"But that's when God will step in. And if you let Him, not only will He bring you up, but He will propel you to unimaginable heights. He will take you to such triumphs that no one-not even you-will be able to deny that it was Him."

Finally, he let go of my arms. As he did so, his shoulders sagged and his hands heavily dropped into his lap, as if he were exhausted.

Nutso. Yup, this one's nuts.

"I know you think I'm crazy." He was speaking quietly and slowly. "I'm not. Just remember what I'm telling you here today, okay?" He looked up at me and seemed to be pleading with his eyes.

"O-okay," I stammered.

"Remember it. Just remember."

He stood up and began walking back to his car.

"That's it?" I yelled behind him. No "business"? No "cheerleading practice"?

"That's it," he said. He got into his squad car and drove off.

I went home. When I walked in, Tommy started yelling and fussing about where I'd been and what nigga I'd been with. But when I told him he could have the whole ten-dollar rock to himself, he quit fussing and immediately starting smoking. I didn't want to smoke anymore that night. I was spooked thinking about what Preacher had said. I kept hearing his words over and over in my head, as if I were being forced to memorize them. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get what he said out of my mind. I started drinking gin hoping it would shut my head up. It took awhile, but finally I drank enough to enable me to pass out.

- Although we would never again spend that much time together, I saw Preacher three more times during the next year when I'd been busted buying dope. On each occasion, he mysteriously showed up.

"I'll take care of this one," he'd tell the other cops. If anyone balked, he'd pull the officer aside. Because the two of them would be at a distance and talking low, I never knew what he said. Whatever he told the other cop, he or she went for it. Then he'd cuff me and put me in the back of his car as if I were going to jail. But I never went to jail. Instead, he'd take me around the corner and let me out. As he took off the handcuffs, he'd lean over and whisper, "Remember!" Then he'd get back in his car and take off. He never tried anything with me and never asked for anything.

He was actually starting to freak me out. So much so that jail was starting to sound pretty good as opposed to going with him. After the second time, I tried to convince the cops to just take me to jail. But whatever Preacher was telling them must've been compelling because they insisted that I go with him.

Actually, it was a good thing Preacher came into my life when he did. Because my other two cop "business partners" just dropped out of sight. They never again showed up to "take care of me" or to conduct "business" with me.

- One morning, Ken called the office and told me that his wife, who had been pregnant, had had a girl.

He said he was taking off work for a few days to help with the baby. Of course, I figured since he wasn't in the office, there was no sense in my being there either. So I also took off a couple of days, blaming it on a horrible cold. When he returned, Dorothy was waiting in his office. She angrily reminded him that I was on probation and that my recent time off had violated it. Still on cloud nine from the birth of his daughter, he waved her out of his office, instructing her to "just forget about it."

It worked for me. It pissed her off. As she stormed past my desk she growled, "I'm watching you."

You ought to be watching whoever gave you that fucked-up haircut! I wanted to scream back at her. But I decided to keep quiet. I couldn't keep the laughter in, though. I started cracking up.

Hearing my laughter, she stomped back to my desk with her hands on her hips.

"Is something funny?" she snapped.

"Nice haircut," I said as I continued laughing. Unsure of whether it was an insult or not, she gave me a nasty look, spun on her heels, and walked away.

43.

THE PHYSICAL EFFECTS of the drugs on my and Tommy's bodies were getting worse. Though dealers always used a number of things to cut dope with to increase the quantity, the main "cutter" was laxative. Cooking the dope was supposed to remove all the impurities. Nevertheless, I think remnants of the laxatives remained, because it got to the point where whenever Tommy hit the pipe he had to do so sitting on the toilet because he couldn't control his bowels.

The physical effects on me were different, but no better. I'd lose control of all of my facial muscles. I couldn't keep my lips closed. They'd just hang open and I'd slobber and drool uncontrollably. My eyes, which would grow to the size of large olives, darted frantically from side to side, so much so that I'd often get a headache just from their rapid, frenzied, nonstop movement. Try as I might, I couldn't keep them still. Then I'd begin sweating so much that within a half hour of getting high, my clothes would be completely soaked.

There were also mental effects. For no particular reason, in between taking hits, I liked to make obscene phone calls or call strangers and cuss them out. I'd get the phone book and just start calling people. The problem was, most people didn't even know I was an obscene caller. Because of my uncontrollable lip muscles and constant drooling, all they heard was slurring, slobbering, and spitting. So instead of being insulted, most people just got pissed, cussed me out, and hung up.

And still, I got high. But I was no longer enjoying it. In fact, every day I swore I'd never get high again. Every day I swore I'd get my life together.

Tomorrow will be different, I'd tell myself. At the time, I believed it and I meant it. But with each "tomorrow," it was like my car had a mind of its own and it would drive straight to the dope man. Before I knew it, I'd be high-or drunk-again.

