The Suitcase Story - Final Draft
Making this chapter free in prep for the book release. Pre-order Crooked Smile on Amazon
I remember the day Whitney Houston died quite vividly because I was the one to break the news to Shawntal personally. She cried for what seemed like an entire hour as we sat together in her hotel room and passed the pipe back and forth. A few days later, with the singer’s death still fresh on my mind, I called Shawntal with the expectation of my still-grieving drug dealer to pick up her own phone.
To my surprise, it was a man who answered. He told me that Shawntal was out of town for a few days, and that he was “taking over business” for her while she was gone.
It seemed odd, but I could really care less at the time; I just wanted to purchase drugs and really didn’t care who or where they came from. The unknown man told me to meet him at Seventh and Howard, which wasn’t anywhere near where Shawntal normally operated, but was easy enough to get to from the Civic Center on my stolen bicycle.
I called him when I got to the meeting spot, and within a few minutes I saw a large heavyset Black man approach me from the east side of Howard. I recognized him as Shawntal’s uncle, who I had met one time prior when we both helped her move to a new hotel after T-Bone had been arrested.
The man came up to me and said, “Ay, you remember me? Shawntal gonna be gone for a while, but you can just call me from now on.” He handed me a piece of folded up paper that presumably had his number on it.
“Ok, sounds good, is she alright though? Everything ok?” I asked as I slipped the piece of paper in my pocket.
“Yea, she all good, just had to handle somethin’ outta town, you know? Just call me when you need somethin’ until she come back.” he said dismissively.
“Aight, well if you talk to her say whatsup for me. You got the shit?” I asked, which was shortly followed by a hand-to-hand exchange.
“Listen, man, I put a ‘lil extra in there for you,” He shot me a fiendish smirk and then continued, “I know you used to that shit Shawntal be slangin’, but trust me - my shit better. You’ll see what I’m talkin’ about. Hit me up anytime.”
Everything seemed legit, and yes, his heroin was a bit stronger than what I was getting from Shawntal, so I had no qualms for the time being. Shawntal was struggling in her attempt to handle T-Bone’s business while he was in jail, so it wasn’t surprising to hear that she may have taken a break and left town for a bit.
I continued to buy dope from her uncle for about a week straight, before I got an unexpected call from Shawntal on her original cell line. She told me to meet her at a hotel on Van Ness and Bush Street, and that she needed to discuss something with me in person. I needed to buy some heroin anyway, and her uncle wasn’t picking up the phone at the moment, so I made the trip out to SF and hiked my way up Van Ness.
It was your typical Tenderloin hotel: desk person behind bulletproof glass, drug addicts and hookers meandering up and down the hallways, shared bathrooms in remarkably disgusting condition, and an overall morbid vibe that you could taste in your nostrils.
I went upstairs to room nineteen where Shawntal said she’d be waiting and knocked on the door. She welcomed me into the surprisingly kempt room, which was currently being occupied by her and her younger sister. I had seen Shawntal’s sister a few times, but having never been formally introduced, our communication rarely went beyond a head nod. Nevertheless, I knew her name was Shanice, and could almost guarantee that she didn’t know mine.
Aside from her trademark sinister glare, Shanice intimidated me for a number of reasons. First off, she was very attractive. Not in a standard of sense - due to the years of street prostitution, transient living and drug abuse - but underneath the layers of untreated trauma, anyone could see that this was a very beautiful woman. She had short, straightened hair that was partially dyed purple, and her body was quite voluptuous despite her skinny frame, which was impressive given her extensive history of using meth. Sure, she was tattered from drugs, but you could tell that if she cleaned herself up, she would be stunning.
On the contrary, Shawntal was not exceptionally beautiful. She wasn’t ugly, but her many years of meth use was more pronounced on the skin of her weathered face. Some might have called her a “handsome gal”; she definitely had some overtly masculine features. Regardless, she was still attractive in her own way, albeit her more stalwart qualities. Although curvy, Shawntal was equally muscular without an ounce of extra fat.
She may have been a few inches shorter than her sister, but she still about the same height as me. My fighting weight is about a hundred and sixty-five pounds - meaning my meth weight was no higher than one-thirty - but in either circumstance, Shawntal would put higher numbers on a scale. This isn’t saying much, but for a lady who shot up crystal meth daily, you’d expect her to be just skin and bones. Far from it, Shawntal was ripped; she had a strapping frame to begin with, accompanied by an almost nonsensical amount of muscle for a female drug addict. Throw in an assortment of psychopathic tendencies, and you wound up with someone you wouldn’t want to fuck with while you were strung out. Fortunately, I was passive even in my own lunacy, on top of the fact that we had grown to get along relatively well.
Keep in mind that I had been awake at this point for about seventy-two hours on a meth bender, and was trying to buy some heroin from Shawntal so I could bring about a smooth comedown. Despite being in a state of complete physical and mental fatigue, when Shawntal’s sister offered me to hit the meth pipe, I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I took a large hit, blew out a sweet chemical plume, and passed the pipe over to Shawntal.
She shook her head suggesting that she didn’t want to take a hit.
“So, Girard,” Shawntal never could remember my actual name. “Why you haven’t called? Don’t look like you stopped gettin’ high.”
“I called your number like a week ago, your uncle picked up, said that you went out of town or some shit...Why? What’s goin’ on?” I already knew something was up when Shawntal said she needed to talk, but I figured the issue would be between her and her uncle.
