Dreamseller

  dreamseller

  brandon novak

  with JOSEPH FRANTZ

  CITADEL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Pat Novak,

  whose love, kindness, and forgiveness provided

  strength, hope, and inspiration.

  Contents

  Foreword by Tony Hawk

  Introduction by Bam Margera

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One The Last Day of Using

  Chapter Two A Prayer Answered

  Chapter Three The Last Night of Using

  Chapter Four The Phone Call

  Chapter Five The Story of Alexia

  Chapter Six Deceit and Betrayal

  Chapter Seven Dying Love, Decaying Life

  Chapter Eight The Road to Rehab

  Chapter Nine Tuerk House

  Chapter Ten Mrs. Evans

  Chapter Eleven Kindness from Strangers

  Chapter Twelve Physically Sick

  Chapter Thirteen Dane

  Chapter Fourteen Sean Williams

  Chapter Fifteen Mentally Sick

  Chapter Sixteen The First Step of a Long Journey

  Chapter Seventeen A Ghost from the Past

  Chapter Eighteen From the Beginning

  Chapter Nineteen Bucky Lasek

  Chapter Twenty A Conflict of Interests

  Chapter Twenty-one The Initiation

  Chapter Twenty-two A Change of Priorities

  Chapter Twenty-three The Calm Before the Storm

  Chapter Twenty-four The Cage

  Chapter Twenty-five Downward Spiral

  Chapter Twenty-six Bam Margera

  Chapter Twenty-seven Haggard

  Chapter Twenty-eight Paradise Lost

  Chapter Twenty-nine Dealing with Reality

  Chapter Thirty Death and Resurrection

  Chapter Thirty-one Changes

  Chapter Thirty-two It’s All Over—or Is It?

  Epilogue

  My Friend Scott

  Foreword

  by Tony Hawk

  The lure of celebrity is strong at a young age. This is especially true in the world of skateboarding. Kids who show a hint of talent usually do so just as they are becoming teenagers, and there are plenty of companies that will promise fame and fortune to these naïve souls. It is hard to keep your head clear when you are suddenly thrust into the spotlight for your skills and puberty is still something you’ve only heard about in health class. It is all too easy to get caught up in the hype, join the party scene, get the girls (who never gave you attention until you got your picture in the skate magazine), and let your skating take a backseat to your celebrity status. You are soon forgotten because your skating is no longer on point, but in your (drug-fogged) mind you are still the shit. Only when the money stops coming in and the attention dries up does reality come crashing down: you love drugs more than you love skating (or even yourself). I have seen it too many times, but one of the biggest offenders in this cliché scenario is Brandon Novak.

  Brandon was a prodigal skater in the ’90s. He was well on his way to a successful pro career until he got caught up in the party scene. For a while, the only amateur name you heard about was Brandon. “This kid from Baltimore is amazing!…the next Bucky Lasek!”

  And suddenly he was gone. There were plenty of rumors about what became of this young hopeful. He stopped skating; he was doing heroin; he died. I didn’t know what to believe, but I knew whatever he was doing…it wasn’t good. I knew Bam was trying to help, but it seemed like he was unknowingly becoming Brandon’s source of income—just so he could get a fix. Skating was just a memory for him; he now lived for the needle.

  I only got to see Brandon skate a couple of times, but there was no denying his natural talent. He could have learned anything he wanted and made a decent living in the process. Now he is a likely candidate for a Behind the Music (Behind the Board?) episode, but his story is one of the few that has a silver lining. Through these experiences and his subsequent sobriety, he now serves as a cautionary tale. Sure, we can laugh at his stories and make fun of his poor choices, but we have to realize that this stuff can happen all too easily when you have these opportunities at such a young age.

  So enjoy these tidbits, but take warning. Don’t forget what you love doing if success falls on you early in life. Keep it all in perspective by keeping a clear head along the way. Don’t become a cliché. Remember that Brandon is one of the few who made it out by cleaning up. The only other endings to this story are jail or death, and there is no skating in either of those scenarios.

  Introduction

  by Bam Margera

  I met Brandon Novak at a skatepark when I was a kid. Basically, he was my friend as well as competitor whenever I saw him at the skatepark, which was a positive thing because he forced me to be my best and I forced him to be his best. Soon Brandon earned a full-on sponsorship by Powell Peralta. As time went on, I saw less and less of him.

  One day I ran into Bucky Lasek, our mutual friend. I asked, “What happened to Novak? Do you still skate with him?”

  Bucky looked at me, completely bummed out. “I think he’s on heroin.” I laughed at this, but Bucky said, “No, seriously, I’ve heard some things and he’s definitely on drugs. I’m pretty sure it’s heroin. He quit the team and basically threw away his whole life. It’s a shame. He really had something.”

  Bucky was right. Brandon should have been a famous skateboarder. That’s what was supposed to happen, that’s what was meant to happen. It just didn’t seem to make any sense.

