chapter 25: 28 Days in Tucson..

With urgency, I was whisked home to California. With my girlfriend equally afraid of me as for me, my chain of command got complicated. But I made it home safely, with calls being made behind the scenes. For what do you do with a 28 year old suicidal alcoholic bent on self-destruction?

Back in the South Bay, I still had some good friends. One was a teaching pro named Nick Getz, son of the famous tenor saxophonist Stan Getz. Nick's father's struggled with alcoholism throughout his life, leading his mother to become well versed in the world of recovery. 

Nick's Mom and my parents got coordinating, trying to find an inpatient treatment center that could take me immediately. By the time I'd touched down in Southern California, the plan was set and already well in motion. I was going away for awhile, to a thirty day substance abuse center in Tucson, Arizona. Luckily, finally and barely, I'd found my way to Rehab.

But something was obviously wrong. Seriously wrong. My behavior the past couple weeks, hell, the last 14 years really, culminated in a dangerous, reckless, ham fisted binge that almost took me out, with my life destroying drug usage now becoming life threatening. 

But my incessant drive to get high was a smokescreen, for I really wasn't getting high anymore. What I was doing was avoiding coming down. For in coming down was where reality resided, of how lost and adrift my life had become  And the only method I had of escaping that reality was to take ever increasing amounts of mind altering substances, further destabilizing my already fragile state.

A vicious cycle, where my solution to my mounting problems had become a near deadly problem itself. For when I was using, all of my life's failings melted away and they would remain melted if I could just stay high. Its when that high began to wane my problems rushed forth. The unimaginable pain of pissing my life away. And I would try to reason with myself, that I was just biding my time, waiting for a break, for my fortunes to change. But the break never came and now I'd run out of time. And when the addict's only solution stops working, something had to give. And for me, that something became rehab.

Inpatient Treatment. Thirty days. Rehab was for the hard cases, the ones at risk to themselves and others. At first glance, treatment is for the patient, to stem their downward tide toward jail, institutions or death. But it was just as much for their loved ones, likely at their wits end trying save the addict's life during the insanity of late stage addiction. For that's where I was. Late stage addiction. Its what rehabs were built for, when all else had failed. The graveyard of countless vain attempts, a thirty day timeout to alter the course of badly broken lives.

Back home in Los Angeles. I take a seat at the dinner table across from my parents. I sat in the same chair facing my father, the same chair I sat stoned out of my mind for all my high school years undetected.  

We had no idea. We had no idea...

My troubles were all out in the open now. No more secrets from me. No more obliviousness from them. Or was it? How much did they know? Did the Doctors tell them everything? My parents only knew how it ended, with me writhing and screaming in an ICU bed. So how much should I tell them of these past 14 years? And would it help anything if I did? 

We sat quietly at the table, a palpable tension hovering between us.  We were all way above our pay grade here. Now forced together with a common problem. What a weird place to jump back in to being a family, for once again, nobody had any idea what to say or do. I mean, where do you start?

Moments later, my friend Nick arrived to give me a ride to the airport. He'd been a partner in crime for some time, but even he didn't know what to make of me. My being obscenely high all the time took the focus off his own behaviors, with Nick adhering closely to rule number one of the Party Club, never be the worst in the room. But my predicament now forced some soul searching upon him, which I sensed he resented with a passion. We had partied hard for years together. Was he a contributor in my decline?

We all exchanged uncomfortable pleasantries, the reason behind our convening still too heavy to broach. Then it was time to go. It was tense. It was awkward, all of us unsure what to say or do. I sensed their fear, I felt their helplessness. Their son was being taken to a hospital, stay indeterminate, his future well-being in serious jeopardy. 

My folks quickly thanked Nick for coming, who headed out to his car, leaving me alone with my parents. My Dad walked me to the door. As I reached for the handle, he put his hand on my shoulder, wishing me luck. 

Incapable of words, I immediately started to tear up. I would have loved to reassured them I was going to be alright, but I simply couldn't. I hated scaring them, I hated putting them through this, yet all I could muster was an I'm sorry as I headed out the door.

Traffic was slow. We drove in silence, the ride to the airport taking forever. At every stoplight, I'd see the bright neon lights of corner liquor stores. They called to me. What I would give. I felt raw. I felt vulnerable. I mostly felt scared, for I was detoxing terribly, the withdrawals near overwhelming. But I knew what would make me feel better and it was right there, in the liquor store's front window. I wanted to jump out, I wanted to make a run for it. But that voice from Atlantic City returned.  

No. You've had enough...You've had enough.

I arrived at the airport early for my flight. As I reached my gate, I was surrounded by temptation. People having drinks with their food, the bar three deep with imbibers. But I stayed to myself. Surrounded by alcohol, I felt out of place for the first time in my life in the only world I knew. 

I boarded my flight without incident. The flight attendant, doing her rounds, soon approached me, asking me if I'd like a drink. Again I was surrounded. Everyone on my flight was drinking.  How did one not drink constantly in a world so construed? I entertained the thought for a moment. One last one. Who would know? Then that voice again... 

No. You've had enough...

Fortunately LA to Tucson was a short flight. Departing the plane en masse, through the sea of people I saw across the walkway a poster board sign with my name. It was Sierra Tucson's driver. As I approached, a sinking feeling enveloped me. This was it. My drinking days were over. I was being taken me to a hospital. I was on my way to rehab. 

Helping me with my bags, the driver and I walked outside to where a non-descript white van awaited. I surmised this was the  anonymous part of the program, with most folks not wanting anybody knowing why they were in Tucson and where they were headed.

It was about an hour drive to the Center. My driver was a chatty one, making small talk the whole way. He started by telling stories. About the Center, about the myriad of crazies he'd driven to and fro. All the insanity of the runners and those finishing their final stash, spilling out of the van rock star style. For some of Sierra Tucson's patients were actual rock stars. 

I wasn't not feeling it though. Still detoxing, I was way edgy, being somewhat of a dick. I was itching. I was hurting. I wanted to get out and run. I asked the driver to pull over at a convenience store so I could grab some grub, yet I was really plotting out a way to make a run for it. He pulled over and parked. As the van slowed to a stop, I grabbed for the sliding door handle, but it was locked. My driver busted out laughing. Don't worry, you're not the first. Defeated, I felt my rebellious spirit sink. My days of running away from my condition were coming to a close.

