“Robby!”
It’s Ron, one of my acquaintances who buys drugs from me. His eyes gesture toward a door to a back room, and I follow him there. I yell into his ear, though with the music pounding, it sounds like a whisper.
“How many tonight?” I ask, reaching for my pocket.
He wants ten Oxys, twenty Ecstasy pills, and a few Somas. He’ll turn it around in the club for a profit, which will support his habit for a few days. Unless he gives in and uses his stash before he can sell it. Which happens to him—and sadly, to me, if I don’t sell it quick. Then the money’s gone, and I owe more than I can sell.
I can tell something’s on Ron’s mind. He looks me in the eye and says, “Did you hear about G?” I shake my head, but I know what’s coming. It occurs to me I haven’t seen G around for a week or so.
“Gone. Overdose. His roommate found him.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment. I don’t have to be told the cause of death. I can’t think of anything to say. What could be said? No words are right.
Ron breaks the silence. “We’ve got to get out of this, man. This whole thing.”
“Yeah, I know. We’ll do it. Been thinking about that myself. There has to be more to life than this.”
“Yeah. Let’s get together and talk soon.”
“For real. This week.”
We fist-bump and part ways, both knowing we’re not “getting out of this.” There is no escape hatch. Well, actually, there is one—G found it.
The next few hours are a blur. I know we end up in the French Quarter; I remember walking by Galatoire’s, where the other Robby was a few hours ago. Sunday is kind of fuzzy, too, and then it’s Monday and the phone is ringing. I pick it up. It’s Mom. She sounds incredibly tense.
“Hi, Mom! What’s going on?”
Her voice is ice cold. Mom has her own brand of ice cold. “Robby, we know. We know what you did.”
“What I did? What are you—”
Suddenly it hits home, like a knife slicing into my heart. The absolute worst possible thing I can imagine. Of course they know. I dreaded this day would come. I wait, speechless for once.
“Fifteen thousand dollars, Robby. Fifteen thousand. How could you do this to us? We would have given you anything in the world, and you stole from us? Your father is so furious he—”
“Look, Mom, calm down. You don’t understand. It’s just . . .”
And that’s all I’ve got. All out of words. How am I supposed to explain why I’ve run up thousands of dollars on their credit card—why I need money so desperately?
Back when I was working for him, Dad trusted me with his business credit card. I memorized the number. One day, a few months back, I needed something and was flat broke, and thought about that card. Just this once. Dad wouldn’t mind. I’d pay him back.
But of course, I didn’t. It was just a little too easy to give in to temptation and snort my own stash instead of selling it, knowing I could quickly convert that card to cash on the buy-and-pawn plan. Dad wouldn’t notice, or so I told myself. He spent thousands of dollars each month, purchasing auto body parts for his business. He’ll never notice the periodic charges on his statement. He never checks his statements closely.
I got so used to abusing that card that one night, when I saw a Fender Stratocaster online, I decided it was meant for me. All the great guitarists—Hendrix, Clapton, all of ’em—played Strats. I placed an order, throwing in a single stack Peavey amp. Then, a while later, the phone rang at Bob’s Collision Center, my dad’s shop. Somebody from the online store wanted Robert to know that his $600 guitar was on back order.
Was there some mistake? My dad was more than certain he hadn’t ordered some expensive guitar.
Well, they said, your card was used for the transaction.
Mom and Dad began to study the last few credit card bills, and I was busted. It was like waking up from a bad dream into a full-fledged nightmare, because I realized the stupidity of thinking I could ever get away with something so dumb. I also realized, in the pit of my stomach, the terrible toll this would take on my parents’ trust.
Mom says, quietly but firmly, “Don’t ever come to our house again. We don’t want to see you.”
I spit out my reply in anger. “Well, I don’t need either of you.”
And we both hang up. I sit for an hour, trembling, thinking, What have I done?
For some time, my life has been spiraling wildly out of control, plunging downward. Now I’ve hit absolute bottom.
How did I get here?
Chapter 2
Playing Parts
Chalmette lies just east of downtown New Orleans, in St. Bernard Parish. Chalmette means “pasture land” or “fallow land.” When soil is fallow, that means it lies unsown, fertile, waiting for planting. Which is a picture of my life in those early years.
The town I remember from childhood was twice the size it is now. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina pushed the Gulf waters over and across our town, devastating it and changing it forever. Along with all the other residents, we lost everything in that storm. The Chalmette of those years exists only in our memories.
We were a typical working class family. Dad owned and operated his collision center, his life revolving around fixing up mangled cars. Mom worked for an oil and gas company. My sister and I went to school, played with neighborhood friends, and tried to stay out of trouble.
We were a religious family, or to be more exact, a church-based family—not particularly spiritual. As good