“Well shit, Girard...you didn’t know that someone stole my phone? You didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout that? Somehow my uncle wound up with it, and that nigga been stealin’ all my clients.” Shawntal spoke with a faint hint of sarcasm. When she paused, I stayed silent and was worried that I knew where this was heading. “So I got a new phone from the Metro store, but you ain’t call me since I did that. Then I heard from my cousin that you been buyin’ dope from my uncle.”
“Well shit, I didn’t know about any of that. Your uncle told me you left town, gave me his number…said he was takin’ over until you got back.” I said.
“Yeah, well fuck that nigga.” Shanice chimed in.
I was confused at where any guilt on my part could be found, and saw the whole issue solely between Shawntal and her uncle. Despite this, Shawntal seemed marginally suspicious that I may have played a role in it. Due to my contact with her uncle soon after the phone incident – and more importantly, my lack of contact with her – had her thinking I was in on the uncle’s scheme. These suspicions weren’t entirely ludicrous but seemed to be dismissed after our short conversation.
She looked me up and down for a few moments, then put her arms on my shoulders as she said, “Alright Girard, you good homie. But I had to feel you out first.” and then sat back down on the bed.
I knew I was innocent, and now Shawntal appeared to think so as well, but I remained hesitant to believe that she was fully convinced. I was sitting on a chair opposite the bed where the two girls sat, now hunched over to unzip my backpack and retrieve a pair of shoes I’d found. They were women’s Air Jordans, and I figured Shawntal might want to trade me some dope for them, but as I reached into the open bag and pointed my head down, I got hit with a sucker punch directly to my left ear.
It dazed me good, and after tipping over in the fetal position, the ringing in my ear pierced through to the other side of my skull. After getting beat on for another thirty seconds or so, the kicks and punches subsided as it became clear I wasn’t going to fight back. I was strung out, underweight, and too malnourished to stand a chance against two toddlers, let alone two full-figured women.
Aside from a few kicks, Shanice refrained from striking me. However, at some point during the commotion, I caught a glimpse of the large knife she was wielding which was the main reason I didn’t even attempt to retaliate. Shawntal backed away from me, allowed me to get a few of my bearings straight, and ordered me to strip naked.
I was baffled at this request, yet slightly intrigued about this new direction. “Were they going to kill me, or fuck me?” I thought to myself, not ruling anything out of the realm of possibility. Stranger things have happened on meth. This wasn’t the typical kind of foreplay that I was accustomed to, but it was working in some capacity. I’ll be honest - there was something deeply erotic about getting the shit kicked out of me by two sexy, demonically high, well-built ladies. The fact that they were Black was also enticing; I had never dated or done anything sexual with a Black girl yet in my life, let alone two that were related to one another, let alone two that had just physically assaulted me. Sometimes there’s a fine line between abuse and arousal for people that get a kick out of poisoning their brain like me. Shanice then punched me in the mouth and told me to lay my cracker-ass on the floor, and that’s when I entirely ruled out the possibility of anything romantic.
From under the bed, Shawntal pulled two large suitcases into the center of the floor, while a knife-wielding Shanice kept me confined to the corner.
“Listen bitch! I dunno if you gonna fit in one of these suitcases, but you gonna shove yo ass in one of em and try.” Shawntal threw the seemingly larger bag towards me, implying for me to try that one out first.
“Listen…Shawntal, what the fuck is going on here? What did-”
“Shut the fuck up! You only allowed to speak if you answerin’ a question, otherwise, you gettin’ smacked.” Shawntal interrupted.
“But just before we get into this can we just-” I didn’t get to finish the sentence before I got a slap across my face.
“Nigga, what did I just say! Get yo skinny little white ass in the suitcase!”
I took a moment to breathe deep and gauge the weight of what was happening. I knew there was nothing I could do for now other than provide my cooperation and buy time. With only minor squirming and adjustment, I actually fit surprisingly snug, and despite being frightened by the confinement, I felt apathetic about the crisis in general. Immobilized by the dimensions of the suitcase, I sat in complete darkness and tuned out the voices of my captors. For some reason, I had a cosmic hunch that I would maybe be alright as long as I remained calm.
In fact, I was halfway disappointed by my favorable suspicion; my desire to improve my life had crumbled away over the prior months, and an early death not only seemed inevitable, but it was nearly preferable to the alternative. What better way to die than get murdered by two attractive women in the depths of meth psychosis? It wasn’t honorable, but it certainly wasn’t a boring way to go out.
No more than three minutes passed, before my being naked trapped in the suitcase had become unbearable. It also made no sense; why did I have to stay in the suitcase? I had been totally compliant thus far and saw no reason why I couldn’t be tied up in the corner instead of sealed up like a bag of laundry. Respiratory panic ensued, so I decided to make an attempt at negotiations. I was going to negotiate myself out of this suitcase.
“Yo Shawntal! You gotta please let me outta this thing…I promise I’ll do whatever you want, we can discuss anything that you wanna talk about...just please let me the fuck outta here.” I tried to beg calmly, taking pauses between my statements. It was incredibly difficult to breathe in the suitcase when I was silent, let alone pleading for mercy, but it was the only way I figured I could get out before suffocating.
“Oh, you best not be talkin’, Girard!” Shawntal gave the suitcase a light kick, “Or yo ass gonna be in a worse place than that suitcase.”
