I keep an empty bottle of Percocet in my sock drawer. And every
morning, as I fumble about in the half-light, digging for clean boxers or
argyles that actually match, I see that little plastic bottle laying mute and
harmless in the back and stop what I’m doing to pick it up. I can clearly
read my doctor’s name, the date he prescribed the medication, and the
name of the pharmacy that happily filled it for me as they had countless
times before. In my palm, the burnished cylinder weighs nothing but I
shake it anyway, expecting to hear that reassuring chict-chict-chict that
Percocet makes when tussled in a prescription bottle. Then I always
sigh, the same way one sighs when rereading love letters of a spouse
who died, or ran off with someone more handsome, more rich. I put the
bottle back in its nest of socks and underwear and close the drawer,
careful not to catch my fingers.
* * *
It was the night after Halloween and I was drinking with my two
brothers. Being the wine snob of the bunch, they tolerated my pinot
noir between gulps of Budweiser and joking admonitions. The evening
slipped by as it always did when we got together: hours of jostling
about the Playstation and loud debates over the shitty state of Boston
sports. When we ran out of booze and the stores had long since closed,
we broke into a forgotten jug of screw cap wine Brian found behind his
washing machine. We even sucked the nitrous from a few cans of
whipped cream left unattended in the fridge. We were in rare form, and
that’s what probably precipitated the wrestling.
Josh was a former state wrestling champ, even got a full ride to a
Midwestern college. But his heart really wasn’t in it after high school so
he quit the sport and concentrated on his major. Six years later he still
had the build, and definitely the moves.
“Wanna go,” I asked and before much else could be said we were in full
Roman-Greco battle next to the coffee table as Brian tried to collect the
empty bottles before they could crash on the floor and wake his wife
and daughter.
I thought I had Josh for a minute but then he threw some move on me
and slammed me face-first to the floor. I put my arms out to break the
fall, and though my right arm held, my left bent awkwardly and I heard a
slight pop in the shoulder. That’s all. No giant ripping or tearing, no
anguished crying out. Just…pop. I told Josh he had me. That I
surrendered. He got off, laughing. I stood up, rotating my left shoulder
gingerly. “Damn, dude, how’d you do that so fast,” I wanted to know.
Josh smiled and slapped me on my back. “Who’s your daddy,” was all he
said, slightly winded. I went home the next morning terribly hung over,
driving 45 minutes while squinting through the windshield, incapable of
appreciating the abundantly blue sky.
I ignored the slight pain in my shoulder for several weeks, ate Advil from
time to time and continued teaching English at a small boarding school.
But after eight weeks it wasn’t better. I would rotate my shoulder and
think of other things until I forgot the pain was there. Then, like always,
it returned with its low, sad signal. I made an appointment to see my
doctor.
“You need to see an orthopedic,” he said, frowning while moving my
shoulder lightly. I liked my doctor, he was a young guy, about my age
and always took his time with me. Once, when I had this weird canker in
my mouth, he spent an hour with me trying to figure out why, showing
me charts and books.
“If the pain keeps you up, I can give you a script.” I knew where he was
going with this. In the past five or six years I had bouts with kidney
stones, stomach ailments, and copious back problems, all of which
required pain medication. Sometimes, with nameless ER doctors, I’d
exaggerate the symptoms and gain sympathy in order to ensure a more
bountiful prescription; it always worked. After all, I’m an attractive white
male who dresses tastefully—what’s there to suspect? Later, I’d laugh
to myself how easy it was as I swallowed a couple pills at the sink, cold
spring water slaking my throat.
My wife also knew the sweet benefits of taking Percocet, the absolute
bliss found when under its heady flush. Though Lisa was clearly a
novice, once or twice a year she’d have one of my pills and, thirty
minutes later, get that smile that comes with surrendering to pleasure.
We even had a phrase for it: perking out. “Man, I’m perking out,” I
would say, sublime on the couch while under the drug’s opulent waves.
Lisa understood. She’d smile and continue whatever it was she was
doing. I loved the feeling more than any other drug, or even sex,
convinced that, ounce for ounce, Percocet triggered a better rush.
