I’m in another white Room and I hate it. I’m in another white robe and I want to tear it to shreds. There is another bed and another desk and another chair and I want to destroy them. There is a window. I want to throw myself through it.
I follow my usual routine. Crawl to the Bathroom. Vomit. Lie on the floor. Vomit. Lie on the floor. Vomit. Lie on the floor. Some of the vomit gets stuck in my new teeth and it hurts cleaning it out. After the cleaning, I vomit again and I clean again and I crawl back to bed.
It is still black, still storming. The rain and sleet and the wind are pounding the window. An endless series of clicks and clacks, an endless shriek. I hate the noise and I want it to stop. Click, shriek, clack, shriek, click, shriek, clack, shriek. I hate it. I want it to fucking stop.
I get out of bed. My clothes have been washed and they are sitting on the desk. I take off the robe and I put them on. They are looser today than they were yesterday.
I open the door and I walk out and I’m on the Medical Unit. It is the middle of the night and the Unit is almost empty. There is a Nurse on duty. She is reading a fashion magazine and she doesn’t notice me.
I walk out of the Medical Unit and I make my way through the Halls. Though the Sky is dark with night and weather, the Halls are still light. The overhead lamps are light, the walls are light, the carpet is light, the hanging pictures are light, the signs on the doors are light. I am uncomfortable in the light. It exposes too much.
I go back to Sawyer. It is quiet and dark. All of the lights are off, all of the doors to the Rooms are closed, all of the men are sleeping. I walk to the Main Room and I sit down on a couch and I turn on the television. There’s a show about weight loss, an infomercial for a Motivational Speaker, some woman talking about some psychic bullshit, a professional wrestling extravaganza. There are several channels with static. The static is the most interesting thing I see on the screen. I watch it. For an hour. The static.
I turn off the television and I look for something to do. I’m not tired and I don’t want to sleep and I don’t want to go back to the Medical Unit and I don’t want to walk the Halls. The Halls are too light and the light makes me uncomfortable.
There is a set of shelves filled with books against one of the walls. I learned to read at a young age and I have always read voraciously. It is one of the few things, aside from getting fucked up and getting in trouble, that I have done consistently throughout my entire life. I am drawn to the books. I stand and I walk over to the shelves and I sit down in front of them.
There are three shelves with about forty books on each shelf. As I look through them, I am hoping for something that will take me away from here. I want and I need to get the fuck out of here for a while. If I can’t do it physically, I would like to do it in my head. Just a little while. Get me the fuck out of here.
There are self-help titles such as Let it Out Now: Curing by Crying, Denial Is Not a River in Egypt, Angels and Addicts: Letting God’s Helpers Help You!!! and Daddy Didn’t Love Me: A Tale of Addiction. There is a series of books on each of the Twelve Steps. Step One: No Control, Step Three: Let Go and Let God, Step Six: Get Ready for Action, Step Eleven: Make Contact. There are several well-thumbed copies of the New Testament. I have read the New Testament. I will not waste my time on it again.
I reach for a thick, worn blue book. It has no cover and no title and there is a symbol on the front that has a triangle on the inside of a circle. I have been given this book before. I have been given this book by friends, by friends of friends, by people who thought they could change me. It is called The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, the symbol on the front of it is the symbol of sobriety. I have never read it before, nor even bothered opening it. When it was given to me, I threw it in the gutter or stuffed it in the bottom of the nearest garbage can. I have been to AA Meetings and they have left me cold. I find the philosophy to be one of replacement. Replacement of one addiction with another addiction. Replacement of a chemical for a God and a Meeting. The Meetings themselves made me sick. Too much whining, too much complaining, too much blaming. Too much bullshit about Higher Powers. There is no Higher Power or any God who is responsible for what I do and for what I have done and for who I am. There is no Higher Power or any God who will cure me. There is no Meeting where any amount of whining, complaining and blaming is going to make me feel any better.