Unsolicited, my driver began to tell me his story, how he once sat in my seat many years before, wanting to die, wanting to run, feeling hopeless and lost in the world. But that Sierra Tucson saved his life. So much so, he never left and that he works for them now, transporting wretches like me from the airport to the center and back. 

It was the greatest job in the world he said, having a birds-eye view for impossible transformations. Looking back at me in the van, he then got serious. He said I could have one too. 

Now he had my attention. I needed to hear this. As we neared the Center, he told me to pay particular attention to a sign we're about to pass. Entering the grounds, at the head of a long circular driveway he  slowed the van to a halt. 

Look to your right he said. And there painted on a big sign the words... 

Prepare for a Miracle...

He looked back at me again, saying I could be a miracle too...

A Miracle. What the hell was a miracle? What did all this mean...

 

We arrived, pulling up to the front doors. I was greeted by the hospital staff, who immediately grabbed my bags, whisking me away to a meeting area. I asked where they were going with my stuff. They said they needed to search my bags, that I wouldn't believe what people tried to sneak in there. 

Oh, I believed it alright. There was nothing I wouldn't have given for a hit right then.

The staff dumped my bags, searching them good. They took my books, telling me I wouldn't be needing them. As they continued to scour my belongings, I was ushered to an office to begin an intake interview. It was lengthy, detailed, extensive. When did I start? How did it progress? I was told to leave nothing out, for they say you're only as sick as your secrets. 

Oh, I have secrets alright...

They wanted it all, a fearless and searching moral inventory of my life. So I told them everything. No more secrets. They told me I was safe there, that I couldn't get in any trouble. But they needed to know everything to help me best. Reflexively, all my normal resistances flared. But then they stood down. This was opening up, confession style, recovery's way without all the guilt.

Confessing my every transgression, the weight of them was daunting. Page after page of behavior. From my first drink at age 14 and every subsequent year. All that I did. All it cost me. It was a lot to take on. I began to feel nauseous. It read like a horror film. The carnage. The self-destruction. How in the world was I still alive? This was Zombie shit. But it was sad too. I was so young and innocent once. Why had I been destroying myself so?

I finished my paperwork. Then my undressing began. This was you, correct? You did all this, correct? Threw everything away, everything that mattered to you, everything you worked your ass for. Hell, you almost lost your life. All for a drink and a drug? 

But you probably thought you had it under control, that it was just a phase. That you weren't that bad and you could stop anytime you wanted. Yet you had to be rescued from Atlantic City. Twice! Two weeks in a row!! You know what we call that? Insanity!!!

You come from a successful family. You're educated. Yet all your reasoning, all your plans, all your best thinking has you right here, sitting in a chair about to begin a 30 day stint in a hospital. Because you're a danger to yourself and others. So much so, you need to put away. 

We need you to feel this with every fiber of your being. Hear me when we say this. It's no longer safe for you to circulate in society. So this is your last chance. And don't hang your head. You're lucky. Most alcoholics don't get to go to rehab, especially one as nice as this. So this is it. From what I'm reading here, if you walked out that door right now, you'd disappear and never make it back. So we need you to take your time here seriously. And all we ask of you during your stay here is to be willing. Willing to look at your life and envision a new one, a different one, a life free from alcohol and drugs. It can be done. All of us here live that way. From the drivers to the chefs. Everybody associated with Sierra Tucson was where you are right now and got sober. And you can get sober too. But you have to be willing. 

Their pitch was powerful. I was being scared straight, rehab style. I had nothing to say, no defensiveness left. I feebly nodded at their evaluation, telling them I was willing as I could be, considering my past couple weeks. But not so fast they said, I wasn't ready for treatment quite yet. I needed to be fully detoxed before entering the general population. 

They escorted me to the detox wing. They tested me for drugs. I got a perfect score. Positive for cocaine, marijuana, opiates, benzos. They handed me my results. I knew I did a lot of drugs but there was something about seeing narcotics in my bloodstream. It hit me hard. I was poisoning myself, and I couldn't stop. I so wanted to go back in time, to start my adolescence over, to be a child again and listen to people and heed all their warnings. I didn't remember on career day saying I wanted to grow up and be a drug addict. Yet there it was, right in front of me, in writing. I was addicted to hard narcotics. And a sadness overtook me. I felt dirty. Unhealthy. Damaged. But I'd been this way half my life now. How did all this happen on my watch?

After a couple tough days, I made it out of detox wing to begin my thirty days of treatment. Sierra Tucson. A beautiful sprawling center with all the comforts of a country club, pool, gym, sport court, though I wasn't feeling very sporty, as well as hiking trails and a horse ranch for a little nature ride to clear the head. A converted dude ranch in the hills outside Tucson, surrounded by the vast Sonora Desert. If you looked real hard over the horizon, you could see the ill fated Biosphere, a post-modern experiment in communal living. Was Sierra Tucson really all that different?

There was a schedule. A tight one. With every hour accounted for and none of it optional. Their goal was to level us. There was no status in treatment nor ego. There were no big shots here. You could be from Park Avenue or a park bench, Yale or jail, rehab was the great equalizer, the feelings of advanced alcoholism universal. 

We were given chores to do. Clean ashtrays, vacuum, mop, straighten. First morning, I emerged from my room to an Academy Award winning actor sweeping the sidewalk. There were Hall of fame athletes here too. And super models. And rock stars. But all that status stuff was for the outside world. In rehab, we were all just addicts and drunks and dysfunctional fuck ups trying to help each other get through another day clean and sober. We were sheep. We met together, we ate together, we healed together. It was all about the  fellowship. And I got it. There was no magic pixie dust here, nor anything to strike us clean with the wave of a wand. It was all AA. They taught us here what we'd need out there to survive.

Military style, but in a self care way. Meditation. Yoga. Spiritual awakening classes. Nature walks. Rock painting. Church services. Special visitors art course. Horse back rides. Overnight camping. From self abuse to self care. And the fire pit. A beautiful rock encircled amphitheater, ideal for moments of solitude and reflection. 

A good place to get some thinking done...