“Yo! You know I’m not gonna try and pull anything, Shawntal...I’m gonna stay cooperative...but you can’t leave me hyperventilatin’ in here, or you’re gonna have a pre-packaged dead body on your hands,” I said, then continued after I got no response, “I’m gonna die without a chance to talk about this? You know I’m a good dude…”
“We gonna have to take him out anyway once Cousin Meth get here. He ain’t gonna do nothin’ girl, you know that. With his shriveled-up ass!” Shanice threw in her two cents.
Part of my concern now shifted towards this “Cousin Meth” fellow. Who was Cousin Meth, and why was he joining this already crowded affair? More importantly, “Cousin Meth” isn’t the kind of moniker that paints a picture of a tender soul. My release from the suitcase was encouraging, however - I was not thrilled about meeting anyone named Cousin Meth. When being held captive in an article of luggage, I’d imagine it’s much more comforting when your potential killer has a conventional name. Give me a Kevin, a Tyler, or even a Chuck; anything or anyone other than a “Cousin Meth”. It’s just not a name that you’d associate with leniency, and trust me - he would live up to this appraisal.
Shawntal gave in, “Alright, let’s get this bitch out the bag and put him in the closet.”
Knives in hand, they unzipped my nylon coffin and dumped me out on the floor. After taking a few deep breaths and recalibrating my upgrade in freedom, I thought carefully about my first words in a post-suitcase world.
“Thank you...so much...for letting me out.” I struggled for air as Stockholm Syndrome took hold “Maybe I can sit in the closet with the door open, you know…that way I’m still confined, but we can still discuss this?”
“We ain’t talkin’ ‘bout shit ‘til Cousin Meth get here, but yeah, we gotta keep an eye on you. Just get in the closet and we’ll leave the door open. Can't trust yo sheisty-ass behind closed doors.” Shawntal said with the slightest hint of of a smile. This combined with her abrasive tone was as confusing as it was appalling.
Her contrasting expressions of borderline glee and rage implied that she was incapable of compromise, all the while influencing me to see my captor in a more playful light. Maybe this was a defense mechanism - or maybe it was due to my high level of intoxication - but something about gestating the insanity within the room was consolatory. However it would end, it was going to be “one for the books” so to speak, and whether I would be murdered or released, either way I would be free in a certain sense. A part of me recognized the excitement of it all, or at least its potentiality for a good story. Years later in jail I’d tell it over and over again, at the request of the Mexican Shotcaller, but back in that room upon my release from the suitcase, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to live to tell the tale. Everything relied upon my ability to convince Shawntal I wasn’t guilty.
When someone beats you, makes you strip naked, and forces you to cram yourself into a suitcase, it’s hard to maintain faith in your own innocence, especially when you also happen to be a total piece of shit. I would betray anyone for the right sized bag of dope, so what I was being accused of wasn’t exactly unfathomable. Nevertheless, I no longer contested whether there had been any wrongdoing on my part, and accepted that I had simply ended up on the wrong side of someone else’s hallucination. From a certain angle, it was acceptable behavior – if not relatable. I had never gone to this extent in my revenge but had certainly concocted similar stories of false impropriety. This was a bit over the top, but perhaps not completely unexpected. Violence, kidnapping, rape, and murder were all normal components of the perverted culture of methamphetamine. They all fell under the umbrella of “Business As Usual” for this particular drug, which I was already fully aware of.
Still naked, I was moved to the closet and sat down inside a hamper of folded clothes - from one receptacle to another. I understood why they stripped me in the first place – to make sure I had no concealed weapons, valuables, or cell phone to call the police – but we were already an hour into the affair, so there was no need to remain cautious on this front. If I had been hiding a Blackberry in my rectum, it almost certainly would have propelled out during the suitcase segment of the evening. They had taken my cell phone already – a jailbroken iPhone 3GS that could only make calls over WIFI (the tweaker special) – along with the few dollars I had on me, and my passport. I had lost my driver’s license during my time on Skid Row, so Aunt Betty had dropped my passport off with Alex for me to use to get a job.
Breaking the silence rule, I tried to clear the air, “So can we maybe talk about what’s goin’ on…and what exactly you think I did?”
“Girard, You stole my mothafuckin’ cell phone!” Shawntal’s eyes were glowing, “You stole that shit, sold it to my uncle, he told me all about your bullshit.”
Shanice jumped in, “We know you been workin’ with our uncle and shit, like he been hookin’ you up with free dope for snatchin’ that phone.”
“I mean I was buyin’ dope from your uncle, yeah…but I sure as hell didn’t steal your fuckin’ phone, Shawntal! I really don’t know what the fuck you guys are talking about,” I started to get upset, “I sold your uncle your phone? He said I did that shit!? He doesn’t even know my name!”
“He said the white boy that always ride a bike that’s too small, and always wears a hat…he said thats who sold him the phone. And who the fuck does that sound like? Who else he be talkin’ ‘bout?” Shawntal paced as she spoke with a tad bit more clarity. “I mean, shit, I can’t believe you went and did me like that after me and T-Bone been trustin’ you, hookin’ you up and shit.”
“White boy on a little bike with a hat? What does that even mean? This city is full of white people riding bikes and...wearing fucking hats! What kind of fucked up description is that!?”
Once again, Shanice butted in, “Yeah, but the nigga said a white boy on a small bike, and you know you always be ridin’ a small ass “lil BMX, and wearin’ fuckin’ hats and shit. That’s you, motherfucka!”
