Prologue: “Doc” Watson

— HARBOR LIGHT I—

Part One — Rehab

Rock Bottom

Part Two — Addiction

On The Nickel

Retribution

The Murder Plot

Crossing The Line

Part Three — Origins

Abandoned

“Don’t go, Mama”

Home Tutoring

The Magical Christmas

A Moment Of Intimacy With Mother

The Call Of The Spirit

Coming To Younger Brother’s Aid

First Encounter

— HARBOR LIGHT II —

Part One — Rehab

The Road Home

Part Two — The Addiction

Reintroduction To Society

A Kept Man

The Synanon Game

The Streets Of San Francisco

A Hunted Man

Part Three — Origins

The Taste Of Freedom

Standing Up To Mother

The Thrill Of Intoxication

“Why Am I Here?”

The Sting Of Racism

— HARBOR LIGHT III —

Part One — Rehab

The Return Of The Prodigal Son

Part Two — Origins

Court-Martial

Deepening Of Despair

The Stockade

A Broken Heart For Mother

The Music Scene

Arrested

“Where’s Mother?”

— HARBOR LIGHT IV —

Part One — Rehab

“I’m Going To Marry That Woman”

A Die-Hard Smoker

Part Two — The Professional

Santa Monica ARC

Reunion

Back To The Harbor Light I

Finding The Right Combination

College Instructor

The Miracle Club

“Been There! Done That!”

Uncle Frank

Pasadena ARC

ARC Command Headquarters

Back To The Harbor Light II

Retirement

This book is dedicated to my recovery from alcoholism and drug addiction. I was lost and now I am found. I spent twenty-five years abusing alcohol and drugs and lived on the streets of Los Angeles and San Francisco from 1959 to 1983. In 1959 I became an intravenous drug user and started smuggling drugs from Tijuana across the border to support my addiction. I always told myself that I was going to sell most of what I smuggled to make money, but I became my own best customer.

Special thanks to The Salvation Army Harbor Light Center and the Staff for helping me to recover from substance abuse and for sponsoring me to return to school and develop a career.

Major William Mulch, Sponsor

Dr. Anthony Alcocer, Mentor

Harbor Light Advisory Board Members

Major Glen Doss

Mr. Steve Allen

James Heard, Eaton Canyon Foundation

Finally, I also dedicate this book to:

My Mother: Dorothy Virginia Watson, deceased

My Brother: Dennis Eugene Watson

My Aunt: Arlene Johnson (“Aunt Lene”)

My Cousin Jennifer Suddeth

My Wife: Julia Marie Watson and her Family

My Twelve Step Programs: AA, CA, and NA

To preserve anonymity, the names of many people
mentioned in this manuscript have been changed.

Prologue

“Doc” Watson

The word passed quickly along the street from one streetwalker to the next: “It’s time! It’s time!” It was past 1:00 a.m. Traffic was sparse in and out of the bars. The painted, skeletal women, as rough looking as the streets they walked, congregated at corners, all bent on a single mission: go find Doc Watson.

Soon a little convoy had formed. The cars proceeded slowly down the street to their destinations. Twenty minutes later they parked in front of one of the several fleabag hotels up and down Fifth Street. All waited as two of the women, self-proclaimed leaders of the pack, went inside, and then emerged momentarily with new information.

Now the convoy started up again. Twice more the scene was repeated until finally one of the women returned, waving her arms. “It’s him! It’s him!” she shouted. “We found Doc!”

Moments later the women crowded into a small lobby, waiting for Doc Watson to appear. Shortly, the smooth, smiling gentleman famous for his “magic fingers” entered the room. Suave and debonair, though startlingly thin, my disarming smile and calm demeanor immediately put the excited women at ease.

Debbie the self-proclaimed spokeswoman stepped forward, “Doc, we’re here because we heard you are the only one who can help us. We all have the same problem: all our veins are shot up, and so we can’t shoot ourselves. We don’t want to blow it. So we all got together to find you; we were told you have the magic fingers that can find veins nobody else can find. We brought the junk, so we’re prepared to pay you to fix us—whatever you require.”

“Good. Let’s see what you brought?” I replied calmly, turning the disarming smile on them that set them immediately at ease.

Debbie stepped forward and with a practiced air of confidence handed me a bag. “This is all we have between us,” she announced. “I’m sure it’s more than enough. We do need our cut.”

