I hope this story, as it come to life, will help some one who is facing addictions through self or for someone they love. It is a daunting task, one I hope to accomplish before I go Home.
I thought that I would reveal it here-letting you see it as it grows. I covet your feedback and critiques, hopefully mixed with a little prayer.
Thomas placed the old parchment bound bible on the nightstand. He knew sleep wouldn’t come tonight; there was so much to consider. No, consider wasn’t the right word. Believe. So much to believe. He turned the small plastic knob on the bronzed lamp one click, dimming the bulb but not yet extinguishing it. There are four walls separating his room from his daughter’s, but they weren’t adequate to drown out the thick bass coming from Bose speakers he knew were sitting on her desk. He recognized the song,” Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd.
He closed his eyes remembering the first time he heard Floyd ask, “Is there anybody there?”. It was 1979, he was in the garage of his closest friend, Larry Kirk. His parents allowed The Kirk (as he was known by friends and enemies alike) to convert the garage into a studio. Long black lights had hung from the ceiling illuminating posters of Hendrix, Clapton, and of course Pink Floyd. A Yamaha custom drum set commanded the center of the garage; a gift from The Kirk’s parents for his sixteenth birthday. A half of dozen folding chairs, the kind you would see at pool side (which is likely where The Kirk had stolen them from) were the only other furniture in the studio. Music always pervaded the atmosphere. The air always reeked of weed. They had smoked a lot of weed. They were kids. Kids growing up post-Viet Nam, post-campus protests and at the end of an era that included the greatest rock-and-roll bands of all time. Nothing else to do, so they claimed—weed.
Thomas opened his eyes. The song had changed. He didn’t recognize this one. It was new and belonged to her generation. In 1981, Thomas enlisted in the Marine Corps, putting, for the most part, his weed smoking days behind him. He smoked a few times over the years, at concerts, once at a high school reunion, but it wasn’t part of his life. Even as teenager in the 70s he hadn’t been as enchanted with getting stoned as most of his friends were. He tried nothing harder. He recalled seeing a kid named Eddie get hit by a truck after wandering out onto the highway; he had just dropped purple microdot. In 1993, he became a Daddy. Since, Thomas had not gotten high, drunk or anything else. He didn’t have a problem with people getting high, doing their own thing. It was their business. Legal or illegal, it was their choice, their consequence. Unless it came to his daughter.
She called it God’s Breath. It will take you higher. You will be there longer. It will blow every fantastical cell in your mind. When she spoke about it she chattered like a late-night infomercial hawk, not an addict. “It will suck your breath away!” She left out the piece about killing you.
She was an addict. His daughter was addicted and he could do nothing about it. Except, blame himself.
He’d introduced her to Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, ACDC, Eric Clapton. He even had an old turntable with all the vinyl an ex-rocker needed. He told her stories about The Kirk and his garage-studio. About the weed they smoked and the fun they had. He did this because of insatiable love for music and hoped stories of his misspent youth would be received as a warning. Not a role model.
He sat up in the bed, seizing the bible from the bed stand. He turned the pages until he found the ninth chapter of Mark’s Gospel. He read the words for the hundredth time that day— “I believe; help my unbelief.”
He closed his eyes and prayed.
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