Matt Laslo: "The one time I landed in a jail cell..."
November 12, 2021 — Former "Junkie" Matt Laslo's essay on his past life as a homeless cokehead...
Editorial Note:
This essay from Matt Laslo was first published November 12, 2021 in a startup outlet that has since been de-funded (RIP).
Managing editor Matt Laslo is proud to unveil 50 at 50 - a series of essays written by current and former prisoners whose lives were upended by the soon-to-be 51-year-old War on Drugs. But before we move past this year’s historic half-century anniversary we are — in partnership with the CAN-DO Foundation and Prison Journalism Project – is dropping one personal work a day through New Year’s Day. It’s the voices of those who must intimately know the costs and scope of the War on Drugs.
If you knew me in high school, you’d be surprised learning I’ve skirted prison all these years. Back then — two decades, a stint as a Bible-thumping evangelical, a slew of degrees and accolades ago — my nickname was “Junkie,” which proved prophetic.
As I’ve written about previously, as a teen I was snorting tens of thousands of dollars worth of the emaciating white powder you call “cocaine,” I called it “daddy,” basically or whatever else it demanded of my then-sunken and frail frame. Before winding up homeless (living out of my baby-blue ‘82 Cadillac Coupé de ville, which I, of course, outfitted with a sound system worth more than the classical whip), I was the goofy one. I didn’t say “No,” only “I’ll take another.”
And I took lots of “others” – all of ‘em I could snort, smoke, dissolve or ingest; often all of ‘em at once, life when I “invested” a few grand in a pound of ‘shrooms and took two weeks off work for fungi- and eight ball-fueled trip. I lived up to my nickname, even once snorting an entire gram of coke before heading to the basketball courts. (I dunked over some cats that day, and thankfully, my heart didn’t give out.)
Near the end of my bondage, my coke dealer sensed I was in trouble; well, financially at least. He encouraged me to get a second job to support my then-vacuum-like nostrils. I took his counsel and entered one of the darkest chapters of my life, as I sauntered into the Abercrombie & Fitch at our local mall and asked for the job they offered my ripped and tan teenage self earlier in the summer.
With their annoying corporate-approved techno blaring, I learned to fold shitty shirts like a motherfucker. I’d snort coke before my shift, during diversionary restroom breakers and for dinner (the 40-oz. Budweiser was the only carbs I consumed). Once done, I’d go straight back to my dealer’s crib to re-up.
Even through my cloudy, drug-fueled state, I knew my second job wasn’t working, because I’d snort my paycheck before earning it. I lasted a mere three shifts.
Privilege Comes Cloaked In Many Forms
I come from a family of small-business owners, so we know other business owners. Thus, I never had to resort to stealing. While my brief stint in retail hell is embarrassing, they don’t lock you up for having shitty teenage tastes.
The one time I landed in a jail cell, officers didn’t even close it. I was at a rager with my older brother’s friends (and, of course, my dealer), along with a few of his enemies. Around 4 a.m., dude some 10 years my senior and I were in the basement fighting humid coke, trying to chop our shared stash back into powder after the summer’s sticky air basically ruined our bag, rendering it useless clumps of what can best be called “a substance formerly known as cocaine.”
Before hopping downstairs to dance with those nostril-cutting clumps, we saw one of my brother’s buddies being a despicable jackass to some ladies. Some other dudes had an eye on him and his ignorant tongue.
After a few minutes in the basement, a thunderous thud shook the floor. The asshole addicts we were, we quickly finished the substance formerly known as coke before bolting upstairs. That’s when we saw what we heard: My brother’s friend splayed out, getting pummeled by five or six dudes.
After watching him take a few well-deserved licks, we broke in and ushered him toward the suburban McMansion’s expansive foyer. Dude wasn’t just a sexist idiot; he was also a shitfaced masochist. His head had already started morphing into a misshapen pumpkin, yet he wouldn’t stop accosting the girls.
As we got him over the threshold, he yelled more hateful words. The pack of furious fists were eager for round 2. The older cat and I let him get some licks in. Once we feared he’d lose his life — or more of those brain cells he couldn’t afford to lose — we hopped in, yanking amateur boxers off…
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Judgment-free. Always.
With punches coming from 10 to 12 fists, we naturally returned some blows, trying to salvage what was left of his newly redesigned face.
My fist caught the cheek of a dude I soon learned was the younger brother of a guy who recently brutally jumped my brother — my bro then broke his hand on one of these guy’s faces.
“Little Laslo punched my brother,” I heard. “Get that motherfucker!”
I instinctively backpedaled a few paces, to ensure the testosterone, cocaine and warm keg beer-fueled mob couldn’t easily turn me into a pumpkin-head.
I’m not even sure what happened next. I ripped a tendon in my left ring-finger at eve, which still won’t bend on its own. Though that was likely from pulling idiots off an asshole. When sirens and flashing lights overtook the neighborhood, everyone rushed back inside. Music and lights dutifully killed.
All I could muster was crawling under my Coupé de ville. Worked for about 30 seconds; then Maglite beams hit me.
Officers dragged me out and propped me up a tree where I coughed up blood for the next few minutes. That turned the officers all paternalistic. They tried calling an ambulance, but my uninsured-self wasn’t having that.
We were miles away from the coach I was crashing at. I was drunk, high, disoriented and bleeding internally. The officers wouldn’t let me drive, but they never breathalyzed my underage-self or searched me. Eventually, the officers basically gave me one option: come to the station for a nap.
Two Americas; One War On Drugs
That’s the only time I’ve ever slept in a jail cell — and they didn’t even shut the door. I can’t help but wonder what the outcome would have been had I, say, Black. Well, we actually do know. Or we all should.
When my bro picked up my one-shoed-self the next morning, I fumbled for my keys and realized I had coke on me. Guess, “Junkie” kept a personal stash.
Had those officers treated me like they have millions of our Black and Brown neighbors, that cell cage would have been locked and I would’ve remained there for several days or possibly even months. That rap sheet would have never come off. It likely would have prevented me from writing for some of the world’s top publications, while closing other doors that eventually opened, enabling me to lecture at some of America’s top universities.
The kindness (or preferential treatment?) of those cops saved me not only from the mob but from myself.
The War on Drugs hasn’t been so kind to millions of my addiction-ridden peers, or even just the entrepreneurs scraping together a living off with America’s insatiable demand for drugs. Over the next 50 days, The News Station — in partnership with the CAN-DO Foundation and Prison Journalism Project — is publishing a personal essay a day from 50 prisoners of the War on Drugs who didn’t get the break(s) I got.
Rather, many of the contributors to our 50 at 50 series — in which we’ll wind down 2021 and this 50th anniversary of the War on Drugs with the voices of the casualties of this seemingly unwinnable war — have been forever changed by the system that spared my pale ass.
These prisoners and former prisoners are asking you to hear them and join their chorus — their unique redemption songs. The political class launched the War on Drugs, propped it up with an estimated $1 trillion and remains largely content with the status quo they erected. Hell, President Joe Biden wrote the status quo of mass incarceration as a senator. He wasn’t alone. He isn’t alone.
Still, in spite of the formidable resistance the prison industrial complex puts up, the war is slowly being unwound, but — as exemplified by my lack of prison time — there’s no equal justice in America. People are currently serving life sentences for substances I legally consume here in the nation’s capital.
Lending these prisoners — our neighbors, family members, acquaintances, lovers and friends — your attention is all they ask. They trust you to do what the government has failed to do: Hear them, and then treat them as you want to be treated.
