Finding Ultra (10 page)

My friends and classmates cheered, or at least that's how I interpreted their response at the time. But the professors on the dais were quietly unimpressed. And my parents were traumatized. When I joined them after the ceremony, I was caught completely off guard by the look of horror, embarrassment, and disappointment on their faces. The image is forever seared in my brain. What
I utterly failed to grasp was that graduations are just as much for the proud parents as they are for the student—probably more so. The day was intended to memorialize a tremendous amount of sacrifice on their part. And so my mockery of the pomp and circumstance was more than injurious—it was devastating.

Over dinner that evening, they did their best to put on smiles and place the event in their rear view. But the damage was done. That night they bid me a muted good-bye, their departure laden with overtones of dismayed finality that seemed to say,
You're on your own now, big man
. As I laid my head on the pillow, I wept until my stomach ached with grief, remorse, and regret.

Back in Palo Alto, where I planned to spend a quiet summer studying for the California bar exam, I shared an apartment off bustling University Avenue with Pablo Morales. Yes, the hero of my adolescence whose image adorned the walls of my bedroom was now my roommate and bar prep study partner. Still licking my wounds from graduation, I pledged to stay dry the entire summer. And I meant it. Focus on my studies, pass the bar, and begin anew. Unfortunately, I'd once again brought myself with me. And with Stanford playing host to the 1994 World Cup Soccer Tournament, and the around-the-clock revelry that came with it, staying sober became impossible. Needless to say, I failed the exam.

Though I was deeply embarrassed at having to retake the bar that February, being a young associate lawyer at Littler Mendelson was something of a solace. Unlike at Skadden, the people were nice—they respected the need for employees to have a life. And the pay was decent. I spent my days in a plush downtown office, with a spectacular view of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge, handling a very manageable caseload. Still, I just couldn't summon much
interest in labor and employment law, and I spent hours wistfully gazing through my window at the afternoon fog rolling in across the bay. Miraculously, I'd survived law school and managed to land on my feet in a pretty darn good place.
I should be happy
, I told myself.
So why do I feel this way? What is wrong with me?

San Francisco isn't New York. But I was back living in an urban environment. So it was time to pick up where I left off. I moved in with Gavin Holles, a banker and former LSU swimmer whom I'd once competed against in the 200-butterfly. Gavin is a great guy and made for a good roommate. And if I had to choose one word to describe him, it's
tolerant
. Together we had plenty of good times enjoying the San Francisco nightlife, barhopping our way across the Marina. But when it came to me, Gavin would soon discover that he got more than he bargained for.

Here's a typical weekday snapshot of how I rolled in 1995. Honing the skills I developed at Skadden, I'd generally perform the least amount of work possible, fulfilling only the bare minimum of expectations. On many occasions, I'd leave the office with no goal other than to aimlessly walk the streets alone. Leaving my jacket draped on my desk chair gave the appearance that I might just be down the hall, working in a quiet conference room or perhaps meeting with a client. Around five o'clock, I began staring at the clock and evaluating my environment in an effort to determine exactly how early I could duck out. En route to the Marina from the financial district, I'd generally stop by my favorite liquor store, where I'd pick up four large twenty-two-ounce Sapporo beers and one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. For the drive home, I'd usually drink at least two of the Sapporos, hiding the empties under the seat. The remainder of my stash I concealed in my soft leather
satchel. That way, if Gavin was home when I arrived, I could sneak the booty into my room without notice. In other words,
I began to hide my drinking
.

After drinking another Sapporo in the shower, I'd head to my bedroom. Door closed, I'd turn the television up loud to obscure the sound of my wine cork popping and proceed to finish my stash in privacy as Gavin ate dinner alone in the kitchen. With my head now fully buzzing, I could finally embrace the night and all the adventure it might hold.

I convinced myself that Gavin had no concept of just how depraved I'd become. Of course, he was well aware. In later years he confessed that he knew just about everything. He just decided to keep it to himself.

