After freebasing without interruption for several days in a row, I wasn’t able to discern one from the next. Night and day became different shades of gray. Nor did I care about such details as time. But after waking from a short, unrefreshing, troubled sleep late on the morning of June 9, I drove into Hollywood, where I entered my bank and demanded all the cash from several large accounts I had there.
My brain was strung out. That morning’s smoke-a-thon rekindled my paranoia that people were stealing from me.
I wanted my money.
While I was ineffectually arguing with the bank manager, who explained that he needed prior notice for such a transaction, Jennifer called my house and pleaded with my Aunt Dee to get me help. She’d never seen me so wasted and sickly. When Aunt Dee reassured her that I was fine, Jenny made a beeline out to Northridge in order to confront me herself. But the sight of me in the dark, clutching my pipe, told her it was useless.
“I know what I have to do,” I mumbled. “I’ve brought shame to my family. I’ve hurt you. I’ve destroyed my career. I know what I have to do.”
Shortly after she frustrated herself out the door, Deboragh phoned me. We hadn’t spoken for almost a year, but she felt compelled to check in and see how I was doing. It was as if she and Jenny, the two people who didn’t give a damn about my power trips or being cut off, sensed it might be time to say goodbye. They knew it was a scary time.
“You’re the only one I trust,” I told her. “They’re trying to get my money.”
“Who is?” she asked.
“It’s not fun anymore,” I mumbled.
“What’s not fun, Richard?”
“I don’t think I can get out of here, you know?”
The house was full. From Rashon to my cousin and Aunt Dee, not to mention the housekeepers and cook, people were doing their thing. They were trained to leave me alone. Oh, Mr. Pryor, he’s in his bedroom. They didn’t mention that the door was locked. By late afternoon, the only reason to suspect I was present was the continuous smell of acrid smoke and the foreboding vibes that sent into the rest of the house.
Nothing changed as darkness took the heat out of the beautiful spring day. Hovered over my rocks, pipe, cognac, and Bic lighter, I smoked and soared and crashed and smoked again, repeating the deadly cycle over and over again as if I were chain-smoking Marlboros. But I didn’t allow time even for cigarettes. I’d never felt more paranoid, depressed, or hopeless.
Hopeless.
As if I were drowning.
Voices swirled in my head so that I wasn’t able to tell which came from me and which were hallucinations. My conversations became animated, like those crazy people on the street. I heard people who had worked for me talking outside the bedroom window. They were loud, rude, laughing, angry. They made fun of my helplessness. I yelled at them, louder and louder, and still they refused to answer.
“What the fuck are you doing out there?”
As that craziness went on, I continued to smoke until I ran out of cocaine. By then, I was experiencing serious dementia. Stuck in a surreal landscape of constantly shifting emotions. No weight. Floating at the distant end of a tunnel. Miserably alone. Frightened. Voices growing louder, closing in. Wave after wave of depression. Needing to get high. Real high.
No more dope.
Unsure what to do, I panicked.
“God, what do you want me to do?” I cried. “What do you want me to do?”
I didn’t wait for a response.
“I’ll show you,” I said with the giddiness and relief of a certified madman. “I’ll show you.”
More laughter mixed with tears.
“I’m going to set myself on fire.”
Hysteria.
“Then I’ll be safe. Yeah, then I’ll be okay.”
Now here’s how I really burned up. Usually, before I go to bed I have a little milk and cookies. One night I had that low-fat milk, that pasteurized shit, and I dipped my cookie in it and the shit blew up. And it scared the shit out of me. Not the blowing up, but the catching on fire.
Imagining relief was nearby, I reached for the cognac bottle on the table in front of me and poured it all over me. Real natural, methodical. As the liquid soiled my body and clothing, I wasn’t scared. Neither did I feel inner peace.
I was in a place called There.
Suddenly, my isolation was interrupted by a knock on the door. A bang, really. My cousin opened it and looked inside at the moment I picked up my Bic lighter. I saw him trying to figure out what I was doing.
“Come on in,” I said.
He zeroed in on the lighter in my hand.
“Oh no!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Then I flicked it. The lighter didn’t work. I tried it again and nothing. Then I did it a third time.
WHOOSH!
I was engulfed in flame.
Have you ever burned up? It’s weird. Because you go, “Hey, I’m not in the fireplace. I am fucking burning up!”
Instinctively, I jumped on the bed, thinking that I’d grab the comforter, wrap myself up, and smother the flames. But God’s wonderful. That comforter was just lying on the bed, not tucked in or anything. But the damn comforter wouldn’t come loose. Wouldn’t let me pick it up or wrap it around. It wouldn’t move an inch. It was just stuck.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed.
I was in a place that wasn’t heaven or earth. I must’ve gone into shock because I didn’t feel anything.
I sat on the floor when my Aunt Dee rushed in. She peeked in the room as if she were scared at what she’d see. I motioned her to come in.
“Smother him!” she yelled to my cousin.
“What the fuck you talking about, smother him?” I said, though I don’t know if any sound came out.
In my mind, I thought that “smother him” meant something bad. Like, “Put the sorry motherfucker out of his misery.”
Still on fire—though unaware that I’d turned into a human barbecue—I rubbed the back of my head and looked at my hand. Flames rose from my skin. Scared the shit out of me. I screamed, “What the fuck is that?”
“You’re on fire,” my auntie exclaimed, and then to my cousin she barked, “Put a sheet over him.”
Again, in my delirium, I thought that they wanted to kill me. Taking advantage of their confusion and horror, I leaped up and jumped out the window. That really took them by surprise.
Sprinting down the driveway, I went out the gates, and ran down the street.
“Come back here, honey!” my auntie called.
But I kept going. Running, running down Parthenia. I was out of my mind.
Catching on fire is inspiring. They should use it for the Olympics. ’Cause I did the hundred-yard dash in about 4.6 in the underbrush.
There was a lot of traffic on Parthenia. I saw people looking at me, you know, and I couldn’t understand what they were looking at. It felt like a parade. I wondered if I was missing something good. But they were looking at a man burning up.
And you know something I noticed? When you run down the street on fire, people will move out of your way. They don’t fuck around. They get the fuck out of your way. Except for one old drunk who’s sitting there going, “Hey, buddy, can I get a light? Come on, pal. A little off the sleeve?”
By the time I hit Hayvenhurst, my pace had slowed to a walk. A police car pulled up. Two cops tried to help me. I tried reaching for one of their guns. They could’ve blown my fucking head off. I wanted them to shoot me. Hoped they’d finish what I’d already started.
But I had no fight in me. My hands and face were already swollen. My clothes in burnt tatters. And my smoldering chest smelled like a burned piece of meat. They held me as an ambulance pulled up and helped get me inside.
“Oh, Lord, you got me now,” I muttered.
Then my Aunt Dee, out of breath, bless her heart, got there. She climbed in and started talking to the ambulance attendant. More conversation I couldn’t understand as they began treatment for my burns by covering me with a fluid-treated sheet.
The siren wailed.
“Is there?” I asked.
“Is there what?” someone asked.
“Oh, Lord, there is no help for a poor widow’s son, is there?”