Chapter 13

 

 

Not everything that Beverley Beech did was kosher bananas. She’d been known to get into more than a little trouble.

Bev and her boyfriend at the time had been drinking cheap liquor and smoking expensive marijuana, hour after hour. While her boyfriend sat in the kitchen continuing the excess, she decided, for some ungodly reason, to strip off all of her clothing and run outside naked.

Before she could get to the front door of her apartment, the boyfriend caught her, grabbed her by the waist and threw her on the couch. She bounced up and immediately made another run for the front door. Again, the boyfriend thwarted her plan.

Her boyfriend would let her drunkenly recline on the couch while he returned to the kitchen to continue his own guzzling and imbibing. He positioned his chair so as to keep an eye on the front door. After another couple of attempts by the inebriated Bev to run naked through the streets, the boyfriend devised a plan.

He hooked a wire coat hanger on the front doorknob, with other wire hangers dangling from it. That way, before Bev could maneuver the two front door locks to make her attempted escape, there would be noise from the hangers. He also piled some boxes in front of the door, and placed a chair there.

Bev, drunk as the proverbial skunk, tried to quietly pick her way through the obstacles, but she was no deft thief; the noise invariably aroused the boyfriend, who made a successful grab at her.

One time, though, she was able to make it to the outside of the front door; the boyfriend grabbed Bev by the hair and pulled her back inside the apartment.

Finally, after an hour and a half of that madness, Bev passed out on the couch. Her boyfriend, thinking it a fine opportunity to reap a little reward for all his efforts, stripped his clothes off and proceeded to rest alongside her, exhausted.

Bev was not perfect, by a long shot. Because one is a nurse doesn’t make one immune to all the poorest leanings and proclivities of society.

For instance, she had a weak spot for TV infomercials. Easily influenced by others, the barkers and shills on TV sold her everything from knife sets to pasta makers to massive cooking devices. One cooking implement could cook two chickens, a mess of shrimp and several beef steaks, all at the same time.

She piled up a wealth of such extraneous items, until she ran out of money and had to file bankruptcy. Bev picked herself up, dusted off the detritus of bad decisions and straightened out her life.

Well, with the help of a 10-week inpatient drug and alcohol treatment program.

That in itself was a nightmare for everyone involved, including Linda. As Bev’s friend, Linda had to watch Bev spiral down, as with the flushing of a toilet, watching the swirling water go around and around, and there’s Bev, about to head down the drain.

Bev’s penchant and thirst for hard liquor became insatiable. Linda had seen it, and remembered partying with Bev for a short time. It was a full decade prior to Linda finding work as the cigarette girl at the Club Festival. At that time, Linda could keep up with other professionals in the field of drinking or doing drugs, but she was never a non-stop professional; she knew when to call a halt to the snorting of the Bolivian marching powder or to the lure of the wasty wonderland that is drink. To do it on an ongoing basis for more than a few months was not Linda’s way of enjoying what life had to offer.

But Bev was heavily into the drink.

Linda would come over to Bev’s on a night they both had off from work, and for a few months the two would go through at least one if not two fifths of hard liquor together. There were many nights where Linda was too drunk to try to get home, by taxi or by bus. Passing out on Bev’s couch was Linda’s last remembrance of a debauched evening.

The two would have drinking contests, listen to loud rock ‘n’ roll and generally have a hell of a good time. Then Linda would go home and not drink for days or weeks, until she saw Bev again. This went on for several months.

What Linda came to realize, slowly, was that Bev continued to drink during the nights she had off from the hospital. The drinking became a serious habit, then a problematic addiction.

“What are you going to do about your drinking?” Linda asked Bev one night while the two were downing straight shots of inexpensive Scotch whisky.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw your storage pantry.”

“What?”

“The storage pantry, where you keep your recycling,” Linda said. “I’ve never seen so many empty bottles of Scotch. I know we’ve been getting into some heavy drinking when I show up, but there must be 100 empty bottles back there. And a couple of months ago, I know for sure there weren’t any.”

Bev hung her head in shame.

“Don’t worry, honey, it’s OK,” Linda said to her friend. “Do you think you need help?”

Bev hesitated.

“Yes,” Bev said, “I’ll admit it’s gotten a bit out of control. I don’t know what happened. It sort of crept up on me. One day I’m drinking a little, the next day more, the next day more, the next day more…”

“I get it.”

“I got it. I got the habit. I don’t know why or how, but there it is. Now I don’t know what to do. What do you think I ought to do?”

Linda paused for a second.

“I don’t know either,” Linda said. “But I could take a stab at it. Do you want me to candy coat it so you can swallow it better, or do you want me to give it to you straight?”