I filled the prescription for my twenty-five Percocet and got a referral to
see an orthopedic doctor. I took the pills sparingly, and had to enjoy in
secret the rich feeling they induced: I could no longer perk out so
brazenly; I was now a father and my three-
year-old daughter was always within a stone’s throw, innocent and
wanting to play or read books.
During the initial consultation, my new orthopedic doctor was
sympathetic and looked me in the eye as I spoke. Like my own doctor,
she frowned while carefully rotating my shoulder back and forth and
listened attentively while I explained the symptoms. She suggested
physical therapy. “Let’s see if that does the trick after two or three
weeks,” she said.
“And if it doesn’t?” I wanted to know.
She smiled. “We’ll worry about that when we get there. If we get there.”
Then came the moment I was waiting for. “Oh, and how are you doing
with the pain,” she asked. I always loved this part, me trying to
simultaneously feign sincerity with a touch of naivety.
“Well, I’ve been taking 800 milligrams of Advil, and my doctor gave me a
prescription for Perco, um, what-do-you-call-‘em…Percocets?”
“Yeah, Percocet,” she agreed. “Listen, since you’re taking Advil too, I’m
going to prescribe oxycodone, which is really just Percocet minus the
Tylenol.” She clicked her pen and my heart started to race. She scribbled
and tore the script from a thick pad. “Let me know when you need
more.”
As I slowly maneuvered my SAAB out of the parking lot, I read and
reread the prescription: 40 oxycodone, five milligrams each. 40. I folded
the paper and put it in my top pocket. “I’m dead,” I said out loud with a
laugh.
* * *
Oxycodone was first synthesized in 1916. Derived from the opium
alkaloid thebaine, it is almost always prepared as an oral medication.
However, wild man and notorious Beat writer William Burroughs was
slamming this stuff during his Tangier days (in a German-made injectible
called Eukodal). Though Burroughs described this as the "best junk kick
ever," he also discovered that the onset of tolerance was quick and that
withdrawal from oxycodone was as debilitating as that from morphine.
This is probably why oxycodone is a Schedule II drug, right up there
with cocaine, Demerol and PCP.
I took my pills every day and relished the glow they would bring. I
remained responsible, paid my bills, called my parents to say hi and let
them speak with their granddaughter. I went to work, taught English,
graded papers, and went home, always to more oxycodone.
But here’s the thing:
Oxycodone tolerance does build swiftly, and you need to take more and
more of the pills to achieve the required effect. I started taking three
pills, then four, then five and six at once. Getting refills wasn’t a
problem. I’d simply call and let them know I was out, and they’d call back
to let me know when the script was ready to pick up. That was always
the hardest part, waiting for the call back. As a distraction during this
time, I’d sing the Velvet Underground’s “Waiting for My Man”. The
refrain I was most fond of was: “He’s never early, he’s always late. First
thing that you learn is that you’ve always gotta wait...” How true. I
would touch and retouch my cell phone while waiting to hear back from
the orthopedic office. Standing in front of my class, going on about Joan
Didion or Albert Camus, I’d feel the phone grow heavy in my pocket, like
stone. But when it rang, sweet Jesus, what a godsend it was. I would
literally lunge at my phone.
“God, got an important phone call, Mr. Locke?” some student would
tease.
“Yeah, yeah,” I’d say back, leaving the room for privacy.
After confirming my new prescription, everything would take on a
glorious shine, as if each and every object around me was imbued with
some angelic hum. I became jovial, a bit loopy. Everything was going to
be fine. No, better than that. Everything was going to be…perfect. “Now,
back to The Stranger. Isn’t free will a kick in the butt, or what?” I’d
burble, glowing, the book stiff in my hand.
“Mr. Locke, you’re crazy,” students would say. And I’d laugh back at
them and say I know.
* * *
I continued taking oxycodone for another four months. Doctors then
decided therapy alone would not help my shoulder, and, after an
inconclusive MRI, agreed that surgery was necessary. I was now taking
ten oxycodone at once, even though my prescription clearly instructed
to take “1-2 every 4-6 hours as needed for pain.”
Screw that.
Two pills didn’t so much as register a blip anymore. But there was no
way I could swallow ten pills every five-six hours and then demand a
refill the following day; abuse would be obvious, and what would happen
to my precious supply?
