CHAPTER

11

By the time we reached the car, my mind was on overload trying to process the sheer magnitude of the day’s unexpected events, and my patience level finally reached rock bottom. I’d been busy lecturing Sean about his irresponsible, self-destructive behavior, haranguing him about cutting out on the barbeque, not returning my texts or caring that I’d repeatedly been called a bitch by Daryl Hinkle, and just generally chewing him out while he was waxing poetic about being able to see every individual star in the Milky Way. It finally struck me that in his present muddled state of mind he probably didn’t even understand what I was saying and it was doubtful he’d remember the conversation when he came down off of whatever hallucinogenic drug he’d inhaled. “You’d better not barf in my new car,” I warned him severely, opening the passenger side door. “Now get in.”

“Don’t worry. I’m cool.” He dropped onto the seat and stared enthralled at absolutely nothing.

“No, you really aren’t.” Did I dare leave him alone in his motel room in this spacey condition? “You know what? You’re coming home with me tonight so I can keep an eye on you.” I shut his door, thinking that at least this way I would make sure he didn’t wander off somewhere. The now frigid midnight night air felt good against my flushed cheeks and I was pretty sure my explosive headache was due to a combination of fatigue and repressed anger. My brother was headed down a dangerous path, and since I had no experience dealing with people tripping out on drugs, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Sure, I’d dealt with intoxicated friends who got loud and silly, or sometimes aggressive, but nothing compared to the scene I had just witnessed. Sean’s bizarre behavior, as well as that of the other attendees at the impromptu party, had really shaken me.

I started the engine and we’d only been traveling about ten minutes when Sean, who’d been sitting motionless staring out the window, suddenly began to wave his right hand as if in greeting.

Startled, I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Waving back at them.”

I pulled my attention from the road for a few seconds and cast a quick glance into the dark desert landscape. “Waving back at whom?”

“Them.”

An uncomfortable pang shot through me. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see all the shadow people standing out there waving at me?”

I followed his gaze and when I realized what he was referring to, my heart faltered. “Oh, Sean. Are you talking about the saguaro cactus?”

“Huh? Looks like people to me.”

“Trust me, they’re not moving.” What kind of a concoction had he consumed to cause such a weird illusion?

He appeared skeptical, but then must have accepted my explanation and fell silent again. Fifteen minutes later, I swung off the pavement onto Lost Canyon Road, overcome with fatigue, my stomach growling. Dinner seemed like years ago. What a long, long day. As we bounced along the washboard dirt road I turned to Sean. “Tell me something. How much stuff have you been into this evening?”

“Mmmmm… a couple of beers, a little pot….mmmm…whatever the dude gave me.”

I gripped the wheel tighter and counted to ten. “Sean, are you trying to kill yourself? Why would you take some unknown drug from someone you don’t even know? That’s just stupid! Honestly, I’m at a loss as to why you would make the deliberate choice to put yourself in such a state of unreality.”

“You would if you could feel like…like…as good as me. I mean…you should see the moon the way I’m seeing it.”

I glanced up at the bright crescent moon. It looked perfectly normal to me. “Okay, how are you seeing it?”

“It looks like…” he paused, apparently searching for words, then murmured in awe, “like a pearly-white cashew nut just floating there among a gazillion shining stars. It’s almost like…like 3D.”

I slid him a bewildered look. A pearly-white cashew nut? He really was in another world. “We’re going to talk about this tomorrow when your brain isn’t the consistency of a scrambled egg. And I think it’s time you took a good look at what you’re doing to your life and how it’s affecting other people. I could kick Daryl’s ass for introducing you to whatever you’re on and yours for taking it.”

Wearing a really silly grin, Sean gave me two thumbs-up. “This stuff is definitely primo. Darren’s the main man.”

“Daryl,” I corrected him, turning into my driveway.

He blinked in confusion. “I thought he said his name was Darren?” He paused. “Or maybe it was Darwin.”

“You’re confused about everything,” I muttered, as we exited the car. “Your charming benefactor’s name is Daryl Hinkle.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Pay attention to what I’m saying to you. Those two guys are bad news. Do us all a favor and stay away from them.” I unlocked the front door and felt a stab of guilt when I heard Marmalade’s plaintive yowl. Poor baby! I’d been gone much longer than originally planned and she was probably starving and lonesome as well. “I’m so sorry, little one,” I crooned, scooping her into my arms and stroking her soft fur. “You deserve a special treat tonight.”

“And I need to crash,” Sean mumbled.

I pointed to the hallway. “Bathroom is second door on the left and you’ll be sleeping in the spare room, third door on the left. Can you comprehend that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. I’ll wake you early in the morning and drive you to the motel so you can shower and change clothes before we leave for Jerome.” I could tell that the drug was wearing off because he actually made eye contact with me.

“So…are you going to rat me out to Mom and Dad?”

Hmmm. A little leverage perhaps? “I don’t know yet. I guess that depends on you.”