Still displaying that charming smile, I held the bag at a distance as if weighing it then poured the white powder onto the table. Drawing a knife from my pocket, I divided the powder into four parts, separating the majority out from the rest. “This is mine,” I said, indicating the majority portion. “The rest is yours to do with as you see fit.”

In unison, the crowd of women wailed: “No! No! You can’t have all that!”

Now turning a cold glance on them, I announced nonchalantly: “Okay, then go fix yourselves.”

A huge sigh went up from the group. “Okay, you take what you want,” replied Debbie resignedly. “Please help us now.”

So Doc Watson again won the day. What the women didn’t know was this was now my sole means of support. I had lost the ability to hustle and was too sick to do anything else. My only income was the payment my clients brought for the use of my “magic fingers.”

Rock Bottom

Returning from the run, I shuffled painfully down the hall, some clarity returning to my thinking. Glancing down at myself I noticed for the first time in days my clothes were filthy, and I hadn’t bathed since I couldn’t remember when. But what I was most conscious of was that I was sick, real sick; it seemed as if every muscle in my body ached. And a painful gnawing issued from deep down in my gut, hungry very hungry. Stopping at the door of my fleabag hotel room, I slowly turned the key, stepped inside, and dropped instantly down on the cot. Lying on my back, I stared up at the ceiling.

Some people can get clean and sober, but I can’t. I’m doomed. At forty-two years old I’m going to die. I know I’m going to die living like this. I had the choice between food and the junk, and I chose the junk. Tomorrow morning they will want the rent money for this room and again I don’t have it. I will be back on the streets. I don’t believe I have another hustle left in me. What am I going to do? I know I can’t go on living like this. I know it.

I closed my eyes, and my face muscles relaxed a little as I slowly fell asleep. Outside the dusty window darkness enveloped the streets. On every corner aging women called out to the passing cars, as they plied their wares of feigned affection. Behind the dumpster a middle-aged man was slumped into a half sitting position, a near empty bottle at his side. As I slept, half forgotten memories of a better time danced in my head.

“Gimme all your money or I’ll kill you!”

I was aware of a knife blade at my throat and the heavy force of a hand upon the back of my neck. “I said, Give me all your money or I’ll kill you!” the man again commanded. In the dim light, I spied the stocking over his face and knew he meant business.

“Man, all I got is a dollar and some change in that drawer there,” I said, nodding as best I could toward a bedside table. Still holding the knife at my throat, the man used his other hand to pull out the drawer and grab up the money.

He demanded, “Where’s the rest? I mean it! I’ll kill you, sure as I breathe.”

“Man, you don’t want to do that. I don’t have no more. Think: would I lie with a knife at my throat? Look around. I ain’t got nothing. I’m a poor bum just trying to survive. I ain’t got the rent for this place. I’m gonna be on the streets come morning. That’s how broke I am. I ain’t got nothing!”

With an epithet the man snorted. “I’m coming back. And if you don’t have more money, you’re a dead man!” With that he stormed out, shutting the door behind him.

My whole body trembled. I knew I was fortunate, for he might have killed me. For the tenth time in my life I had been absolutely scared to death. But my street smarts had kept me from showing it. I’m really doomed to die—of starvation or violence or sickness. I’m going to die living like this. For the first time since I was a small child, I suddenly found myself on my knees. In a way only the dying can do and with tears running down my face—because I knew I really was dying—I poured out my heart to God.

God, please help me out of this trap I’m caught in: the heroin, the alcohol, the violent lifestyle—stealing, hustling. Is there no hope for me at all? Or am I doomed to die in this vicious lifestyle? Please help me! Tell me what to do!

A quiet, reassuring voice sounded within my heart: Go back to The Salvation Army Harbor Light, to that safe place. It’s not too late—to live right, to learn to live clean and sober, to get right with God. And I trembled at the voice of hope.

Leaving the building a few hours later holding my few possessions, I looked like a mere skeleton of my former self. I reminisced over my two prior stays in the Harbor Light program, which stood in the heart of skid row, the hub of the Nickel, on Fifth Street in Los Angeles. The Harbor Light accommodated 212 men, had a residential rehabilitation and substance abuse recovery program and provided meals for those living on the streets.

In recent years it had become harder and harder for me to hustle up the $400 I needed every day for drugs, alcohol, shelter, and food. Two years ago, after I had exhausted my welfare allotment check and found myself homeless, I had checked into the Harbor Light, looking for shelter and food until my next check arrived. I was just buying time.