The finality in their version of the truth was almost comforting. I didn’t have a single calorie left to burn on forming a logical argument, so there was relief in knowing that it wouldn’t be necessary. I made myself comfortable on the pile of laundry, leaned my head back, silently prayed - to something - and accepted that this might be my last rodeo.
Bay Area rap played in the room as the girls talked and passed the pipe back and forth. They even let me hit it a few times, as long as I kept my hands behind my back while they lit it for me. I was no longer being punished for speaking, but at the same time I wasn’t exactly encouraged to join in the conversation. I would jump in now and then, trying to make a joke about what the girls were saying, and either get a laugh or an empty threat. In the midst of our semi-peaceful interlude, Shawntal’s phone rang, and when she saw who was calling, her eyes widened in congruence with a grotesque smirk. The light from the phone reflected off her pockmarked face, as she glanced towards her sister who shared an equally serpentine stare.
“Well shit! It look like Cousin Meth finally here!” she exclaimed, before answering his call and promptly telling him to come upstairs to the room.
A drawn-out minute passed before there was a heavy knock on the door.
In came two men: both Black, one tall and skinny, and the other average height but built like a linebacker. The skinny man greeted the room with an animated, sinister presence suggesting that he was most likely Cousin Meth. The other man, who was infinitely more reserved, quickly took a seat in the opposite corner of the closet I was poking out of.
“Shit, this the little nigga right here?” Cousin Meth pointed towards me.
“Damn right that’s him.” Shanice shook her head.
Cousin Meth approached me, looked me up and down, smiled, extended his hand for me to shake, and politely introduced himself, “How you doin bro? They call me Cousin Meth from Fillmo.”
“Hey, Cousin Meth. nice to meet you...I mean, I hope it’s nice to meet you - no disrespect. But my name’s Jared, and ah, these girls-”
“Nigga these ain’t no girls! These grown ass women! You best not be showin’ them any disrespect right now, and don’t even think about pullin’ any funny shit, cuz I ain’t playin when I say I’ll put a hole in you, real quick.” Cousin Meth turned his tone on a dime, as he lifted up his jacket and revealed a pistol tucked in his belt.
“I’m sorry, Cousin Meth, I meant no disrespect, really, and I don’t intend on showing you anything but respect, but I just need to let you know...this all right here. this is a mistake-”
Before I could finish my thought, Shanice interrupted with something loud and incoherent, but Cousin Meth gestured for her to stop and let me finish my statement.
“What they think I did I actually didn’t do...like, for real. I wouldn’t do Shawntal like that, ever. I mean it…I mean do I look like the kind of guy that would do something that stupid?”
“Listen, What you say your name was? Girard? Well listen here, Girard, you done got your ass beat, stripped naked, and you bein’ held hostage in this here room, so whether you really did it or not is sorta not relevant anymore…what I mean is this is already a pretty committed situation. We too far now to just back up and re-examine the case, you feel me?” Cousin Meth, although I wasn’t too fond of what he was telling me, was at least speaking with some diplomacy. “Shawntal my girl, and she call me down here to handle this, and that’s what I’ma do. I got plenty more reason to believe her than you, cuz the bottom line is, well, I never seen you in my life, and Shawntal been my homegirl since elementary.”
He certainly was a puzzling character, and it would be safe to say that he had several psychological disorders, but in comparison to Shawntal and Shanice, Cousin Meth’s magnetic persona was nothing less than a breath of fresh air.
Despite my admiration for the man’s idiosyncrasies, I quickly grew unsure of whether Cousin Meth’s lightheartedness would endure. He was oddly conversational at one moment, and then would suddenly snap into an ephemeral rage and threaten to squeeze my dick off. His threats became increasingly sexualized, which although hilarious, didn’t make for a positive outlook on the way in which I would be murdered. Even his voice would change during these inversions of his personality - and not just in volume and tone. He would literally sound like a different person with a separate identity. The man was clearly plagued with some form of mental illness, so I had to be careful with every word and every mannerism that I displayed. This became increasingly difficult when he started freestyle rapping.
Why, you ask? Because he was utterly spectacular at it.
I was blown away with how talented he was, that I couldn’t help but voice my praise from time to time. In fact, he was so phenomenal that it momentarily distracted me from my own impending rape/murder. He was flattered, but eventually grew paranoid that I was merely brown-nosing, and this is when the other - much more terrifying – side of Cousin Meth would spring up, and the threats of gutting my bowels with a screwdriver would replace his poetry.
What felt like many hours had passed, which slowly brought about an extreme awkwardness that radiated throughout the hotel room. What exactly was going on here, and what was the hold up? What started as a potential murder scene had devolved into an apathetic kidnapping. I began to question my captors’ intentions.
Cousin Meth’s cell phone eventually rang, and he requested silence from everyone in the room. Within the first few exchanges of words, it became apparent that whoever had called Cousin Meth was calling in regard to me. This was an interesting addition to the plot, and although I was excited by a sense of progress, I wasn’t sure how this new variable was going to impact my chance of survival.
“Yo, Girard, how tall are you?” Cousin Meth asked.
“What? Why? Um…like five-foot-eight?”
“Come on, Girard, I’m not askin’ for an estimate, I need to know exact height. I can’t fudge the numbers on the size of the product, you feel me?” Cousin Meth had the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder now, gesturing with one hand, and holding a Newport 100 cigarette in the other.