  One time, I was going through some old videotapes and found some footage of Novak. He was about ten years old, dressed in baggy clothes that were about ten sizes too big for him, with gold jewelry just like a little gangster rapper. I had a laugh at this, and then I got bummed when I started to remember all the talent in this kid that had gone to waste. I was on the phone with his mom in five minutes, and she told me he had just gotten out of rehab and could use my advice. I didn’t know what I could tell him that could help, but I left my number for him.

  That night in bed I kept thinking about Mrs. Novak asking me to give him advice. Could I really help him? Could I actually make a difference? It felt strange that we both had started out at the same level yet ended up so differently.

  By the time I got hold of Brandon the next day, I had made my decision that he should come to live with me while he cleaned up his act. At least I could look after him and give him a hand up and help get him back on the right track.

  We filmed CKY 3, and a movie called Haggard. In Haggard, I gave Brandon a part where he played a drug dealer. I also made a behind-the-scenes documentary for Haggard. Half of it became about Brandon’s drug addiction. Before I knew it, I was getting fan mail about the movie, and everyone asked, “Whatever happened to Brandon Novak?” I’ll tell you what happened. He went right back on the heroin as soon as he had the chance.

  While he lived at my house he was always acting shady. And soon, all the skateboarding gear that my sponsors were sending to my house was disappearing: skateboards, wheels, trucks, decks, sunglasses, clothes. Brandon swore he wasn’t stealing them, but who else would have? My parents?! Soon enough, everyone at Philly’s FDR skatepark was telling me that Brandon was selling all my gear for cash.

  Soon he started borrowing money from my friends and never paid them back. Then jewelry started disappearing from my mother’s room. Then my brother Jess’s CDs started to disappear. And everything that had once been in the medicine cabinet was gone except for a box of Band-Aids. Soon, my mom had to hide her purse, and the whole family had to find hiding places for anything that was valuable.

  Meanwhile, Brandon was taki
ng the bus back to Baltimore on a regular basis, for the most unbelievable reasons in the world. I can still remember a few:

  He had to help his mother move a heavy piece of furniture.

  His mom was sick so he had to go look after her dog.

  He had to go back to get his favorite pair of jeans. Your favorite pair of jeans?! Are you fucking kidding me?!

  Whenever he returned from Baltimore, he had a glazed look in his eye that told us the real reason he went home—obviously, to buy more heroin.

  At that point my parents and I realized that you can’t get a junkie off of heroin unless he is ready to make the decision to quit. And Brandon clearly hadn’t made that decision. We soon realized that it would be the best for all of us if he left our house before something happened that ruined our relationship for good.

  Three years later, I got a call from Brandon. He told me he had been clean for a few months, and for some reason I believed him. He came to my house and I let him live with me for a while. He really did seem clean, and I put him on Viva La Bam and on my weekly radio show.

  Having Novak around was entertaining because he always had crazy insane stories about being strung out. These stories would usually leave his listeners with their mouths open and in shock, saying, “Are you serious?!” Eventually, they would approach Novak and ask him to retell his tales for their friends. I never got tired of hearing the hundreds of insane stories. I still don’t think I’ve heard them all. Apparently, when you’re a junkie, you’re prone to a lifestyle that is unimaginable to most. Well, at least when you’re as bad off as Novak let his life get.

  After living with me for a few months, Brandon started to stagnate. He was doing nothing to improve his well-being, and still didn’t have a job. He was doing a lot of drinking.

  Finally, one day when he was telling his crazy heroin stories at my house, my mother Ape said, “You know, Brandon, you should write a book!” It hit me; I had an idea that would keep Brandon motivated and bring purpose to his life for the first time since he quit skateboarding. I told him, “That’s it, Brandon! That’s what you’re meant to do!”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “From now on, you’re going to stay productive! While you stay here, you don’t have to pay rent, you don’t have to get a job, but you’re going to write down all your experiences on paper and it’s going to be a book!”

  Brandon’s face lit up. At that point, I think he realized this is what he was meant to do, the reason why he had all his experiences as a junkie. To write a book, and to inspire other people not to ruin their lives and careers like he had once ruined his.

  Acknowledgments

  Brandon Novak and Joe Frantz wish to extend a heartfelt thank-you to those whose special advice, efforts, guidance, and friendship helped bring the Dreamseller project to fruition:

  Mandy Buchanan, Richard Ember, Ted Field, Terry Hardy, Todd Hastings, Tony Hawk, Jody Hotchkiss, Bucky Lasek, Guy Leeper, April Margera, Bam Margera, Phil Margera, Scott, Mike Vallely, Keith Yokomoto, Howard Yoon.

