Mrs. Brownstone
Mrs. Brownstone
There is a song off Guns n Roses first album, Appetite for Destruction, called Mr. Brownstone. It is reputed to be about drug dealers and heroin addiction. I heard the song several times at home, as my sister Jennifer was a fan. She had the album in her possession and played it once or twice a week.
Guns n Roses was the band du jour back then, outselling Aerosmith, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Cinderella, Bon Jovi, and all the other so-called heavy metal bands. Grunge, heavy metal, blues-rock, and hard rock were popular at our home, to my mothers chagrin. She preferred Roy Orbison, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, and Vivaldi. Tired of videos on John Lennon and Yoko Ono, the arrival of hard rock in our house was a great relief. My favourite was Black Sabbath.
I probably preferred their dystonic sound, dark themes, dooms-day lyrics, and unusual timing because I was sort of a goth. At least, that is what I was told. I liked Siouxsie & the Banshees, Echo & the Bunnymen, Bauhaus, The Smiths, L.A. Guns, Cowboy Junkies, and Janes Addiction. I had no idea what goth meant, and pointed out that the Banshees started off as art-punk fans of the Sex Pistols, but none of my persuasive tactics got through. I was not one for smearing my face with purple and wearing a black cloak day. Just because I liked morose music sometimes doesn’t mean I lived the life.
Michelle, on the other hand, wanted to live the life described on their debut album. A serious fan of Slipknot, Slayer, and Guns n Roses, she threw out her Warrant records and began jumping up and down on her bed to the Roses debut album. I remember the sight of her, howling and jumping in jeans and a tank top on her canopy bed, barefoot and crazed with that look in her eyes.
She had a wild look, like a rabid animal in heat or something. I do not really know how to describe it. She was beautiful, adventurous, and charming. She was also callous, deliberate, and opportunistic. When it came to sex and money, she was a bit of a cannibal. Her appetite for codeine, morphine, and crack cocaine was insatiable. She never really had a problem with overdoses or low tolerance.
Codeine was her favorite. Many times I walked into the bathroom and saw her from the back. Her long, straight auburn hair fell down her shoulders and contrasted with her tanned skin. She regularly hung out at her parents compound in Riviera Nayarit, Mexico. She leaned over her tabs and bottles, pushing out the syrup and pills in large quantities. A large cup of black coffee washed down her daily medicine. Her intake ranged from 24 to 36 pills a day, or one to three codeine-laced cough syrup bottles. I used to sleep over from time to time, but her drug habits pushed me away.
I once opened up Michelles bathroom cabinets. She had forty prescription medications, ranging from anti-depressants to Lithium to Valium and various tranquilizers. Another time, I opened up her lower cabinets and found twenty-five discarded codeine cough syrup bottles, a stash of three unopened bottles, and ten codeine tabs packs. She was a real hoarder and user of prescription drugs. At one point, she had three psychiatrists and obtained the same prescriptions in turn from each of them. This was called triple-dipping and was banned in 1998. OTC codeine syrups and tabs were also banned in 1998. A pharmacists approval and prescription were required after that. Michelle had previously stolen prescription pads from doctors and pharmacists; after a few more attempts of writing false prescriptions, the court carted her away to rehab, which failed. After a few months, her parents forced her into rehab in Mexico with a private nurse at their compound. She came back itching and shaking after two months, typical reactions to opiate-free sobriety. Under the care of a court-ordered psychiatrist, he put her on a heavy tranquilizer regimen so that she was too doped up to think about her usual behaviors. I have no doubt Michelle would have gone back to her usual tendencies in the absence of heavy tranquilizers. She took ten or more a day. Her friend Kelly took one once and could not move for sixteen hours. She was up at 1 in the morning calling people, sipping coffee, vacuuming, and walking around after taking a handful of them, say four or five. I never understood it. Nothing short of a straight jacket and morphine shot would have stopped her.
