The Book

Doug is sixteen and lives in Oklahoma. He is in love with a girl named Laurilee, but he’s not cool enough for her.  She likes bad boys.  So what does he do?  He decides to become a crystal meth addict so he can get sent to rehab and come back to win her and live happily ever after….

High Before Homeroom

Simon & Schuster Gallery Books, July 2010

Excerpt, Chapter Three:

I think we are somewhere outside Alma, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any signs.  We are on one of those endless country roads that make me feel like the rest of the world has fallen away, just us and acres of dried wheat fields, the skeletons of a few decaying houses.   Oklahoma must be the flattest state in America, and there’s nothing on most of it. I try to push away my fear.  I glom onto any sign of civilization. A haystack.  Someone must have rolled it.. A billboard for the Pig-Out Buffet off the I-40, truckers welcome.  Mitch chews taffy in the silence, tapping his fingers against the dashboard, keeping time to the tweaker soundtrack in his head.  His right knee jiggles to a different beat.  The speedometer says we are going 90 miles an hour.  I want to say something, but words get stuck in my throat.  I’m afraid to break his spell.  I start thinking maybe he isn’t a paranoid addict after all.  I never actually saw drug paraphernalia.  Maybe he’s actually insane.  All this time people just figured he was on drugs because he’s so fucking nuts.  He’s so whacked out even his parents have disowned him.  Maybe I’m lost in the countryside with a psycho who plans on raping me and slitting my throat.  God, I hope he slits my throat first.

For a moment I can’t breathe.  I’m in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma trying to score dope with a  possible schizophrenic obsessive compulsive chomping banana Laffy Taffy.  This isn’t me.  I should be glazing cookies with buttercream frosting and craning my neck to lust after Laurilee as she pierces tiny earlobes.  That’s my lot in life.  The fields speed past my window, fusing into a blurry golden streak.

As though he can read my mind, Mitch makes a sharp turn onto a dirt road. He drives for a mile, then stops suddenly.  “Ugh,” I say, bracing myself on the dashboard.

“See,” he says, turning off the ignition.  “That’s why you gotta wear a seatblet.”  We are parked outside an old barn that has seen better days.  There is a trailer further down the field.  Based on my research, the trailer is expected.  Meth cooks frequently inhabit the kind of home that can be packed up and move within an hour.  Mobile homes, trailers, motel rooms, abandoned shacks.  Only this trailer is different.  There are lace curtains in the window, a pine cone wreath twined with red ribbons attached to the door.  There is a tiny, roped-off garden out front. Someone has stuck a bright pink plastic flamingo in the dirt by the stairs, and there are boxes of pink flowers attached to the windows.

“We have arrived,” says Mitch.

“Cool,” I say.  It sounds like a choke.

We stomp through mud and dog crap, though there are no dogs in sight.  I try to dodge the minefields of shit, then realize how pointless it is as the bottom of my jeans are caked.  At least shit looks more authentic than barbeque sauce.  Music is playing from inside the barn. It might be Duran Duran, Aerosmith, something vintage.  Mitch stands at the front.  “Hey, Pops!” he booms, with a lung power I didn’t know his ragged body was capable of making.  “Pops!  Yo, Pops!”

There is some rattling, and the door slides open.  A short, old man in dirty overalls peers at us over his bifocals.  He’s got beady eyes, and his bald head is so shiny I can almost see my reflection in it.  He’s got a manicured mustache that would put Tom Selleck circa 1970’s reruns to shame, and a beard that comes to a point in the middle of his chest.  It was probably white at some point, but now it’s bright green like he dipped it in a vat of pea soup.

“Son,” he says, and gives Mitch a bear hug.  He comes up to the middle of Mitch’s scrawny chest.  From a side angle, he looks a little like Walt Whitman.  I wonder if it is a sign.  Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me. I cringe.  It’s clear to me now. Guys who quote poetry don’t get the girl.  Guys who score drugs do.  Guys who come back from rehab with a newfound pimp status can probably quote all the poetry they want and get the girl.  With a burst of confidence, I stand up straighter.  I’ve made it this far already.

“New glasses?” says Mitch, when he and Pops disattach.

“Yup, the little lady got ‘em last time she went to see her kin in Altus.  Got a George Foreman grill too.”

“Nice.”

