The wedding was beautiful and the trip exciting for both Squeaky and I. There is another side of the story though. It is the story of my addictive side. Please note that I did not drink alcohol for 5 years from 1999 to 2004. As an addict we switch drugs, control amounts and fool ourselves into thinking we don't really have a problem. I knew I was an alcoholic and wasn't drinking. That equals no problem. Anyone who has been to Vegas knows you can find any drug or experience you fancy. You can enjoy the "sinniest" of sins, if you find the right people. As an addict I can pick these "go to guys" out in a room of a thousand faces.
Before we left Chicago I finished up the rest of my weed. When I felt like there wasn't enough I would crawl around the carpet looking for a bud that had fallen to the floor during a previous party session. Smoking dog hair, bugs, food and dust bits was just collateral damage in finding that wonder bud under the bed and reaching the high I craved.
We woke from our late night nuptials about 1:00 pm. We made love and showered, ready for a night on the town as Mr. Tom and Mrs. Kris Connolly. I was jonesing. Whoever said you can't get addicted to weed didn't interview me. I was hooked, but since I wasn't drinking, I was cool with it. I thought it didn't count. My wife wasn't supportive but was happy I wasn't drinking. She didn't understand addiction and the addict then, and had seen a lot of alcohol damage in past relationships. She accepted what I was doing, but secretly hated it and knew she was enabling me.
Below our hotel was a strip mall with souvenir shops and liquor stores. I only had to walk a hundred yards from the front door before the street rats and hustlers surrounded me. Ice, Tic, Smack and Blow was hawked under muffled breath. The dealer also has an eye for the user and they were locked in on me. I said I was looking for weed and 3 entrepreneurs jumped to attention like valets excited to park my BMW. I made arrangements for a small amount with the guy who could score the quickest. There was no consideration for leaving my wife uncomfortable or the risk that I was talking to a cop. I was trained to look at shoes and haircuts, eyes and sunglasses. I could pick a cop out like a hippo in a chicken coop.
30 minutes went by and my connection returned. The nonchalant brutha handshake dope pass was followed by an equally unassuming cash pass hand slap. I had my weed and was dying to get flying. For me the excitement of the deal and risk mixed with the relief of the score and anxious waiting was intoxicating. I bought some papers from the liquor store and headed back up to our room, dragging my wife behind me like a frustrated parent tugging their unruly toddler through the supermarket.
In the room the next ritual was initiated. The smelling, cleaning, breaking and de-seeding was vital to the roll. I twisted a J and opened the window to vent the smoke. A pothead also rolls up a towel and places it along the crack at the bottom of the door for extra odor prevention. It really is a lot of work to get high. All the while my new bride sat impatiently prodding me to hurry up. She didn't want me high but knew I would be irritable and no fun if I didn't get my way. She was as much at mercy to my habit as I was.
I finished the doob and was now ready to go. We headed down the strip and she was excited that we were husband and wife. I kissed her and was trying to determine the quality of my high while she shattered her sweet nothings. I told her I needed to see where Tupac was killed. That was the extent of my sightseeing. We reached the spot and I screamed at the ridiculous notion that no one saw anyone shoot him that night. If I made a sudden reach for my wallet four people would look at me. How could there be no witnesses on hand the night of a Tyson fight in Vegas? We were there in May and the street was packed. I ranted on and my wife dragged me on pleading for our honeymoon dinner.
Food was near the top in my botanically induced euphoria and a buffet at Treasure Island was just what the doctor ordered. We ate a lot. I ate a lot more than I should have. We lost a few bucks gambling and I wanted to return to the room. I told her I was tired but just wanted to return for another hit or two or 10. She wanted to see more of the strip and I acted like a spoiled child being martyred every step of the way. After my drama and whining became too much, Squeaky relented.
Our walking pace back to the hotel was double what it was when we left earlier in the evening. I was tired, remember, and I needed to get back quick and relax. I bought my wife a Starbucks, her favorite, as a token apology for cutting the evening short. I said all the right things to let her know how much I loved her. I meant every word. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I love getting high one fiber more. Once the scale tipped toward getting high I was on auto pilot.
We made it to our room, my rituals were repeated. The towel was neatly rolled sealing the outside world out of my private party and I smoked until I fell passed out. My wife watched TV, feared a bust and wondered what the rest of the honeymoon and our life had in store for her.
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