She once used crack cocaine at my mothers house, during the summer of 1995. 54-40 and Northern Pikes were Canadian alt-rock bands that were nationally known and frequently passed through Kelowna on tour; they were also close friends with the son of the next-door neighbor, who was a well-known songwriter and guitarist.
They had planned a charity concert together and had decided to go for dinner after a meeting. Two members of each band stayed behind. My sister and mother had decided to entertain them. The lead singer had brought along his girlfriend, a rather dull and cold model with short black hair, pale skin, and brown eyes. She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.
Her name was Dawn. She wore a white knit cloche with a crochet pattern, a long white dress, and lace translucent vest. 6
Her personality matched her look. Stuck with catering to them, I spent time in the kitchen preparing appetizers. She was a strict organic vegan who eschewed caffeine and alcohol. We spent two hours staring at the fireplace in silence as she sipped herbal tea and answered questions from Michelle with yes or no. There was no elaboration on her part.
Frustrated, Michelle excused herself and said she had stomach problems. She got on her cell phone and asked Gordon to pick her up as she paced the kitchen. Then she went downstairs and broke into my sisters room. It had been locked up since she left home years before. The room was mysterious and legendary.
Donèt ask me why it was legendary. The room featured an old wooden bed with two mattresses, ten pictures of Jim Morrisons grave on the wall, a large wooden shelf, cotton drapes, three unused snowboards, a wardrobe of skimpy designer fashion deemed too small for a weightlifter, fake tanning lotion, back packs, and a large collection of books on the following topics: zombies, John Lennon, the Doors, Haiti, voodoo, and psychedelic drugs. Perhaps I was used to seeing it dozens of times; perhaps I considered it no more or less interesting than anyone elses teenage bedroom at the time. To me, it was like Ferris Bueller on acid. I had stared at the pictures and read all the books. The rest didnèt interest me.
Michelle, like so many people, was fascinated. She found a way to break open the sealed door and walked in. I heard a large breath come out of her mouth. Curious, I headed to the foyer on the stairs. She noticed I saw her, slammed the door shut, and locked herself in the adjacent downstairs bathroom by the laundry room.
Though the house featured a large basin in the laundry room, Michelle wanted privacy. She lit up a pipe and heated up her spoon, and then began smoking. The smell permeated the basement and I sprayed orange zest room spray all over the house. She then came out at some point after thirty-five minutes, and spilled a brown liquid all over the rug. I would be blamed for this mess. Two orange-scented professional carpet cleans were required at a cost of $300. I refused to pay and Michelle proclaimed innocence. She offered no explanation for the brown liquid and smell. Then she came out, obviously high, with pupils like a Siamese cat in the sun.
In a strange comatose state, she walked as if she were sleep-walking. Uncertain what to do, I shoved her out the back door. She then somehow managed to find Gordons truck out front and got him to ask the next door neighbours mother to use the washroom. While the other band members were either out or at our house, she snuck in through the back hatch after opening it, and stole a large cachet of collector rock items and gear from the two bands.
Her theft stash included a signed vinyl album by John Lennon called Imagine, Yoko Ono albums, a signed Led Zeppelin IV, ten copies of Black Sabbathès debut vinyl, a boatload of U2 albums and CDs, two guitars with cases, four amps, two pedals, Elvis flags, and other rock-related paraphernalia. She even got a copy of Abby Road, one of the only Beatles albums I ever liked. The gear was sold for money; she hid the amps and U2 albums. Deemed worthless on the drug and pawn shop market, she stored the items she did not sell away from six years and then claimed she was a hardcore U2 fan. Michelle never liked U2.
When I first met Michelle, she had seemed like a party girl who liked pot, rock music, fashion, boys, and modeling. I had expected a friend who was fast and fun, not an amoral person with a copious need for attention, drama, danger, and hard drugs. Michelle was treated like the it girl VIP socialite in town; she should have been treated like the one to avoid at all costs.
Now I have never resented Michelle for her addiction, but I have seen the vicarious and even fatal effects of her drug-induced behavior.