I Was A Crackhead For A Day (If You Let Them Tell It)

Two things you should know about me:

#1 I don’t drink (alcohol). In my life, I have only drank on four different occasions:

• June 10, 1985, the day I graduated high school, having promised my father that I wouldn’t try it before then. It was beer and I hated the taste. I ended up spitting (or spraying) it out as I stood on a friend’s car hood while my buddies below chanted, “Chug, chug, chug…”. Anybody need a towel? What’s that? EVERYBODY?
• During a toast at a wedding reception (it was wine).
• Summer of 1989. This drunken episode ended with me sleeping with a girl I shouldn’t have. She had never been drunk and asked me if I would do it (drink) with her because she felt safe with me. Yeah, about that…
• Same summer. I drank with a few friends in my apartment, then ran over to the party next door, where I chased everyone out into the street with a kitchen knife (I wasn’t going to cut or stab anyone – I thought it was funny). That ended badly and thankfully I don’t remember most of the pummeling that put me to sleep in the middle of the street.
  
  You could tell me that being drunk (the last two times) was the excuse, but I’d argue that point. Alcohol didn’t make me DO those things. It just made me feel more comfortable about doing them: The girl I slept with, I was strongly attracted to, and the people I chased, well, some of them I didn’t like to begin with. Haven’t touched the stuff since, 30+ years later.

#2 I’ve never been high. I don’t do drugs. Never tried them – never will. One Saturday morning my father caught me dragging around the house after staying up all night, songwriting.

He thought I was taking depressants. He picked me up and slammed me against the wall with one hand, holding me a good twelve inches above the ground. One hand. After nervously explaining why I was so drowsy (over the desperate pleas of my mother to let me go), he set me down. He then took me to his room and explained to me that he would rather kill and mourn the loss of one son, than risk that son harming his family, “feening for a fix”. I guess counseling and/or the threat of expulsion from school was off the table.

He also warned that people in our family (his side) have a high tolerance for chemicals. He told me I might end up dying of alcohol poisoning, trying to get drunk. He was actually right. Those two times I got drunk, I had put down more than other people could, and even then, it wasn’t “falling down” sloppy. If anything, I was easy-going. And I never got that famous “hangover” people complain about.

Pain medication was worse. I always had to take a higher dosage to achieve the desired effect. Still do.

Ok, enough backstory. On with the show…

---

Tallahassee, FL (1989)

My friend Monica picked me up from the dentist’s office after he had pulled my wisdom tooth. We’d had a devil of a time with his constant injections of Novocain because after each injection and subsequent wait, I complained that I could still feel it and it wasn’t just the pressure of contact. He thought I was kidding when I told him it still hurt.

By the time I consented to the actual extraction, he had warned that he had given me more than he “should have” and couldn’t risk giving any more.

I lied and said I was ready.

He realized I wasn’t ready as I fought his two assistants, groaning and writhing about in agony (no, I did NOT want any anesthesia – I was afraid of never waking up). Still, I begged him to continue because I wanted it all to be over and done with. I know he and his staff felt the same way, if not more.

I requested that the office attendant call Monica only AFTER I was finished, for fear of her seeing me at my worst. It was the right call. By the time she got there I was red-eyed, swollen and woozy.

Her look of shock soon became compassion and sympathy as she helped them get me into her car.

I don’t remember the drive to Eckerd’s Drug store, as i was half out of it. I just remember opening my eyes and looking over at an empty driver’s seat in the parking lot and feeling miserable. But it wasn’t my mouth, it was the drowsiness, dizziness and strong desire to vomit.

I stumbled out of the car in an attempt to enter the store for help but couldn’t make it past the passenger door.

I sat on the ground next to the car and began to convulse violently. The Novocain had finally kicked in to the max and I was feeling the effects of what seemed like a mild overdose. I rocked back and forth with my left hand across my chest and my right over my mouth, shaking uncontrollably.

“Oh my God! Is that Kenny Davis?” I heard in the distance. “That IS him. He’s on that CRACK!!!!”

My vision was too blurry and my gaze was too quick to make them out. I tried to force a reply, but vomit filled my mouth before words could.

And it didn’t stop.

“I never knew HE was messing with that stuff.” The strange voice said disappointingly as they entered their car and pulled away.

By the time Monica came out with my prescription I had made my way to the curb and resumed my sitting and rocking. I’ll never forget the look of sadness on her face. But she was a champion, strong for both of us. It was the only thing that got me through; that and the love in her eyes as she and my roommate Tony helped me into bed. I was happy because I knew that hers would be the beautiful face I would see when I came out of my sleep…

It wasn’t.

It was Tony’s.

Monica had long-since gone home.

Gone…

…but the rumors were only beginning.

Kenny Davis, the wild, sex-crazed drunkard.

Kenny Davis, the street-brawling alcoholic.

And now, Kenny Davis, the cracked-out drug fiend.