“What!? No, I don’t feel you Cousin Meth, fuck. I’m five-foot-eight…but what did you say about the size of the product or something, what do you-”
Cousin Meth interrupted, “Yeah man, he five-foot-eight. Now how much you weigh, bruh?”
“What? Cousin Meth, you gotta let me know what-”
“Nigga, it’s a simple question. How much do you weigh?” he asked before taking another drag from his cigarette.
“Jesus,” I paused momentarily, “I dunno man, probably one-thirty right now. I’m pretty sucked up.”
“Aight, aight…you got brown hair, brown eyes, right? Also, you in pretty good health? You got HIV or anything I need to know about?” Cousin Meth stared at me with his mouth open while he waited for an affirmation.
“What? No, I mean…I dunno, I hope not, probably not, but what the fuck man, this line of questioning is not fuckin’ good!” I paused and waited for an answer from anybody, “like you’re tryin’ to trade me to some Jeffrey Dahmer type motherfucker, I mean, what the fuck is happening? This is how I’m goin’ down, Shawntal!? Like a fucking episode of Law and Order SVU?” I didn’t want to come off as hostile, yet I couldn’t help but raise my voice. We had entered a broader dimension of savagery – one that really came out of left field – and I could no longer lay back and just hope for a quick death.
Cousin Meth ignored me and diverted his attention back to the phone, “Yeah man, he a decent lookin’ white boy, a ‘lil sucked up from the speed and all, but he still got meat left on him. Talk to your peoples, and give me a call back when you can, and lets work something out.”
The conversation finished, and Cousin Meth hung up the phone.
This had now gone from a very shitty situation to a complete lack of adherence for human decency. Things weren’t exactly smooth sailing prior to Cousin Meth’s disturbing phone call, but at least the worst-case scenario I had imagined for myself was just plain old-fashioned murder. Now I was on the market for God knows what, reduced to a group of measurements like a piece of meat on a butcher’s scale. Is there a deeper layer of Hell that you could find yourself on the brink of? I can’t personally think of one off the top of my head, and in that moment my imagination was equally limited. I was only thinking about how the fuck I was going to wiggle my way out from sexual enslavement. I figured I’d stay calm, because nothing was set in stone – I wasn’t being carried off to the sex dungeon just yet – and it wasn’t guaranteed that the customer in question would like “the product” upon viewing me in person. I’d have to present myself in the most vile, unattractive manner during the “test-drive”, and I could only hope that the kind of people that like to test-drive strangers' assholes were a picky bunch. Seemed unlikely, but these are the times that you need to keep faith.
“Turn your body towards me. I want him to get a square look at you.” Cousin Meth had his camera phone aimed towards me. “Say cheese, playah.”
Cousin Meth smirked as he snapped a few pictures, then took a moment to examine how they turned out. My demeanor was far from enthusiastic, which Cousin Meth took notice of, and ordered me to sit up straight and put a more friendly smile on display.
This is the sort of predicament that they don’t teach you about in D.A.R.E. class. Sure, they tell you that drugs will make you lose your teeth and put you in jail, but they never tell you that you might end up naked in a closet, getting photographed by a man named after an actual narcotic who is attempting to sell you to a human trafficker. I’m not saying that this is a normal issue that most drug addicts face at one time or another, but I am saying that methamphetamine tends to lead its users out of the realm of what you thought was even possible – both in your own mind, as well as in the physical world – and with time it will most certainly drag you to the outer limits of unencumbered evil. Rick James once famously said that coke was “one hell of a drug”, and you know what? It is. But let me tell you something about meth: “one hell of a drug” doesn’t come close to describing its utter disregard for any moral code. It sucks you bone-dry, eating its way through every ounce of muscle and strand of sanity; the toxic levels of euphoria leave you frothing at the mouth for a chance to burn yet another hole in your brain. You’re left with a train of thought whose boxcars have come undone from the engine, wheels shattered and derailed, without a single passenger left alive by the time your inertia comes grinding to a halt. Meth had not only physically gotten me caught up in all of this, but it was also the source of paranoia that fueled my captor’s actions. It was one small hotel room filled to the brim with dementia. Maybe meth had dissolved my mind to a point where I hallucinated the whole thing – some would eventually accuse me of this, causing me to temporarily question it myself – but either way, does it matter? In fact, if it was all a product of my imagination run amok, doesn’t it only make the drug that much more petrifying?
I had been on quite the tirade for several days prior to my squabble with the sisters – and subsequent imprisonment – so naturally, I was dehydrated even before the endeavor started. I had been asking for water for hours, but my requests were ignored. There was no sink in the room, and although there was a communal bathroom down the hall, they obviously weren’t going to let me out. They could have gone and filled an empty bottle with water for me, but I had already peed in the only empty bottle in the room.
Eventually, everyone developed a quench for thirst, so Cousin Meth sent his quiet partner to the corner store for some food and drinks. Before he left, Cousin Meth took him outside the room to discuss something in private. It seemed odd, and upon their return to the room, the girls joined them in a whispered huddle. Maybe they were talking about letting me go, or maybe they were talking about putting a bullet in my brain, all I knew was that they didn’t seem to want me to hear what they were saying. It didn’t seem assuring, but given that this kidnapping had been going on for almost half a day with no movement, I thought maybe they were getting ready to throw in the towel.
