David Carr: The Crackhouse: Snow Suits and Snow Blindness

Summary

Podcast Summary: The Moth – "David Carr: The Crackhouse: Snow Suits and Snow Blindness"

Episode Details

• Title: The Crackhouse: Snow Suits and Snow Blindness
• Speaker: David Carr
• Recorded At: The Moth Main Stage, 2007
• Release Date: January 4, 2010

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Introduction

In this gripping and raw storytelling episode of The Moth, David Carr, a renowned New York Times reporter and columnist, delves deep into a harrowing experience from his past. Titled "The Crackhouse: Snow Suits and Snow Blindness," Carr recounts a night in 1988 that encapsulates his struggle with addiction, responsibility, and morality.

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Setting the Stage

David Carr begins by setting the scene in November 1988, Minneapolis, Minnesota, during a frigid night that would forever alter his perception of life and fatherhood. He introduces himself as someone who works as a typewriter—"I type for a living. I don't usually tell stories." This admission underscores the rarity and significance of the tale he is about to share.

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The Plunge into Addiction

Carr paints a vivid picture of his descent into addiction:

• Night vs. Day: He contrasts the allure of nighttime with the drudgery of daytime, stating, "Nighttime offers opportunity, unfolds, stretches out before you. Daytime implicates everything you see, indicts you." This dichotomy highlights his growing preference for the freedom and possibilities he associates with the night, despite its inherent dangers.

• Initial Exposure: On his 21st birthday, Carr tries cocaine for the first time. His casual approach—"I did a gram and I said, what's the big deal?"—quickly escalates as he spirals, selling his car to afford more drugs: "I sold my car and bought an ounce... I sold my house and bought a kilo." His inability to grasp the severity of his addiction is palpable.

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The Pivotal Night

The core of Carr's story unfolds on that fateful November night:

• Family Circumstances: Carr finds himself alone with his twin daughters, as their mother is absent ("their mom was off God knows where doing God knows what"). The responsibility weighs heavily on him, yet his addiction blinds him to the urgency of the situation.

• Seeking Help: Desperate, he contacts his friend Kenny, who operates a local dope house. Kenny's response—"I got a house full of coke sluts and knuckleheads and willing customers"—illustrates the toxic environment that awaits him.

• The Drive: Carr describes the journey to Kenny's place in his dilapidated 1978 Nova: "a shitbox that my brother bought me out of pity." The car becomes a symbol of his degraded state and the perilous path he's on.

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Inside the Dope House

Upon arrival, Carr navigates the chaotic milieu of Kenny's establishment:

• Atmosphere: He likens the cocaine scene to an avant-garde studio with an unsettling presence: "he had kind of this mad Professor Coke wrap... black helicopters, white noise, they're coming to get us."

• Cocaine Use: Carr provides an intense portrayal of the cocaine injection ritual, comparing it to an Olympic event fraught with danger: "shooting coke, if it's done properly, is kind of like an Olympic pairs event." The meticulous yet perilous process underscores the constant risk of overdose that addicts face.

• Paranoia and Solidarity: Amidst the paranoia—"little video cameras... black helicopters"—Carr and his peers engage in a futile search for surveillance, revealing the depth of their desperation and mistrust.

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The Moral Quandary

As time slips by in the dope house, Carr confronts the stark reality of his choices:

• Realization: He grapples with the fate of his daughters left unattended in the car: "Could I bring them in?... Not good, not done. Bad manners." The internal conflict becomes unbearable as he debates whether to abandon his children or stay engulfed in his addiction.

• Decision Point: Ultimately, Carr chooses to leave the dope house, prioritizing his daughters' safety over his immediate desire to indulge: "I knew that I had done something that he would not soon forget." This pivotal moment reflects a sliver of hope and responsibility amidst the darkness of his addiction.

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Reflections and Insights

David Carr's narrative is not just a recounting of past events but a profound exploration of human frailty and redemption:

• Addiction's Grip: Carr eloquently captures the seductive yet destructive nature of addiction, illustrating how it distorts priorities and traps individuals in cycles of despair.

• Parental Responsibility: The story underscores the profound impact of addiction on familial relationships and personal accountability.

• Hope Amidst Despair: Despite the bleak circumstances, Carr's final decision to prioritize his children's safety hints at the possibility of redemption and the enduring strength of parental love.