But the real healing got done in our primary groups that met every morning with myself, my assigned counselor and 4 other patients. We would all sit in a circle, sharing the most painful events of our busted lives. Yet I felt an immediate disconnect, sharing my most intimate secrets, stuff I swore I was taking to my grave, to a room of complete strangers. Yet they were not strangers. They were fellow sufferers, all imprisoned by the same alcoholism and addiction that imprisoned me. And it became instantly apparent they were the only people on the planet who could relate to my problems, for they were afflicted by the same baffling ones.

The mood was somber here. Tragic even. So many broken lives. It was all heavy. Dreams interrupted. Yet through it all we laughed. Gallows humor to the core. We'd have to laugh, or we'd crumble from the weight of it all.

We were in Rehab. Our death sentences commuted, we'd been granted clemency, all be it temporary. We could exhale now, for we've been blessed with a reprieve. 

But in the laughter we bonded. We laughed with each other, we laughed at each other, we laughed at ourselves. Sharing our insanity chipped away at our shame. It felt transformative, to know I was not alone in my madness. And the lack of judgment there. Hard to be high on your horse locked away in a hospital. 

The days become cathartic. Weights were being lifted, veils pulled back. We all got each other. We pushed each other, to dig deep, deeper, get it all out, we were there to put their broken selves back together. No more secrets. Be authentic, feel the liberation in owning your shit. For there were no big deals here. The big deals happened already. All of us sharing our drama how we ended up in Tucson. Losing cars. Crashing cars. Getting lost. Going missing. All the secrets of our lives becoming punch lines. I was there a week and I had a new nickname. They called me Casino Barry. They told me I had a phone call. Atlantic City on line two. Due to your fine play the past month, you've earned yourself a free weekend. 

My emotions were on a pendulum. I found myself crying all the time. At the intersection of devastation and hope, for that's what they sold in treatment. Hope. There was no remedy, there was no cure. Just hope. And their medicine was straight talk. Rigorous honesty. They aimed to teach me. About myself. About my past. About my condition. That my alcoholism wasn't a moral weakness. That my alcoholism was a disease. 

At first, I felt great relief. Finally a reason behind my behavior. But it all seemed a bit quaint. Too convenient. I wasn't quite ready to exonerate my self. I understood the psychology. They wanted me to cut myself some slack. Take my foot off the ass-kicking machine for just a moment, opening a window ever so slightly for some compassion and healing to enter.

But it didn't sit right with me. Diseases afflicted the unsuspecting and undeserving. I did this to myself. Nobody drank that beer for me. That crack didn't jump in to the pipe by itself. I put it there and would go the brink of insanity procuring it. I was the primary actor in all this. None of this happened without me.

Yet so much of what I'd done I didn't want to do. And I didn't drink like an ordinary person. At some cellular level, I was physiologically different than my fellow man. And don't get me started on drugs. I  craved them like a madman. An invasion of the body snatchers. So there was something different happening with me, but what? Why was there no determining blood test? Why was it all so subjective?  It was all so confusing as we laughed some more and cried some more, the states of stability and equilibrium miles beyond our scope.

A week in and I'm feeling the gravity of the devastation, all the stories about late stage addiction. It does not discriminate. It destroys. I felt lucky. I felt unlucky. Unlucky I've got such a bad case. So lucky I had people in my life who helped me reach treatment. The guy bleeding from his eyes on the gurney in Atlantic City. He had nobody to call. At least I still had someone to take my call, still had people who loved me enough to help me. But my  alcoholism wanted all of me. To a final resting place of a loneliness unfathomable.

In my primary group. It became my turn to share. I was overwhelmed with guilt. I left my girlfriend in a bad way. Pregnant, scared, alone, 3000 miles across the country. My counselor had me write a letter, to the baby I was never going to meet because of my alcoholism. 

I'd been deemed an unfit parent before ever becoming one...

In session, I read it. It was beyond hard. I fell apart again. The wreckage of my present. There wasn't enough Kleenex for how I was feeling. Falling apart a little more each day, where was all this sadness coming from? After a particularly stressful day of group, I stayed after to speak to my counselor. She was a saint in the flesh, patient, compassionate, but firm. At conversations end, I asked her how she dealt with such heaviness everyday, and was it possible to go home to your family and children and have a normal life? 

And she told me a tale. How at the end of each workday, she walked to her car and before heading home, she performed a ritual. She pictured all of her patients faces on a bunch of balloons. And one by one, she addressed them, praying for them, then releasing each one to the heavens with love and when she returned to work the next morning, she gathered us all up for another day. 

I was a face on a balloon. Patient by day, released with love at night. I found this beautiful. To be thought of so...

But it was in the afternoon family counseling sessions where the heavy shit went down. FOO. Family of Origin. Alcoholism. One part hereditary, the other environmental. Alcoholism, a family disease, often passed down from one fucked up generation to the next, with one of the many goals at Sierra Tucson to break that chain.

For my situation, that meant getting my parents to the Center. End of my first week, the Family Counselor called me in. We get to talking. I shared it all. He sensed my urgency, how imperative it was that my family participate in my recovery. He assured me they'll be there. I laughed. I told him there's no way in hell my Dad's coming within 500 miles of this place. The counselor countered. The only parents he'd ever had not come for their child's family week were either in jail or deceased. He'd be here. 

Getting up to leave, I told him he'd likely be adding a third category to that list with my Dad, because there was no way he was coming. 

Preparing us for our family week, Sierra Tucson would have us sit and observe other patient's family sessions. First day in the room, a patient and his large family prepared for his week. Relatives from all high had made the trek to the desert to comfort their fallen sibling. As people kept filing in, they had to bring in more chairs. And then more chairs. Standard chairs, some plastic folding ones, the random metal one with a cushioned seat. There simply weren't enough chairs for this person's family. 

I doubted that would be my  problem...

The chairs, once arranged in a circle, had grown in to an ellipse to accommodate the growing throng.  In the center stood two chairs, one for the patient, the other for a loved one. The two chairs faced each other, aligned for a show down. But there would be no show downs here. Just painful expressions of how addiction affected the family as the rest of us sat quietly in the circle, respectfully attentive, baring witness to these most emotionally charged encounters.