So I found a way around the instructions. I’d take ten in the car as I
drove home from the pharmacy, (this was one of my favorite times to
take oxycodone, knowing I had that glorious orange bottle burning a
hole in my pocket,) and then ten more later that evening. With twenty
pills remaining, I’d chomp eight the following morning, and then about
seven that night. This left the remaining five for me to take the morning
after that. I hated that third morning; the buzz from five was as weak
as a drained 9-volt and I’d find myself counting down to when I could
place my call for more.
I thought I was so smart. I kept a tab on the numbers: two pills every
four hours should equal about twelve pills a day, right? So, if following
the instructions properly, by the third day I should be at about thirty-
six gone and be ready for my new script of forty. I was told the
importance of calling in my refill while still in the possession of a few
pills—keeping the blood level up and pain at bay was paramount. The
good doctors at the clinic understood this.
So I had myself covered. Even if they did the math themselves, which I’
m pretty sure they did, I was in the bounds of doing what was
instructed. But doctor, I’m only doing what you told me. It was so damn
easy.
And for me, easy lead to greedy: forty pills just didn’t seem like enough.
What I needed was a larger supply to tide me over. Besides, I hated the
thirty minute drive to the clinic every three days to pick up my
prescription. I called the doctor and explained my dilemma: the drive,
the missed time from work just to get my script filled, the hassle and
annoyance, etc. The next prescription I picked up from the very pretty
receptionist at the clinic was for a factory sealed bottle of 100
oxycodone.
So it went, day in, day out. Waiting for my man.
I overdosed on more than one occasion, even though at the time I
wouldn’t have called it that. There were some nights I went to bed after
eating about eight pills and snorting another two or three. About an
hour later I’d be yanked from sleep by an inability to breathe; I’d wake
gasping, my lips dry and heart pounding. I was terrified to fall back
asleep, knowing I’d repeat the whole sloppy mess all over again. My
breathing had simply stopped like a cut engine and I had to lie there in
the dark, Lisa dreaming deeply beside me, and force myself to stay
awake until I felt normal, which was about three hours later.
next page
morning, as I fumble about in the half-light, digging for clean boxers or
argyles that actually match, I see that little plastic bottle laying mute and
harmless in the back and stop what I’m doing to pick it up. I can clearly
read my doctor’s name, the date he prescribed the medication, and the
name of the pharmacy that happily filled it for me as they had countless
times before. In my palm, the burnished cylinder weighs nothing but I
shake it anyway, expecting to hear that reassuring chict-chict-chict that
Percocet makes when tussled in a prescription bottle. Then I always
sigh, the same way one sighs when rereading love letters of a spouse
who died, or ran off with someone more handsome, more rich. I put the
bottle back in its nest of socks and underwear and close the drawer,
careful not to catch my fingers.
* * *
It was the night after Halloween and I was drinking with my two
brothers. Being the wine snob of the bunch, they tolerated my pinot
noir between gulps of Budweiser and joking admonitions. The evening
slipped by as it always did when we got together: hours of jostling
about the Playstation and loud debates over the shitty state of Boston
sports. When we ran out of booze and the stores had long since closed,
we broke into a forgotten jug of screw cap wine Brian found behind his
washing machine. We even sucked the nitrous from a few cans of
whipped cream left unattended in the fridge. We were in rare form, and
that’s what probably precipitated the wrestling.
Josh was a former state wrestling champ, even got a full ride to a
Midwestern college. But his heart really wasn’t in it after high school so
he quit the sport and concentrated on his major. Six years later he still
had the build, and definitely the moves.
“Wanna go,” I asked and before much else could be said we were in full
Roman-Greco battle next to the coffee table as Brian tried to collect the
empty bottles before they could crash on the floor and wake his wife
and daughter.
I thought I had Josh for a minute but then he threw some move on me
and slammed me face-first to the floor. I put my arms out to break the
fall, and though my right arm held, my left bent awkwardly and I heard a
slight pop in the shoulder. That’s all. No giant ripping or tearing, no
anguished crying out. Just…pop. I told Josh he had me. That I
surrendered. He got off, laughing. I stood up, rotating my left shoulder
gingerly. “Damn, dude, how’d you do that so fast,” I wanted to know.
