Editor's Note: Ruben Castaneda was born and grew up in Los Angeles and worked for the Los Angeles Herald Examiner before joining the Post. From the latter part of 1989 through the mid-1990s, Ruben covered the D.C. police and crime beat. He's newly the author of S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C. For Biographile's That Summer series, in which authors share personal stories on the summers that shaped them, Castaneda remembers the summer before he got clean, skipping his brother's rehearsal dinner for a fix he hoped would be his last.

Adrenaline whooshed through my body as me and my date, a striking young brunette, quick-walked up the stairs to the second floor of the two-story Experience Motel, on the western edge of downtown Los Angeles.

I couldn’t wait to get into the room with Raven. About halfway up the stairwell, I noticed a Latino gangster leaning on the second-floor railing, eyeballing us. He wore a white wifebeater, pressed khakis, and pointy black dress shoes.

Homeboy didn’t worry me. I’d grown up around gangsters in L.A., Latino vatos like him. I had gangster classmates in middle school and high school. We played together and competed on basketball courts and baseball fields. The Mexican-American gangsters I grew up with generally left civilians like me alone.

Raven and I reached the top of the stairs. The gangster pushed off the rail and turned to face us. Our room was on the other side of the vato. He was in his 20s, about my height but stocky, with broad shoulders and thickly-muscled, tattoed arms. Homeboy was in his early 20s.

The walkway was narrow, there was no room to slip by the gangster. Homeboy death-glared me. I glanced at Raven, hoping she knew the gangster and could call him off. She returned my glance with a look that said we were out of luck.

The vato stepped up and crowded me. He smelled of beer and cheap cologne. He pointed at my wrist.

"Nice watch, homes."

"Thanks," I replied, warily. The simple timepiece had been a gift from my uncle Victor.

"Give me the watch," homeboy said as he reached for it.

I slapped his hand. "No!"

Homeboy’s eyes flashed.

Fear invaded every cell of my body. Shame, too.

I’d screwed up. Again. On this night.

It was June, 1991. I was living in D.C., working as a night shift crime reporter for The Washington Post, chronicling the bloody chaos of the city’s crack epidemic. I was also an active crack addict. I’d pick up strawberries -- women who traded sex for crack -- to make my buys.

I’d started using crack in L.A., in September 1988. Raven became my go-to strawberry. A year later, I moved to D.C. to work for the Post.

Now, I was back in town for my brother Javier’s wedding. As the best man, I was supposed to be at the rehearsal dinner. Hours earlier, I’d driven to a gym in East L.A. to play pickup basketball. After the game, I cruised by Raven’s block. I’d just say hi. My intentions were good.

Seeing Raven was enough to launch me into an epic binge. As the night wore on, I called Javier with lame excuses and promises that I’d soon arrive.

Raven had to leave her motel. She directed me to the Experience, and now I was facing off with homeboy and wrecking the rehearsal.

I curled my fingers into fists, preparing to defend myself against an onslaught of blows. Instead, homeboy snickered and turned his back. Raven and I resumed our binge.

High and drunk, I returned to my parent’s home at dawn and made it through the wedding in a miserable daze.

For months, I’d been rationalizing that my crack use was recreational, that I could stop when I wanted to, that I was in control. I’d yet to learn that I could only get better when I admitted I was powerless over drugs and alcohol, that I needed to reach out for help.

I returned to D.C. determined to scale back on crack.

I figured the episode was my nadir.

It wasn’t.

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