He nodded and without another word ambled towards the hallway as I went to the kitchen to check Marmalade’s food bowl, which was empty. Her purr grew louder and she bumped against my leg as I poured a saucer of cream and piled her bowl high with tuna. Then I joined her on the floor, eating the remaining tuna straight out of the can, still ruminating about the evening’s disturbing events. Cheese, crackers, an apple and half a dozen cookies completed my post-midnight snack. At this rate, I’d barely get five hours of sleep. With Marmalade following at my heels, I stopped to peek in on Sean sprawled out on the bed fully dressed, lying motionless. What was to become of my little brother? With a despondent sigh, I pulled two blankets from the linen closet and gently laid them over him. My anger now cooled, I studied his peaceful face, unable to slough off the sensation of hopelessness I felt. Incorrigible since birth, he’d always trod a rocky path, but the one he was headed down now seemed destined to have tragic consequences. Was there any way to reverse it? I wanted to help him change his destructive ways, but what could I actually do?

Even with all his faults, and the fact that we were as different in our approaches to life as two people could be, I still loved him, but had to admit that this new and different Sean was not very likable. Perhaps tomorrow, in the light of day when he was sober, I’d be able to talk some sense into him.

The sudden buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand startled me. I looked down at the screen and noticed an incoming text from his girlfriend, Robin. Under normal circumstances I would have never considered reading his private messages, but this one gave me one of those little gut twinges. DON’T COME BACK HERE AGAIN. I MEAN IT! DON’T CALL ME AGAIN. EVER. PUTTING YOUR STUFF IN STORAGE. COPS R STILL WATCHING MY APT, U SELFISH ASSHOLE!

Well, well, so much for Sean’s tall tale about breaking up with Robin. Stung that he had so easily and glibly lied to me, I picked up his phone and swiped through the previous messages. When I’d finished reading, my initial surprise had turned to disenchanted irritation. What else had he lied about? According to the texts, Robin’s father, who was paying for her college tuition and living expenses, found out about Sean’s arrest and threatened to cut her off if she did not throw him out. Sean had begged her not to listen to him. Robin expressed her deep feelings for him, but was ‘freaked out’ because the undercover detectives were also watching her. After his arrest she could not afford to have him stay with her any longer. Sean begged her to take him back but she refused. There was an earlier exchange of texts regarding his increasing drug use, having strangers come to her apartment at all hours and another big surprise. Sean had been fired from his job months ago and had been unable to pay his share of the rent and other expenses. I set the phone down, swallowing hard. Had desperation lured him into the drug trade? This situation was much more serious than he’d led me to believe. Closing the door softly, I headed for bed, wondering if my parents were aware of these disturbing facts. Did they realize Sean was experimenting with drugs far more harmful than marijuana?

Dead tired, I finally dropped into bed beside Marmalade, who sat patiently waiting for me, kneading on a blanket. “Are you making biscuits for me, sweetie?” She flopped down close to my side and purred up a contented storm. Sleep should have come immediately, but instead I tossed and turned, unable to shut off the troubling thoughts ricocheting around my brain like ping pong balls. After checking the clock for the umpteenth time, I gave up, threw off the covers and padded back to the kitchen. The best way to attack this problem was to arm myself with facts. I sat down at my computer and began to surf the Web for information. Two hours later, dog-tired and bleary-eyed, I had to take a break from the online craziness. What kind of a mixed-up world were we living in? Why did people feel compelled to post their most private acts and thoughts on the Internet for all to see—especially under the influence of drugs and alcohol? And the more I learned about the proliferation of drugs, the drug culture, victims of drug-related crimes, the insidious effects that some of the new synthetic drugs had on the user and the user’s family, friends and co-workers, the more pessimistic I felt, the more ‘old school’ I felt. We now lived in a society that seemed to lack a moral compass or boundaries on any kind of aberrant behavior. And my brother was now a part of it. A player. How had such a wide chasm of philosophies developed between us? We had been raised in the same stable two-parent household where traditional values such as honesty, virtue, integrity, respect, hard work and achievement were taught and held in high regard.

I yawned and stretched, noting with dismay that it was after 3 am. I pressed a hand against my hollow stomach. How was it possible that I was hungry again? “Because you’re not asleep, that’s why,” I murmured aloud. Was there any point in even going back to bed? Apparently Marmalade had heard me because she suddenly appeared and jumped up on my lap, vying for attention. “Okay, what should I do?” I asked my cat, stroking her velvety, orange fur, “Try to sleep for two hours or make a strong pot of coffee and just stay up?” She fixed me with her luminous turquoise eyes and meowed twice. “I’ll take that as a yes on the second suggestion,” I said rising. Caffeine was going to be my best friend today.

I brewed coffee and continued to research people’s mindset for consuming illicit drugs. Wow. The escalation of pot use among older Americans was kind of surprising, but the rampant use of readily available drugs among young people was downright disturbing. It appeared there was an entire generation, mine, whose main aspiration in life was getting high—at parties, work and even during school hours. In my mind I could only equate it to abusing alcohol and indeed, many people made little distinction other than drugs produced an easier and faster high, and when mixed with alcohol, enhanced the sensation of euphoria. Statistics showed that while some individuals could use cannabis occasionally with no visible side effects and scores of others attested to its medicinal properties, some researchers claimed that heavy pot use over time tended to lower IQs, stunt intellectual development and, for some, created the desire to experiment with more dangerous drugs.

