Westbrook Youth School, Los Angeles California 1997
"How can I help you sir?" in a small out of the way corridor of an alley underneath perhaps the only remaining group of trees in down town L.A. Stevie and I arrive at the last place Connor lived before he was legally emancipated. A corrective school for teenagers in need of criminal deterrence. It's a halfway house and a juvenile detention center all wrapped into one, and this is where my son spent the last five years of his adolescence, in and out of the foster care system and back to this small pink house. It looks cozy enough, and I should imagine with the state funding it gets it's not overly expensive to maintain. But the second Stevie and I walked into the foyer. Well she walked, I stumbled and clutched at the wall, I knew this was a place Connor most likely hated.
The walls are an oppressive shade of toneless beige, clinical, detached, void of any warmth that's crucial to a child's development. The backyard is about the size of a basketball court, but for a facility that houses up to twenty youths at a time I imagine that's not nearly enough space. The kids range in age from twelve to eighteen. Some are developmentally delayed, others are classified with sever personality disorders, and still others turned to delinquent and criminal behaviors at which point they're court ordered to be here. From my understanding Connor was a mixture of all three. Hence why I'm drunker than cooter brown at eleven in the morning.
"I'm Stephanie, I called earlier and spoke with Diane Simpson, she's expecting us." Disinterested but duty bound the receptionist removes the phone from it's cradle in front of her and dials from memory Diane's extenstion "Lindsey take your shades off" Stevie's pissed at me, when I left her house last night I went home and downed about a bottle and a half of Crown with coke. For my part I got up early enough to meet her, but I had to get a taxi due to my still inebriated state "I'd be glad to sweetheart, as soon as they turn off all the fucking lights.
I should probably mention to her that I took two of my Diazaprem before I left the house to help with my hangover and the twitches I get when I'm like this. But somehow I have a feeling that's gonna go down like a lead balloon "I can't believe you drank that much last night" well Kristen had a lot to do with it, I got home and she was spoiling for a fight. And everytime she does she loves rubbing her leverage over me in my face. She wanted money, I told her to get a job, she threatened me, I called her a whore and gave her my AMEX. Then I got drunk.
"Sorry, I'm doomed to eternally disappoint you aren't I?" shaking her head she runs gentle fingers over my shirt front "I wish you'd let me help you, at this rate you'll be dead before the last concert of the tour" if I'm lucky. As touched by her concern as I am, I don't want her to pity me. I envy the fact that she was able to shed her addictions and stay sober, I wasn't there for her when she finally did. I should have been. "Just, lets not talk about it here okay? It's enough that Kristen harps on me about it, and Mick, and John, and Christine, and everyone else on the fucking planet."
"They're worried Lindsey, so am I; you forget I've seen you at your worst. Coked out and fall down drunk, you were in your twenties then. You're not that same man anymore your body can't take it" I don't answer, she's right of course. But she did just call me an old fuck in a roundabout Stevie way "Diane will see you now" efficient but bored receptionist escorts us to the directors office exiting as soon as we're comfortably seated "It's so good to speak to you in person Mrs. Nicks" adjusting her Shawl Stevie gives a slight shake of the head "Ms. Nicks, I'm not married" not anymore.
"Sorry, Ms. Nicks. And can I say I'm a big fan of both of your music" I can't imagine what she must be thinking now. Two celebrities in her office asking about a juvenile delinquent who's been gone from this place for over five years "Thank you, I'm also glad you took the time to talk to us we've been running around all over LA like crazy people" the chairs we're sitting in seem to have been designed for toddlers, Stevie doesn't seem to notice the height disparity, my back aching I lean on her shoulder putting my arm around her for support. Diane makes an aww face, Stevie rolls her eyes wise to my real intentions.
