Chapter Five.

I woke up to the glorious sounds and smells of sizzling bacon and pork roll, garlicky Texas toast, french roast coffee, pancakes rising on the griddle, fried potatoes being pushed around with a metal spatula, and sunny-side up eggs. This was fascinating because I had none of the above in my fridge. The spot next to me in bed was cold, and the perfect gentleman who slept there was absent now. I lit a smoke. This alerted Dre that I was awake and he poked his smiling face around the wall of the kitchen, frying pan in hand. We wish each other a “good morning”. I’m a light sleeper, but I found myself a bit alarmed that I hadn’t heard him get out of bed, leave the house, and come back in to start cooking. Shit, I must have been tired, or he’s really good at being quiet and courteous. Either-or, I groggily stretch and get up to brush my teeth. After, I stop at the entrance of the kitchen and take in Dre for a moment. He’s in all his glory plating breakfast, fresh white t, dickies khakis, AF1s. Swoon. He had his back to me singing Maxwell with the CD player/radio I had on my kitchen counter. I wasn’t quite dressed for the day, yet, so I ran back to bed and threw my blanket over myself. From the bed I called out to see if he needed any help, and he told me it would be helpful if I stayed where I am and relaxed. Cool with me. A few minutes later he brought out what looked like a banquet of a meal. There were 5 different plates, each holding one of the above items in large quantities. Plus, two mugs of coffee, light and sweet. Hot sauce and ketchup came next. “I didn’t have any syrup at the house, so I hit the pancakes with a little jelly,” he explained. “Are you kidding me, this is incredible! Thank you!” I proclaimed as my eyes wondered where to start. Little bit of everything on the plate sounds good to me, and maybe some extra bacon. “I’ll be making chicken wings for the game. Got them marinating in the fridge,” he said between bites. I arch my eyebrows in amazement. “I’ll be in a food coma after this, but promise me you’ll wake me for the wings.” We laughed. It was 10:20 am, and I was beyond thrilled to be home, to be off work for the whole day, and to be spending it with Dre. I originally had planned to spend it alone, but this was even better. He finished his breakfast and pulled his napkin from his lap and let it rest on his plate. When I had finally decided to call it quits, I grabbed the dishes and cleaned up. It was the least I could do.

While standing at the sink I noticed the headache I had when I woke up seemed to be more nagging now. Boom, boom, boom like a heartbeat drum. Ugh, headaches suck. I rummaged through my cabinets, then my bag looking for advil. None. Bummer. Most places aren’t open by the time I get out of work, and I didn’t pay much attention last night to the few 7-11’s I passed on my way home that were. I had one blue left and I decided to pull the trigger. If that doesn’t help my headache I don’t know what will. Up the nose it went, as inconspicuous as I could snort a pill. When I came back into the room Dre had removed his shoes, was back in his spot, with the brim of his hat covering his eyes. It was a rainy day, so I shuttered up my blinds. I asked him if I could get him anything before I too crawled back in, and he told me, “No thanks.”

The television was playing the pregame show from Fenway. Perfect. Clemens vs. Martinez today. Two aces, one nearing retirement. Martinez is dominant, I’m not afraid to say it. The dude has a lethal changeup, and don’t even think about sleeping on his tailing fastball and curve. He’s nasty. Pedro threw from a low position which made picking up his delivery pretty impossible for batters. Roger Clemens, on the other hand, whose nickname Rocket is intended to intimidate, throws a 98 mph fastball, an off-speed split finger fastball which can be devastating, and a hard breaking ball. As a sports fan you live for the postseason (or playoffs..) and rivalries. This game gave me both. My nerves were always erratic, fingernails were always bit to the quick, and I was always pretty superstitious. Like, oddly not moving from the chair, cause the chair had hits in it. Or, if someone left the room and we started making moves that person was “bad luck” and had to stay put til the rally ended…you know, shit like that. I remember a few times staying in one position – like, if I was sitting Indian style on the chair, and something good went down I wouldn’t move. I’d become statue like, (and stiff as a mother f*cker!) convinced that if I moved the good luck would end. Sports have always been a constant in my life. Whether playing or watching, I became obsessed pretty early, a disciple of sorts, and some of my most treasured memories involve sports in some form or fashion. My dad was a diehard sports fan, and a great athlete all his own.