  Brandon would also like to extend a warm thank-you to his loving brother and sister, who gave him his first skateboard.

  dreamseller

  chapter one

  The Last Day of Using

  I am a twenty-five-year-old junkie, sleeping in an abandoned garage in one of the worst parts of Baltimore City. My eyes open.

  It is August 11, 2003. I can’t tell you the time because I don’t own a watch, but judging by the angle of the sun’s rays shining through the cracks of the abandoned garage door, it is about eight-thirty a.m.

  As soon as I am conscious enough to think, panic consumes my body. My mind searches desperately for the answer to the question, “Did I leave a gate shot for myself last night?” A “gate shot” is what we junkies refer to as the first fix of the day, which draws the user “out of the gate” until they can pull a hustle that will lead to the next fix. I suppose this is a term borrowed from horse or dog racing, which conjures an insightful visualization of a junkie’s lifestyle: a fixated animal running a desperate, circular sprint.

  My hands strike out, searching, reaching, grasping. Not in my shoes, not in my pockets, not on the floor…I arrive at the terrible conclusion: no gate shot, not today.

  I am dreading the chain of events that are rapidly approaching, and I want so bad to reject the responsibility of having to scrounge up ten dollars for a pill of Dope, but Heroin is calling. I know I have to make it happen somehow, some way.

  I take a deep breath, and stagnant air fills my lungs. My eyes, adjusting to the sunlight, fix on the cracks on the ceiling, the peeling paint, the broken light fixture, the cement beams, all the exterior details which express my inner condition.

  My body shivers from the chill of the cold cement floor beneath my “bed,” which consists of three moldy dingy-yellow cushions. A few days prior, I had taken them from a sofa that was sitting in the rain next to some trash cans I happened to be picking through. I thought they might bring comfort after a long day of stealing, lying, and hustling, so I took them to the abandoned garage I call my “home.” I had arranged them in a symmetrical line, spacing them three inches apart so they might almost accommodate the length of a five-foot-six body. That night, as I drifted off to sleep with my feet resting on the cold cement, I found pride in my accomplishment—the acquisition of these three dank cushions, stinking of mold and mildew, which I now I refer to as my “bed.”

  I sit.

  I unwrinkle my makeshift pillow, my hooded sweatshirt. I wear this sweatshirt for one good reason: the hood conceals my white skin. You see, I buy my drugs in an all-black neighborhood, and there are stick-up boys everywhere who look to prey upon white-boy junkies like me. Also, being the only white person in the area makes me a prime target for cops, who know that any white person they see here is a drug addict.

  I slip my shoes over the socks I have worn in my sleep. I wear my socks to bed because I have not showered properly in a few months, and the barrier of crust imbedded in the fabric helps contain the stench of my feet.

  I stand.

  I have slept in many depressing, deathly places, but this one is the unrivaled worst. The floor, covered in muck and grime, is littered with used needles, bloody ties, candle nubs, burned match packs, empty lighters, crushed water bottles, and blackened cookers of all forms—spoons, cans, bottle caps, tins, and other dish-shaped metal scraps. In the center of the floor a refrigerator on its side functions as a “coffee table” for the junkies who reside here. There have been days when I wondered whether it might actually work when plugged into a live outlet, and others when I contemplated somehow transporting it to the junkyard in exchange for cash. But it’s heavy, which means I would have to divide the work, as well as the proceeds, with another junkie, and that wasn’t a possibility. Sharing is a concept foreign to addicts.

  Piles of broken drywall, which once divided a corner of the garage into a bathroom, surround a toilet that hasn’t worked in years. But junkies who sleep here use it anyway, and it is overflowing with urine and feces. Standing within a two-foot proximity will cause me to vomit from the sight and stench.

  It is sick that the content of this garage represents the person I have become, and what is worse is that I have become accustomed to it.

  As I stagger toward the door, each step intensifies the sinking feeling that today is going to be my day to die. But this idea does not deter my attention from the task at hand, the hustle for ten dollars, the price of a pill of Heroin, a small gel capsule full of Heroin powder that can either be snorted, or cooked then injected.

  Where? How? I race through a mental catalog of scams. How can I get ten bucks through a minimum amount of effort? It comes to me: Mom.

  Mom is a resource I tap only when all others have run dry, because I am ashamed for her to see me in this condition. But this morning I am desperate. I’ll offer her one of my stock alibis such as, “I need to borrow lunch money until my next paycheck clears,”
or “I just got a job as a busboy, but I need to buy a new shirt for my first day of work.” These fabrications never fail to extract money from her purse. This is not because she will believe them. Instead, Mom will hand over the cash just to rid herself of this twisted vision of the filthy junkie who is her beloved son.

  The garage door. My opponent. When unlocked, tension from two industrial-strength springs allows it to glide open almost effortlessly. But with the handle in its present “locked” position, the springs act as a fulcrum securing the door to the ground. Yet, the door can be heaved open with a great amount of effort from a desperate junkie.