Less Than Zero (discretion advised)..

I thought of myself more as a networker than a dealer. Like an evangelist, I introduced seekers to an exit outside the monotony of life. I offered a direct line to the party. I also found an opportunity to save money. My intentions, I believed, were good. Yet, as it turned out in the end, Less than Zero is a real destination.

My "clientele" was relatively small. A few guys at work, and one other guy from my high school class. One particular client would change things forever.

Chris was young and vibrant. He spoke very politely and seemed humble and respectful. Chris had great friends and certainly a future. He was passionate, driven, and lived in a good home in our well-to-do neighborhood. He was searching for his own identity, as most of us were. Something, or rather someone, sent him down a road from which he would not return.

Chris and his friend Andy came knocking on my door his freshman year in high school. They were looking for an exit from the mundane. They had exhausted their resources and wanted a new rabbit hole to explore.

I knew Andy from early childhood. We mastered Atari video games together and shared many adventures. We invented our own obstacle courses to feed our hunger for life on the edge. Against our parents wishes, we spent much time finding different ways to cross the Kansas River. We inched across once when it was solid ice. We scaled across several times by balancing along an 10 inch ledge and shimmying over 200 yards on the underbelly of the Kansas River Bridge. The best was swimming across during dry summers when the water was low. We felt the danger and savored the risk in each step. Over time, we discovered our souls craved this kind of adventure. We longed for the summit that always eluded us.

Several years later, here we were. A new kind of adventure was calling. Chris and Andy wanted a taste.

Curiosity led Chris and Andy to my front porch asking questions. They assumed I had connections. I lived a few blocks away and was a few years older along with my friends who were much older. I partied on the other side of the tracks. Intrigued by the mystery of it all, they were eager to strap on for the ride. I agreed to be their guide.

Their first request was "A pint of peach schnapps and a six pack of beer." I said, "No problem, but it will cost you." The arrangement was for them to make the pickup behind a pile of firewood on my driveway and leave behind the cash. I tripled the price from what I paid at the liquor store. They were willing to give all.

Friday night, the deal was done. They were "catching the buzz" we had talked about. They loved it. Every week they continued to come to me for more alcohol. They wanted Vodka, Jack Daniels, lots more beer, and then.. drugs.

I made clear the stakes were getting higher. They were paying $20 for a 12 pack of cheap beer. Now they were ready to pay $50 for some very average weed. Glimpses of the movie Less Than Zero, were flashing by as I watched them stoop lower and lower to find their fix. They once came over showing off their "high" in a kind of celebration. They wanted to make me proud. I sent them lower.

One night they had ordered more than any other time. I gave them a little better price as I was introducing them to more powerful substances. Later that night, when I went looking for the money under the wood, there was none. They did not pay up. Scenes from "Scarface" served as a reference point to find my edge as a dealer. Without a gun, I did my best to hold to the persona of a "dangerous dealer not to be messed with."

That night, in the rain, I went looking for Chris and Andy. I knew they would probably be roaming somewhere in the neighborhood. Driving with my girlfriend for twenty minutes, I finally saw them. I screeched to a halt at an intersection they were crossing. I jumped out of the car, storming after Chris, the more vulnerable one. Chris knew it was me and began running while shouting, "I'm Sorry man! I'm Sorry man!" He pulled out some money to end the feud. I showed little mercy. I shoved him to the ground. I watched his head hit the concrete and could actually hear the impact. This was my moment to put them firmly under my thumb. I shouted, "It you ever stiff me again you m-ther f-ker, I'll f#&king kill you!"

He looked terrified and said in a stuttering way, "I...I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll never do it again!"

The next morning, I felt as though I officially crossed over to an underground world. Whispers of "congratulations" seemed to echo from the shadows through the day. Thoughts began creeping into my mind like, "you better get a gun." Time passed however. Things had become silent.

Several months later, Chris and Andy came to my door with a new face. They boldly announced their new status as "druggies." They shared about all the new drugs they had found, without me. Chris and Andy were no longer naive and childlike, curious and wide-eyed. They had lifted weights and looked 25 lbs bigger. Their faces were set as flint, as if they found the treasure map to the end of the "rabbit hole." A new hunger was moving them outside of themselves. Words no longer moved them or shook them.

Walking away, Chris turned back one last time, as if to give me a warning. He shot me a look similar to the one I had given him that rainy night he laid helplessly on the ground. There was no more fear in his eyes. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I was speechless, feeling the weight of what I had created. I knew in that moment, I had made trouble I now could no longer control. I would never see Chris again.

A few months later, a news article was published in the Topeka Capital Journal, "Young High School Student Commits Suicide In Front of Parents."

Chris had gone the distance. He found the dead end of the rabbit hole. There would be no life for him there. One morning he came out of his bedroom. He entered the living room of his home in our neighborhood. His parents watched him put a shotgun to his head. Before they could stop him, Chris pulled the trigger. His parents, in absolute devastation, would not speak for years. Chris turned out to be one of many from Topeka West High School in the late 80's to take his own life. Though no mention of Chris' "dealer," was in the article under "cause of death," I felt his blood laid over my head.

Every day there seemed to be the expectation that some one new would pass. Andy was traumatized and could not finish school that year, seeing yet another one of his friends commit suicide. I felt as though it should have been me.