Upon his return, Cousin Meth’s partner offered me no snacks - nor did I want any - but I was handed a bottle of red Gatorade. The bottle was full, yet the cap was not factory sealed – which would normally be a red flag – but given the state of desperation my throat was in, I took a chance. After taking a single large gulp, I was almost certain that it wasn’t Gatorade, but it did have a peculiar familiarity.
“Thank you for the drink,” I took a small sip then continued, “hey maybe I’m trippin’ but it tastes kinda funny?” The unsealed cap couldn’t be refuted, but I was hoping that the strange flavor was just a side effect of my unrested mind.
Shawntal shot back, “Man, that’s Kool-Aid. We mixed it up special for you, Girard. Why, you ain’t never been in the hood somewhere, and been offered some Kool-Aid? Since you fucked up my whole business I ain’t exactly have the budget to get yo ass name brand shit right now.”
“What? Yes, I’ve had Kool-Aid before, but this shit tastes different, It tastes like, sweaty or something, I dunno, it’s hard to describe.”
“Nigga never drank Kool-Aid in his life,” Shanice piped up, “fancy-pants ass Gatorade drinkin’ bitch. Probably racist too.”
“Hey! I’m not like that, ok? I like Black people, I ain’t fuckin’ racist. I mean shit, I liked you guys, didn’t I?” I tried to defend myself. The last thing I needed in that moment was a false accusation of racism.
“Girard, you buy drugs from us! That shit’s different, we don’t go to the movies and play video games with each other n’ shit, like you probably do with all y’all lil white friends. You call us when you need dope, and that’s it.” Shawntal seemed genuinely offended.
“Well damn, I still thought we were sort of friends, I mean, until all this kidnappin’ shit happened I thought so. But what about that time we went shopping at Ross? Remember that? Or the time I helped you move? Shit, remember when we got Chinese food and you took pictures of me and T-Bone together? I mean damn, we got pictures together, Shawntal. I considered...and would still be willing to consider you guys friends. You’re actually like, the only friends I have at this point.”
Disgruntled, Cousin Meth jumped in the conversation and got it back on topic, “Hey! Y’all gotta shut the fuck up right now, about the friend shit, the race shit, the Chinese food…just drink the God damn Kool-Aid and stop questionin’ shit!”
My thirst had become overbearing, so I sipped slowly. Cousin Meth and Shawntal seemed to quiet down, and I noticed that their eyes kept trailing towards the bottle every time I raised it to my lips. I had already consumed about three-fourths of it when Shanice asked me to finish it off so she could throw it in the bin for me.
That irked me - she didn’t strike me as an avid recycler - but maybe the natural paranoia of being kidnapped had me cracking at the seams. I didn’t want to expose any of my suspicion, so I nonchalantly said that I was done with it and handed it to her. An array of cock-eyed exchanges fluttered about the room momentarily before the bottle was snatched out of my hand and placed by the sink.
“Well, excuse us for bein’ nice and makin yo ass some Kool-Aid. I’ll hold onto it over here in case you change your mind.” Shanice couldn’t play it off. It was clearly bullshit.
This didn’t sit well with me; In fact, I was now convinced that I had most likely been drugged - probably not with a fun drug either. It was more likely that it would be one of those drugs that you take unknowingly, and then wake up a few hours later in a tub full of ice with a missing organ.
Whatever it was that was in that Kool-Aid, it was already settling in my stomach like a chunk of lead. Within minutes my system felt saturated, although the substance’s caustic nature was matched by a deeply seeded warmth. On one hand, it was enjoyable - in the same manner I imagine freezing to death might feel - and on the other hand, I was haunted by the repercussions that would come from falling under its spell. With nerves that were sapped to their last drops of moxie, I knew that I would soon have to fight - possibly for my life - to stay awake. I figured that they must have put a thimble’s worth of GHB in the drink, but to this day I still don’t know what the cocktail was comprised of.
Twice prior I had used GHB, and it seemed to mimic those experiences to a certain extent, but in that moment I couldn’t trust my own scrutiny. The horrifying conditions that encompassed my high had tainted any potential analysis, so delving into the logistics would have proven worthless. Still, I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to proceed with caution, navigating forward under the assumption that I had been drugged. After all, they had a motive, the cap wasn’t sealed, the Kool-Aid tasted like horse-piss, and I was on the brink of passing out. All signs pointed the same direction.
Reality churned slow like cold butter, but my lingering meth high was keeping the lights on for the time being. Shawntal’s cell phone rang out “Dusted N’ Disgusted” by E-40 as its ringtone, and upon checking the Caller ID, she shot up to her feet and exclaimed “T!”.
This of course was short for T-Bone, who was calling Shawntal from a smuggled cell phone in jail. It took me a moment to realize the significance of this phone call. Shawntal would most likely inform T-Bone of the “hostage crisis” she had on her hands, which I hoped T-Bone might react to strongly in my favor.
It could go either way; he might believe her nonsense claim that I had done her wrong – although at this point I think we all forgot exactly what her theory was in the first place - or there was a chance he could take a rational stance. He was in jail, and therefore probably sober – at least more sober than any of us in the hotel room – so I was counting on him to take a judicious approach. Furthermore, T-Bone had outlined his trust for me in the past, and although he tried to suppress it at times, he was fully aware of his girlfriend’s erratic mind frame. Everyone was, so whether my capture was justified or not was irrelevant.
