If anyone suffered from my opiate use, as much as I, it was Julia. We’d met on a rainy March night at an AA meeting. I didn’t want to go to the meeting, but had been coerced by my friend Diane.
“It’s just an hour, come on.”
Diane and I had already been to one party that evening where I remained cold and wet just from walking from my car to the house. I had no desire to extend the evening, but I was sober, I knew the meetings were good for me, and Diane really wanted to go to see someone she’d had a crush on. I owed it to Diane to be her wingman, she’d been mine so many times. I agreed to go.
I remember little of the meeting, but afterwards a friend of Diane’s suggested we go for coffee so I went along. We went to a darkly lit restaurant and sat in a booth. This was turning into a much longer evening than I’d intended, but I agreed to go without too much whining. We were four: Diane, her friend Gail, and Gail’s roommate Julia who ended up sitting across from me. I had neither the will nor the inclination to get into a relationship or date for that matter, but when Julia asked me for my phone number, I gave it to her so as not to be rude. I still had a dull throbbing pain in my heart from the breakup with Natalie and was in no way ready to date.
The evening eventually came to an end and I happily went home, driving through the waters of March, and got cozy in bed when my phone rang. It was Julia. She’d made up some—very transparent—excuse to call me. I was cocksure and arrogant in those days (though I’m the exact opposite now) and had a desultory chat with Julia all the while wanting to turn on the TV and just relax.
“What is it you do again Julia?” I asked, as I hadn’t been able to hear her above the din of the restaurant we’d been in.
“I’m a research scientist at UCLA. I work on neuromuscular diseases.” I was impressed, though her field of expertise was Greek to me, and I wasn’t quite sure where to take the conversation from there, “Which neuromuscular diseases?” I managed to ask, and she named some I’d heard of: MS, ALS, and others I hadn’t. I asked if she was a doctor and she said she had her Ph.D. but was not a medical doctor. Given I had just dated Natalie, who never watched TV, read a book, or went to a movie, I found Julia’s knowledge of popular culture refreshing and we talked movies and books for some time before I said I needed to go get some sleep.
She asked if I wanted to have dinner and though I didn’t want to date anyone, I said “yes,” if ,for no other reason than practice. We went to dinner at my favorite Japanese restaurant and I ordered the spicy tuna hand rolls for us for which this restaurant was famous. Julia told me she didn’t eat mayonnaise. That was my first experience with an adult who had a “fear food.” I thought this might be a problem in the future for me who loved dining out—the more exotic the food, the better—but I put up with it.
Things progressed rapidly from there. Being so battered by Natalie, I was happy to have someone in my life who seemed to appreciate me, was nice, and not prone to pathological lying. Julia got in some kind of fight with Gail, possibly orchestrated, and before I knew it she was moving in with me—though I don’t remember her asking to move in or me saying she could. But I grew to relish the domestic comfort of our relationship. Having been such a solitary child, it gave me a sense of peace that cut through the alone-ness I’d always felt in the world. I had someone to do things with; someone to play with. I valued our time together and this was my first real adult relationship. Julia was steady and she took care of me. Even though I wasn’t addicted to opiates in the beginning or our relationship, I still had something of an inner enfant terrible which took some handling. Julia also had a fun family that I felt a part of. We eventually got a dog together, Saffron, who would become my one constant companion for the next 18 years. I was at the very beginning of my opiate addiction, so if I was not a joy to be around, at least, I was tolerable.
By the time I moved over to the corporate side of Paramount, my addiction had grown, and I was becoming intolerable. Though Julia managed to weather all my storms—more hurricanes than storms—when I ran out of Vicodin and would fly into a rage, once tossing an entire bookcase down the stairs. My anger here was all inappropriate, but when jonesing for drugs, I’d bring up everything I’d ever perceived Julia had done wrong and attacked her with it. I never let anything go. Julia was constant and understanding. A saint really, putting up with my harping and haranguing. I was constantly beating dead horses and Julia took it all. Then when I got my drugs, suddenly all was right with the world. Nothing bothered me. Everything was just A-OK.