I wanted out of my new membership to the underworld. I wanted no more responsibility for another life. I was done. Yet, once again, this would not be so easy. I was still in for a long road ahead. .

Chris did save me from following down that rabbit hole any further. How I wish I could go back to show him a life he could have hoped for also. Today, when I visit Topeka, I drive through my old neighborhood. I pull to the front of Chris's old house and remember his life and those who suffered because of his sudden and gruesome death.

Many years later, I went searching for Andy. I found his parents who told me he was alive and well. I shared some of my story with them of my own journey of restoration. Andy's was also a very long road.

Last year we planned a reunion. We gathered together at the Blind Tiger in Topeka. In our greeting we both could say without words, "there is a man who got a second chance." We chuckled at how ridiculous we were in some of our adventures. We shared about our new lives we both knew carried something special. The conversation turned to some of those dark times. We both shared regret and great gratitude to those who saved us in our journey. We also agreed there is a God who reaches down to those who are less than zero.

"Butt" head...

The hunger for change is the beginning of possibilities. Yet not all possibilities offer good promises..

There is a comical cliche I often hear that runs deep with me, that few may realize. "You're smokin' crack Brende!" Says my good friend Tim with a smile, often in response to me saying something that sounds outlandish and difficult to believe. In my own unique way, I simply pause, remember, and say, "No. . . I'm not."

I began smoking at the age of 14. Smoking starts as a fantasy, a facade. My desire to be feared was worth any price. I was scrawny. I stuttered. Insecurity owned me. Smoking would create the illusion that I was over the edge, too dangerous to be messed with. This would be a tall order, but it starts with an agreement. You have to put all your chips in. You have to move from puffing to inhaling and accept the payment of your purchase.

My neighbor buddy handed me my first cigarette. We were two blocks from home on a curbside. He dared me to "smoke it." I mustered up my courage, putting aside all prior countless warnings from my elders. The biggest one being, "certain death from lung cancer." I sat on the curb considering the price. Once convinced my life would be short and miserable anyway, I was ready to bind myself to the agreement. I put the Marlboro Red to my lips. Like the movies, I slid it a little to the side and fired up the lighter. Then I sucked in deep. Instantly my lungs rejected the new resident. My friend laughed as he watched me gag. Recollecting myself, I tried again. My lungs burned like fire. Could anyone really enjoy smoking? It was awful.

I was determined however to complete the mission. I was holding to the promise. I would not let one cigarette get the best of me. I bought my own pack of Marlboro's and continued to practice. In a short time, I became completely hooked. I was officially a "Smoker!"

In the beginning, it's a love relationship. Cigarettes became my most intimate allies. In every moment of stress they comforted me. In every thought of suicide, they offered another hour. With every question of whether I was cool, they had an answer. Even in the darkest of moments, they held out an ember of light. Yet, as it turned out, I discovered they ultimately wanted to call all the shots. They wanted complete ownership over my life.

They demanded my attention at all times. I found that if I was down to my last cigarette, I was riding my bike through snow and zero degree temperatures for several miles to buy my next pack. Sometimes, if I didn't have the money to buy a pack, I was mining through ash trays to smoke every butt down to the last tar soaked filter.

Most nights when I was drinking heavily, their buddies wanted in. I would easily smoke an extra 3 packs. I remember one party, I accidently swallowed three butt brothers chugging a beer that turned out to be an ashtray. In the end, the contract was making me a tar-soaked, ashtray-mouthed, soot-coughing "butt" head with a smaller backbone than when I started. I wanted out. But that would not be easy.

The bargaining for ownership goes deeper and darker. Once there is an established "need" to smoke, the "Big Dogs" come knocking. Joints, for example, look mostly the same, but instead of 5 minutes, they offer a stimulus package of 2 hours. Marijuana then connects you to three foot bongs and other smoking tools. In no time, Crystal Meth and Crack Cocaine, offering up to 8 hours of adrenaline pumping power, turn everything else into second hand smoke. Then comes the twist. Mere smoke becomes too slow. The only direct route to the blood steam introduces "the needle."

I took every step, hook, line, and sinker. After five years, I had taken smoking as far as I knew possible, and discovered a dead end.

Ironically, the only people by this point that "feared" me, were those once closest to me, now alienated by my psychotic episodes. I was ready and determined to break the agreement once and for all.

So I started with cigarettes. I went back to the curbside where the agreement first began. Attempting to quit sent me into turmoil. Peace and comfort were replaced with anxiety and stress. I would last a matter of hours before I came crawling back for my next fix. Finally, after a long morning of hacking soot, I packed my bags to leave for good. Cold turkey.

The first full day was the worst. Somehow there was a kind of voice whispering constantly. I could hear them calling out to me demanding I return. Yet, I resisted and held my ground. The next day, I rallied a small army. I challenged a group of co-working smokers at the printing company to join me in the exodus. We wagered $10 each. If you break, your $10 stays in the pool. The last one who holds out keeps the pot. Three days later, I was already stronger and $40 dollars richer. I felt as though I was establishing a newfound independence and freedom.

Three weeks passed and though I was still smoke-free, I was wavering. I was so edgy. Throughout each long day I was fidgeting and fretting. How could I possibly last? I had no foundation to build a new life away from my dependancy for instant gratification. The journey was going to take all of me. And I was not sure what I had left.

I would need another rescuer before this story takes a turn....