The exchanges were regulated. When you X, I felt Y. There was no blaming or venting or cross talk allowed. You had to sit there and take it. And feel. Feel the pain addiction created as it all got spilled out. What was yours. What needed to change. All of it heavy.

The presence of family. To drop everything to save a life. As the first family finished, the second one entered. Now we needed even more chairs. In the spirit of an intervention. The details varied, but the sentiments remained the same. Guilt for their role, guilt for not being able to help, guilt over not heeding the signs sooner, then the fear. Profound fear one night they weren't going to make it home. Then those nights they didn't make it home. The waiting. Praying for the call. Fearing for the knock on the door. Day after day. Nerves beyond frayed, with every ring of the phone, praying it'd be you. 

Family purges completed, then it was all about the love. How much they missed the old Jack or the younger Jill. So much fear, so much love. Parents seated across from their children. Barely alive. Their pain simply unimaginable. The weight. The power. Their child was sick and they couldn't help them. It was a unique pain to endure. To have an illness destroy a family. To have an illness overtake your child. 

Language fails in such matters...

But by week's end there was healing. Separated for the entire week, yet on Friday, families were  reunited, walking the manicured grounds in various states of joy and relief, with lots of nervous laughter and fearful tears, with everyone healing in their own way and in their own time during Family week.

To bare witness to such alchemy. From Monday devastation to Friday reconciliation. It felt voyeuristic, invasive, yet powerfully transformative. Seeing first hand how alcoholism destroyed families, yet with sobriety, healing was allowed to begin. It was all so moving. I tried to envision my crew. Mom Dad brothers, girlfriend, friends, coaches, team mates, peers. How powerful that would be.

Between sessions, I flagged down the family counselors, asking them how it was going with my folks? But they would stick to their party line. Focus on your recovery. We'll take care of your family. No you won't, I would say. You have no idea what you're dealing with. And they would counter. After 20 years of family work, we think we do. They'll be here. Just focus on your recovery. 

Yet with each passing day, still no confirmation they were coming.

The weekend before family week arrived. I saw my counselor. He tried to avoid me. I zeroed in. Come to my office. We tried everything we could. Your Father's a stubborn man. 

Oh he's something alright. 

He says its your problem and they see no benefit in their coming..

We'll get you the help you need. 

And that they're not going to be coming to your family week. 

None of them? 

None of them. I'm sorry. 

You said jail or dead. 

I know I did. Jail Dead and your Dad. Again. I'm sorry. We'll still see you Monday for your Family week. 

Why? They're not going to be here. 

Yes. But you'll still present. Just to an empty chair.

A whole weekend to prepare for the unthinkable. Confronting an empty chair where my Dad wouldn't sit. Pages of grievance. I edited. I edited more. Its not what they did. Its how what they did made me feel. I can't control how people behave. I can only control how I react to how people behave. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to stay sober. I want them in my life, but not at the expense of my sobriety. So I need to let you know when you do or say certain things, this is how it makes me feel. 

But most importantly, you're not responsible for my alcoholism. But the grief I feel at the breakdown of our relationship, it crushes me and I drink to mask that pain.

And it all made so much sense on paper. And Monday arrived. It was my turn in the circle. The family counselors prepared the room. Another large family entered, taking all the open chairs. The chairs where my family were to be seated remained empty. Only myself and my counselor sat at our end. And an empty chair. 

And I wouldn't be needing more chairs. And there would be no back and forth. 

And I heard a lady from across the room ask where's his family? Why is there an open chair? His family didn't come???

My family counselor called the group to order. The circle tightened. I moved to the center. I took my chair. They slid an empty chair before me. I wanted to heave. I wanted to crumble. I wanted to scream. Instead I collapsed. Sobbing. Unable to speak. The family from across the room closed in, surrounding me. The Mother approached. The counselor attempted to waive her off, but to no avail. The Mother consoled me. Kleenex flew at me from across the room. I tried to gather myself. To ceremoniously, ritualistically purge myself for the group and finally say the quiet part out loud. Scream it if I had to. Tell my Father to his face how being abandoned felt. Yet I couldn't. Because he wasn't there. The cruel irony of it all. I felt like an orphan, the whole ceremony all too much.

Broken. Betrayed. Confused. They paid for my treatment, but wouldn't come. The mixed feelings about the mixed messages again. Walking around the facility feeling defeated. I needed family week to go well and it so didn't.

With my time at Sierra Tucson winding down, they wanted to keep me longer and who could blame them? But it was time to go, to restart the life I'd been missing from for so long. Eager to get out, yet scared to return home to the scenes of so much of my life's dysfunction. 

But this return home would be different. I had some recovery now. I had a detailed aftercare program to employ. And I had my first 30 day sobriety chip and a sobriety date too that I held dearly to my heart. I was going back home. To start life over again, this time with some hope and a plan.

Graduation day. All packed up. I got my after care package. And saying goodbye to all my new best friends. The forced intimacy, yet I knew I'd never see these people again. Saying good bye. Saying thank you. To the people and the place that gave me another chance at life. 

Climbing back in to the van. And I had the same driver. Our eyes met. I nodded and said thank you. He nodded back. No more words needed be spoken.

We began our drive out. He stopped again, pointing to the right where there was another large sign.

 I strained my eyes to see clearer. And there, in bold letters.

You are a miracle. 

And my eyes welled up one last time. 

I was heading home. I'd finally gotten the help I needed...

Chapter 22: Weekends at Als

Spring 1987. 

Still living at the beach and The Grateful Dead were coming to town. I'd got on the bus in 1984, attending my first show at the Ventura Fairgrounds in Southern California. As an avid fan of their music, I thought I was a Deadhead fully in the know, ready to have the time of my life. In reality, I knew nothing. I knew none of the words to none of the songs or the crowd participation parts or the communal rituals. I stood to the side by myself, standing stiffly throughout the whole concert; uptight, arms crossed, hyper self-conscious, staring straight ahead, unable to join in the celebration, for I had yet to earn admittance to their tribe.

Leaving the show disappointed and prepared to never come back, a couple in flowing robes serpentined on skateboards throughout the crowd, blessing each fan with a red rose as they passed. As they reached me, instead of handing me a rose, they stopped, asking about my experience at the show. Not wanting to look the newcomer, I told them I couldn't have had a better time to which they smiled and handed me a rose. 

