I went to MAP like Anthony suggested … and met one of the most significant people of the second act of my life. Buddy Arnold, the program’s director and founder, was a crusty, cantankerous old guy. He was also a kind and understanding one. MAP was strictly an outpatient thing, and Buddy and I hit it off right away. Like me, he was a musician and a guy who knew everybody. A former jazz sax player, Buddy was a shiny-skulled, smiling hipster who had worked with people like Tommy Dorsey, Buddy Rich, Stan Kenton, Tex Beneke, and Neal Hefti—the man who wrote the memorable theme music for TV’s Batman series. He knew everybody from that scene, from Billie Holiday to Stan Getz and every jazz-cat heavyweight in between. Buddy had derailed his own career with a nasty and debilitating narcotics habit and had done prison time as a result of his addiction. We were very much alike. Although we were separated by wide gulfs of time, the cultural touchstones of our respective generations, and vastly different musical idioms, we were two sides of the same well-tossed coin. He became a father figure to me. Buddy was great. He didn’t preach to me. In fact, he didn’t really tell me much of anything. Mostly, he provided me little hints and glimpses of what a life without drugs could be. I admired the way he walked through life. He seemed to have few regrets and was completely comfortable with himself. He didn’t worry about being cool. He just kept on keeping on. I wanted what he had and I began to spend a lot of time with him. He recognized something in me too and took me under his wing. I slowly started to learn the ropes of recovery. Buddy was my mentor. He taught me how to run a group. He showed me how the industry works and how to negotiate its twists and turns. He could be tough. I went with him once to Pasadena Recovery Center to look for beds for some clients who needed inpatient care. Rehab places, like anything else in the world, hate a vacuum, and if there are empty beds, they lose money. Buddy was well aware of this, and he had also been around the block enough times to know how to play the game.
“I need some beds,” he said in his gravelly rasp.
The rehab center’s director blinked, gulped, and quoted him a rate.
Buddy exploded. “Are you crazy? That’s too much. There’s no way these folks can afford that.”
“Buddy,” he said, already defeated, “you know how this works.”
“You’re right. I do. You have empty beds and you’re not making a cent off them. I can fill them by tonight.” He wrote down a number on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk.
The director looked at it and took a beat. He sighed. “Buddy—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”
There was no further point in discussion. Argument and resistance were futile. Buddy was a powerful life force. “Yes, Buddy, we have a deal. Bring your clients over.”
As we walked out into the sunshine, Buddy smiled at me. “And that’s how you do it.”
I had to admit, Buddy had style and could get things done. He was comical. He could be narcissistic. He had quirks. If there was a problem, he wasn’t shy about taking it straight to whoever was in charge. I saw this in action one day. Buddy had gotten word that one of his MAP clients, a famous female singer whom Buddy had sent to the Cri-Help program in North Hollywood, had gotten sexually involved with her counselor. This is considered strictly taboo for obvious reasons. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but it can be a big deal when it does. Buddy flipped out. I went with him over to Cri-Help. He charged through the doors and made his way up the steps to the administrator’s office. The receptionist went into panic mode.
“Sir! Just where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going to talk to Jack … your boss!” he rasped, and demanded to see the man who ran the facility.
“You can’t just barge in like that!”
“Watch me,” said Buddy. He had worked himself up into a towering rage. He stormed into Jack’s office, while I stood there confused.
Jack was startled when the door burst open and Buddy stormed in. He tried to calm Buddy down. “Buddy, what’s the problem?”
“I want to talk to that fucking counselor of yours now! He’s sleeping with one of my clients!” Buddy was red in the face and ejected a spray of spittle with the force of his words.
Jack said, “Okay, okay. He’s here now, but I think he’s with a client. Let’s go down the hall to his office and we can straighten everything out.”
Buddy was already out the door and stomping down the corridor. He turned to me. “You wait here.” I stood there like an idiot, still not exactly sure what was in play. The counselor’s client was asked to wait outside for a moment. She and I stood there and looked at one another as if to say, “Oh, my God!”
Buddy slammed the door, but the conversation was heated, so we could hear everything. Buddy repeated the same question over and over: “Are you fucking that girl?”
I could hear the answer from where I stood. It was a weak answer. “I don’t know what you’re