I complained about the food and everyone at the Harbor Light. I puzzled: I alone am perfect—can’t everyone see that? When my check arrived, I did what I had intended all along: I reverted to my customary lifestyle—hustling, selling dope, and selling anything I could get my hands on to feed my habit.

A year later I was back. I was no longer getting the welfare checks and was beginning to lose my will to hustle. I thought about getting sober and clean and trying to straighten up. Still, I hadn’t made up my mind to change my lifestyle; in fact, I stashed my rig in the Harbor Light stairwell, intending to use it later. As I began to feel better, I looked around at the others and decided I wasn’t as bad off as they were; I was just down on my luck. When a counselor suggested I was an alcoholic, I argued with him. I had no problems admitting I was a dope fiend—there was something hip, slick, and cool about that: even Miles Davis was a dope fiend—but an alcoholic, no way!

Within a couple of weeks I was getting loaded again and managing to cover it up. I had met up with a man at Harbor Light who, like me, knew quite a bit about drug and alcohol rehabilitation. We took it upon ourselves to draw up a professional plan detailing how to run the Harbor Light program the right way. When we proudly presented our written plan to management, we were sincerely puzzled when no one paid any attention to it. A month after checking in, I was back on the streets, hustling for drugs and alcohol as I had been doing for the past twenty-five years.

For three months following the assault at knifepoint, I fought the impulse to return to the Harbor Light. In the interim, I was becoming sicker and sicker as I found food harder to come by. Eventually, almost too weak to walk, I gave in.

In the Harbor Light cafeteria, I lost control and sobbed like a child. People immediately noticed, and I flinched in embarrassment. For in the street world that had been my home for a quarter century, a man who cries is considered weak. But, though I summoned all my will to stop, I could not. So grateful for the food before me and the warm shower soon to follow, I could not help but shed those tears of joy; I was so appreciative of the shelter, the clean sheets, and the simple things which for so long I had taken for granted.

And I wondered about that still, small voice that had sounded so clearly within my heart: “Go back to the Harbor Light. To that safe place,” and I recognized it as the voice of God. I realized he had been gently pushing and nudging me toward this end for some time, and I made up my mind that from this moment forward I would bring every major decision before him and seek his will. I had finally surrendered.

On The Nickel

Everything was dark when my eyes popped open. I shook my head to clear it. I lay flat on my back between garbage cans alongside a brick building. Staring directly into a hazy sky above and aware of the horrible stench, I suddenly grasped what had happened: I had done it once again—overdosed. How many times had it been now? Four? My stomach heaved; I turned over on my belly and vomited.

My coat and shirt were missing and so were my shoes and wallet; my pockets had been rifled through, turned inside out. I was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty, wrinkled pants. Bracing myself with both arms, I painfully struggled to stand erect. Slowly I succeeded in rising weakly, shakily. The hot pavement stung the soles of my bare feet as I made my way down Fifth Street. A feeling of urgency came over me—I needed a fix and I needed it fast.

Spotting a McDonalds restaurant, I hastened inside. In a restroom stall, I cleaned up, then headed back into the street to the curious gazes of onlookers. When I arrived at my hotel room, I could only scrounge up a few dollars. Darn! Not enough for a fix. Donning shirt and shoes and cussing beneath my breath, I headed out the door, determined to meet up with my dealer.

I came upon Slick Willie waiting outside a bar, a frequent hangout, surrounded by a little party of thugs, his hangers-on. Closest to him was Hank, a boxer who acted as his bodyguard and was known for punching people out who gave his boss any grief. Hank spotted me first as I came around the corner and headed for Slick Willie like a bee to its hive—for he had what I was seeking. I hadn’t bought from Slick Willie all that much, but he was the one at hand today. I approached him for the favor head down. Hank knew something was amiss, for this was out of character for me. He moved quickly to cut me off.

I adopted the most solicitous manner I could, my voice oily, for I had nothing to bring to this bargaining table. Slick Willie brightened up. “Doc, my man! How goes it today?” He liked and trusted me more than he did most people on the streets, but, like all businessmen, he was also a student of human behavior and knew that today he was dealing with a desperate man.

“Tough times, Willie. I’m on tough times,” I told him. “I need a fix and I need it now. I’ll have your money in a few days.”

He pondered this a moment then glanced at Hank and the others, as if seeking a second opinion. It was apparent Hank had suspicions about this; he was watching me carefully. But he said, “It’s up to you, boss.”