The rules of our life were similar to the rules of the game. The ability to fail, learn from setbacks and have the capability to move forward is a vital life skill. Development, leadership, accountability, resilience, and patience. Losing teaches you more than winning does. Perfection is a rarity. You discover fairness, practice equality and inclusion, cultivate discipline, foster perseverance. You manufacture respect – for yourself, for others. And baseball has always held my heart. I was always down to pass time with the great American past-time. Thurman Munson, whom I never got to see play live, was my guy. My father recorded games growing up, and also got his hands on some pretty sweet old vhs footage of the late 70’s Yankees which meant that I got to sit on his lap as a kid and watch the classics. I took to Munson because he was a gamer. A total team guy, with a toughness second to none. Number 15, The Captain. The cornerstone of the great Yankees teams of the 70’s. Iconic, old-school tenacity. That catcher’s mask, the way he’d rip it off to shag a foul, and pull it up on his head to gun one down to second. How he’d take a full-on trucking at home plate while managing to hold onto the baseball, showing it to the ump like a trophy. Unfortunately, his life was cut short on August 2, 1979 during an off day at age 32. Munson was flying his Cessna Citation twin-engine jet, practicing takeoffs and landings at Akron-Canton Airport near his home in Ohio. The plane fell 1,000 feet short of the runway and burst into flames. It was shocking and unbelievable. I got unique access to his playing career through those videos. I was lucky.

Dre’s phone buzzing snapped me out of my baseball fantasy. I looked over and saw he was napping, but the annoying buzz snapped him out of his dream state, too. He snatched it up, and answered. All I heard were a couple of “uh-huh’s”, and watched the expression on his face go from listening to surprise. Before he hung up he told the caller he’d let me know what’s going on, and then he hung up and sighed. Instantly I asked, “What’s up?” He got up and walked into the bathroom. I heard him on the phone again, but it was muffled and I wasn’t trying to be nosy. Within a few minutes he walked back out and sat down next to me. “That was my cousin. He told me Lou was in a bad accident early this morning.” Dre’s cousin, DeMarcus, lived in the same complex as Lou, right downstairs. Immediately, I stood up out of shock, put my hands to my face, asking if Lou was ok, if anyone else was hurt or involved. Dre nodded and said that Lou was in the hospital but nothing was life threatening, and the accident involved Lou, and a highway median.

As I thought about that news for a second Dre grabbed my hand. I looked up and realized that there was more he had to tell me. “He’s in deep shit, City. He tried to leave the scene and backed into a police cruiser. He had alcohol on his breath, and when they impounded the car they found an 8th of weed, a small bag of coke, 2 prescription bottles – one full of 80’s, the other full of xanax. Neither bottle had his name on it, so he’s facing possession with intent to distribute, among other shit, like DWI, open container, and leaving the scene. His BAL was three times the legal limit. Dude had no business being at the wheel. Damn.” We chewed on all of that info for a bit. I was glad that nobody else was hurt. Thank God. My concern then went to Lou, and what all of this meant for him. He could’ve killed someone. He could have killed himself. Dre read my mind and noted, “ What was he thinking? Driving that fucked up with an entire pharmacy in the whip?” He shook his head and looked at the floor. After a few moments of dense silence Dre added, “I told you I thought he had a drug problem, and I’m certain when they blood test him that all of that shit he had on him will be found in him.” I was surprised by the hint of anger in his tone, but I completely understood it. You don’t get behind the wheel when you’re that messed up, and I know it’s easier said than done for some. I have made the stupid decision to drive buzzed. Knowing when I’ve done it that I shouldn’t. And when I safely and luckily made it home (emphasis on the luckily) I swore to myself that I would never take another senseless chance again. The issue that was nagging at me was the fact that Dre was right. Lou had a problem. I’ve been too busy convincing myself that he’s too young to be an “addict”. That this was just a phase, and a right of passage of sorts. Right? Naw…no matter how hard I tried and tried to deny that a good friend is in a bad place I knew that I’d felt as if he had a problem before this even happened.

