The Year Cocaine Arrived in Ashland
My Attempt to Write a Full-Length Novel Based on the Craziest Damned Bit of Town Lore I'd Ever Heard.
Unfortunately…I’ve spent the last two months distracted by work and other responsibilities, leaving little time for Substack or writing in general. A bit of ADHD, anxiety, and depression sabotaged any attempt on my part to find motivation or joy in writing. Reading everyone’s stories, playing around with all the new features here, and even reading all the helpful writing mags/blogs to which I subscribe became overwhelming. So—I just checked out for a bit.
But thanks to NaNoWriMo, I had about 30,000 words of a full-length novel just sitting on my hard drive for the last year. It was a loosely structured story with an incomplete 3rd Act, but I felt good about it. Then two things happened. First: I took some time away from it to write on Substack. When I returned to the rough draft, I realized I actually hated it. It was boring. Some of the scenes were interesting, but the story itself felt forced. The characters were hit or miss. AND the only way through the 3rd Act was to rely on an Ex Machina. Then the Second thing happened: I was told a story.
One of the benefits of growing up in a place like Ashland (the fictional town that mirrors mine and many other rural Indiana towns) is how town gossip evolves into lore, becoming part of its history. About a year ago, a former county employee found themselves in court on embezzlement charges and so began a thread of Facebook comments regarding their knowledge of “buried bodies.” This thread eventually devolved into the history of government corruption in Ashland and one of the stories I latched onto was the murder of a woman and child approximately forty years ago. It was one of those stories that everyone forgot, but once it was rehashed on Facebook, my mother started to recall bits and pieces. She remembered past conversations with my father that filled in some of the blanks as well. Then a lawyer friend of mine provided more insight and directed me toward appellate decisions that stemmed from the murder. Using second-hand knowledge, public record, and some gossip—a new story began to develop.
As with most aspects of American society, everything arrives late to Ashland. High speed internet (only available in town), legal marijuana (still not here, but we can buy it across the river), a Taco Bell (just six months ago). Even drugs take their time arriving. Fentanyl is taking its time, probably because legal narcotics hold it at bay. A few years ago, when ALL of Southern Indiana was experiencing a spike in HIV because of the heroin epidemic—heroin itself only showed up here for a few months, then disappeared thanks in part to legal narcotics crushing demand for injectables. Crystal meth just arrived after scourging the American Southwest for decades—ours was homemade in trailer labs and 2 liter bottles until the ingredients became too costly and scarce. And good marijuana never arrived…just dirt weed smoked out of necessity. This was the complete history of the drug trade in Ashland or so I thought until I stumbled upon the craziest, god-damn story I’d ever heard.
Cocaine arrived in the late-80s/early-90s, a decade or so after its heyday in metropolitan areas. At the time, Ashland was middle-class with a sprinkling of white-collar wealth. Industry boomed, along with disposable income. The drug trade shifted to overland routes due to economic pressure brought on by foreign interdiction efforts and a tightening of ports along the coastal United States. And why wouldn’t Ashland benefit from this? It’s located less than three hours away from four MAJOR metropolitan areas spread across four states. A concentration of industry meant more shipping and logistics companies to transport raw materials and finished goods. The Geography and Economics of Ashland—coupled with a small-time criminal making deals with the cartels, law enforcement turning a blind eye, corrupt politicians offering protection, and a community demanding powder—created the perfect storm of cocaine entering Southern Indiana by the truckload, not the carload. Local businesses with packs of cocaine sewn or taped into retail goods, into every cushion, into every false bottom, into every panel. It was five years of a town’s history where if you weren’t using, you knew someone who was. Where the local criminal justice system was permissive if not entirely complicit. Where wealth and power consolidated around an elected official, a career criminal, and a small-business owner. And where the murder of a mother and child brought it all to light.