Tommy and I were so far gone on dope that we actually gave up a car simply because of gas. During one of our "coming up" attempts, we'd purchased a second car: a 1986 Nissan Maxima. We were on our way to cop in the Maxima when it ran out of gas. Leaving it on the side of the road, we had Daddy pick us up in our other car and take us to get our dope. I had every intention of going back to get the Maxima. The problem was that every time I got gas money I had to choose between using it for gas or using it for dope. Each time, dope won. Before I knew it, days went by and we still hadn't returned for the Maxima. I never went back for it, actually. I guess somebody finally towed it. I didn't know and didn't care. We just showed our paycheck stubs to get another car. Because of our bad credit, it wasn't as nice. But I didn't need "nice." All I needed was a ride to the dope man.

- I wasn't even getting "high" anymore. No matter how much I smoked, popped, snorted, or drank, I couldn't get high. But I couldn't stop. I hated what it was doing to my body. But I couldn't stop. I hated what it was doing to my life. But I couldn't stop.

Nothing worked. Absolutely nothing.

So I began soliciting suggestions on how to control my drinking and using. Someone suggested that I switch from hard liquor to beer and wine only. That worked for a while. Problem was it took three times as much beer and wine to get the feeling hard liquor provided.

I did finally get some advice that pacified me, temporarily. One day while on a run I ran into Slim, one of daddy's former hos. I hadn't seen her since Daddy and I moved out of the Complex. Now, we were interacting as if we'd kept in touch all along. We spent a moment engaging in the usual small talk (like which dope spot gave the largest portions, who we'd each previously gotten bum shit from, who died, who was in jail). As we were preparing to go our separate ways, I asked her opinion about how to control using.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I don't want to be a dope fiend," I replied.

She put her finger to her chin, tilted her head to the side as if she was deep in thought. Suddenly she straightened her head, looked me directly in the eye, and calmly said, "You ain't no dope fiend."

"I'm not?"

"No. You don't slam anything, right. You just smoke and snort, don't cha?"

I nodded that I did.

"Then you ain't no 'fiend.' "

She seemed so sure of herself. I'd long since theorized that real dope fiends shot up. And now, here was a real dope fiend confirming that theory.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Long as you don't slam," she continued, "You'll be all right. But once you start slamming, you'll be a dope fiend and an addict. You'll be as fucked up as me." She looked both serious and dismal as she stated the last sentence.

I thanked her and went on my way with my dope. What we'd failed to realize was that I was already fucked up like her: we were both alarmingly thin; we both were at the point where neither of us could stop; and most important, we both lived, ate, and breathed for dope. The only difference between me and her was how we did it.

Still, her explanation pacified me temporarily. But soon I couldn't deny the fact that I was getting worse. Much worse.

- One day, Daddy and Jr. were discussing my and Tommy's drug problem and whether they could help us. Someone had told Jr. about a 12-step program geared especially toward cocaine addicts. Armed with the information about that program, Daddy and Jr. sat me and Tommy down and did what they said was called an "intervention."

"Sounds more like meddlin' to me," I growled.

Ignoring my snide remark, they talked for more than an hour about how Tommy and I were heading for deep trouble with our drug use, that everybody (but us) knew we were hooked, and that we needed some serious help. Their badgering was getting on my nerves, so I allowed my mind to wander, thinking of how I could come up with some money to score. Tommy, on the other hand, was really listening to what they were saying. He even admitted that he wanted help, that he needed help.

Wimp!

"Cup." Daddy turned to me. "What about you? You know they say before getting help you have to admit you need it. Do you need it?" The room was silent as all three men stared at me, waiting for a response. I still thought that because I didn't slam I wasn't a dope fiend. Obviously, they weren't familiar with that rule. They were so pathetic. But I'd do anything to shut them up and end the intervention session. So I told them what they wanted to hear.

"Yeah, okay."

That satisfied them. Using a meeting schedule Jr. had gotten from his friend, Daddy and Jr found a meeting for us to attend. Believing it was better to separate us, Jr. went with Tommy and Daddy went with me.

Oh, great, I thought as Daddy drove to the meeting, I've got to spend an hour with a bunch of fucking sicko dopers!

The meeting was in the back of a recreation center located in a large park. At first we had trouble finding it. Personally, I wasn't trying to find it. But Daddy was. He kept stopping people and asking them if they knew where the "cocaine meeting" was. I was so embarrassed.

"Daddy!" I yelled. "Do you have to tell people what we're looking for?"

"Cup," he snapped back, "every day you buy dope like it ain't shit. When you go to cop, you don't care who sees you. When you sellin' your TV and shit, you don't care who sees you. And now that we're trying to save your life, you want to be incognito?"

"Let's get this over with," I growled when we finally entered the meeting room. I couldn't wait for the fucking night to be over.