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Conclusion

In "The Crackhouse: Snow Suits and Snow Blindness," David Carr offers a poignant and unflinching glimpse into a dark chapter of his life. Through his articulate and heartfelt storytelling, listeners are invited to witness the harrowing consequences of addiction and the fragile moments where humanity shines through. Carr's narrative serves as a powerful testament to the complexities of addiction, responsibility, and the enduring quest for redemption.

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Notable Quotes:

• David Carr [02:19]: "I never cracked the code on what the big deal with coke was. It does have some sort of effects on how you view day and night."

• David Carr [04:10]: "Everything about the day sucks. But nighttime, now, that's when things rot."

• David Carr [07:45]: "Shooting coke, if it's done properly, is kind of like an Olympic pairs event."

• David Carr [11:30]: "I knew that I had done something that he would not soon forget."

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About the Speaker:

David Carr is a distinguished reporter and columnist for The New York Times. He is also the author of the memoir "The Night of the Gun," where he explores the darkest stories of his own life. Carr's storytelling prowess shines through in this The Moth episode, offering listeners a deeply personal and introspective narrative.

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Additional Resources:

• The Moth Website: themoth.org
• David Carr's Memoir: The Night of the Gun

Transcript

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[Dan Kennedy]

Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy. Happy New Year. This is the first podcast of 2010. So the moth is all about true stories, and they're told live on stage. You know this by now, certainly, but do you know that they're told live, without notes, without any kind of safety net whatsoever? It's just people getting up in front of the mic and getting up the nerve to tell their story. The stories are taken, of course, from Moth events here in New York City, also in Los Angeles, in Chicago, in Detroit, and from all across the country, because the Moth is often on the road. To find out more, check out the site themoth.org the story you're about to hear by David Carr was recorded live in 2007 at the Moth main stage. The theme of that night was the Late Late Show Stories of Life After Dark.

[David Carr]