I am an Alcoholic and a Drug Addict and a Criminal. I am worse than I have ever been in my life. I am in a Clinic somewhere in Minnesota. If I leave the Clinic my Family and my remaining friends will write me off. If I leave the Clinic my options are limited to death or Jail. I’m alone and it’s the middle of the night and I don’t want to go back to the Medical Unit and I can’t sleep. I want a drink. I want fifty drinks. I want a pipe and some rock. I want a long fat line of meth, I want ten hits of acid, a tube of industrial-strength glue. Give me a bottle of pills, give me some dope laced with PCP. Give me something. Anything. I need to get out of here. If not in body, at least in mind. I need to get the fuck out of here.
I pick up the book. I stare at it. I know it can’t hurt me and I know I have nothing to lose. I begin reading.
It starts with a Doctor’s note, written by an Expert in addiction. The Doctor says that profound Alcoholism is basically incurable. He says the only thing he knows of that will get someone sober and keep them sober is AA.
It moves on to the story of Bill, who is the founder of AA. Bill is the Jesus Christ of the movement, the Savior and the Messiah, and although Bill did not die on the cross, he certainly lived on it. Bill was a bad drunk with a bad life and bad problems. He searched and searched for a cure for his Alcoholism and he came up empty. At his lowest point, he came across an old drinking Buddy who had found God and gotten sober. His friend’s conversion reminded him of an experience he had in a French Cathedral after serving as a Soldier in World War I. As he sat in a pew during sunset, Bill was filled with a peace and serenity unlike any he had ever known and unlike any he had thought possible. He was filled with the Glory of God. The memories of that moment and the sobriety of his converted friend had a profound effect on Bill. He became convinced that trusting in God, or in some form of a Higher Power, could transform his life. He decided at that instant to turn his will over and place himself unreservedly under God’s care and direction. He never drank again, he developed the Twelve Steps and the concept of Alcoholics Anonymous, and he devoted his life to spreading the word. It is a touching story, and it is written more to convince than to tell. I am not convinced. No way, not at all. Not at all.
I read the rest of the book, which is mostly about the Twelve Steps. There are chapters with titles like There Is a Solution, How It Works, Into Action, and Vision for You. It is all very simple. If you do what the book says, you will be cured. If you follow their righteous path, that path will lead you straight to redemption. If you join the club, you’re the lucky winner of a lifelong supply of bullshit Meetings full of whining, complaining and blaming. Praise Be the Glory. I want to get down on my knees. Praise Be the Glory Hallelujah.
Near the end, there is a section of testimonials. There is one by a Dentist, one by a European Drinker, one by a Salesman, one by an Educated Agnostic. They were all Alcoholic disasters, they all found God, they all started dancing the Twelve Step, they all got better. As with most testimonials like this that I’ve read or heard or been forced to endure, something about them strikes me as weak, hollow and empty. Though the people in them are no longer drinking and doing drugs, they’re still living with the obsession. Though they have achieved sobriety, their lives are based on the avoidance, discussion and vilification of the chemicals they once needed and loved. Though they function as human beings, they function because of their Meetings and their Dogma and their God. Take away their Meetings and their Dogma and they have nothing, Take them away and they are back where they started. They have an addiction.
Addictions need fuel. I am not convinced Meetings and a Dogma and a God can fuel mine. If what the Doctor says at the beginning is true, and joining AA is the only way to cure me, then I’m completely fucked. Fucked fucked fucked.
I put the book back on the shelf. I stand and I go to the Job Board and I see my name is still listed next to the Group Toilets. I get the cleaning supplies and I go to the Group Toilets and they haven’t been cleaned in a couple of days and they are disgusting. There is spit in the sink, dried piss on the floor, bloody toilet paper in the garbage cans, shit stains on the porcelain bowls. I am sure Roy had something to do with this, but I am in no mood for game playing and retaliating, so I take the supplies and I start cleaning. It is a foul endeavor. I vomit twice and I have to clean my own vomit as well as the spit and the piss and the bloody tissue and the shit. When I am done, and the walls and the sink and the floor and the garbage can and the porcelain are sparkling, I feel no sense of accomplishment or satisfaction. I will not do this again. No fucking way.
