Beautiful Things by Hunter Biden (paper ebook reader txt) 📕

and night into day. With the curtains always closed, there was no visible distinction between the two. It got so disorienting at one point that I demanded one of the hangers-on pull open the shades so I could see for myself—see if it was day or night.

I came to dread sleep. If I rested too long between hits on a pipe, I’d be thrown into a panic. I’d crash for a few minutes, come to, and the first thing I’d demand would be “Where’s the pipe?” Other times I’d reach for rocks that I’d left on a bedside table and then find, to my horror, that they’d been blown all over the room—somebody left a window or door open. I’d get down on my hands and knees to scan the floor and comb through the rug with my fingers. Half the time I had no idea what I was picking up: Is this a flake of Parmesan from the cheese platter we ordered last night? Or crack?

It didn’t matter: I smoked it. If it was crack, great. If it wasn’t, I’d take a hit, exhale, and exclaim: “Shit, that’s not it—that’s the fucking cheese!”

It got more pathetic. While driving around, I often snacked on white cheddar popcorn that I bought at convenience stores, eating it out of the bag. If I suddenly ran out of crack, I’d scrounge around my car’s floor wells, cup holders, and door panels for any traces I might have dropped. Again, the crack crumbs were often indistinguishable from the spilled snacks. Safe to say I’ve smoked more cheddar popcorn than anybody on the face of the earth.

Over time, I trained my body to function on less and less sleep. After three days straight, I’d get droopy and zombie-walk everywhere. I’d push through it, though, and soon my body reset: I’d feel like I woke up at 8 a.m. after a weekend of lawn mowing and golf, ready for work. I’d smoke some more and be off to the races again for three more days, or six more days, or twelve more days.

My weekly sleep allotment usually topped out at about ten hours. Yet even that was irregular and mostly useless—definitely not REM sleep. I caught a few winks in my car while waiting on a dealer; on a toilet seat; on a chaise lounge by the hotel pool between hits. If I fell asleep there for too long, one of my room’s misfit squatters was sure to shake me awake to cadge something new.

We’ve all been inside rooms we can’t afford to die in. I put myself inside that room day after day, week after week, month after month.

I stayed in one place until I tired of it, or until it tired of me, and then moved on, my merry band of crooks, creeps, and outcasts soon to follow.

Availability drove some of the moves; impulsiveness drove others. A sample itinerary:

I left the Chateau the first time for an Airbnb in Malibu. When I couldn’t reserve it for longer than a week, I returned to West Hollywood and the Jeremy hotel. There were then stays at the Sunset Tower, Sixty Beverly Hills, and the Hollywood Roosevelt. Then another Airbnb in Malibu and an Airbnb in the Hollywood Hills. Then back to the Chateau. Then the NoMad downtown, the Standard on Sunset. A return to the Sixty, a return to Malibu…

The scene was the same everywhere. I sometimes made sketches of the rooms’ interiors but soon realized they all looked alike. I slapped a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door first thing; a maid never entered. By the end of a stay, in the soft golden glow of the luxury room’s light, the high-cotton-count bedsheets were strewn across the floor, plates and platters piled high from room service, the bedside phone knocked permanently off the hook.

An ant trail of dealers and their sidekicks rolled in and out, day and night. They pulled up in late-series Mercedes-Benzes, decked out in oversized Raiders or Lakers jerseys and flashing fake Rolexes. Their stripper girlfriends invited their girlfriends, who invited their boyfriends. They’d drink up the entire minibar, call room service for filet mignon and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. One of the women even ordered an additional filet for her purse-sized dog.

When they finished, two or three days later, they’d walk out with the hotel’s monogrammed towels and throw pillows and comforters and ashtrays. Minimum-wage bouncers with side businesses—drugs, girls, access to VIP rooms for tips—now had a new hustle:

Me.

That’s the business they were in. One night some women in my room started swapping stories they’d heard of a guy in the Hollywood Hills who’d created a social media platform, made millions if not billions, and now was addicted to drugs. They marveled at the stampede on his house to take his TVs and cars and the last dime in his bank account. They discussed it casually, almost professionally, like exchanging stock tips. Their takeaway: I gotta get up there! It was a way of life that revolved around feeding off people with money who have fallen into addiction.

I hardly held myself above them. I was just as much a part of the depravity as they were. I was smoking crack every fifteen minutes. They’d live off me until I said otherwise. As long as they didn’t touch my drugs—or interfere with my ability to use, or create a scene that cut short my ability to stay at the hotel—I didn’t give a damn.

Most of them came with their own drugs and focused on their own addictions: heroin, meth, drinking themselves to death. If I ran low on mine, I joined in with theirs. Misery really does love company.

I would get a room for one night. Then ask to keep it for another night. Then another. And another. When hotel management wanted me out, they’d refuse to extend my stay, politely but firmly telling me that someone else had reserved the room and there were no other vacancies.