The underlying issue was the long-term implications of a shoddy plan. My cell phone was pinging to our location, there was video surveillance in the hallway – even my identifiable bike was locked to a pole outside the hotel. There was even a chance that my passport could wind up in some evidence room and get a fingerprint lifted off it. These were not ideal setbacks if you wanted to make someone disappear and get away with it. It wasn’t unlikely that T-Bone was well versed in the art of getting away with such a crime, so I was confident he would recognize the long list of flaws.
Everyone knows that if you shoot a complete stranger with no witnesses, you have a decent chance of getting away with murder. If you kill someone in a hotel room – or even just drug them – you have a body on your hands that you have to deal with. Eventually you must do something with it, whether you sell it to a human trafficker or toss it over a bridge, but either way, you’re taking a big chance when you have to carry it through a hotel lobby (even if it’s in a suitcase).
Shawntal was ecstatic upon hearing T-Bone’s voice, and after a few seconds of flirty banter, she broke the news that she had kidnapped me. Hoping for his approval, she explained that she was merely “protecting the nest” while he was locked up. Incoherently, she quickly cataloged my supposed crimes, but her underlying point was that regardless of the specifics, she had zero-tolerance for my betrayal.
I could tell that T-Bone was more interested in the specifics than Shawntal was willing to explain, and furthermore, he seemed to be concerned with her plan from here on out. Although I couldn’t make out the exact words, I could hear T-Bone yelling at her from the earpiece of her phone.
Her disorganized attempt at an explanation was proof that she no longer grasped the reasoning behind what was happening anymore. The only thing she was able to prove to T-Bone was that she was in dire need of sleep. My decaying strand of hope suddenly calcified when Shawntal removed the phone from her ear, took a deep breath, and said to me, “Girard…T wanna talk to you.”.
Shawntal reluctantly handed the phone over to me, and I began to speak softly, “…T-Bone…how are you? How’s jail?”
“Girard, man, what the fuck is goin’ on? This bitch tellin’ me you stole her phone and sold it to Gilbert…which I don’t understand, I mean, what the fuck she talkin’ about?” To my relief, T-Bone didn’t sound angry at me.
“…T…listen…I didn’t do anything wrong, and I didn’t steal anything. I don’t really know what’s goin’ on, but whatever really did happen, it wasn’t me, man. Shawntal might have gotten her phone stolen, but I had absolutely nothin’ to do with that. You know I wouldn’t do you guys like that, I mean, so little to gain and so much to lose, T.” I stayed calm and spoke quietly, trying to keep Shawntal from hearing exactly what I was saying.
“Listen bruh, we both know this bitch can get crazy, and shit, she sound fucked up right now…I just dunno bro, I just don’t see it. I don’t see Girard the ‘lil white boy stealin’ from some niggas like that, I know you ain’t that stupid. But I’m not there, man, so I really don’t know nothin’ for sure. But either way, they can’t be holdin’ you up in that hotel room like that. how long they got you up in there for?” T-Bone asked.
“I dunno, T…I’m pretty fucked up myself, I’d guess twelve hours maybe, but T…” I began to whisper, “I think they drugged me man, I think they gave me Kool-Aid with GHB in it, I’m not totally sure, but I feel like I’m underwater…I just gotta get outta here T, you gotta talk to Shawntal and get her to let me go-”
“This crazy bitch think she can just kidnap muthafuckas n’ shit! What other crazy shit this bitch been up to since I left?” T-Bone grew livid, “You can’t just kidnap a white boy on some dumb shit, cuz you the niggas police actually gonna look for! Shit, you probably already on the ten o’ clock news, Girard. How this bitch not already in jail!?”.
I tried to quell T-Bone, “No, T, this can all come to an end, and we can pretend it never happened, because she’ll listen to you...If you tell her to just let me go, everything will be fine. No one’s looking for me…yet, T-Bone…not yet…so let’s just put an end to this right now, you got the power to make that happen.”
“Alright, I’ll see what I can do…but I might not be able to control this bitch anymore, you know what I mean?” T-Bone paused. “You might have to start workin’ on an escape plan yourself, you feel me?”
“Yeah, well…hopefully that won’t be necessary, cuz Cousin Meth is runnin’ a pretty tight ship over here. I’m gonna hand the phone back now, but thank you, T. Please just try and get me the fuck outta here.”
I lifted the phone from my ear and then waved it to get Shawntal’s attention, before she lurked over to the closet where I was still sitting and snatched it. She looked tired - too tired to keep this charade going. This ordeal seemed like it was finding its way towards a conclusion, if only T-Bone could somehow tame its orchestrator. Shawntal practically worshipped T-Bone, so it wasn’t her loyalty to his orders that I was worried about; I was concerned about her – and possibly T-Bone’s – paranoia about whether I’d go to the police. They might think that it had already gone too far, and I would have to be eliminated to ensure no criminal repercussions. I can guarantee that the thought ran through all our minds, but T-Bone was surely smart enough to know that in the drug world, a strung out tweaker is the last person a cop is going to believe. At any rate, I could only hope that he knew I wasn’t the kind of guy that would go to the police in the first place. In the case of people like T-Bone and Shawntal, I was well aware of how they dealt with snitching, and fortunately, it turned out that T-Bone had confidence that I would keep quiet.
He told Shawntal that she had to let me go.