I leave the Group Toilets and I return the cleaning supplies and I walk to my Room. I open the door and I step inside. The furniture I destroyed has been replaced. Larry, whose whereabouts are still unknown, has been replaced. There is a short Bald Man in his bed and the short Bald Man is snoring. Warren and John are sleeping in their beds. John is mumbling and twitching, Warren is still. My bed is untouched, though a Bible and another copy of the Big Book have been placed on the nightstand next to it. I walk to the nightstand and pick up the Bible and the Big Book and I go to the window and I open the window and I throw the books into the darkness outside. The Storm is still raging.
I close the window and I go to the Bathroom and I turn on the shower and take off my clothes and drop them in a pile on the tile floor. I walk over to the mirror. I want to see myself. I want to look into the pale green of my eyes and see not my physical self, but the self that lives beneath. I look at my lips. They are slightly swollen, but almost normal. I look at the stitches and the hole. The hole is starting to heal, the stitches are doing their job. I look at my nose. I take the bandage off and I throw the bandage in the garbage can. My nose is straight, though there is a new bump along its ridge. I look at the area beneath my eyes. The black is starting to fade and is turning yellow, the swelling is nearly gone. I start to look up. I want to look into the pale green of my eyes. I want to see not my physical self, but the self that lives beneath. I move closer. Closer. I want to look into the pale green of my eyes. I want to look into the self that lives beneath. Closer, closer. I can’t do it. No fucking way.
I turn away and I walk to the shower and I step into the shower and I am pummeled by the heat. It burns me and it turns my skin red and it hurts but I won’t step away from it. I deserve this hurt for not being brave enough to look at myself. I deserve this hurt and I will stand and I will take it because I am not brave enough to look into my own eyes.
When I get numb, I add the cold and I sit down on the floor and I let the water run over my body and soothe the burns. The burning is tiring and the cold tires me more. I close my eyes and I let my body shut itself down and I let my mind wander. It wanders to a familiar place. A place I don’t talk about or acknowledge exists. A place where there is only me. A place that I hate.
I am alone. Alone here and alone in the world. Alone in my heart and alone in my mind. Alone everywhere, all the time, for as long as I can remember. Alone with my Family, alone with my friends, alone in a Room full of People. Alone when I wake, alone through each awful day, alone when I finally meet the blackness. I am alone in my horror. Alone in my horror.
I don’t want to be alone. I have never wanted to be alone. I fucking hate it. I hate that I have no one to talk to, I hate that I have no one to call, I hate that I have no one to hold my hand, hug me, tell me everything is going to be all right. I hate that I have no one to share my hopes and my dreams with, I hate that I no longer have any hopes or dreams, I hate that I have no one to tell me to hold on, that I can find them again. I hate that when I scream, and I scream bloody murder, that I am screaming into emptiness. I hate that there is no one to hear my scream and that there is no one to help me learn how to stop screaming. I hate that what I have turned to in my loneliness lives in a pipe or a bottle. I hate that what I have turned to in my loneliness is killing me, has already killed me, or will kill me soon. I hate that I will die alone. I will die alone in my horror.
More than anything, all I have ever wanted is to be close to someone. More than anything, all I have ever wanted is to feel as if I wasn’t alone. I have tried many times, tried to kill my loneliness with a girl or a woman, and it was never right. We would be together and be close to each other, but no matter how close we were, I still felt alone. They felt that loneliness and it made them want to get closer. When they tried, I either ran or did something to destroy what we felt for each other. I can run fast when I want to run fast, and I’ve always been good at destroying things. Not one of them would be willing to speak to me today.
The last one was the only one who made me feel the way I always wanted to feel. She made me feel better than I have ever felt, better than I imagined I could feel, and it scared me, scared me to the point of paralysis. When she offered herself to me, I failed. That failure drove me to destruction. I destroyed her, destroyed me, destroyed the two of us together. I destroyed the hope of a future. She will not speak my name now, nor will she acknowledge my existence. I don’t blame her.