We just spoke on it at the bar the other night. I’m no martyr, no hero just for having a talk that was snuffed out quicker than lighting the filter of a cig. Lou was irritable, indignant, in denial. I enabled the exasperated excuse. It was easier, and I’m not a better friend for it.

I snapped back to reality and acknowledged what Dre had implied. “He broke the cardinal rule. It must have become too tempting to be holding. I asked him straight up the other night at the bar, and he denied it. Was pissed I even asked.” Dre nodded. “I’m sure the cops are gonna try to get him to flip. And depending on how immersed he is in the shit, lets say he’s going through withdrawals, I’m sure the only thing that’s on your mind is doing whatever the fuck you have to do to get back to feeling better.” Dre nodded again and added, “Sometimes that means rolling on people. They can’t do their own job, gotta rely on snitches to get the work done. Same old shit. My Uncle Dwayne, from Perth Amboy, got picked up on some distribution by the school charge. He told me that they made him sit in the interrogation room for four hours while they pulled up pictures of his friends and associates on a laptop in front of him. They wanted the person he was getting his weight from, but they also were trying to get him to flip on people he was selling to which I thought was crazy! Why go after the users? The only people they’re hurting are themselves, so I didn’t get that. But, shit, you know how cops do. Anyway, he denied knowing anyone, and selling to anyone. They promised him they’d make sure the charge was downgraded to a misdemeanor if he sang. He refused, and ended up doing 3 years upstate.” We exchanged looks, both probably thinking the same thing. I didn’t think Lou would rat on someone to save his own ass, but I was also the same person who thought he wasn’t getting high on his own supply while developing a real problem. “What did your cousin say about Lou’s condition?” Dre had gotten up and headed into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder “Gimme a sec, I gotta turn the oven on.” The game had started. I’d totally spaced with the news about Lou. Dre walked out wiping his hands on a dish towel. “He’s banged up pretty bad. Broke his right arm, and his nose on the steering wheel which knocked him out cold. Couple of ribs fractured. I could be missing something else, but it was a lot to take in.”

I looked up at the television dazed yet grateful that he didn’t hurt someone else, and that he didn’t kill himself. Dre’s phone buzzed and he let himself out onto the balcony, lighting a smoke on the way out. I hadn’t seen or heard my phone all morning. Checked my bag, no dice. I fished around the couch cushions and felt it waaaay under the couch, so I dove in ass up in the air hoping to grab it before Dre walked back in. While I had my head pressed to the floor and my arm as stretched as I could get it I heard a knock on the glass of the balcony. Instinctively I popped up, looked over and saw Dre smiling, pretending to take pics with his phone. I laughed and gave him the finger. Diving back in, I snagged the phone quickly and as soon as I grabbed it I startled and almost dropped it when the phone began to vibrate. I didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voicemail. I scrolled through and saw I had 8 missed calls, 4 new voicemails, and 9 new texts. No doubt the drama surrounding Lou. I’d almost wished I just left the phone under the couch. I tossed it on the charger in the kitchen and walked away to the sound of it buzzing again.