By the time I was offered the Carsey/Werner job I’d admitted to Julia I was addicted to opiates. I owed her that much. I was buying them in 100 lot bottles from some Israeli dealers. Once the drugs were turned over the dealer would tell me. “Get out, get out of the car, get out, I’m not kidding, we’re being watched this is very dangerous.” When I got those 100 lot bottles of chiseled white perfection, I would have what is known as “full bottle syndrome.” Much like having too much money in the bank and going on a spending spree. I’d down ten to fifteen pills at once. This amount of Vicodin in your system has killed men twice my size and double my weight, and it’s not the Vicodin that kills you—the Tylenol in the pills shuts down your liver—but I must have had a highly functioning liver, because I never died, though on a couple of occasions I came close.
But here I go mentioning all the bad times. Julia gave me a steadiness and consistency I desperately needed and we did have fun together. We entertained, had our favorite restaurants, cooked dinners at home, and Saffron rounded out or little family. There was the problem of not being out to my mother, who must have wondered why I had a roommate in a one bedroom apartment, but never questioned it. I think my mother enjoyed the fact that there was someone else to share the “taking care of Cara” duty. It seemed that my mother was okay with me being gay as long as I never mentioned it or put it into words.
It took a month for the Carsey/Werner offer to come in. My “West Coast Mom,” Jan McCormack, made my deal and I would start the next week. Carsey/Werner’s big hits at the time were Roseanne, 3rd Rock from the Sun, Cybill, and Grace Under Fire. Cosby had put them on the map and there was a new iteration of the Cosby show being filmed out of New York. Carsey/Werner treated its employees very well. Every day lavish lunches were served in the kitchen, they had great health benefits, and a matching 401K. I was too young to realize I’d just hit the jackpot—at that age thinking nothing but great offers would be coming my way forever. For all my arrogance in my personal life, I did feel like a little girl in a grown up’s job, though I was very confident in one thing: I had great taste in actors and having lived in London so much of my life, could rattle off names of actors from both sides of the pond.
The VP of Development ,who’d hired me, took me around to meet everyone. I went into a small lunch room where Tom, Marcy, and Caryn Mandabach (the president of the company) were eating. All I remember saying over and over was “I’m thrilled, thank you for hiring me, I’m thrilled.” I think I threw in a few more, I’m thrilleds. Marcy turned to Tom, “I think she’s thrilled,” she said.
The day was a whirlwind of new faces and new shows to familiarize myself with. I was given a stack of comedy tapes to look at as Carsey/Werner brokered in shows built around comics. I would come to know all of them soon enough and spent each night at the comedy clubs or seeing improv groups. I also had to familiarize myself with all the comedy managers in town. It was a daunting job, but I was excited to do it.
I don’t remember getting terribly sick at this time without opiates, just uncomfortable, I had taken only two that day and that seemed to carry me through my first day of work. I really didn’t need any more. I’d had enough to hold me over for day two at work, but driving down Ventura Boulevard I noticed an Open House sign that was just being taken down. I swerved over to the curb, as though to avoid hitting an animal, and stopped the realtor.
“Do you have a quick minute to show me the house? I’m looking to buy in this area.” Sure, “the realtor said, we can do a quick tour.” I went in the house with the realtor and saw that the family selling the house still lived there. Always a good sign, as it meant their drugs were still in the medicine chest.” The realtor gave me a one sheet and I forced myself to go through all the questions an actual home buyer might ask. “When was it built; central air; how many bedrooms and bathrooms; Pool?” I then had her take me on a little tour. “Oh this could be my office,” I said regarding one of the guest rooms” and “The kitchen needs updating.” You’d actually think I was buying a home. When we got to the primary bedroom I said quickly, “I just need to use the bathroom.,” I practically flew to the bathroom without my feet touching the ground. Once in, I guesstimated how long it would actually take me to pee then flush, I’d run the water so that the realtor wouldn’t hear me opening up the cabinet. What would I find? But a large bottle of Norco. I grabbed the entire bottle and put it in my purse. Soon law enforcement would be hip to this little open house trick, but as I’ve mentioned, this was the beginning of the opiate crisis and all behaviors were new if not unthinkable.
“Thank you for the tour, it’s a lovely house.” I said.
“Don’t you want to see the back yard?” begged the broker. “No I have to get home but I like this house a lot. I’ll be in touch.” Then, “Is there any flexibility in the price?” I was going to play the role as if coached by Stanislavski himself. I was a method drug seeker.
whoa!! I have heard of raiding drug cabinets during open houses but never a first hand account!! Great read AGAIN