“Doc’s good for it,” said another.

“Tell you what, Doc,” said Slick Willie. “You take this money.” He pulled a wad of bills from his jacket pocket and passed them off to me with a sleight of hand. “Go to the place … You know where it is. Tell ‘em it’s from me. They’ll give you the junk to bring back. Also, on the way pick up a steak dinner. If you’ll do that for me, I’ll give you your fix now on a loan. But don’t mess it up.” He said this firmly and with a distinct frown. There was urgency in his manner. A frown from Hank punctuated his instruction. I vowed I would follow through with no hitches. These men meant business, but I felt I could negotiate. After all, I had done it so many times before—though never with Slick Willie.

As he passed the drugs off to me, I sped away with a huge sigh of relief. First things first, I had to have my fix. Ducking into an alley, I slipped a syringe from my pocket and smoothly injected the potent substance into my arm. Standing still for what seemed like long moments, I waited until the pleasurable sensation enveloped me, and once again I knew everything was all right with the world.

Experiencing this sensation was the focus of all my endeavors. Yet I hated the drug— because it owned me. It had me trapped, for I saw no way out of this vicious cycle. It was no use applying for a job. I couldn’t go to work because I would get sick, or I would need payment up front to keep from getting ill. I had tried it many times but couldn’t seem to pull it off. I was doomed to this way of life. Doomed.

I lived in two worlds: one in which I empathized with others and, at a subliminal level, hungered deeply for God, a world that lay just beneath the surface of my façade and manifested itself in genuine humility. My other world was the one of which my five senses fed me information, the streets, the drugs, and the dog-eat-dog lifestyle of the Nickel. I knew I was really a small dog in a big dog world because I wasn’t as ruthless as most. Yet I had certainly learned how to do underhanded stuff—I knew how to survive.

The lowest thing I had ever done was robbery—it was then that I had learned my limits. I had run into a fellow who was going to teach me the ropes. I didn’t want to do what he had in mind, but I was desperate for a fix, so I forced myself to go along with him. He took me to a bar and told me to just look around, watch how people were spending their money, and figure out who had the most on him. Eventually we found our mark. As the fellow, half drunk, was engrossed in repartee on a barstool, we sidled up alongside. My partner suddenly grabbed him by the throat and began choking him, making him defenseless. As the man struggled to remove his assailant’s fingers, I snatched his wallet and ran, rapidly followed by my partner. We did this a few more times. But I found out quickly I didn’t have the stomach for it: I kept identifying with the poor sap on the barstool.

Rounding a corner I encountered Big Ed, who at six foot six was a cruel and vicious man, hatred evident in his eyes. The knife scar running from his left ear to his chin and the handgun bulging from his jacket told their own tales. Casing the street, he cautiously eyed a new Mercedes, its driver evidently lost. When I almost bumped into him, Ed momentarily let down his guard and smiled. He always said he sensed there was something different about me. As did most of the street people on the Nickel, Big Ed showed me respect. Now he glanced at me quizzically. “Conrad, you don’t belong here; you need to get out of this insane world. Why are you here with us?” he asked me.

I had heard this before, yet the observation genuinely puzzled me. I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean I don’t belong here, Ed? I’m using heroin just as much as you.”

“You don’t fit,” he replied, studying me.

I hadn’t a clue what the big man meant. All I knew was that I must boost and fence something soon, or I wouldn’t be able to come up with the drugs for my next fix. I had been sick often enough and had no intention of being sick today. Each day’s priority was the same. Now I had the additional burden of repaying Slick Willie for the drugs still in my body. I would need at least a $25 bag just to get the hanks off.

A quarter of an hour later I peered through the window of a grocery store and read the wall clock. It was 10:00 a.m. Looking prim and proper as I did now, no one would have ever guessed my purpose. Yet I wore my long coat on a shirtsleeve day for a reason. I noted that there were only a few people in the store; this worked to my advantage.

I shuffled nonchalantly inside. The man at the front counter didn’t even glance up, so far so good. Sauntering over to the dairy section, I lifted a quart of milk and stood studying its labels, then, putting it down, I picked up another and read it. To my left, I saw a woman approach the meat section with a shopping cart. I followed her casually, watching as she picked up a steak and placed it in her cart. She moved on. Glancing once more around the store, I ascertained no one was in my line of sight, then smoothly picked up four steaks in plastic wrap and slipped them into the large inside pockets of my coat. I made a beeline for the exit, but not so quickly as to arouse attention.