As we parted, they asked if I was coming back the next day. Unaware the band was playing again the next day, I said of course I was, wouldn't miss it for the world. And as they skated away, something clicked within me. For though I didn't have a good time, I sensed the Deadheads possessed something vital I did not. An internal freedom manifested in colorful expression of dress, manner, and dance, all within a sense of community foreign to me, a tribe of misfit minions caravaning from concert to concert in peace and harmony.  I sensed intuitively they had something to teach me and something I wanted. So I came back that next day. And the following day. And I've never left. And as I type these words some 38 years later, I'm a lifetime member of the hippy tribe.

With the Dead coming to town, all semblance of normalcy vanished. Not that much normalcy was taking place to begin with. My leg still funky from the fracture, eighteen months had passed since any meaningful tennis had been played. I'd dropped out of school, yet still lived on the beach with my same roommates, working odd jobs, waiting tables, working at a book store, selling pot to my friends, just enough to get by as I plotted my next move.  

Wandering. I'd been attending school my whole life, yet I hadn't a clue what I wanted to do. So I tuned in, turned on, and dropped out. The only thing I lacked more than direction was ambition. There was an emptiness where my drive should have been. Desperate to fill the void within, I sought out substances. Smoking, Eating, drinking, drugging, all hours of every day. I was transforming, from an athlete to something indeterminate. Out of school, yet I continued to read vociferously, becoming enamored with The Beats and Jack Kerouac and everything counterculture.

With no guidance or direction from home, I squandered my days in a hazy drugged out squalor, with all my energies directed toward feeding my growing habits while taming my ravaged mind. Twenty-two years old, waking and baking, washing down breakfast with a beer. Because you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Yet thinking I was living life, lying to myself that it was just a phase, that I'd grow out of it, unaware with each day the vice of alcoholism tightened, its mold hardening around me as I slipped deeper and deeper in to the prison of addiction.

But if you asked me what I was doing, I'd have told you I was having fun. That I was partying. Living life on the edge. Experimentally. The crazier the better. Because life came to life when I partied, for it was the opposite of my upbringing, that rigid, disciplined enforced conformity. I saw that drain the life right from my parents, vowing at the age of eight years old to never grow up like him. Well, I was doing a fine job of that. Sure showing him, that cutting off my nose off to spite my face.

But was not being him enough? What about me? What was I going to become. And how? Running away from every challenge. Incapable of confronting my haunting upbringing. By day, anxious about how to survive. At night, stressing about my past and my future, trying to figure it all out through a haze of narcotics.

I would spend my nights breaking life down while flipping it around, looking at it from every angle. Pull a thread here, follow it, mine it, try to reduce all existence to a tidy soundbite, but never quite getting there, all night discussions leading to non-conclusions resulting in a perpetual cycle of inaction. My stasis was not through lack of effort. I just seemed to be living life an epiphany short. 

Trying desperately to not be a certain way, ruining myself in the process. Surrounding myself with enablers. Friends you tolerated, because they tolerated you. Rule Number one of The Party Club, stay out of my shit and I'll stay out of yours. The unspoken agreements, the tacit understandings. The Golden Rules. Judge little, accept all. You simply didn't talk about it.  

But I was living on an edge. Always broke, always scrambling. Survival skills. The things I carried. How to walk in to a bar broke and thirsty, how to walk out hours later hammered with new friends on our way to get drugs with a crisp borrowed 20 in my pocket. I just knew what to look for. I could do it in any town at any time of day. I was doing what I had to do. 

In the midst of all my debauchery, I told the folks I didn't want to go to college anymore. Surprisingly, the conversation went well, my Father finally spinning out some parental wisdom, that I had time, but if I hadn't figured stuff out by the time I was 30 that would be a different story. What about 50? 

It was one thing to tell them I was dropping out of college. Sadly though, I couldn't tell them why. It wasn't that I didn't love learning or want to get a degree. I simply couldn't. Hungover or high. Manic or depressed. I could barely make it to class, let alone sit still long enough to do my work. The procrastinating, the irresponsibility. I was good at making it to the Beer Hall, not so good at finding Study Hall. The willful abandoning of myself. College, my last best anchor to a life spiraling out of control. 

Treading water. But all that angst was forgotten when the Grateful Dead circus came to town. Irvine Meadows to be exact. Three nights, three shows. Friday the fun began, by Sunday night it was pretty much armageddon. Destroyed in every sense of the word, I would stagger home, still high from a sheet of LSD, how many hits ingested I couldn't tell you.  

Back to the beach house, but there would be no sleep tonight. So much to process from an amazing weekend. Late at night. Pondering the workings of the world and my role in this big mystery. At times it all seemed like a cosmic accident with no beneficent rationality running the show, a people united but not, with no unifying goal directing our actions. Feeling lost, adrift, I sat alone on our balcony waiting to come down, a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other, with a head full of acid and speed. But it wasn't happening. So I drank to the moonrise, watched it arc across the night sky, saluting it once again as it disappeared at first light. The rises, the falls. The endless cycling. I could relate. 

The horizon slowly awakened. Birds cleared their throats as the sound of a thrown newspaper hit the pavement, while hungry surfers rushed to the water, eager to be first off at first light. I thought back to my earliest tennis mornings with my Dad. First to the bubble, first to the courts, first to hit a ball. To be first meant everything. To be first was the driving force of my life. Where had that drive gone?

The sun rising now. Another day had begun, just not for me. I would eventually sleep this day off. Another night, another all nighter. Walkers soon appeared from the north. A jogger trotted by from the South. Then another jogger trudged slowly through the soft sand. But it wasn't any old jogger, It was Edwin Moses, world record holder and Gold medal winner in the 400 meter hurdles putting in some early miles on the beach right past our house. He was doing what serious athletes did. Training. I thought about how I used to train. At first light. And last light. And all the light in between. 

I don't train anymore. I drink beer and do drugs now. And watch the world go by. Other aspiring athletes appeared on the beach, starting their mornings full of fire and passion and dreams. They were my antithesis. I began to feel my failings. I could only handle my failings in small doses. They killed my vibe, shattered my moment. I put out my cigarette, going inside to get another beer. Twenty-two years old. Doing anything and everything to keep reality at bay.