“They’re Calvin Klein,” says Pops.  He looks over at me with his moist marble eyes.  “Who’s the kid?”  he asks. You’re too good for me, kid, says Laurilee in my head.

“Doug,” I say, sounding squeaky.  I stick out my hand.  We both stare down at my shaking fingers.

“He wants to make a purchase.”

“I see,” says Pops.

“He’s harmless,” says Mitch.  “I mean, look at him.”  They both stare at me.  The old guy steps close to me.  He smells like a chemistry experiment gone bad.  “You look scared,” he says.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Boo,” he says, quietly.  He laughs, literally using the words, like a character in a comic strip.  “Ha ha ha,” he says.  He steps back.  “Welp, I’d do anything for Mitchell.”

Mitch smiles and says, “Doug Schaffer.  I used to be friends with his brother.  Trevor.  Dude is in Iraq now.”

“No shit,” says Mitch, without taking his eyes off me.  “What’s he do over there?”

“He’s a tank driver,” I say.  There is no escaping Trevor, even here, on some farm in Nowheresville, Oklahoma.

“Little guy?”

“5’8,” I say.

“He write you?”

“Sure,” I lie.

“How many sand niggers he shoot so far?”

“I have no idea,” I say.  “They, uh, don’t let him talk about that stuff in his letters.”

“Nice thing he’s doing, serving the country like that.  Now Mitchell here ain’t got much patriotism, we’ve had many a-talks about it.  It ain’t his fault, really, it’s a generational thing.  But I believe in this great nation, son.  Can’t take it for granted.  We could be in a bread line with a buncha commies somewhere, instead of right here in the greatest country the earth has ever known.”   Pops grins and gazes fondly across his muddy, shit-stained yard. “The land of milk and honey.” He turns to me.  “Y’know,” he says, “I served in Nam.”

“Yeah?”

“Best years of my life.  Don’t let no one tell ya different.  These guys in the VA hospital, havin’ flashbacks, I call bullcrap on everyone of them.  Milking the system.  Good times, Nam.  Good friends.  And I haven’t had poon that sweet since, though you better not tell the missus. Sweet-ass chink poon, nuthin’ like it.  Those ladies got class.  Born to serve their men, just like in the bible.  Know we gave ‘em a rib.  Appreciate it too.  You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they can do with their pretty little mouths.  Ha ha ha.  You can call me Pops, son.”  He smiles at me.  His teeth seem to go on forever.  Long in the teeth, now it makes sense.  “So, I guess we best getcha fucked up, huh, boy?”

***

I’ve seen plenty of meth labs on the web, but walking inside one is like a Star Trek rerun, that initial moment when the transporter beams Spock and Kirk to some alien universe and they smack head-on into the unknown.  The first thing I notice is the smell, worse than anything I could think of, worse than a fresh load of diarrhea in a baby diaper, not that I’ve ever changed a diaper, but I’ll bet it’s just like this. It’s overpowering, like rotten eggs and my mom’s nail polish remover, with something sickeningly sweet underneath, an overripe nectarine that has been in the sun.  Mitch doesn’t seem to notice.  I breathe through my mouth. The place is organized.  The plastic tubs of Drano are stacked in a pyramid, the metal containers of acetone in a neat line, the hundreds of empty boxes of Sudafed in sky-high stacks, like an enormous game of Jenga.  This guy knows what he’s doing. I know it’s hard to get that many pills from my research  Since they passed the Combating Meth Act, you can only buy two packs at the Walgreen’s, and they keep them behind the counter.  For an operation like this, you got to have people working for you, going from store to store collecting boxes. They call it Smurfing.  The Smurfs were gatherers.  I always thought the Smurfs were kind of gay, even when I was a kid, though I did have the occasional jack-off fantasy while thinking of motorboating Smurfettes big blue titties.

Picnic tables are covered with jars and bottles of liquid.  Some have tubes snaking out of them, while others are gurgling.  Some are topped in foil, and one bottle has an inflated pink balloon attached to the end.  Mitch was right about Willy Wonka.  I feel like I’ve stepped into the chocolate factory, that scene where the gigantic machine whirs and enormous levers are manned by Oompah-Loompahs, and in the end there it is, that little bitty Everlasting Gobstopper that will change the face of the universe.  I’m here for the Gobstopper.