Ironically, during the two-year period in which I shared an apartment with Gavin he competed as an avid Ironman triathlete and open-water swimmer. So while I lay passed out in the next room, Gavin would generally awake before dawn to train. On the weekends, he'd leave town to compete in this race or that, often winning or placing in a variety of long-distance ocean swims or other multisport events.

Gavin would cajole me: “Come on Ricky, you should do this stuff with me, I bet you'd be pretty good.” He liked to call me Ricky, a nickname I earned one night after overdoing it on Sambuca liqueur. Sambuca, rocker Richie Sambora—similar-sounding words, you get the idea. I hate that nickname. But it stuck.

During a long weekend spent with friends in a house on Lake Tahoe, I remember waking up one morning around 10
A.M.
, wildly hungover, to find Gavin, along with his buddy Greg Welch—an Ironman world champion—and a bunch of other triathletes hanging around the kitchen in their cycling attire.

“Wow, you guys are up early. Headed out for a ride?” I asked.

“Just finished, mate,” Greg replied in a friendly Aussie drawl,
taking in my pallid appearance with a wry smile. While I was passed out, the crew had already logged a ninety-mile loop around the lake. Part of me wanted to vomit just thinking about it. But the other part felt an entirely different emotion. Shame.
Why can't I be more like that?

In the spring of 1995, while I was still living with Gavin in the Marina, I fell in love with Michele, a native of Palo Alto with green eyes, long legs, and equally long, dark hair. Of course, we met in a bar. And predictably, I was drunk.

I still have no idea how we met exactly, or what I might have said to draw her attention. But it didn't matter. All I recall is her inviting smile, and the fact that I liked her immediately.

Michele worked as the executive director of a newly founded and experimental middle school called the San Francisco 49ers Academy, located in impoverished East Palo Alto and designed to provide individualized attention to at-risk underprivileged youth. I respected her commitment to service—something I lacked entirely in my own life. Soon I was spending most of my time with her down on the Peninsula and commuting each day up to the city for work. Her friends became my friends. And her family became mine. Best of all, I was in love. Or at least, I thought I was.

Meanwhile, I was growing increasingly restless at work. It would be years before I understood that the hole in my spirit had nothing to do with my job—that it required a different remedy. But at the time, I was convinced a career reboot would do the trick. And so I began to look around for a new job. Since I loved film, I thought
I'd enjoy the practice of entertainment law. I pictured my law degree as a lever to insert myself into the Hollywood machine.

So I started sending my résumé out, slipping it to everyone I knew with even a tangential connection to Hollywood, including my old Stanford swimming friend John Moffet, who was then a producer on the daily entertainment news show
Hard Copy
. But nothing seemed to materialize. Then, out of the blue, I received an interview invitation from a law firm called Christensen, White, Miller, Fink & Jacobs—one of the top entertainment litigation houses in Los Angeles. Sure, it was litigation—not the transactional deal-making practice I sought—but it was better than nothing. Curiously, I had no idea how this firm even knew about me, since I'd never sent them my résumé.
Better not even ask
, I thought.

A few days later, I called in sick to Littler and hopped a flight to Los Angeles to interview with the Christensen firm. As I plopped down in my assigned aisle seat, I was amazed to discover my friend John Moffet sitting in the window seat right next to me—the same John I was partying with that fateful night I cracked my ribs at Stanford Stadium.
What are the odds?
A happy coincidence, for sure. But nothing more, I thought. It wasn't until years later that I would divine greater meaning in John's presence not just on that flight, but in my life. The truth, I'd later realize, was that John was the only reason I was even on this flight to begin with.

I'd eventually learn that some months prior John had passed my résumé to a young lawyer I'd never met named Chris Green,
^*
then in-house counsel at
Hard Copy
. Chris was impressed with my credentials and, utterly unbeknownst to John and me, had passed the document along to Christensen,
Hard Copy
's outside counsel. In a
stroke of great ironic harmony, many years later I'd have the pleasure of working closely with Chris, and ultimately I'd play a large role in helping him discover sobriety. John and Chris, through a few tiny gestures, managed to completely change my life. And in turn, I was later placed in a position where I could share with Chris what had saved my life so he could save his own.