Striding as rapidly as I could down the sidewalk, without once looking back, I made it to the next block. There at the designated spot, leaning against a brick building, his trademark baseball cap down over his eyes, Wally, my fence, waited for me. Slipping into the shadows with him, I matter-of-factly exchanged the steaks for half the price they were marked. As I did so, I calculated: I had almost enough money for the fix I would soon need, and I had just enough time for one more job before I absolutely had to have the fix, just enough time, if I hurried.

An apparel shop lay a block in the opposite direction from which I had come. Within minutes I was moving smartly between the aisles. Taking a vinyl jacket from its rack, I lifted it as if measuring it for a fit and did the same with another two sizes larger. Looking innocent enough, I stepped into a clothing-changing booth and carefully shut the door behind me. I removed my own coat and slipped the jackets on, one over the other, and put my own coat on over them both. I peered through the opening in the changing room door, ensuring no one was watching, and stepped out. As I moved through the aisles, however, I noticed a staff supervisor eyeing me suspiciously. Halting, I lifted a pair of men’s pants from a rack and held them up in front as if considering a purchase. As the supervisor returned to his work, I headed again toward the exit. Back on the street I walked as fast as I possibly could without drawing unwanted attention to myself. Minutes later I slipped again into the shadows with Wally and passed the jackets off to him. I mumbled, “This is a nerve-racking business.”

“It’s a good haul,” replied Wally, nodding approvingly as he counted out the cash. Once the money was in my hand, however, I suddenly remembered I had another errand to run—return the drugs to Slick Willie with a steak dinner—but first, the fix!

Two hours later I made my way up the steps of the hotel where Slick Willie waited. A steak dinner was under one arm and the drugs I had picked up for him were inside my coat pocket. I was set. I meditated: the day had begun horribly, but everything was coming together after all.

The moment I spotted him I knew something was wrong. Slick Willie was standing in an anteroom off from the hotel lobby with the boxer Hank and the others he had been with earlier. On catching Hank’s eye, a chill passed through me, and I considered running, then thought better of it. Putting on my most solicitous manner, head lowered and shoulders hunched, I approached them. All five men were stern. I puzzled why.

On seeing my anxiety, Slick Willie flashed that famous smile of his, and I relaxed a little. “Hello, Doc, you took your sweet time getting back,” he remarked.

“Yeah, well, I had a few errands to run, things to do. Time got away from me. I’m sorry,” I replied.

“Gimme the steak,” snapped one, snatching it forcefully from me.

A glare from Hank stung me like a hornet. “Let’s see the dope,” he barked. As I produced the drugs, it seemed he vented all the frustration of his tumultuous life on me with one swing from a hard left fist. I howled, for the man had broken my jaw with a single blow. “This will teach you to take a day for a thirty-minute job,” he growled, delivering another punch.

Covering my face, I begged him to stop. But he was relentless: again he slammed his fist into my face, and once more I screamed. Another joined in the fray, kicking me hard in one leg. I sensed that if I hit the floor, they would kill me. And I was determined not to lose my footing. Limping, I made my way toward the hotel exit but managed only a few yards before they caught up with me. Hank punched me repeatedly, and I was sure he had broken my jaw again. But I was determined to survive: I would not let them knock me down. Eventually I reached the exit and hit the sidewalk, running as fast as I could. I was bound and determined to make it to the corner bar ahead of my pursuers. I just barely did so. The security guard knew me and waved me on in, but stopped the others dead in their tracks.

Puffing, I staggered into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I could hear the men arguing with the security guard, but he stood his ground. Trembling, I washed the blood off my face. I was in severe pain, but, exerting all my will, I remained silent. Every now and then I peeped out the door.

Hours passed before my pursuers left. Warily, like a caged animal finally set free, I shrank from the premises, taking time to thank the guard on my way out—he had saved my life. Nodding knowingly, he advised me to seek medical attention. I slipped into the night and somehow made it to the bus stop. By now my jaw was swollen, and I was hurting badly. Though I was broke, the driver on seeing my condition took me to a nearby hospital. The doctor who was sewing my jaw informed me it was broken in three places.

My free and easy lifestyle, living from one fix to the next, had almost done me in.

Contents

Prologue

“Doc” Watson

Harbor Light I

Part One

REHAB

Rock Bottom

Part Two

ADDICTION

On The Nickel