“I want you to be honest with me, no matter how much it hurts. I’m at wit’s end.”

“Let me ask you this,” Linda began. “Can you stop drinking today?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t want to. I like it too much.”

“You got a problem, girl.”

“I know, I know I know. I’ll have to think about what to do.”

“Don’t think about it too long, girlfriend,” Linda said. “You need to do something about it, before alcohol starts eating at your liver and your brain.”

“Do you think it’s that bad?”

“Unless you’ve got a bevy of friends coming over for drinks,” Linda said, “you’ve obviously been drinking enough cheap whisky to float a ship. Let me ask you this: Do you drink every day?”

“Yes,” Bev admitted. “Some days I’m so hung over I’d like to give it a break, and sometimes I have to bite the bullet and show up to work with a hangover, looking like and feeling like shit. It’s none too pleasant.”

Linda closed her eyes and shook her head.

“You’ve got it bad girl.”

“Yeah, I got it bad. I guess I need to get some help. In the meantime, pass me the bottle.”

A twinge of guilt passed through Linda’s psyche as she lifted the bottle of Scotch and passed it to her friend.

“I’m enabling you by drinking with you, aren’t I?”

“Let’s not worry about it now. Let’s enjoy the moment.”

All the words of wisdom and care flew out the window as the two women let loose. The drinks flowed freely between them and Scotch was downed by the shot glass. The two were also smoking pot, which Linda knew was not a good idea. As she loaded the pipe, took a hit and then passed it to Bev, Linda spoke up.

“Is this also part of the problem?”

Bev grabbed the pipe without hesitation, applied flame to the bowl and filled her lungs. She took more than she was able, and began coughing and hacking with tremendous force.

“God, are you gonna be alright?”

Bev stopped coughing after a minute.

“Yeah,” Bev said, her voice raspy from the coughing jag. “I’ll be fine.”

“So is the pot part of the problem?”

Bev took another hit from the pipe before passing it to Linda. Bev blew out the smoke with pride.

“Probably,” Bev said. “I don’t care at the moment. I want to party. You’re not gonna start lecturing me on partying, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I’m not your conscience. But I don’t know if I should continue doing this with you.”

“More for me,” Bev said, as she poured another shot of whisky. She downed it in a hurry, filled her shot glass, then filled Linda’s.

“Jesus, girl, I don’t know which one of us is more wicked: You for being such a fiend with the drugs and alcohol, or me for helping you do it.”

“We’re both wicked,” Bev said. “But don’t feel guilty for enjoying yourself. If I’ve got a problem, then it’s my problem.”

The two continued to abuse the whisky and marijuana for the rest of the evening.

Near midnight, the two were soaked in whisky. Bev started ranting about the state of nursing, then grew silent.

At one point, Bev excused herself and left her apartment.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Bev said. “Enjoy.”

Linda sat in Bev’s apartment for a half hour waiting for her friend to return. Linda wondered where Bev could be going at that hour.

When she returned, Bev had two houseplants in her possession, both in rather nice pots.

“Where the hell did you get those?” Linda asked. “It’s kind of late to go shopping. I don’t think there are any stores open at this hour. So where’d you get the plants?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t ask.”

“I picked these up from a neighbor.”

“A neighbor?”

“Yeah, from outside of an apartment down the street. They looked ripe for the plucking. So I took them.”

“You mean you stole them?”

“Well, I didn’t knock on the door and ask the people if I could buy them, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean, did you steal them?”

“Yes, I stole them.”

“Christ! Are you kidding? What’s wrong with you?”

Bev sat down and poured herself another drink. She threw back the shot of whisky and gave a rebel yell.

“Yahoo! Yippee tie one on!”

Linda’s eyes grew big. She was watching the birth of a monster, a person who had no other desire than to get drunk and stoned and raise hell.

Too tired to argue with her friend, Linda lay on the couch and simply passed out.

In the morning, both women were suffering from hangovers.

As they gathered themselves and sat at Bev’s kitchen table, they lamented the prior evening’s affairs.

“We shouldn’t have drank so much,” Bev said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Linda said, nursing a powerful headache.

“We should have drank some water before going to bed,” Bev said. “That’s a good way to prevent a hangover.”

Linda rolled her eyes, yet nodded her head in approval.

It was the last time the two drank so much together. It was the last time Linda would drink with her friend Bev.

At the end of it, there was the rehab.

Ten weeks of drug and alcohol in-patient rehabilitation.

Linda remembered one particular incident, in the middle of the rehab, at about the fifth or sixth week. Bev called Linda from the rehab center.

