Chapter 11

“I’m not saying it’s not bad. It’s bad. But it could be worse.” —Saul Goodman, Breaking Bad

I successfully completed my 90-days of inpatient at LVRC. My mental health care coordinator helped me apply for a transitional housing program called Dual Success—which, despite its name, only required me to succeed at one thing: not fucking up.

To get in, I had to take a computer test at social services to “verify homelessness.” No clue how clicking a mouse proves you don’t have an address, but sure, let’s go with it. I got in.

Dual Success was run by the Las Vegas Recovery Center. The deal was simple: attend group therapy three times a week, do a one-on-one session every other week, and get a signed sheet proving I went to six AA or NA meetings a week. In return, I got a whopping $32.00 per week for hygiene products—just enough to smell slightly less like poverty. On top of that, I had an EBT card with $292.00 in food stamps each month, which meant I could afford fine dining like apples and canned fish.

Wake-up was at 7 AM, curfew at 9 PM. Staff had a key and checked our rooms every hour—basically parole with slightly better furniture. They had cameras in the unit but not in the bedrooms, which was either a relief or an oversight, depending on who you ask. At least I had my own room. Back at the rehab facility, my roommate snored like a dying chainsaw, so I spent every night sleeping in earplugs and contemplating murder.

At Dual Success, I shared an apartment with one guy, but we had separate rooms. Over the next 18 months, I went through twelve different roommates—each one crazier than the last. After six months and a positive review, I’d finally be allowed to get a real job.

Until then, my only job was don’t get high.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD

“It might be more sanitary to fuck behind the dumpster out back. Just sayin’.” —Ruth, Ozark

The first apartment they put me in was on the east side of Vegas, off Royal Crest between Twain and Palos Verdes—one of the most drug-infested areas in the city. People in nice neighborhoods would call it a “bad neighborhood.” But if you live in a place like that, you don’t sit around calling it bad. It’s just home. There’s no “good” or “bad” neighborhoods—just rich ones and shitty ones.

And this was a shitty one.

One of the guys in the unit below us got shot in the middle of the night by some dude on a speed bike. The guy who lived in my room before me witnessed the shooting because he was outside smoking, meaning my unit might as well have had a big neon sign that said “Next Target Here.”

The sidewalk outside the Mexican grocery store was decorated with candles and crosses for a gang member who got turned into Swiss cheese during a drive-by. The whole area was crawling with dope dealers, stray dogs, and naked tweakers running through the streets—pure Vegas ambience. There were even chickens, which, honestly, was the most confusing part of all.

The back alleys had no street names, just vibes. Graffiti covered everything, but my personal favorite was a street sign by the bus stop that originally said, “Share the Road.” Someone with a spray can turned the “R” into a “D” and the “O” into an “E,” so now it read “Share the Dead.” At least the local artists had a sense of humor.

Eventually, they moved us to an apartment complex on the west side of North Las Vegas, off Martin Luther King and Carey. Here, our apartment complex went into total police lockdown twice in eight months. And not because of us.

There was a triple homicide at the Carey Mart down the street. A group of guys hung out there all day, either trying to start fights or sell you dope—sometimes both. One guy, in particular, was relentless. Every time I walked past, he’d try to sell me something. If I went to the store three times in one day, he’d try three times in one day.

I finally told him, “I can’t do drugs. I’m six months clean and in a program.”

He looked at me, dead serious, and said, “Bro… we ALL in the program.”

BELLY OF THE BEAST 

“What, you didn’t hear vultures in our backyard?” —Wendy, Ozark

You’d think a housing program for recovering addicts would be in a safe area. But honestly, these drug infected hell scapes were the perfect place to slay my dragons.

I used to think getting clean meant escaping Vegas, like I needed to be in some kind of high-stakes witness protection program. New city, fresh start, no bad influences—problem solved, right?

Wrong. My problem wasn’t geographical. It was psychological.

If I could stay clean here—in Las Vegas, the least sober city on the planet—I could stay clean anywhere.

Socrates once said, “If you want to be a good saddler, saddle the worst horse; for if you can tame one, you can tame them all.”

I was definitely saddling the worst horse.

And if I could ride it out, I could ride anything.

>Next Chapter>