This kid needed a quick shower, hoping it would wash away the impurities of the morning. The last thing I wanted was for a friend to be down in a hole. I hated the thought. Lou was a good kid, and addiction didn’t change that one bit. It simply complicated things for himself, and as a friend you don’t want to see that happen to anyone you truly care for. As I stood in the shower I thought about the legal battle that would ensue when he got himself right. My uncle is a State Trooper, and has always acted like a cop which strained how I felt about him. Cops can’t help it, they are natural dicks and don’t even realize it. This business about rats and CI’s and shit….that’s some bullshit. They wave your freedom in front of your face but only if you dime someone out? That’s a shitty position to put someone in, especially at your most vulnerable. If they just did their jobs…The thought of Lou flipping turned my stomach. I didn’t see him being that kind of dude. But, I also don’t know what it’s like to be in his position. And here I go overthinking again. I dried off, threw on some clothes and tried to push my thoughts in a positive direction. The game is on, Dre’s here, and I have the day off to enjoy both. So, I’m going to.

I dried my hair, made 2 long braids and put my Yankee hat on top, backwards. As I walked out I called to Dre but got no answer. I could smell deliciousness coming from the kitchen, so I peeked in and saw a post-it note on the oven door. After grabbing the note I popped my head into the oven and saw two trays of chicken wings cooking low and slow. They smelled like pineapple and cayenne pepper. The note told me that Dre went to grab us some goodies and that he’d be right back. My shower took way longer than I expected, but that’s that overthinking shit…sometimes it gets the better of me, and sometimes it’s a necessity to clear my head. I felt somewhat better than I had pre-shower, so I took that as a positive. Goodies? Hmm…We had one tea left, and I grabbed it, leaving the 6 pack holder in the fridge. My phone vibrated as I walked by, so I plucked it off the charger and decided to be a big girl and face the day. I slugged my twisted tea after looking up at the TV. Boston up by 1, bottom of the second. 2-1. Not bad, not out of it by a longshot, but they struck first, and that sucks. I plopped down onto the couch and started looking through my missed call list. Lou called me three times early this morning, just after 2am. I was still at work, and hadn’t even known. I remember picking up the phone for Dre after I got home from work..while I was in the shower…but I never looked at my phone after that.

The door opened and in walked Dre. “2-1, City” he proclaimed proudly with his perfectly fitted Sox hat and a smile that could light up an actual city. He had a case of Twisted Tea’s, tossed me a pack of smokes, and disappeared into the kitchen. I gotta be honest, I loved having Dre here. It felt so normal, so natural. I called into the kitchen, “Wings smell ahhh-mazing!” Although, I was still full from breakfast. Enrique Wilson was walking back to the dugout, and Jeter was up. He thanked me, sat down beside me, handed me a Tea and we clinked tops. “Cheers to Boston kicking that ass” he smirked before sipping. As if on cue, Captain Clutch goes yard and I stand up with my fist in the air. I look at Dre smiling big and tell him “Tie Game, Baby! I’ll drink to that!” And, I do.

Ahh, you gotta love the Yankees/Bosox rivalry. Pedro’s facial expression said a lot. As I’m sure mine did when Dre empties his pockets onto the table. He has an empty cig box he opens and pulls out a few cellophane packets. One with a handful of blue pills, the other with a white powder, and one with a few xanax. He looks over at me, testing my response. “We ain’t driving anywhere, and we don’t have anywhere we gotta go,” he says, answering for me. “My boy owed me money and came up with this instead.” He had a plate, a card, and a bill rolled. What could I say? “Fair enough” was all I could come up with. Yes, I thought about Lou, but no, I didn’t feel like him. This was someone sharing his honeypot, and I kindly accepted. He passed the plate, one big blue line, one big white. He pushed a fex xanax over towards my tea. All systems ready for takeoff, please stand by.