I start talking to an old friend, an old dear friend. I say hello, how are you, how have you been doing, what’s new. My voice reverberates in the shower and I feel stupid, but I keep talking. I say I miss you, I wish you were here. My friend’s name is Michelle and I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over a decade. I say you have been on my mind lately. I say I may see you soon. I say please be there when I arrive, I’m looking forward to spending some time together. It has been too long. Over a decade. It has been far too long.
I met Michelle when I was twelve and my Family had just moved to a small Town. I had spent my entire life in a big City and the adjustment wasn’t smooth. I didn’t relate to any of the Kids in the Town, they didn’t relate to me. I didn’t lift weights, I hated heavy metal, I thought working on cars was a waste of fucking time. At first I made an effort to fit in, but I couldn’t pretend, and after a few weeks, I stopped trying. I am who I am and they could either like me or hate me. They hated me with a fucking vengeance.
I starting getting taunted, pushed around and beat up. I taunted back, matched every push with a push, every punch thrown with one of my own. Within a month or two I had a reputation. Teachers talked about me, Parents talked about me, the local Cops talked about me. They did not say pleasant things.
I responded by egging their houses, blowing up their mailboxes and vandalizing their cars. I responded by declaring War on them and their Town and by fighting that War with everything inside of me. I didn’t care whether I won or lost, I just wanted to fight. Bring it on, you Motherfuckers, bring everything you’ve got. I’m ready to fucking fight.
Six months into my time there I became friends with a Girl named Michelle. She was popular, beautiful and smart. She played sports and she was a Cheerleader and she got straight A’s. I don’t know why she wanted to be my friend, but she did. It started when she passed me a note in English class. The note said you don’t seem as awful as I hear you are. I passed one back that read: beware, I am as awful as people say and worse. She laughed and I had a friend. She didn’t become my Ally, and I didn’t ask her to or want her to, but she became my friend, and that was more than anyone else was willing to do.
We started talking on the phone, passing notes in class, eating lunch together, riding in the same seat on the Bus. People wondered why she bothered with me and wondered what she saw in me and told her she shouldn’t waste her time with me, but she ignored them. She had too much going for her for anyone to make her suffer for our friendship, so they pretended that it didn’t exist.
Halfway through the Eighth Grade, Michelle got asked out on a date by a Guy in High School. She knew her Parents wouldn’t let her go, so she told them she was going to the movies with me. I had never done anything to them and I had always been pleasant and polite in their presence, so they agreed and they drove us to the Theater. I went inside and I watched the movie with a pint of whiskey and I walked Home by myself when it was over. Michelle got picked up and went on her date. She and the Guy parked and drank beer and as he was driving her back to the Theater, he tried to beat a Train across a set of tracks. His car got hit and Michelle was killed. She was popular, beautiful and smart. She played sports and she was a Cheerleader and she got straight A’s. She was my only friend. She got hit by a Train and killed. She got hit by a fucking Train and killed.
I found out the next day. I got blamed by her Parents and by their friends and by everyone else in that fucking hellhole. If she hadn’t lied and if I hadn’t helped her, it would not have happened. If we hadn’t gone to the Theater, she would not have gone on the date. The Guy was unhurt and was a local football Hero and everyone felt sorry for him. I got taken down to the local Police Station and questioned. That was the way it worked there. Blame the fuck-up, feel sorry for the football Hero. Vilify one forever, forget the other had anything to do with it. I took a lot of punches for that bullshit, and every time I threw a punch back, and I threw one back every single time, I threw it back for her. I threw it back as hard as I fucking could and I threw it back for her.
I still think about Michelle and I still miss her. I wish I could hear her voice or hear her laugh or see her smile. I wish I could sit next to her or call her or pass her a note. I wish I could smell her, touch her hair, look into her eyes. I wish I could hear her say calm down, it’s not worth it. I wish I could hear her say walk away, don’t give them the pleasure. I wish I could hear her say it’s okay, Jimmy, everything is going to be okay. I wish I could tell her I love her because I did and I do and I never did it when she was still alive. She was my only friend. She got hit by a Train and killed.