I’d often seen the term, ‘they walk among us,’ but now it took on a whole new meaning. The number of people wrecking their lives and those of others by getting hooked on methamphetamine, crack cocaine, heroin, prescription and designer drugs like MDMA, or ‘ecstasy,’ was staggering. I viewed several disturbing videos featuring a young man addicted to OxyContin (‘oxy’ as it is known on the street) extoling the virtues of this powerful narcotic. He claimed it produced the best high ever, but also warned that once you were hooked, it could cost up to $300 a day to maintain a feeling that he described as ‘just feeling normal,’ He warned viewers that there was no getting off the drug without horrible withdrawal symptoms and recommended not trying to kick the habit alone, but to instead check into a detox clinic.

Closer to home, the Phoenix newspaper reported a recent crackdown on formerly legal synthetic drugs known as ‘spice,’ K-2 ‘bath salts’ and another concoction called 2C-T-7, spurred on by a flood of frantic teens showing up at emergency rooms. In addition to that, the wave of ghastly crimes committed by people strung-out on these drugs read like scenes from a horror movie. Meanwhile, the manufacturers of these drugs cleverly attempted to stay one step ahead of increasing sanctions by slightly changing the chemical compounds in an attempt to skirt the new laws.

Being a reporter, I’d done my share of stories on society’s lowlifes, but the more I read, the more I felt as if I’d been living a sheltered life, just going about my business while an entire sub-culture of zombie people existed just under the radar. It appeared that some individuals would inhale, swallow or inject just about anything to fit in with their peers, produce a buzz, or escape from the realities of life. A large number had no compunction about lying, cheating, stealing, even committing murder to feed their insatiable habits. One blogger equated them to parasites—leeching off the productive members of society, existing on taxpayer-funded government disability checks, grants, housing, food stamps and healthcare, not contributing to the economy, their lives in limbo.

Sipping a second cup of hot coffee, I watched video after video featuring teens, some as young as thirteen, blatantly bragging about their drug use. The videos of pot parties were actually kind of boring—people either staring blankly at an object or endlessly pontificating about some inane subject, so I moved on to personal experiences of other juveniles experimenting with harder drugs. In none of the posted videos did any of the young people appear to give a flying crap that what they were doing was illegal, stupid and, in some cases, lethal. As far as they were concerned, anything in moderation was cool. They drifted through school learning little, had no aspirations to pursue a career, cast no judgments on the behaviors of others and seemed unconcerned about the possible dire consequences of continued substance abuse. There were, however, a significant number of firsthand accounts from others describing their frightening descent into the hell of addiction and the agonizing road to recovery in rehab. They appeared to be genuinely chastened by their experiences and solemnly advised viewers to avoid using illicit drugs at all cost. And then there were the tragic stories of people who did not seek help in time. With a dull ache in my heart, I sat there watching a series of videos featuring tearful, hollow-eyed people reporting harrowing tales of family members or friends who had died after ingesting an unknown recipe made from ingredients cooked up in some makeshift lab. I rested my forehead in one hand. Good God! Had Sean already joined the ranks of these full-blown drug addicts? Was that the reason he appeared to be a willing participant in the seamy, criminal underground drug trade—to support his habit? My stomach turned sour at that dispiriting thought. I set my cup down and pushed away from the computer, my brain fried with information overload and my body amped up on caffeine. Enough!

I paced around the kitchen, fearing for the survival of civil society, the country, the future. Needing to relieve some stress, I put on my running gear and headed outside into the frosty pre-dawn air. I walked for a few minutes, allowing my eyes to adjust to the starlight and waning moon, before breaking into a jog. I picked up speed and pounded along Lost Canyon Road, allowing the serenity of the desert silence to work its magic on my agitated frame of mind. But it wasn’t long before my thoughts returned to the issue at hand and forced me to do a little soul searching.

Grounded firmly in the principles instilled in me by my parents and grandparents, I was having great difficulty understanding why so many people chose to use drugs or alcohol to escape into a counterfeit reality instead of relying on faith or inner strength. After watching the troubling videos of people acting like out of control idiots, deliberately destroying their lives and those of others, I began to have second thoughts about my own alcohol use. Coming from an Irish family where liquor flowed freely, I had never thought twice about enjoying a glass of wine with dinner, having a cocktail or a margarita or two. But did I really need artificial stimulation when I could create my own natural highs with exercise, laughter or inspiring music? What about the euphoric adrenalin rush of chasing down an intriguing story? And how about the best natural stimulant of all—love? Why wasn’t that enough? Amid the noisy chatter of birds welcoming a primrose dawn, I arrived back at my front door with a heavy heart, doubting that I’d ever learn the answer.