Clemens got outta the third and we stood tied 2-2. Top of the 4th, Martinez walks Posada. I start clapping, Dre waves his hand at me. Boom! Nick Johnson hits a single to left-field, and Jorge heads for third. It’s rally time! I’m standing up now, still clapping. Matsui scores Posada, and Johnson’s on second after a ground-rule double. I glanced at Dre, and he flipped me off. We started laughing. We stopped when Karim Garcia gets drilled by Pedro. “Oh, daaamn!” we both say in unison. “He’s throwing at his head!” I yell at the umps while pointing to the TV. “Nah, City, that one got away is all, he’s pissed about that RBI!” Dre tries to convince me as the umps warn Martinez. Dre smiles and says, “Dude, this is getting good.” Pedro winds up, and Alfonso Soriano gets a hit, scoring Nick Johnson. Garcia slides hard into Todd Walker, the Sox second baseman, knocking him down hard. The two men start shoving each other and the benches begin to clear. “Oh, shit! It’s about to be on!” I say to Dre as he stands up next to me. We both grab another tea and clink glasses, “To the rivalry” he says and I reply “Is there anything better?”

Dre looks at me like he wants to say something. Instead, he smirks in that way that drives me crazy inside. But, I play it cool and sit back down. Yanks up 4-2 going into the bottom of the 4th. When Clemens comes on the bump he’s warned about throwing inside, then answers by pitching Manny Rameriez up and in. This time Dre stood up and pointed at the TV. “That’s bullshit..” but before he finished his thought Manny Ramierez was pointing his bat at Clemens and the benches cleared again – but this time I see Don Zimmer running across the field. Now, Zim is old. He’s been in baseball for 54 years, and serves as our bench coach. He’s running at Pedro who ole’s him and pushes him onto the ground. I’m furious! You don’t do that to an old guy! Not Don Zimmer! This was a shit-show! They had to pause play, and the Yankees trainer came out to assess Zim, who was on the ground bleeding from his head. Dre and I were floored, both making the case for our team, almost yelling at each other. Then he grabbed my hand, and I almost melted. “We need to chill, ” he suggested. He walked into the kitchen to mess with the wings and I grabbed my afghan blanket. We were both blown away by what just happened.

It took about 20 mins for the umps to regain control. I walked up to the CD player and pushed play. DMX came on, and I thought better of it. Don’t need to get any more riled up, right? I hit skip and Lauren Hill was on. Perfect. I drank my tea waiting for Dre. He came back in with a plate of wings and some napkins. I thanked him. I didn’t have an appetite, but I didn’t want to be rude. He smiled at me while reading my mind, “Me neither, I’ll leave them in the oven”. I felt awful and apologized but he insisted that he didn’t have an appetite either. “I was just busying myself after the scrum. I knew we were both heated.” Always the right answer.

He busted out a few blues on account we “keep it calm”. I laughed. Hard. Whatever floats your boat. He pulled me down onto his lap and I stared up at his face. He took off my hat, undid my braids and played with my hair. Every touch sent illicit pulses to my girl parts. His hands in my hair felt good. Too good. I felt ridiculously good. That’s the problem with those blue pills. They make you feel amazing everywhere. I patted the couch and asked him to lay with me. The game in the background, LBoogie on the speakers. He held me, and life stood still. I was caught up in his scent, his smile, I was a willing victim to his hands. When he got up to hit the bathroom I heard my phone buzz. My boss telling me I had tomorrow off, the bar would be closed. Something about a gravely ill relative. I sent my condolences back. Dre returned with a bottle of lotion. I whispered that I had tomorrow off. He smiled slyly. “Me too” he said. We laughed. He pulled out the couch bed, and I looked at him inquisitively. He patted my spot and told me to lay on my stomach. I did as I was told. He pulled my shirt off, slathered his hands with lotion and began to massage my neck..and back…and it felt like heaven. Every soft touch made me mentally beg for him to just flip me over. My body got goosebumps everywhere…everywhere. His fingers grazed my mouth, my lips, and it nearly killed me. I flipped to grab my tea and a smoke. I didn’t have to tell him how crazy he was driving me. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Confessions of an Outlaw Junkie

Chapter Five.

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Chapter Five.

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