I never thought I’d be in a lab.  I thought I’d score a quarter gram from Mitch on a street corner, do the handshake pass-off you see in movies, thank him for his help and be on my way.  But here I am in an actual methamphetamine production establishment.  Not the industrial superlabs of Mexico, but definitely bigger than the photos of most of the shack/motel bathroom operations I saw on Google Images.  I am standing in the middle of a clandestine lab.  A clan lab, the cops call it.  Fifteen percent of meth labs are discovered due to an explosion.  I read it somewhere.   Cops joke that it’s easy to find meth, you just follow the fire. Meth explosions are dangerous.  I could get third degree burns, lose a limb, go blind.  But even worse, I could puke from the smell.That would be really embarrassing.

I stand there awkwardly, not sure what to do, willing my gag reflexes to do their job.  The music comes back on, this time Guns n’ Roses, who I know about from watching some where are the now? bullshit show.  It’s a nice sound system.  Mitch doesn’t seem concerned with any buzzing now.  He’s in his element.  He hops around the tables like an excited little boy.  He giggles to himself. He kneels in front of a Peter Pan Peanut Butter jar that is filled with a thick, pee colored sludge.  There is a pipe connected to the bottom, and it is gurgling.  “Look at this, lil’ Schaffer!  How rad is this?”  He points to the jar.

I try to walk over coolly, even though my legs are wobbly and waves of nausea ebb and flow in my belly.  “Rad,” I say.

“He’s gassing the mixture.  See, the hydrogen bubbles are passing through the solution.  Iodine and hypophorhous acid.   It doesn’t look like much, but it’s the ectoplasm.   At some point he’s gonna evaporate the mixture with a vacuum pump.  It leaves this gooey white mud, and that right there is the nucleus of everything, Schaffer.”  He is almost drooling.  I am suddenly reminded that Mitch was a National Merit Finalist.  I might be smart enough to be one, if I didn’t get bored during the PSATs and use the Scantron bubbles to write my name during the verbal section.

“That’s the shit that’ll fuck you up good,” says Mitch. “It’s like mining for gold.  It’s an art form.”  He turns to Pops, who has on the same chemical goggles we are required to wear in chemistry class when we are doing bullshit experiments like making a baking soda and vinegar volcano.  “You’re an artist, Pops!” says Mitch.  Pops smirks.  He likes Mitch, I can tell.  Mitch stands, all his bones cracking.  “You’re one lucky little punk, seeing this,” he says.  “People go their whole lives without seeing this shit.  And Pops, he’s one of the originals.  He was one of the Harley transporters back in the 60’s.”

“Sold that Harley long time ago,” says Pops.  He’s swirling a beaker gently, like it’s the most important thing in the world, like it’s foreplay, like he’s going to make hot, sweet love to it.  He’s holding that beaker like I’d hold Laurilee if I had the chance, he’s cupping it in his palm like I’d cup her perfect white ass in my hand.

“Those guys started the revolution, took the stuff cross country, spread the love.  Kept it in the crankcases of their bikes.  Crankcases.  You get it now?  Crank cases.”

“Wow.”

“But this stuff goes even further back.  Nectar of the gods.  The Japanese invented it a century ago.  Kamikaze pilots used it for bravery.  You understand what I’m saying, Doug?  Your gonna use something that kamikaze pilots used.  Your gonna have that kinda bravery, that kind of dedication.  You’re gonna be capable of anything.  Anything you ever wanted to do, Little Schaffer, will be within your reach.  You’ll feel things Trevor never imagined possible.”

“It’s a good batch,” says Pops, almost to himself.  “Nice and pure.  A bit of a yellow tinge, but does the job.  I tried it myself.”  He looks at me with his watery eyes, as though seeing me for the first time.  “Why don’t you go talk to Majorie for awhile?”  he says.  “I got some things to talk over with Mitchell.”

Mitch smiles and nods at me.  “Just knock on the door of the house,” says Pops.  He doesn’t have to ask again.  I practically jog over to the barn door, slide it open, and walk out into the yard.  It has gotten dark out.  I welcome the smell of dogshit and damp country grass.  I slide the door shut.  From behind me I can hear laughter and Axl Rose.  He’s welcoming me to the jungle.  He’s gonna bring me to my knees.  He’s going to watch me bleed.