An Olympian hero. A washed up zero. I used to wear the USA on my back. Just look at me now. 

How do you get from there to here..

 

Finally coming down, the remaining traces of highness exiting my system, I worked my way to the refrigerator. Fresh cold Schaefer in hand, I saw a note on the kitchen table... 

Call Coach Patton ASAP. Important...

A couple hours pass. What could he want? Was I in trouble? Still not all the way there, I picked up the phone to call. For once, it was good news. He had an offer for me, but I needed to move fast. All time American junior tennis champion Al Parker needed a practice partner for the next few months. Was I available and how quickly could I be ready to move to Georgia. It paid well. There would be travel. A great opportunity to get back to playing.

I'd been laying low, not pushing my leg, hoping it would finally heal. But from not playing, I was woefully out of shape. But I needed this. Another opportunity. Something to be passionate about, to light a fire under me. Tennis had worked before. Why not give it another try, what was the worst that could happen? 

So I said yes, knowing when I woke up the next morning I'd have 24 hours to get ready for a 3 month trip. The next morning I got on the phone to Mid Parker. Flight arrangements had already been made. And with one strung racket left, the next day I boarded a plane, a rhythm devil going down to Georgia, to be a sparring partner to the most accomplished junior tennis player the US ever produced.

Touching down at Hartsfield International, Al's father Mid Parker met me at the turnstile. Bags retrieved, we walked out the sliding glass doors to his car only to be hit by a wall of heat and humidity that took my breath away. Mid Parker and I drove hours south through the Georgia night from Atlanta to Claxton, getting to know each other along the way. I'd spent some time in the South, but only in larger cities within the safe bubble of a tournament site. This would be different. Claxton, Ga.  Population 2200. Claxton was the fruit cake capital of the world. And the Parker family made them. Claxton Fruitcake Company was the family business. Fascinating how families made their fortunes. You simply wouldn't believe how much money there was in fruitcake.

Claxton Georgia. A city of haves and have nots, not unlike any city in America, just on a smaller scale. And the most unlikely of towns to spawn America's most accomplished junior. Claxton had no clubs, no coaches, no academies, no tournaments, and no college program to inspire the young, unless you included Division 2 Georgia Southern, 45 minutes away in neighboring Statesboro. 

Al could have trained anywhere. Bollittieri Academy was a day drive away. But Mid kept him home. Family. The South. Tradition. A stifling slow life. Living for the weekends, trips to the coast or Atlanta, the kids just waiting their time til UGA. The Mom Sally, lovely, classy, sadly beautiful, tired of the small town. But family. Ginny, perfectly cute southern belle proudest little sister of her all American big brother. Father Mid. The goodest old Southern boy. Straight out of central casting.

And it wasn't just the tennis court where Al excelled. A straight A student from his first day of school. Not one B. Not even an A-. There was Al Parker Day in Claxton. There was a framed letter from former President Jimmy Carter. So much Georgia pride. Easiest recruiting job ever for legendary Georgia coach Dan Magill. Al was signed sealed and delivered to be a Dawg before he could even walk. 

In spite of Claxton's apparent limitations, there was a court at a house we could play at. And that house was Al's. 

First day of practice. I'm rusty. He's not. It was rough. And back in the deep south in springtime, conditioning was definitely going to be a factor.

Compounding my problems was Al was really good. He wasn't some freakish athlete (tennis has them) but he had a ton of game. A near perfect backhand, huge, difficult to read serve, tall lean and moved like a gazelle, my only hope was there was a little funk in his semi western forehand. If I could just get the ball in there, I might be able to hurt him. But more than all that, he was one of the coolest calmest competitors I'd ever squared off with. Al knew how to win tennis matches. Important ones. 

We would meet every afternoon after school at his court. Me, Al and his Dad Mid. Mid never missed a session. Mid wasn't much of a player himself, I think my Dad would have whooped him. But he knew his tennis. And he knew his son. And he knew about winning. About what it took to be successful. Mentally and Emotionally. And mostly how to compete. But not like any old competitor. How to compete to be the best.

First couple days of practice are rough. He beats me badly, but I was in the points and getting games. If my leg held up, I sensed I was going to be just fine. Plus our sessions were my practicing fantasy. Al and myself and a couple cans of new balls. No drills, no coaches. Just sets and more sets, as many as we could play, all under the watchful eye of Al's father Mid.

Except my racket situation. I immediately broke a string our first day, having to borrow one of Als' Wilson rackets to finish the session. Mid immediately read the situation, getting on the phone to Head, telling them Al wanted to try a couple Head Graphite Edges. Never in the history of racket sponsorships had rackets arrived quicker. Head literally hired a police escort to get the frames to the Parker's home. I was seeing early and often it was good to be Al.

Being the all time US Junior Champion, (25 gold balls, still the record), gets you on tennis' radar. The  Tennis boom of the 70's still booming in to the 80's, fortunes were to made finding the sports next star. But the stage was crowded. It was the late 80's. The Bollittieri Academy in Florida and Robert Lansdorp in California were cranking out young phenoms like an assembly line. Austin, Jaeger, Chang, Agassi, teenage prodigies were the marketing rave, not straight A students living at home, getting their educations, eager to go to college. 

It was clear Al wasn't turning professional anytime soon, but that didn't deter the top agents from courting him. Bill Shelton from the powerhouse agency IMG had taken a strong interest in Al. He had some wild cards for him to some pro events. And I'd been in Georgia a whole week and we were on our way to New York City.

May 1987. I accompanied Al to the Tournament of Champions, being held at historic Forest Hills. It was my first ever trip to Forest Hills, the former home of the US National Championships. We were staying right in the heart of NYC, the Grand Hyatt on 42st, all expenses paid by IMG, just sign everything to the room. 

I could get used to this being courted thing. 

We arrived at Forest Hills to get some practice. Beautiful slow green clay courts as far as the eye could see, flanked by grass courts on the side, with a giant bowl shaped stadium anchoring the club where the Finals of the US Open were once played. By now, I'm feeling pretty good. I've got my new rackets, my leg was behaving, and I was starting to hit the ball, taking a set from Al everyday if not two. 