Josh smiled and slapped me on my back. “Who’s your daddy,” was all he
said, slightly winded. I went home the next morning terribly hung over,
driving 45 minutes while squinting through the windshield, incapable of
appreciating the abundantly blue sky.
I ignored the slight pain in my shoulder for several weeks, ate Advil from
time to time and continued teaching English at a small boarding school.
But after eight weeks it wasn’t better. I would rotate my shoulder and
think of other things until I forgot the pain was there. Then, like always,
it returned with its low, sad signal. I made an appointment to see my
doctor.
“You need to see an orthopedic,” he said, frowning while moving my
shoulder lightly. I liked my doctor, he was a young guy, about my age
and always took his time with me. Once, when I had this weird canker in
my mouth, he spent an hour with me trying to figure out why, showing
me charts and books.
“If the pain keeps you up, I can give you a script.” I knew where he was
going with this. In the past five or six years I had bouts with kidney
stones, stomach ailments, and copious back problems, all of which
required pain medication. Sometimes, with nameless ER doctors, I’d
exaggerate the symptoms and gain sympathy in order to ensure a more
bountiful prescription; it always worked. After all, I’m an attractive white
male who dresses tastefully—what’s there to suspect? Later, I’d laugh
to myself how easy it was as I swallowed a couple pills at the sink, cold
spring water slaking my throat.
My wife also knew the sweet benefits of taking Percocet, the absolute
bliss found when under its heady flush. Though Lisa was clearly a
novice, once or twice a year she’d have one of my pills and, thirty
minutes later, get that smile that comes with surrendering to pleasure.
We even had a phrase for it: perking out. “Man, I’m perking out,” I
would say, sublime on the couch while under the drug’s opulent waves.
Lisa understood. She’d smile and continue whatever it was she was
doing. I loved the feeling more than any other drug, or even sex,
convinced that, ounce for ounce, Percocet triggered a better rush.
I filled the prescription for my twenty-five Percocet and got a referral to
see an orthopedic doctor. I took the pills sparingly, and had to enjoy in
secret the rich feeling they induced: I could no longer perk out so
brazenly; I was now a father and my three-
year-old daughter was always within a stone’s throw, innocent and
wanting to play or read books.
During the initial consultation, my new orthopedic doctor was
sympathetic and looked me in the eye as I spoke. Like my own doctor,
she frowned while carefully rotating my shoulder back and forth and
listened attentively while I explained the symptoms. She suggested
physical therapy. “Let’s see if that does the trick after two or three
weeks,” she said.
“And if it doesn’t?” I wanted to know.
She smiled. “We’ll worry about that when we get there. If we get there.”
Then came the moment I was waiting for. “Oh, and how are you doing
with the pain,” she asked. I always loved this part, me trying to
simultaneously feign sincerity with a touch of naivety.
“Well, I’ve been taking 800 milligrams of Advil, and my doctor gave me a
prescription for Perco, um, what-do-you-call-‘em…Percocets?”
“Yeah, Percocet,” she agreed. “Listen, since you’re taking Advil too, I’m
going to prescribe oxycodone, which is really just Percocet minus the
Tylenol.” She clicked her pen and my heart started to race. She scribbled
and tore the script from a thick pad. “Let me know when you need
more.”
As I slowly maneuvered my SAAB out of the parking lot, I read and
reread the prescription: 40 oxycodone, five milligrams each. 40. I folded
the paper and put it in my top pocket. “I’m dead,” I said out loud with a
laugh.
* * *
Oxycodone was first synthesized in 1916. Derived from the opium
alkaloid thebaine, it is almost always prepared as an oral medication.
However, wild man and notorious Beat writer William Burroughs was
slamming this stuff during his Tangier days (in a German-made injectible
called Eukodal). Though Burroughs described this as the "best junk kick
ever," he also discovered that the onset of tolerance was quick and that
withdrawal from oxycodone was as debilitating as that from morphine.
This is probably why oxycodone is a Schedule II drug, right up there
with cocaine, Demerol and PCP.