I don’t believe she’s in Heaven and I don’t believe she’s in a better place. She’s dead and when we’re dead, we’re gone. There are no blinding lights, there is no happy music, there are no Angels waiting to greet us. St. Peter is not at the Pearly Gates with a big fat fucking book, our friends and Relatives are not holding a seat for us at some divine dinner table, we do not get a tour of Heaven. We are dead and that is it. No more. That does not, however, prevent me from talking to Michelle. I talk to her and I ask her questions and I tell her about my life. I tell her I miss her and I tell her that I think about her every day and I tell her that I love her. I tell her that I’m still throwing back and that I’m still throwing hard and that I’m still throwing for her. I will always throw for her. Always.
I talk to Michelle and I tell her these things in the worst times of my life. I talk to Michelle and I tell her these things when I no longer have hope. I talk to Michelle and I tell her these things when I feel as if I’m going to die. I know that when I’m dead I’ll be dead and I know that I’m close to death now. I know it is simple, and that when I die there will be no more. I know I’ll never meet Michelle in Heaven or anywhere else, but I talk to her anyway. I have been talking to her a lot lately.
The shower door opens and someone steps inside and I am brought back from my mind and my loneliness, brought back to this moment this now this goddamn shower. I open my eyes and John is standing in front of me. I stand and I stare at him. We are both naked. I speak.
What the fuck are you doing?
No one else is up yet.
What the fuck are you doing in here?
I heard you and thought you might want some company.
Get the fuck out of here.
I won’t tell anyone. I promise.
GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
John steps out of the shower and he shuts the door. I step out of the shower behind him and I reach for a towel and I wrap it around my waist. The Bathroom is filled with steam and the sink and the toilets are dripping with condensation. John is sitting on the radiator with a towel on his lap. He looks nervous and scared, like a little puppy expecting to get smacked.
I’m sorry.
Don’t do that again.
A lot of men in here get lonely. You seemed lonely to me.
I’m not.
I’m sorry.
Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.
Do you hate me?
No, I don’t hate you, and I don’t care what you do with other people. Just don’t expect to do it with me.
Are you gonna hit me?
No, I’m not gonna hit you.
Sometimes People hit me.
I’m not gonna hit you.
You can hit me if you want to.
I’m not gonna hit you.
John starts crying.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.
I pick up my clothes and I walk out of the Bathroom and I go to my section of the Room and I dry myself off and I get dressed. I can hear John whimpering in the Bathroom, Warren and the Bald Man are still sleeping, the Storm is still at full strength. When I finish dressing, I lie down on top of my bed and I am surprised by how tired I am and I close my eyes and I am asleep.
The dream comes fast. I am back in the Room and I am back at the table. I have booze, coke, crack, glue and gas. I am using them all. I am using as much as I can as fast as I can. I am screaming and I am laughing and I am cursing. I am shaking my fist at the Sky and calling God a piece of shit Motherfucker, I am calling God a bitch. I am jumping up and down and I am running around the table. There is so much of the booze, coke, crack, glue and gas that I am rubbing it into my skin and I am pouring it all over myself. I am full of it and I am covered with it. I am fucked up beyond comprehension. I am comfortable for the first time in days.
I find a gun beneath a large bag of cocaine. I pick it up and hold it in my hand. It is a thirty-eight-caliber revolver. It is a gun I have held in my hand before, a gun that I know how to use. I sit down in the chair and I open the cylinder. The cylinder is full, there is a bullet in every chamber. I close the cylinder and I spin it and the clicking noise of the spin makes me smile. I have held this type of gun before and I know how to use it. A thirty-eight-caliber revolver.
I put the barrel in my mouth. The barrel is cold and it is dirty and the metal tastes good in my mouth. I spin the cylinder again. The click click click click click makes me smile. Every chamber is full. There is no doubt as to the outcome. The cylinder stops. I hook my thumbs around the trigger. I am full of booze, coke, crack, glue and gas. I am fucked up beyond comprehension. My thumbs are twitching, twitching, twitching. Boom.