Taking it all in. The professional tennis player life. I feel airdropped here. I see all my peers from my junior days. I see their names up and down the draws. This could be the Hard Courts or JDC tryouts or any of SoCal's tougher junior events. Same players, yet 5 years older, everyone all grown up now.  

Next morning, we arrived for the Qualifying Sign in. Its the process by how players enter tournaments. Its somewhat primitive. The opposite of glamorous. A room, a table, a tournament official. You sign your name to a lined sheet of paper, the highest ranked sign-ins making the cut. But the room was oddly quiet for such a marquee event. With only minutes to spare before the cut off, the room was empty. Mr Shelton soon appeared. He greeted us warmly. Gracious, gregarious. He's totally hooking us up. Walking down the clubhouse hall, I'm taking in the memorabilia when I saw Mr. Shelton and Al talking. They were discussing something in earnest, yet both kept turning and looking my way. They were obviously talking about me. My heart began to sink. Was I in trouble already?

How much did they know..

Al walked over, informing me the qualifying draw still had openings and Mr Shelton thought I should sign in. I began to stammer. But but but, I don't have a ranking, I've been hurt, I've only been hitting a week, I haven't played a match in 18 months. Are you sure? I wouldn't be able to watch you play. I may not be able to warm you up. How could there not be enough players? This was one of the biggest tourneys in the world. There's no way I should be in it. 

Al shushed me. Just put your name down.

So I did. I walked to the tournament desk and signed in. And I got in. JFC. Ten days ago I was tripping on LSD at the Grateful Dead. Now I was playing the Tournament of Champions at Forest Hills. Not exactly Doc Ellis, but noteworthy. I locate the draw. Becker, Noah, Cash, Gomez, all the world's best players with my peers from junior and college tennis sprinkled throughout. 

The tournament officials closed the sign in, disappearing to a back room to make the Qualifying Draw.  Overcome with excitement yet nervous as all hell. The draw comes out. I draw an (African) player first round. He's hurt. Probably shouldn't have been playing. Not a true test and I won easily. Second round, I draw Larry Stefanki. He'd won the prestigious Indian Wells event just two years prior. I thought of calling my Dad, to share my good fortunes, wondering if he'd say once more that'll be it for you.

Match time. The conditions were heavy. Wet, cool, foggy, damp, green clay, miles from the indigenous fast concrete courts of California. But Stefanki was a Californian attacker too. With the court playing like mud, I won a close first set. He woke up, running me off quickly in the second. Third set starts and I assumed it would go just like the second, for he's a seasoned professional who knows how to win close tennis matches.

But I got off to a great start in the third. Pulling ahead, pulling away. I looked across the net and saw in his eyes he was done. He didn't want to be there and I could so relate. I wanted to give him a hug. I wanted to give him the match. This was his job, his profession. I was just visiting here. I tried to keep calm, on the brink of my best win ever if I didn't panic. With absolutely nothing to lose, I stepped to the line to serve it out. Playing with house money, I managed not to panic, closing out the match.

With Al taking care of business too, we were both in the last round of qualifying. We went out to celebrate that night in the city. Dinner was fun. Winning was fun. We got invited to a Player's party in Manhattan. My name was on the list. Welcome Mr Buss. For once, on the right side of the velvet ropes.

Spreads of food. An open bar. Me and an open bar. Bad combo. Restraint not my longsuit, I stuck to beer. I set a limit. I promised to only have two. I missed my goal by three. At the present stage of my alcoholism, I considered that a win. For I had a huge match the next day. Ricardo Acuna, A stylish Chilean, 1985 Wimbledon quarterfinalist. All to reach the main draw, for cash and prizes and a coveted ATP ranking.

Next morning, we arrived to the site. Walking through the player's lounge, I'm a star struck looky-loo. Trying to play it cool, but cool was the last thing I was, fortunately I left my autograph book at home. Just pinch me. I'd put these players on a pedestal my whole life, and now I got to shake their hands. As an equal. I needed to win one more match, just two more sets and I was in the big time.

Al and I walked to the practice courts to warm up. There were unwritten protocols here that I did not know. When the big boys showed up to hit, you stepped aside. 

 Al and I were started hitting, splitting a court with a couple other players when Becker, Zivojinovic and Tiriac walked on.

As they stretched by the bench, we kept hitting. The two guys we shared the court with packed up and walked off. Yet we keep hitting on our half. Soon Becker walked on to my side, with Zivojinovic taking the other. Then Tiriac walked on. We were now five on a court, how was this going to work?  

I'm hitting next to Becker and feeling pretty good about myself. Of course, I'm coming out of my shoes on every ball trying to impress him. Zivojinovic hits a ball to the middle of the court between us. Becker slid over, sliced a backhand back, then stayed right there in the middle. Apparently Becker doesn't share a court. And that was the cue. Our practice was now over. Becker doesn't share a court. I now knew the protocol.

Match time. Taking the court with Acuna and I can do no wrong. Quickly up 5-2 and serving for the first. Then I got to thinking. The first round money for making the main draw was a cool 2200, a not small amount, considering I had about 20 dollars to my name. More important than the prize money were the ATP points for qualifying. On the computer. A world ranking. Distracted, I played a couple loose games. 

Now five all and a crowd began to appear. Focus. Keep your head down. Don't look up. I looked up. There's Becker and Tiriac again. Stopping. Watching. Only one thing to do. Try to impress them. I played a great game to get up 6-5. Looking toward them, they're still at my court, talking to each other. What were they seeing. Were they scouting me? What could they know? Did Becker play the winner of our match? Is that why he was watching? We reach a tiebreaker, yet I can't stop watching Becker watching me. After every point I looked his way. It was like being eleven again with my Dad watching, looking up to see if he was clapping. All these years later, still seeking the approval of others. Would I ever cross the rubicon to maturity? 

I lost the first set in a close breaker. I was playing real professional tennis players now. They found a way. Second set starts and I was feeling satisfied. I didn't embarrass myself at this level. Far from it. My losing score would look respectable. Still stuck in a losers mindset. Apparently it just doesn't go away on its own. 

