Kicked Out of the Nest

The last year of my apprenticeship was totally different than the first two and a half years. Suddenly, everything had changed. Hodgi started to deal coke more and more at work. He got John, the director of food and beverage, hooked so bad that he was outside the hotel in his BMW waiting for Hodgi to get off every single night. John had a master’s degree from Cornell in hotel management. What a waste. He got fired and a couple of years later he decapitated himself in a single car accident flying down a canyon going to get just a little more from Hodgi. Hodgi was fired shortly after, and within a couple of years he was pulled out of a lake with a bullet in his head.

First place. First bust. First syringe of coke.

I started selling quarter ounces at school and work for thirty bucks. Mike had dropped out, and was working with his dad putting glass in buildings. It only took me a month of selling quarters to get together enough money to rent a three bedroom house for Dawn, Mike, and me. We must have looked at a hundred houses before we found someone who would rent to two seventeen-year-olds in Bountiful, Utah. Dawn and I went to school every day, and I had a great business selling pot. It paid all of the bills plus bought food and clothes. This was great because it meant I could spend my paychecks from work on my new girlfriend Stacey.

It was getting too cold to ride my bike to work so I rode the bus. One time I left my backpack on the bus, and it had thirteen quarter-ounces in one of those fake oilcans designed for stashing shit. I called my mom from work and asked her to go to the bus station and pick up my backpack for me. She went there with my Grandma and when she tried to pick up my pack there were cops there trying to arrest her. I guess they figured out the oil can.

…and I have always been a junkie.

I am a natural born addict.  It is as simple as that.  When I was a little kid sitting at the breakfast table with my five other siblings, I would pour my own cereal and milk.  I don’t even know if you can call it milk, because it was that powdered stuff they gave people on welfare.  It truly tasted like shit.  I couldn’t wait to go to my grandma’s house, just so I could taste real milk.

“Todd, you have to stop drinking the milk like its water!” she would always tell me, but I knew I only had a short time to consume as much as I could.  So, I did.  I would try to remember how great it tasted when I was drinking the powdered stuff, thinking that perhaps it would help.

Anyway, when I poured my cereal I would place two heaping tablespoons of sugar in exactly dead center of the bowl.  I would then proceed to eat around it so that at the end I would be rewarded with a few soggy flakes that were totally drenched in sugar.  This was a wonderful ending to a crappy bowl of cereal.  Once in a while my mom would sneak behind me and try to stir it up.

“It’s my bowl of cereal! Let me eat it how I want,” I would tell her, freaking out.

I’m a junkie…

Today is March 19^th, 2006. March 11th was my youngest son’s birthday, Todd Cody Hall. He’s been dead for quite a while now, but I still celebrate his birthday every year, silently in my heart. On January 28^th, 2006 (my middle son’s birthday), I was riding motor-cross bikes with my son Parker, nineteen, and my son John, the birthday boy at seventeen. There are few things on this earth that give you a rush like the one you get flying across the beautiful Arizona desert at eighty miles per hour, clamped down on a CR 450. Suddenly, I found myself flying through the air without my bike. I landed on my head and back. Then, when I came to, I couldn’t breathe. People have accused me of having a death wish, but, believe me, at that moment there was nothing more important to me than being able to gasp for air and stay alive.

Both of my boys were right on my tail when I bit it. They were both trying to figure out how to help me, taking off my helmet and goggles. The look in both of their eyes was shear panic and distress. I remember thinking, “They love me so much. Just look how worried they are.” I thought of how much I love them as well. It seemed like an eternity, but I was finally able to gasp for air, and the first words out of my mouth were, “I’m alright. I’m alright. Just settle down.” Simply hearing my voice telling them what to do, made them both feel a lot better.

An Introduction to Trampled Underfoot

On March 19, 2006, my father embarked on writing his memoirs for lent.  The Trampled Underfoot blog is a compilation of short stories from this book, detailing his life as a critically acclaimed chef, destructive addict, and fiery manic.  I plan to post a new story every Saturday.

I will begin with an excerpt from his last page:

I started writing this book because I tried to give up cigarettes for lent.  That went right out the window.  Ten hours later, I decided to give up my life for you.  Please learn something from it. Today is the last day of Lent. Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, and I have finally risen. I feel much higher than I ever did on drugs…Chef Todd Hall

I hope you enjoy this work as much as I have. 

Thank you in advance for reading!

Sincerely yours,

Chelse