grown up together and were close. I agreed to do all the books, payroll, accounts payable and receivables, except for the taxes. While I did the books, Harry set up the bar and socialized with our staff and early customers. The office overlooked the bar and a window allowed me to view the activities below. For several days after Joe died I found myself wandering around our facilities. I would just arise from my chair, without a thought in my mind, and just wander.

One early morning, before we opened, I noticed Harry setting up the bar while sipping a glass of milk. My immediate thought was that this was an opportunity to kid my partner about reverting to his childhood. We serve liquor, I would say, not milkshakes. I walked down to the bar and started my comedy routine.

“Oh my god, is that milk,” I asked prepared to deliver my comedic lines.

“You know, I wasn’t feeling well this morning so I made a Scotch and milk instead Scotch and water today,” said Harry. “The milk helps me keep down the Scotch.”

“How often do you have an upset stomach,” I asked?

“Not usually more than once a week,” said Harry. “Maybe I should get a checkup soon.”

This was definitely not what I’d expected to hear. My funny bone imploded and I walked away numb without another word.

That night, while Harry was working until closing, I called his wife. I wanted to know what was going on. She told me that her life was going to hell because of Harry. He never listened to her unless he was almost passed out. She wasn’t sure he even heard her words. He couldn’t sleep at night and did Quaaludes to get to sleep. When he awoke, he snorted cocaine to get his day started. I also knew he liked working the bar which meant he could drink all day. They had a young child and his wife was frightened. I decided to keep a closer watch on my friend and partner.

One morning while I was checking the bar setup, I heard Harry enter the office. Wondering what he was doing, I walked upstairs to the office and quietly opened the door. Harry and one of our employees/friends were standing around the desk. They were busy crushing up some amphetamines known as white crosses. Also known as the truck driver’s friend for long distance haulers. Turns out Harry had run out of coke to snort and his need was so bad he had asked our friend for some. So there they were, crushing white crosses to put up their respective noses. I didn’t know what to say except no thanks when asked if I wanted some. I was at a loss. I waited for inspiration, but none came.

The next morning I received a frantic call from Harry’s wife. She cried for help and told me she was at the end of her patience.

“Help me, please,” she said through her tears.

The only thing I could think to do was clean his house of all drugs and liquor. I went over to the house. Harry railed at me as I searched for all his hiding places, and there were many. I finally, after several hours, found it all. I told Harry that I couldn’t stand by and watch him kill himself and destroy his family. I explained that I didn’t care how my intervention affected our relationship, his life was more important. Harry cried as I left his house with two large boxes.

The next day was Sunday, a needed day of rest. Harry called and told me he had gotten a new apartment for himself. He also bought some used furniture from the Salvation Army, and needed my help to move in. I met him at his new apartment. Of course, it was on the third floor. Also, he had bought the largest, heaviest ugly furniture imaginable. It wouldn’t go through the front entrance, so we had to move everything up the torturous outside back stairs. It took all day to twist and turn his heavy new possessions up to his apartment. He had already incurred enmity from some of his neighbors for ruining  their Sunday rest and blocking their back doors. I went home exhausted and slept the sleep of the righteous. In fact, I slept so well, I overslept.

My phone rang angrily. I answered. It was Harry, whose response to my sleepy hello was a screamed, “Where the hell are you?” He was at the restaurant covering for both of us.

“I’ll be right there, sorry,” I said.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Harry was livid with anger. He began screaming at me as soon as I walked in. In front of about 20 employees and a number of early customers, he yelled a lot of personal things, many of them not true. He declared self-righteously that either I buy him out or he would buy me out. I told him to make me an offer and left while he continued screaming.

There is no way to negotiate with an angry addict. Things got so bad that our mutual corporate attorney, a close high school friend of Harry’s, told him to leave his office. The lawyer told Harry to get his anger under control and negotiate in good faith. Otherwise, Harry would have to get a new lawyer and our current attorney would only represent me. Did I get what my share of the business was worth? Hardly. Eventually I just had to get out and end the unnecessary turmoil.

I was unprepared for life after leaving the restaurant. I was lost in dead end jobs for several years. I had my own anger issues over the loss of my business, close friend and self-esteem. After several years and much introspection, I went back to school to learn computer programming. That field didn’t exist when I graduated from college. During this time I avoided many mutual friends of Harry and I. I didn’t have an answer to “what are you doing now?” It wasn’t until I became successful in information technology and was a much in-demand techie that I felt confident enough to respond affirmatively to invitations from old friends.

Wondering how Harry had fared, I went to a party that I knew he would attend. I was always a person who carried no grudge. Let bygones be bygones and remember the good times was my philosophy. The apartment was crowded, smoky and hot. People were swaying to the music and laughing. I heard Bob Dylan singing ‘Positively 4th Street’ on the stereo as I spotted Harry sitting alone in an armchair in a corner. He was holding a glass half full of a clear liquid. Water? Vodka? I didn’t care. He looked old and small. I grabbed a folding chair, set it up next to Harry, sat down and said hello. I told him that my children missed their Uncle Harry and sometimes asked about him. I spoke about some mutual interests. All I got, in response, were one word grunts. I took the hint and left. I thought about the words to the Dylan tune. “I wish for just one time you could stand inside my shoes. And just that one moment I could be you. Yes, I wish for just one time you could stand inside my shoes. You’d know what a drag it was to see you.” I couldn’t leave quickly enough. For several days afterward I would tear up for a life and friend remembered and lost.

Would things have turned out differently without the drugs? Of course, they would have. Better? Worse? Who knows? I loved programming computers and was very happy with my new life. On the other hand, before my hypocritical drug intervention, Harry would have put his safety on the line for me and did. Harry and I were once crossing a busy street in the middle of the block when I got into an argument with a truck driver. The  burly man jumped from his vehicle and charged me murderously. I was stunned and didn’t move. Suddenly, my 5 foot 8 , 140 pound partner jumped in front of me swinging his small fist toward my attacker. The potential disaster was broken up quickly and no injuries occurred. Would I ever have a friend that close again?  How did we end up with such negative feelings for one another after being closer than many brothers? Clearly drugs were the cause.

I don’t want to sound like I’m avoiding responsibility for my actions in the lives of my friend Joe and partner Harry. I don’t think, even now, that my actions would have been any different. Did my experience with their problems save me from a similar fate, or did I escape because I didn’t have an addictive personality?  I always took drugs for the experience not the chemicals. I went on to be quite successful and my children even more so. I have no complaints about my life. I am responsible for all my actions. I do wish I could have done more for my two friends. Would Joe be alive today? I don’t think so. He made and probably reveled in his choices. Excess in most things is dangerous.  Some drugs are physically addictive, some are not. Was I lucky my drug of choice was pot and not physically addictive? I never had to undergo painful physical withdrawal when quitting smoking.

Addictive personalities will always find something to abuse. What about the people who drink three large diet sodas each day, develop diabetes, and die before their time? Or, even worse, introduce their children to addictive eating habits? Drugs take many shapes. We need to get past the drugs to deal with the underlying mental issues leading to the addictive behavior that’s destructive. Substituting one addiction for another doesn’t seem like that much of a success. Attack the problem, not the demonstration of it. I hope someone is studying the mental and physical causes of addiction. Until we find and deal with the underlying internal cause, treatment is merely a band-aid.

Two things saved my life. One is my lack of an addictive personality. The second and most important my children. I loved my parents because they raised me with care and love. But I respected them for the people they were. I wanted to earn my children’s respect not demand it. And for that in the famous words of Lou Gehrig, “I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”