I took my pills every day and relished the glow they would bring. I
remained responsible, paid my bills, called my parents to say hi and let
them speak with their granddaughter. I went to work, taught English,
graded papers, and went home, always to more oxycodone.
But here’s the thing:
Oxycodone tolerance does build swiftly, and you need to take more and
more of the pills to achieve the required effect. I started taking three
pills, then four, then five and six at once. Getting refills wasn’t a
problem. I’d simply call and let them know I was out, and they’d call back
to let me know when the script was ready to pick up. That was always
the hardest part, waiting for the call back. As a distraction during this
time, I’d sing the Velvet Underground’s “Waiting for My Man”. The
refrain I was most fond of was: “He’s never early, he’s always late. First
thing that you learn is that you’ve always gotta wait...” How true. I
would touch and retouch my cell phone while waiting to hear back from
the orthopedic office. Standing in front of my class, going on about Joan
Didion or Albert Camus, I’d feel the phone grow heavy in my pocket, like
stone. But when it rang, sweet Jesus, what a godsend it was. I would
literally lunge at my phone.
“God, got an important phone call, Mr. Locke?” some student would
tease.
“Yeah, yeah,” I’d say back, leaving the room for privacy.
After confirming my new prescription, everything would take on a
glorious shine, as if each and every object around me was imbued with
some angelic hum. I became jovial, a bit loopy. Everything was going to
be fine. No, better than that. Everything was going to be…perfect. “Now,
back to The Stranger. Isn’t free will a kick in the butt, or what?” I’d
burble, glowing, the book stiff in my hand.
“Mr. Locke, you’re crazy,” students would say. And I’d laugh back at
them and say I know.
* * *
I continued taking oxycodone for another four months. Doctors then
decided therapy alone would not help my shoulder, and, after an
inconclusive MRI, agreed that surgery was necessary. I was now taking
ten oxycodone at once, even though my prescription clearly instructed
to take “1-2 every 4-6 hours as needed for pain.”
Screw that.
Two pills didn’t so much as register a blip anymore. But there was no
way I could swallow ten pills every five-six hours and then demand a
refill the following day; abuse would be obvious, and what would happen
to my precious supply?
So I found a way around the instructions. I’d take ten in the car as I
drove home from the pharmacy, (this was one of my favorite times to
take oxycodone, knowing I had that glorious orange bottle burning a
hole in my pocket,) and then ten more later that evening. With twenty
pills remaining, I’d chomp eight the following morning, and then about
seven that night. This left the remaining five for me to take the morning
after that. I hated that third morning; the buzz from five was as weak
as a drained 9-volt and I’d find myself counting down to when I could
place my call for more.
I thought I was so smart. I kept a tab on the numbers: two pills every
four hours should equal about twelve pills a day, right? So, if following
the instructions properly, by the third day I should be at about thirty-
six gone and be ready for my new script of forty. I was told the
importance of calling in my refill while still in the possession of a few
pills—keeping the blood level up and pain at bay was paramount. The
good doctors at the clinic understood this.
So I had myself covered. Even if they did the math themselves, which I’
m pretty sure they did, I was in the bounds of doing what was
instructed. But doctor, I’m only doing what you told me. It was so damn
easy.
And for me, easy lead to greedy: forty pills just didn’t seem like enough.
What I needed was a larger supply to tide me over. Besides, I hated the
thirty minute drive to the clinic every three days to pick up my
prescription. I called the doctor and explained my dilemma: the drive,
the missed time from work just to get my script filled, the hassle and
annoyance, etc. The next prescription I picked up from the very pretty
receptionist at the clinic was for a factory sealed bottle of 100
oxycodone.
So it went, day in, day out. Waiting for my man.
I overdosed on more than one occasion, even though at the time I
wouldn’t have called it that. There were some nights I went to bed after
eating about eight pills and snorting another two or three. About an
hour later I’d be yanked from sleep by an inability to breathe; I’d wake
gasping, my lips dry and heart pounding. I was terrified to fall back
asleep, knowing I’d repeat the whole sloppy mess all over again. My
breathing had simply stopped like a cut engine and I had to lie there in
the dark, Lisa dreaming deeply beside me, and force myself to stay
awake until I felt normal, which was about three hours later.
next page