Eugene O’Neill won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1936. His most famous play, “Long Day’s Journey into the Night,” is set on just one day in August 1912. Mary Tyrone, 54, is a central character, stricken by rheumatism, stricken by grief after the death of her second son. The helpful family doctor, back when they carried little black leather bags and made house calls, prescribes morphine to comfort. Mary would become hooked, and would later say: “It hides you from the world and the world from you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you anymore.” Denial is the addict’s crutch, as Mary proclaims: “Now I have to lie, especially to myself.” Just over a century after the setting of this play, on New Year’s Day, 2013, Sam Quinnones, a former reporter for the Los Angeles Times, sat in a café in Covington, Kentucky, as he commenced full-time work on this remarkable book. He never mentions O’Neill in his work, but he does mention Bruce Springsteen.
I’ve read two other serious works on the human and social devastation that have been wrought by the outsourcing of jobs overseas and the “comfort” that the humans who have been placed on the discard pile have sought through the use of drugs, often opioids. “Dopesick” was written by Beth Macy, a reporter with the “Roanoke Times,” who had covered, for two decades “marginalized families,” as the expression has it, and focused on the trial of Purdue Pharma, and its corporate leadership. The “Ghosts of Tom Joad – A Story of the 99%” was written by Peter Van Buren. In my idiosyncratic rating system, I rated both books 6-stars. Van Buren also mentioned Springsteen; in fact, both Quinnones and Van Buren reference the same line from Springsteen’s lament, “The River,”: “They bring you up to do like your daddy done.”
Quinnones starts in the Ohio River valley, in the town of Portsmouth, Ohio. In his preface he provides a profoundly moving elegy for “the way things were,” when in 1929, the town opened a massive swimming pool that would be the community center for decades, where first loves were consummated. It was called “Dreamland.” Again, Springsteen’s lines would resonate: “Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir.” Portsmouth would become the epicenter for the “pill mill” revolution. Imagine obtaining your medical care from a doctor who dressed like Liberace! The author describes (Dr.) David Proctor in this manner. No physical exam, no diagnosis. “You ache, here, take this pill, all will be resolved. Two-fifty, please.” Proctor would be the godfather of the “pill mill,” and would do serious prison time, before being deported to Canada.
A true strength of Quinnones’ reportage is that he moved far beyond the Ohio River Valley and Appalachia, the locales of the other two books. He speaks Spanish, lived in Mexico for a decade and understands the rural areas as well as any “gringo” can. All the black tar heroin sold in the United States comes from Xalisco, in the sixth smallest state of Mexico: Nayarit. They control it all, using basic free market principles, emphasizing customer satisfaction, with interchangeable drivers that deliver the goods. An internet for drug distribution. Poor farm boys, escaping the sugar cane fields, so they can buy Levi 501’s, and be the “big man” when they return to Xalisco… at least for a week or two. Quinnones nails the motivation perfectly. A quiet subtext of his account is how easily these farm boys turned heroin merchants, as well as their merchandise, transit the border between the United States and Mexico, after a very simple phone call. They and their merchandise arrive faster than an Amazon Prime two-day package.
“You can run, but you can’t hide.” I grew up at the commencement of the Ohio River, but serendipity lead me NOT to do what my daddy done, which was work in a steel mill. Quinnones repeatedly visits many places in California, as well as Portland Oregon and Boise Idaho. He devotes two entire chapters to two towns in my late-in-life new home in the Land of Enchantment, specifically the village of Chimayo, with its 4000 somewhat tarnished souls, a place dubbed the “Lourdes of America,” as well as Santa Fe. Nary a mention of the Opera House in the chapter on the latter; rather, he notes that when the drug bust came that nailed the director of the funeral home, who also had a habit, who used his name to register all the cars and apartments for the drug delivery boys, that the supply of heroin in the town was disrupted for ONE DAY.
The 24th richest family in America, per Forbes, the Sacklers, became obscenely rich by pushing heroin, labeled as Oxycontin. Poor farm boys from Xalisco did not grow as rich, but did obtain designer clothes, nice homes with running water, and pick-ups. Quite a few would do prison time, as they managed to replace the higher priced Oxycontin with black-tar heroin, where a user could get his daily fix for about the price of a 6-pack of beer.
Much of this social devastation has occurred because, as a nation, which certainly includes US attorney’s offices, follow the path blazed by the fictional Mary Tyrone, of over a century ago: “Now I have to lie, especially to myself.” Quinnone has provided an excellent account of how this all occurred, with many pithy observations and phrases, like “the vinegar for a crucified region.”
Who amongst us has not been affected? Two weeks ago my wife and I toasted, remotely, a “celebration of life” for one of our daughter’s friends, who “slipped in the shower” at the age of 32, in San Francisco. Meanwhile, three days ago, the local newspaper announced the death of the University of New Mexico defensive lineman, Nahje Flowers, age 21. UNM refused to disclose the cause of death. Indeed, we have to lie, especially to ourselves. 6-stars for Quinnone’s seminal work.
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