A REASON FOR LIVING -- AND DYING

When They Wake Up In The Morning, Junkies Know There Is Only One Job To Do:
Get Drugs

THERE IS no one less sympathetic to the trials, tribulations and
humiliations of an addict than an ex-junkie. No emergency room triage is
more immediate and unforgiving than the way an ex-junkie sizes up a
still-in-the-grip former colleague.

I hear that familiar, whiny tone of voice. I see the pinned, cartoon eyes
of the smack user or the jumpy, twitchy, molar-grinding, gibberish-spewing
face of the coke fiend. I see a dead man. I'm not listening anymore. If I
pay attention at all, it's to make sure they're not rifling through my coat.

Cold? Yes. But then, junkies are used to stone-cold logic. Life, for
someone whose body, brain, nerves and cell tissue requires (rather than
desires) his drug of choice in order to get out of bed in the morning, is
actually a very simple matter. You have one job: Get drugs. There's only
one thing you have to do each day: Get drugs. One's priorities are always
straight. Simply put: Nothing else matters.

Those of us who have been addicted to heroin or cocaine (and I've been
addicted to both) understand this better than anybody. You know, without
question, that your best friend in the world will, given the opportunity,
steal your drugs or your money or snitch you off to the cops. You know,
without question, exactly how low you would be willing to go to get what
you need. Chances are, you've been there already. More than once.

Stories about drugs and rehabilitation are boring -- particularly when it's
some Hollywood actor, grinning out from the cover of People magazine,
yammering about Clean and Sober and his new project.

We've heard it all before. Some people live; others die. Who survives and
who doesn't seems most often to have been determined long before the junkie
enters treatment -- when he looks in the mirror one morning and decides
that he really, truly wants to live. If there's any question in his mind,
before he even walks through the methadone clinic or rehab facility doors,
about how badly he wants to turn things around and what he's willing to do
to accomplish that, then lose my number. I know you in my bones.

The memory of the bitter taste of heroin in the back of my throat, the
smell of burning candles, the taste of paint chips mistaken for a pebble of
dropped crack, a whiff of urine and stale air from long-ago tenement drug
superstores on the Lower East Side all came back when I watched Robert
Downey Jr. being hauled off again in handcuffs. And this time, I actually
cared a little.

"This guy must really hate himself,'' I thought, reading of cocaine and
speed allegedly found in his room. That he is, to my mind, one of the
finest actors working in Hollywood, matters not at all. That he's spent
some time in jail was, if anything, a recommendation.

I'd hoped he'd be cast in one of the film versions of my books as he seemed
to have the perfect resume for the job. My first thought, though, was,
"Cocaine and speed? That's not comfortable oblivion; that's pedal to the
metal, headed straight for the wall.''

It's more panic, paranoia, the inevitable crash. If there is a faster route
to the dung heap I don't know of it. It can't even be fun anymore. After
years of having as much cocaine as you want, you find yourself just chasing
that first pleasurable hit, looking to recapture that first pleasant rush.
You never find it.

More than likely, you wind up squatting naked by the front door, listening
for the tunneling probe microphones that aren't really there.

Anthony Bourdain, an executive chef in New York City, is author of "Kitchen
Confidential.'' He wrote this column for the Los Angeles Times.