I got the job. And within a few short months, I'd packed my bags for what would be my final move. Destination: Los Angeles. Michele and I were still going strong at this point, and despite the distance, I was determined to make our relationship work. A few months later, I even popped the question at sunset on the beach in Santa Barbara, during one of our many romantic getaways. She said yes.
We were getting married
. The plan was that we'd host the ceremony in her hometown of Palo Alto, but that she'd soon relocate south so we could build a life together. Things were looking up.

From the word go, my work at Christensen was all-consuming—beyond intense. “The Firm,” as I like to call it, was home to some of Los Angeles's most elite “super lawyers” and ground zero for some of Hollywood's most high-profile disputes. It had its fingerprints on everything from the famous O.J. Simpson and Rodney King cases to top-level city politics and major movie studio disputes. No, this wouldn't be the relatively polite and gentlemanly practice of Littler. This was hardball. Roll up your sleeves, get dirty, and in the case of some employees, even push the ethical envelope. In 2006, for example, name partner Terry Christensen was indicted on charges that he instructed famous Hollywood private investigator Anthony Pellicano to unlawfully wiretap a litigation opponent. The drama played out in the halls of Christensen was the stuff of Hollywood lore, the métier of Dominick Dunne and the pages of
Vanity Fair
. And I was dropped right in the middle of the action.

My first day, I was summoned to the office of Skip Miller, one of Los Angeles's most feared attorneys. As I sat across from
him to receive my first assignment, the irony of once again voluntarily submitting my life to the whims of a powerful overlord named Skip was not lost on me. That marine sniper turned swim coach had now morphed into a tenacious litigator. And I was his submissive pawn.

My first assignment was to draft an appellate brief for a prominent client. The junior partner assigned to the task had just taken maternity leave, and the matter fell entirely into my hands to handle. Alone. The only problem? I'd never written an appellate brief—a task usually reserved for a small team of lawyers, not one clueless associate whose only area of legal expertise involved protracted disappearances from the office. But I couldn't let Skip see me sweat. Not on my first day. As I swallowed the terror and accepted the charge, he left me with one final remark: “Don't drop the ball.”

I didn't. For the next few weeks, I immersed myself in the matter, combing through boxes of documents and poring over case law to deliver a brief that proved instrumental in winning the appeal. And so from that moment on, I belonged to Skip.
I was his boy
. Sure, he was demanding. He expected much from me. But behind the intimidating mask, there was a devoted family man and a mentor who pushed me hard. Most important, when I eventually struggled through the most difficult time in my life, he stood steadfastly by me.

Outside the office, there was one thing I learned quickly. When it comes to drinking and driving, Los Angeles doesn't screw around. From the moment I started getting wasted at eighteen, I'd been pulled over by the police for suspicion of drunk driving no fewer than nine times. It seems like a lot. But when you consider how much I drove while inebriated, I should have been pulled over far more often than I was. Either that or maimed, dead, or responsible for someone else's maiming or death. Yet each and every time the
red and blue flashed in my rearview, I somehow managed to wiggle free without arrest. Sometimes it was fast-talking. Other times, just blind luck. I prefer to believe something outside myself was looking out for me—call it God, my Higher Power, my Guardian Angels, or the Universe. The label matters little.

But my luck was about to finally run out.

It was a particularly warm October evening when I began to detect that all too familiar sense of restlessness starting to throw me off my already precarious sense of balance. As the eerie, hot Santa Ana winds blew wide through the open windows of my apartment, I could feel my dormant demon stir.
I should go to bed
, I thought.
I have a lot of work tomorrow
.

Minutes later, though, I was wending my way through the urban morass from Westwood to Hollywood, a tumbler of vodka between my legs. With the music blaring, I was firmly saddled in that sweet spot of distorted perception where everything finally makes sense.
I was in the groove
. Several nightspot stops later—and after further fortification from beer, vodka, and shots of Jagermeister—I was doing a liquid fade into beautiful oblivion. That's when it happened.