Al would qualify. He didn't have a losers mindset. He would lose to future top 10 American Jay Berger in a tight two-setter. Mr Shelton was pleased with us though, so much so he offered us a main draw wild card in to the doubles. I was having a ball and wanted to play for cash and prizes and points and all those NYC main draw perks. But Al was missing school. With his finals and valedictorian graduation approaching, he couldn't miss any more classes. Either way, it would have been nice. It was all nice, but we had to decline. We thanked Mr. Shelton for his graciousness, and began packing up. 

And in the span of a few days, in the most unforeseen and unimaginable ways, I was back playing again and playing well. And it all felt right...

Back to Claxton. Manhattan to Claxton. From the big city to the small town. But I was feeling good. My head clearing, my leg behaving, my game inexplicably back. The downhill part of the run. Back home. Back to our routine. Me, Al, and Mid. We head out to practice. I'm outplaying him now. I straight set him our first day back. Next day I come out playing even better, bageling him in the first.

At the changeover, Mid was all about me. Telling me how good I was and that I could really play and if I got in great shape, I could do some damage. But mostly Mid was happy he was getting what he paid for, someone to push his son where he couldn't, from across the net on a tennis court. 

But Mid had other methods. As we headed back out to play, Mid under his breath said bagel him again. Al immediately spun back toward his Dad, barking what did you say? Mid walked right up to him, chest to chest and said,, I said bagel him again. He's better than you and I don't think you can take him. Al snapped back.. You think what??!! Voices raised, at first I was embarrassed for them. But that quickly turned to envy. What I'd have given to have a Dad like Mid, on my court every day, pushing me to become my best.

It was the dance they would do. As they got louder, it started to get awkward. I tried to break them up, saying lets go. But they weren't done yet. Mid finally turned away, saying I don't think you can beat him. Al walked to his side of the court saying I'll show you. 

And as we started the second set, Al showed him. And he showed me, running me off real quick like, and the third set too, showing me why he was America's most accomplished junior player ever. 

And our practices continued to go well. Al and I were connecting, becoming friends through all our sparring. As soon as tennis was over, we would jam in to town to sneak in 9 holes at the local course before dark. It was a good life, training in the lap of luxury. But it was temporary. Fleeting. A life I wasn't born in to nor was ever able to sustain on my own. With summer soon approaching, where was all this heading?

Winding down another week, Mr Shelton called again. He came baring gifts. More wild cards. This time for a 25k up in Raleigh, NC. He had a main draw wildcard for Al and one for the qualies for myself.  But we couldn't get there in time for me. We arrived the next day, getting the full treatment again. All expenses paid, just sign to the room. And the tournament hotel just happened to have the most happening bar in town. Life on the road, with too much time to kill. A player can only hit so many cross courts. Before long, I was settled in at the bar, seeing old friends while meeting new. 

Al had a great week, makes the Finals. Which meant I was there through Sunday, with each victory more prize money he couldn't take, leaving all the more for my expenses, namely my bar bill. Tourney over, we trekked down to Athens for a week off to watch the NCAA's. A homecoming of sorts for me, with a dash of a reunion. I saw countless old friends and colleagues from my playing days. And there I was, rolling with Al in Athens, practicing great on his future home courts. We would battle hard, myself enjoying being back, and being seen with him there. Al was Georgia royalty. He referred to me as his Coach and that felt good.

Back to Claxton. It had been an exciting month. But now the grind began. Just me and Al and no tournaments on the horizon. We had front loaded my stay. Now it was hard work time. The tennis was fine, but I started getting antsy. It was a slow life. And it was not my life. I began to miss California and the beach and all my crazy ass friends with their insatiable zest for life. 

Mid sensed I was getting antsy. He started arranging fun getaways for myself on the weekends, trips to Atlanta and the beach. We played at Atlanta's Driving Club. I had tea with Griffin Bell, Jimmy Carter's Attorney General. The following weekend they sent me to Savannah with Al's cousins to their beach compound. We hit the town pretty hard that night, with myself drinking way too much. I almost got in a fight with an Army Ranger that wouldn't have ended well. Beginning and middle wouldn't have been pretty either.

I woke up the next morning pretty wrecked. People in our group I barely knew started referring to me as the alcoholic. Hey alki, can I get you something? First person to every call me an alcoholic to my face. Was he playing with me or did he know something I didn't?

Next week, grinding again. Now it was getting harder. No more tourneys, no more weekenders. Just more grinding until Al left for the summer. Straight uphill and dead in to the wind part of the run. Then what? What was I doing all this for? Was I going to go out on tour? I had no money, no backing, no discipline, no plan. Yeah, I could play at this level, but it was so much more than that. Could I somehow commit to a disciplined way of life so foreign to me?

Mid tried to help me out, looking for other traveling coaching jobs. He tried his best. But to no avail. So we kept grinding. Now I was really getting homesick. I missed everything about California. But mostly I missed my freedom. To come and go as I wished. Which obviously meant partying too. At the Parkers, I couldn't drink the way I wanted to. Or needed to. Something soon had to give.

Getting antsier. Me and the Parker family. Thrown together. A house guest with game. But it had run its course. Mid wanted me to stay another month, maybe something would come up. But I felt the pull of home. We had to move out from the beach. I had to relocate, find employment, basically start anew. 

Final week. I'm losing steam. To grind with a goal was hard. To grind without one was unbearable. I needed to get home. I felt terrible. Mid was disappointed. But to home I went, not realizing that I just turned my back on my last best chance at becoming a player. For though I still had game, I had a growing problem I wasn't in full acceptance of. My need to drink was trumping all of the dreams I once held dearly.

And back to California I went, where I immediately scored all the drugs I could. Back at home, I partied everybody out. Up all night again. Just like old times, back to the life I had left mere months ago. To the beach. To the partying. Staying up late, oblivious to life, to the reality I was drinking and drugging what remaining talents I had away. 

And the sun rose over the horizon again. I'd been up all night. And morning came. Birds chirped, surfers attacked. I watched it all pass by. 

Then Edwin Moses appeared. Putting in his hard miles, what professional athletes do. His approach used to make me feel uneasy, reminding of my failings. But that morning was different. 

I watched him come. I watched him pass. I watched him disappear down the coast. Yet I remained immaculately numb.

I felt nothing...