- There were a variety of people in the room, various ages and races. They all looked normal. I don't know what I expected. I guess I expected the addicts I saw on the corner. You know-dirty, begging for money. I always loved to look down on those people and sometimes would even give them a nickel to make myself feel better. But none of the people in the room were dirty. In fact, some of them were well dressed. As we walked in, a tall black man approached us, introduced himself as Reggie, and asked if we were new.

Mind your fuckin' business! I screamed at him in my mind. I don't want anyone talking to me. I don't need you people, and I don't want to get to know any of you-it ain't like we ever gon' see each other again!

"Why, yes we are," Daddy kindly replied. "My name is Tim, but everybody calls me 'Pops.' This is my daughter-"

"Tina," I interrupted. I didn't want that fool knowing my real name. Daddy looked at me with bewilderment, but kept silent.

"Well, welcome Pops and Tina," Reggie said. He showed us where the coffee was and instructed us to have a seat.

The meeting was interesting. They read literature about the characteristics of cocaine addicts. How they spent all their money on it.

Yeah, that's me, I thought grudgingly.

How they couldn't stop using no matter how hard they tried.

Been there, done that.

How it destroyed relationships with family and friends.

What family? Those sorry mothafuckas . . .

How they would pick at the carpet looking and hoping for dope-which was never found, yet they'd stay down there for hours anyway.

Oh, yeah. Cleaning the carpet! I knew that one well.

It seemed that just about everything they read and said, I could relate to. But then one woman said something that made me realize I wasn't like them after all. She talked about how her using was so bad, it prevented her from being able to work. Well, I had a job! And not only did I have one, but I had a good one: I worked for a prestigious lawyer, at one of the oldest firms in San Diego, and I made good money! That was the distinction I needed. I was convinced that I couldn't possibly be one of them.

After the meeting, Reggie handed me a hardcover book with a blue-and-white cover. He said they called it the "Big Book." I had no idea know why, since it wasn't very big. Nor did I care. But before I could tell him so, he told me I should read it and come back to the meeting next week.

Don't count on it.

Daddy thanked him and we went on our way.

When we got home, Daddy, Tommy, and Jr. discussed their experiences at the meetings. I went into Tommy's and my bedroom to have a drink. I didn't care about Tommy and Jr.'s meeting. All I cared about was mine, and my meeting convinced me that I wasn't an addict.

Tommy quit using for one day. I guess something that was said in his meeting got him to thinking. He didn't think long, though, because when I came home with dope that night, he smoked it.

We never attended any more meetings, and Daddy and Jr. didn't try any more interventions. But you know, that "Big Book" did come in handy. I discovered it provided a perfectly smooth, nonstick surface for cutting up my dope.

44.

FOR THE FIRST time in my life, I stole from someone I loved.

Daddy's father died and he had to go to Tennessee for the funeral. As Tommy and I drove him to the airport, he informed us that he'd left five hundred dollars in an envelope under his bed. He said that the money was the result of a sympathy collection taken by his coworkers to help him with travel expenses. He told us that although he didn't take the money with him, he would definitely need it when he returned. He said he was telling us about it only because if something happened to him while he was gone he wanted us to know it was there. He made me promise I wouldn't touch it. I promised. And I meant it. I really did.

We dropped Daddy off at the airport. As he boarded his plane, I again promised not to touch it. Tommy and I left the airport and went home. As we entered the house, I, moving almost mechanically, walked into Daddy's room, located the envelope under his bed, and took fifty dollars.

"Let's go," I told Tommy.

"Where we going?" he asked, truly surprised at my statement.

"To score."

"With what? We don't have any money. I don't get paid till Thursday, and there's nothing in here left to sell."

"I've got fifty dollars of Daddy's money," I answered matter-of-factly.

"Cup! That's not our money. You promised him we wouldn't touch it."

"Aw, come on, it's only fifty dollars! We'll put it back when you get paid."

"Cup, that money is so your dad could go to his father's FUNERAL! God, woman. Have you no limits?"

"Fuck you, then," I snapped. "You'd better not ask me for a hit when I get back!" I walked out the door and headed for the car.

Tommy thought about it for a moment. Realizing that there was no way there would be dope in that house without his smoking it, he changed his mind. He sprinted up to the car just as I was getting ready to take off. He had a look of shame on his face. I felt as though I should console him about what we were about to do.

"We're only going to spend this fifty dollars," I told him in an effort to make us both feel better. He readily agreed.

Before Daddy's plane landed in Tennessee, the envelope was empty.

When Daddy got home, I, sobbing terribly, told him what I'd done. Instead of being angry, he was heartbroken. He informed us that he was moving out; he couldn't live with us anymore. It was his turn to cry as he said that he couldn't watch us kill ourselves.

I really was sad to see Daddy go, though not for the reasons I should have been. I was sad because it was only because of him that most times Tommy and I made sure the lights stayed on and the rent got paid. Now that he was gone, we had no reason to even try to be responsible. The shit was bound to hit the fan.