Pubdate: Sat, 02 Dec 2000
Source: Spokesman-Review (WA)
Copyright: 2000 Cowles Publishing Company
Contact:  P.O. Box 2160 Spokane, WA 99210
Fax:  (509) 459-5482
Website: http://www.spokesmanreview.com/
Forum: http://cg.zip2.com/spokane/scripts/community.dll?ep=1
Author: Anthony Bourdain

DOWN ENOUGH YET TO BEGIN TO GET OUT?

Ex-junkie Anthony Bourdain knows what it's like, devoting your life to an 
absolute master -- drugs -- at once cruel, unscrupulous and ever more 
stingy about pleasure.

Anthony Bourdain - Special to the Los Angeles Times

There is no one less sympathetic to the trials, tribulations and 
humiliations of an addict than an ex-junkie. No emergency room triage is 
more immediate and unforgiving than the way an ex-junkie sizes up a 
still-in-the-grip former colleague.

I hear that familiar, whiny tone of voice. I see the pinned, cartoon eyes 
of the smack user or the jumpy, twitchy, molar-grinding, gibberish-spewing 
face of the coke fiend. I see a dead man. I'm not listening anymore. If I 
pay attention at all, it's to make sure they're not rifling through my coat.

Cold? Yes. But then, junkies are used to stone-cold logic. Life, for 
someone whose body, brain, nerves and cell tissue requires (rather than 
desires) his drug of choice in order to get out of bed in the morning, is 
actually a very simple matter. You have one job: get drugs. There's only 
one thing you have to do each day: get drugs. One's priorities are always 
straight. Simply put: nothing else matters.

Those of us who have been addicted to heroin and/or cocaine (and I've been 
addicted to both) understand this better than anybody. You know, without 
question, that your best friend in the world will, given the opportunity, 
steal your drugs or your money, or snitch you off to the cops. You know, 
without question, exactly how low you would be willing to go to get what 
you need. Chances are, you've been there already. More than once.

Stories about drugs and rehabilitation are boring -- particularly when it's 
some Hollywood actor, grinning out from the cover of People magazine, 
yammering about Clean and Sober, and his new project.

We've heard it all before. Some people live; others die. Who survives and 
who doesn't seems most often to have been determined long before the junkie 
enters treatment -- when he looks in the mirror one morning and decides 
that he really, truly wants to live. If there's any question in his mind, 
before he even walks through the methadone clinic or rehab facility doors, 
about how badly he wants to turn things around and what he's willing to do 
to accomplish that, then lose my number. I know you in my bones.

The memory of the bitter taste of heroin in the back of my throat, the 
smell of burning candles, the taste of paint chips mistaken for a pebble of 
dropped crack, a whiff of urine and stale air from long-ago tenement drug 
superstores on the Lower East Side all came back when I watched Robert 
Downey Jr. being hauled off again in handcuffs. And this time, I actually 
cared a little.

"This guy must really hate himself," I thought, reading of cocaine and 
speed allegedly found in his room. That he is, to my mind, one of the 
finest actors working in Hollywood matters not at all. That he's spent some 
time in jail was, if anything, a recommendation.

I'd hoped he'd be cast in one of the film versions of my books as he seemed 
to have the perfect resume for the job. My first thought, though, was, 
"Cocaine and speed? That's not comfortable oblivion; that's pedal to the 
metal, headed straight for the wall."

It's more panic, paranoia, the inevitable crash. If there is a faster route 
to the dung heap I don't know of it. It can't even be fun anymore. After 
years of having as much cocaine as you want, you find yourself just chasing 
that first pleasurable hit, looking to recapture that first pleasant rush. 
You never find it.

More than likely, you wind up squatting naked by the front door, listening 
for the tunneling probe microphones that aren't really there.

"Ally McBeal" can't have helped. If I was an actor of Downey's caliber, I 
can't say I'd be too happy with myself, mugging and lip-locking on that 
silly, faux-heartwarming exercise in cynicism. I wondered immediately: "The 
guy's right out of the joint! Who let him work a job where he's going to 
have damn good reason to hate himself?"

People are very fragile when they leave rehab. For the first year, it seems 
like the pleasure centers of the brain have shut down for good, like your 
oldest and best love has died. This is not a time to acquire new reasons 
for shame, fear, regret; you've had plenty of that already. It's time to 
get away. Far away from old friends, old haunts, old temptations. In the 
jargon of rehab, "bottoming out" is mentioned frequently and annoyingly 
often as a prerequisite to treatment.

When life is at least as unbearable with drugs as without, when the thought 
of a fat stack of glassine envelopes or an eight-ball promises only more 
misery, some people make that hard choice to tally up the betrayals and the 
wreckage, and keep living. It's not easy. Many -- if not most -- fail. Most 
times, you really have to do something terribly shameful, experience 
awfulness in previously unimagined degrees, before you see a life without 
drugs as a preferred, even necessary, option.

Jail, in Downey's case doesn't seem to have been enough. Hopefully, "Ally 
McBeal" was.

Anthony Bourdain, an executive chef in New York City, is author of "Kitchen 
Confidential."
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