In the months preceding I'd met lots of Bob's drug friends -- John, Phil, Nana, Mike -- and his dealers, Bobby and Bobby, as well. So it wasn't like I needed Bob to make any phone calls for me anymore.
And another thing happened while I was away for Thanksgiving -- Phil robbed me. He stole dozens of my CDs and sold them for drug money. And I busted him. I had called the cops, who were, of course, doing nothing, so I made a list of everything that was missing, and went around to a bunch of used record shops until I found the one where he had sold them. It wasn't especially hard to figure out which store he'd gone to: once I tried all the stores in our neighborhood, I went to the one that was closest to where we bought our drugs. Bingo.
But the cops couldn't arrest him right away, because he hadn't given his ID when he'd sold my stuff. The guy who was working at the record store knew Phil by his first name, so he didn't make him show his ID when he sold my stuff, and Phil had used a fake last name. The cops had to wait for that guy to pick out Phil's picture before they could arrest him. This has everything to do with how I went from snorting to shooting up.
Phil was always going on and on about how much better shooting up was, how I should really try it. I decided that I knew that Phil was going to jail (even if Phil didn't know that), so I may as well let him shoot me once, because I was about to lose my chance. Yea. And in the end, Phil got arrested, but I got my stuff back, so the charges got dropped. None of which mattered, because by then, I'd become a shooter.
So fast forward to April of 1996. Bob and Tracey had been gone for months, and there was a rumor floating that they might be coming back to town for someone's wedding. One of our dealers had gotten busted and then died (cancer), but the other dealer, Bobby D., was still in business and still doing fine. I liked Bobby D., and it may sound insane, but I think he liked me too. He sold out of his house (he was agoraphobic, really), and he liked having people sit around and chat with him once the business was done.
It was Bobby D. who told me that Bob had died.
Apparently Bob and Tracey had come to town for the weekend, and they had stopped by to visit Bobby. They bought some h, they shot up, and then ... well, and then everything seemed fine. They sat around bullshitting, and Bob went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. It was then that he collapsed. But they revived him -- revived him to the point where his eyes were open and he was talking -- "Huh? What's going on? What's happening?" -- and everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief. Bobby decided to close up shop for the evening and just keep his eye on Bob and the crisis that they believed had been averted. Tracey and Bob spent the night. Bob slept on the couch and Tracey got up every half hour or so to check on him. At 5:00 am, he was fine, sleeping, breathing fine, snoring. At 5:20 am, he was dead.
They called 911. Tracey said the paramedics were great, working really hard, doing everything, until they found out that he had done heroin. Then he became, in the words of Everclear, "just another overdose."
And me? I was fine. Alarmingly fine. I didn't cry about it for probably six months, which was around the time that I got off of heroin and started taking methadone. But it did give me a scare, and prompted me to face the fact that I was in trouble. Five days later I left my job. Two days after that I moved back to Pittsburgh. And two days after that, I was in detox for the first time (of course, a week after that, I'd found a Pittsburgh source and was shooting up again, but, you know, these things take time sometimes).
I've long since lost touch with all of these people. I talked with Tracey on the phone a few times after everything happened, though I never much believed anything she said. I know that Mike OD'd in the bathroom of a restaurant, but that a waiter revived him and got him the fuck out of there before the cops arrived. I know Nana was in and out of rehab. I know that John went to St. Louis for Bob's funeral. And I wrote to Bob's mother a few times, and sent her copies of all of the pictures I had of him. She said that he looked so happy and alive in those pictures. She sent me a picture of a shrine that she had made to him. I have all of those pictures on my living room wall now.
It is remarkable to me how quickly our lives can spiral out of control. I had a college degree and a job that I loved when all of this happened. Bob was a talented woodworker, had a job in his field and was even teaching a class in cabinetry when we first met. One bad decision led to another, and before our very eyes, our lives became disasters. His death was so pointless, and yet so inevitable.