With substance abuse, there’s no “dipping a toe in the water.” That metaphor doesn’t apply. If you’re in at all, you’re in deep.
I didn’t know any of that, somehow. I headed to the doctor, whom I hadn’t seen in eight months. He did the X-rays, checked out my back, and of course, sent me home with Oxycontin, Valium, Percocet, and Soma. I went to the pharmacy, filled my prescription, and stared for a moment at the innocuous little pill container. An old, familiar friend.
I had every intention of keeping the pills just in case, then selling them. But then I thought, I might as well take one. Just one. See how I do.
Which is always how it starts. Toe in the water, then you’re drowning.
I took the pill, closed my eyes, and the effects slowly began to set in—wonderful and terrible. There was the surge I’d secretly craved for months. I’d forgotten how good it felt. I think I knew, whether I admitted to myself or not, that there was no turning back.
Nor did my back improve. It only got worse. In March 2002, I was scheduled for discectomy surgery on L5-S1 in my lower back, to shave away the part of the disk causing the pain. This diagnosis had a dramatic effect on my still pending legal complaint. Facing surgery, and all those months of pain—I had quite the case now: personal injury, pain, and suffering, with all the evidence on my side.
The lawyer advised me to go ahead with the surgery. My case had moved from a small claim to a $300,000 lawsuit. “Robby, the company is going to pay for your surgery, rehab, and some compensation for everything they’ve put you through.”
I couldn’t believe it. I figured my days of sleeping on the floor were over. If I was careful with that money, after my surgery, I’d have a head start on a brand-new life. I’d have to wait for the company to come up with a settlement, but in the meantime, I would receive $3,000 advance checks monthly.
The first check arrived just before I went into the hospital, and of course my addiction reared its ugly head immediately. I blew the whole thing on drugs. I told myself I needed relief from the pain, but it was all about the addiction. I realized it, but I didn’t have much time to think about it when the surgery happened—the operation was like having a ton of bricks dumped on me.
After I came out, I couldn’t feel my legs at first, so I couldn’t walk. I had to wear a body brace and do lots of painful therapy. I began supplementing my drugs with hard liquor, which I could find in the house; I was back with my parents, sleeping in a rollaway bed in their living room. I was told to stay put, rather than going to the doctor for personal therapy.
I don’t like lying around, particularly when I’m in pain. My spirits were pretty low, but some of my old friends, my partying buddies, were there to cheer me up. They were really glad to have me back in town.
I gave my friend Elliot a call. He said, “Robby! Hear you’re back in the game again.”
“Not completely. I’m laid up after a back operation, trying to get on my feet.”
“So I hear. You’ll be needing some party time to get your mind off things . . .”
“Yes, I will. And I’ve got a little money. Or I’m about to have some. That’s why I need your help.”
“Oh, yeah! I’m on it.”
“My next check is due—three-K. You think you could go grab it for me?”
“I’m your guy.” I could imagine him all but drooling over the thought of all that money for drugs. I told him where to go, but he called me back and told me the lawyer wouldn’t release the check to just anyone. I had to sign for it. I told him to come pick me up, we’d get the check, and then we could stop off at The Pimp’s place and stock up.
That’s how he was known: The Pimp. He lived in the heart of New Orleans, and he was very careful about his business associates. He had to know you pretty well to build some trust, then he would supply cocaine and heroin, or “boy and girl,” as we called it on the streets. The coke came in plastic bags. The heroin in tin foil, rolled into tiny squares.
Elliot helped me into his grandfather’s single cab S10 pickup truck, body brace and all. It wasn’t comfortable, but relief was a cashed check away. We drove past Canal Street to my lawyer’s office, and I picked up my check. I cashed it at the Regions Bank around the corner as quickly as possible, then we paged the Pimp to let him know we were set. He met us on a side street. Elliot, as he always did, jumped out of the truck. Five minutes later, we were cruising back home with an eight ball of coke and two hundred dollars’ worth of heroin foils. I figured if it was up to me, I’d feel no pain during my recovery. And with my current income, it would be up to me for the foreseeable future.
This became my ritual once a month, when I’d snort my way through three thousand dollars. We wouldn’t even wait until we arrived somewhere—we’d start the party right there in the truck, dumping out the powder on CD cases, cutting lines of coke with a credit card before snorting.
We headed home down Canal Street toward St. Claude Avenue. As we sat at a traffic light, I looked out the window at a police station on Rampart Avenue as we passed it on our way back to Chalmette. Elliot was driving his grandfather’s truck, while my bulky frame, still in the brace, was stuffed into the passenger side, and I
