Matt Laslo: "The one time I landed in a jail cell..."
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).
Original Subheadline:
The News Station’s managing editor 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, The News Station - 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 Coupe DeVille, 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…
If you’re struggling with addiction or anything else, please reach out to Matt Laslo.
Judgment free. Always.
Editorial apology:
Because The News Station’s owner deleted its website — taking the works of 260+ contributors with it… — for now, this essay cuts off here.
We’re working with some AI bots (though we’ll eagerly accept any tips, tricks or ideas you got!) on salvaging grainy screengrabs of the entire essay.