“Aight Girard, listen: we gonna give you back your clothes n’ shit. T-Bone must really like yo ass, cuz he trustin’ you right now over his own people,” Shawntal lit a cigarette then continued, “this don’t mean it's over though, cuz we gonna have to get to the bottom of this shit eventually, but for now, we gonna let yo skinny ass go home.”
“Thank you guys, thank you so much. I know you had your reasons for what you did, and don’t worry, it is what it is. No hard feelings...I just want you to believe me,” I paused to stand up and put my underwear back on, “I really would never do you guys like that.”
“Yeah, I wanna believe that, but I think we gonna have to keep some of yo shit as collateral. Like the passport, so in case you do feel like snitchin’, we got some info on you,” Shawntal explained as she held up my passport, before tucking it into her nightstand drawer, “That way, if you try to pull some shit, we got yo address where yo family live, and you know T ain’t afraid to fuck yo shit up.”
“And I ain’t afraid to fuck yo life up neither, so just believe that. You fuck with my girl Shawntal, you gonna find yourself in a landfill, my nigga.” Cousin Meth, who had been quiet since T-Bone called, got his empty threats in too.
I knew that my passport was useless to them – it didn’t have much information in it at all, let alone a home address – and by letting them keep it, it was nothing more than an inconvenience to me. Regardless, I didn’t have much of a family or a real address anyway. It was my only form of photo ID at the moment, and I had no intention of seeing it ever again. I played along though and pretended I would return for the item, but I never wanted to take the chance of being alone in a room with any of these people ever again. If there ever was a line that a drug dealer could cross to lo
se your business, this was fucking it.
With a depthless sense of hope after yet another escape from death, I truly believed it when I told myself that I was done. I should be more specific: it wasn’t literal death that I was afraid of, but rather the drawn-out panic of dancing with it on a twenty-four-hour loop.
What was more disturbing was that the cycle of ceaseless horror had become all too familiar, to the point that it was now the foundation of my identity. Pride in reverse. Overdose didn’t scare me and dying quickly in any other fashion was welcomed. It was the constant shimmy down to Hell and then getting thrown another undeserved chance at life that I could no longer bear.
I was done. Done with meth. No further departure from sanity was necessary. The consequences of getting high were now in a different league than the benefits, leaving me on a scale so askew that I couldn’t help but slide off.
This is actually a pivotal point in generalized addiction: when you discover the disproportionate amount of suffering that drugs cause in relation to the pleasures that they grant. The real tragedy of this juncture, however, is that you believe for a short period of time that this newfound knowledge might actually put an end to the nightmare. When you finally accept that it absolutely won’t, the breadth of demoralization knows no bounds. No matter how awful of a place drugs knowingly take you, that immediate high – the numbing relief of releasing the pressure – always seems to be worth it when a real addict is convulsing for a hit.
Some adults used to tell me that the reason why my parents couldn’t stop getting high was because they loved drugs more than they loved me. That’s not quite it. I believe they loved me more than drugs, as I have loved many people in my life more than drugs, but getting high becomes a subconscious necessity – like eating food and drinking water. For some like my parents and I, love doesn’t trump the physiological nature of our rewritten hard drives. Most of us hate the drugs that bridle us. Unfortunately, our chemical allegiance knows no bounds. With tears bursting from our faces as we picture the life we’re about to torch once again, nothing can stop the mechanism of destruction that now pulls our strings.
Like malware, it’s deep seated in parts of the mind misunderstood by the greatest doctors the world has ever known. It will hide, regenerate, and like the devil himself, convince you that it doesn’t exist. Then, before you even adjust to your newfound confidence, it will prevail in overriding self-preservation at all costs. Calling it an affliction is demeaning. It’s supernatural. At the very least, it’s otherworldly.
The exact time I was set free was unknown to me, but it definitely fell within the terrifying window of not quite nighttime, but not quite morning either. This meant that I didn’t have a chance of catching the subway anytime soon. I could barely walk, given my lack of sleep and the potential date-rape drug running through my system, but I managed to zig-zag my way down Van Ness without falling into oncoming traffic – or to be more accurate – where oncoming traffic would be had it been rush hour. After a few moments of stumbling, the last remaining pixels of comprehension drifted out of my consciousness.
I awoke on the side of the road in the early morning and managed to get back to Alex’s house. For the first week I was absolutely traumatized and feared stepping outside of my room, let alone venture out to the street. This level of fear was discomforting, but it was helping me not get high. By the second week this feeling had faded a bit, but the reptilian gaze of Shawntal was still unshakeable. Regardless, the mental obsession to smoke meth began to quietly ring through my thoughts. I lasted another week, and then like all good junkies, I cracked.
It was unavoidable in a situation absolved of hope. Willpower always folds to obsession, and like a domesticated rat I squirmed back into my cage once again. It took two weeks to gather enough evidence that I had no more reason to live. This sounds like a brief chunk of time, but for me it had been my longest stretch without drugs since I’d started using. What was I supposed to do? Get a job, stay out of trouble, and move in the direction of financial independence? Yes. But a junkie never tries to swim upstream before putting on a weighted vest. We always put more effort into setting ourselves up for failure than actually trying to win the game. Making such a decision is a cakewalk when you have no ambition, self-esteem, a sense of identity, community, family, and not a single soul to love; When you’re outside the realm of humanity. The very essence of the human condition is made obsolete under chemical dominion. I, like millions of others, had found a shortcut: a self-inflicted chokehold of counterfeit gratification.