I type for a living. I don't usually tell stories. This one took place back in 1988 in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on a cold November night. My mother told me, and this is the first lie in this story, that nothing good happens after midnight. Everything good happens after midnight. Got your fucking you're sucking, you're drugging, you're drinking. Everything good happens after midnight. Daytime is for suckers, people with straight jobs that make jelly beans or sell insurance. Nighttimes, that's cop and robber time. I was kind of kid as a very young man. At 10 o'clock at night I just Snap awake and just stare down the night full of possibility. Just love it. Just love every single second of it. My appreciation, indeed my enjoyment of the night increased. On my 21st birthday, I tried coke. Kind of a nocturnal phenomenon. I didn't really get it at first. I mean, I did a gram and I said, what's the big deal? I sold my car and bought an ounce. I couldn't figure it out. What are people getting so riled up about? And then I sold my house and bought a kilo. I never. I never cracked the code on what the big deal with coke was. It does have some sort of effects on how you view day and night. Nighttime offers opportunity, unfolds out, stretches out before you. Daytime implicates everything you see, indicts you. Your shitty house, your shitty job, your shitty friends. Everything about the day sucks. But nighttime, now, that's when things rot. The thing is, when you're a junkie, which is what I became, going to bed gets to be kind of tough. That's like the hardest thing in the world, to go to bed. They call it surrendering to sleep for a reason. You don't want to give up. You really don't. On that night In November of 1988 in Minnesota, I was home with my brand new babies, little twin girls. It was cold out. We were all safe at home, which is where I should have stayed and gone to bed. But I couldn't. I was out. I had nothing. Their mom was off God knows where doing God knows what, and it was me and these babies. So I called up my friend Kenny and I said, kenny, I'm looking. He said, well, what a coincidence. I got. I said, can you come over? He said, no. I got a house full of coke sluts and knuckleheads and willing customers. You'll have to come here. And so I stand there. It's cold out. And I do what any good junkie would do. I bundle them up in snowsuits, put them in some baby buckets, and take them out to my 78 Nova, which was a shitbox that my brother bought me out of pity. And we wobble our way from North Minneapolis down to South Minneapolis. I pull into 32nd and Garfield. I look for a dark spot, not really a terrible neighborhood, but not a great one. And I shut off the car, go silent. And as my eyes adjust the darkness, I can see in the backseat. I can see those little snow suits, those little babies dreaming their little baby dreams, their little blue snowsuits. And I do the math. Could I bring them in? Ah, come into the dope house swinging a couple baby buckets. Not good, not done. Bad manners. I thought about leaving. That's the second lie. I didn't really think about leaving. Then I thought, five minutes in and out. No harm, no foul. I'll be riding home. God will look after them while I do not. How tough can it be? I gave it some more thought. There was a sudden tumbling. I stepped out of the car and went inside, locked the door. As dope houses go, this one had a lot to commend it. Kenny, the guy that ran it was. He had kind of this mad Professor Coke wrap that made it seem somehow interesting. Like he had made a studio out of his place and there were rock people that hang out, and he had a coke wrap that I just enjoyed. You know, it was all kind of black helicopters, white noise, they're coming to get us kind of thing that would keep you on your toes. So I went in. It was your typical tableau. Keep in mind that cocaine is not like heroin. Heroin is like a Jim Jarmusch movie where, you know, starts slow and then just kind of sort of goes along and eventually you fall asleep. Right. Coke is a lot more like Quentin Tarantino. Lot of blood, a lot of mayhem, a lot of equipment. Every 20 fucking minutes, you gotta do it. And if you're an IV coke user, which I was, it takes a lot of equipment, a lot of effort. So I go in, and shooting coke, if it's done properly, is kind of like an Olympic pairs event. You do it together. High risk of overdose, shooting coke. Because the objective when you're shooting it is to come really close to overdosing, but not die. You want to be right up to the edge, so you have somebody pushing it in for you. Because if you push it in too far and you get too high and can't pull it out, then. So somebody will. You'll say, push it in slow, but push it in large. Okay, Push it. Are you good? Your ears are ringing. A little more. Push it in a little more. Your blood starts to boil. Are you good? Almost. Push it in all the way. I'm good. I am so fucking good. Time becomes elastic. In those circumstances. You're always going to leave in just two minutes. Did I think of those babies out in that car? I don't want to lie. So I'm not going to say. I don't know. I was always just going to go. But then, you know, people would talk. And the thing is, he had this. He built it like a studio. So there's this acoustic tile everywhere, and there's these guitars and drums and we could pretend like we were there to jam, but it was as plain as a pile on the scale, what we were all there for, right? And Kennedy, who was just a complete paranoid, decided that there were little video cameras in those, all those acoustic tiles right in this room full of geeking people, that we were being watched by black helicopters and the video cameras in there. And so in a move of junkie solidarity, we decided, you know what, we'll inspect each hole and went through the panels. We each got a pencil and started marking off the holes as they went. And of course, Kenny spilled a bunch of coke while we were doing it. Time passed. I won't say that I came to my senses. But eventually the machine bucked. It smoked. It threw me clear. I went out past the three deadbolt locks on the front door and stepped out on that wooden porch and listened to my hollow steps, wondering, looking at that 78 Nova, feeling the chill of that night and feeling the chill in my soul and thinking, had God looked after them? Well, I had not. I did not run to that car. I was not anxious to get to that car. I walked to it nice and slow. I opened up the front door nice and slow, unlocked the back door nice and slow, pulled open that door. I could see their breath. So God had looked after them by proxy, me. But as I got in that car and drove off into that chilly night, I knew that I had done something that he would not soon forget. Thanks for listening.

[Dan Kennedy]

David Carr is a reporter and columnist for the New York Times and the author of the memoir the Night of the Gun. A reporter investigates the darkest story of his life, his own. And I want to just take a second to congratulate you on making the New Year's resolution to realize that the Moth is a nonprofit organization. So the thing about New Year's resolutions, of course, is you have to make them come true. You have to stick to them. So visit the Moth and maybe even become a member of the Moth. And that all helps support the free podcast while you're at the site. You can also buy moth stories on CD, including today's story. And today's story is on a CD called Audience Favorites, Volume 5. And now you can also download the Moth podcast directly to your smartphone and listen on the go. Visit stitcher.com and you can download the free application there.

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Our podcast host, Dan Kennedy, is the author of the book Rock An Office Power Ballad.

[Dan Kennedy]

Learn [e-mail] thanks to all of you for listening. We hope you have a story worthy week. Podcast audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argo Network Podcast hosting by PRX Public Radio Exchange Helping make public radio more [e-mail].