“Linda?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Beverley.”

“Beverley, where are you?”

“I’m at the rehabilitation center. I’ve only got a minute. I want you to do me a big favor.”

Linda hadn’t heard from Bev for weeks, and was immediately suspicious.

“I’ll do my best. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go to my apartment. There’s a key hidden above the door. When you get inside, I want you to go to the closet in my bedroom. In the closet, on the shelf above where the clothes are hanging, there’s a small wooden box. Inside the box you’ll find a marijuana pipe and some marijuana.”

Linda knew from watching television dramas what was coming next.

“I want you to take the pipe and the pot and bring them to me here at the rehab center. All you have to do is sneak it in by hiding it in your shoe. They’ll want to inspect your purse, but they won’t do a complete search of your body, so you can get it into the center.”

“Oh, Bev,” Linda said. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Do it for me, please? If you do this for me, I’ll owe you one.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks. I gotta go.”

Linda got the pipe and the pot, alright, but she didn’t do “the wrong thing” by taking the paraphernalia and the substance to the woman in the rehabilitation treatment center. Linda did the much wiser but more self-centered thing: She sat in Bev’s apartment and smoked the weed herself, while kicking back watching bad movies on TV. It seemed like the only logical thing to do at the moment, to Linda at least. Bev was none too pleased, but while she was in treatment, there wasn’t much she could do to Linda anyway.

By the time Bev got out of the rehab center, getting back on the pipe or the bottle was the last thing on her mind. As Linda recalled, Bev in fact stayed in rehab for probably more like 11 or 12 weeks, to make certain the cure took.

Bev Beech wasn’t the only woman in Portland with a back story to tell.

Randi Obvitz remembered with fondness and some amusement living with Concertina Fluke and her daughters at The House of the Scorched Egg in New Jersey.

With the guns and the drugs and the craziness at the house, it wouldn’t seem like a place to feel safe, but Randi did feel safe. She was on their side; Lord pity the person who wasn’t, or who tried to break into the house when the occupants were home.

Randi also enjoyed the Wild West atmosphere at the house, and with the young women coming and going as they pleased, it was easy for Randi to do the same. Getting dressed up and going out at midnight was no big deal to Concertina and her daughters. Randi came and went as she pleased, and felt what few possessions she owned were safe at the house.

Randi had hooked up with a good looking man of Norwegian descent from New York City, who enjoyed cross country-skiing at Mohonk Preserve in New York state’s Ulster County and at Wawayanda State Park in New Jersey’s Passaic County.

Cross-country or Nordic skiing was different than downhill or alpine skiing. It all had to do with the ski boot bindings. In cross-country, the heel is not fixed to the skis; in downhill, the binding is fixed heel.

When she first started to learn to cross-country ski, Nicolette Fox, a friend of the Fluke family staying at The House of the Scorched Egg gave Randi one important tip when it came to skiing.

“No matter what’s happening,” Nicolette explained to Randi, with a devilish look in her eyes, “don’t worry about going downhill out of control.”

Randi’s eyes narrowed, and she gave Nicolette a sideways glance.

“You know that most of the time cross-country skiers use tracks in the snow already made by other skiers, right?” Nicolette asked Randi. Randi had been out once already, and knew what Nicolette was talking about; cross-country skiers left a virtual highway of grooved tracks in their wake.

“Yeah, so?” Randi replied.

“How are you at stopping yourself?” Nicolette asked.

“Well,” Randi admitted, “that’s been a problem. Once I get going down the hill, I find it hard to stop. It’s kind of dicey, because there always seem to be people in the way, so I dive off to the side, to keep from hitting someone in the tracks.”

“I’ve got the answer to your problem,” said Nicolette.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Sure,” Nicolette continued. “Whenever you’re totally out of control and can’t stop, start yelling at the top of your lungs, ‘Get the hell out of the way!’ People will hear you and’ll get out of the way.”

“Sure,” Randi said. “Sounds good.”

Randi took the advice and kept it to herself. She really didn’t believe Nicolette, and felt that somehow Nicolette was pulling her leg. She didn’t tell her cross-country skiing partner about the advice. No reason to be considered a kook.

Oddly enough, the next winter, when she was out skiing with her partner, Randi found herself heading down the hillside at high speed. She could see ahead there were several skiers in her collision path. Randi didn’t feel like diving off to the side, and for whatever reason remembered what Nicolette had said.

Randi started to yell.

“Get the hell out of the way! Get the hell out of the way now!”

To her surprise and amazement, it was almost cinematic how the various skiers further down the hill began themselves diving out of the way to avoid being hit.