I wake, eyes open to the ceiling, shaking and short of breath. I reach for my nose and there is a drop of blood beneath my nostril. My head is spinning and I’m dizzy. My stomach is on fire. I am fucked up beyond comprehension.
I get out of bed and I walk to the Bathroom. I am having trouble walking and I fall through the door. Warren is standing at the sink brushing his teeth and someone is in the shower. I start gagging and as I gag, I crawl to the front of the toilet. When I get to the toilet, I vomit. The vomit is full of bile and brown shit that I have never seen before. It is full of blood. It burns my stomach, my throat and my mouth. It burns my lips and my face. It won’t stop. I heave and it comes, the burning vomit comes and comes again and again. It keeps coming. I want it to stop, but it won’t.
Warren steps over and kneels down and he puts his arm around me and he tries to hold me steady. The Bald Man has stepped from the shower and he is staring at me and he is stunned by the violence of my sickness. It keeps coming. It keeps coming and coming. It won’t stop. It won’t fucking stop.
My heart is racing and it’s racing irregularly and there is pain with every beat and there is pain with every irregular beat and the pain shoots through my left arm and the left side of my jaw. The liquid has stopped flowing through my body and out of my mouth, but the action of vomiting has not stopped. It feels as if my stomach and my throat are coming out or they are trying to come out. It feels as if my body is trying to rid itself of itself. It is trying to rid itself of me.
I can’t do this anymore. I cannot continue to live this way. I am an Alcoholic and I am drug Addict and I am a Criminal. My body is falling apart and my mind fell apart a long time ago. I want to drink and I want to smoke crack even though I know drinking and smoking crack are killing me. I am alone. I have no one to talk to and no one to call. I hate myself. I hate myself so much that I can’t look myself in the eye. I hate myself so much that suicide seems like a reasonable option. My Family is ready to write me off, my friends are ready to write me off, I have destroyed every meaningful relationship I’ve ever had. I am vomiting for the seventh time today. The seventh fucking time. I cannot continue to live this way. I cannot continue to live this way.
The gagging slows down and I start breathing. Warren is holding me steady and the Bald Man is staring at me. I raise my hand and I motion for Warren to step away and he stands and he steps away and I lean my head against the front of the toilet. I breathe. I take in as much air as I can. I know the air will slow my heart and calm me down, so I breathe. I take in as much air as I can. Calm me down. Calm me down.
Warren speaks. The Bald Man stares.
Are you all right?
I nod.
Do you need help?
I shake my head.
I’m going to get someone.
I speak.
No.
You need help.
No.
James, you need help.
I stand. I am unsteady.
I decide what I need. Not you.
I take a deep breath and I stumble to the sink and I turn on the water and I wash my face and I clean the vomit out of my mouth. When I finish, I turn off the water and I turn around. Warren is staring at me and the Bald Man is staring at me. I walk past them and I walk out of the Bathroom. Warren follows me out and he heads to his area of the Room.
Let me at least give you a shirt.
I look at my shirt. It is white and brown and red. Covered with streaks of bile and patches of shit that I have never seen before and streams of blood.
Here.
Warren tosses me a shirt. I catch it. It is a starched white oxford. I look at it and I look at him. He speaks.
It’s the only clean shirt I’ve got left.
I look at the shirt. It is not a shirt I would wear. I laugh and I look back to Warren.
Thank you.
He laughs.
No problem.
I take off my T-shirt and I toss it on the floor next to my bed and I put on the oxford and it is huge. It envelops my withered frame like a tarp and it hangs near my knees. I roll the sleeves to the middle of my forearms and I run my hands down its front. It is stiff from the starch, but soft beneath. The cotton is expensive and finely woven, probably made in some faraway Country. It is the cleanest, nicest thing I have worn in as long as I can remember, and I feel as if I don’t deserve to have it on my sick body. Warren is sitting on the edge of his bed clipping his toenails, a pair of black socks sit next to him. I walk over and I stop in front of him and I run my hands down the front of the cotton. I speak.
It’s very nice. I’ll take good care of it.
Warren smiles.
Don’t worry about it.
I will worry about, and I appreciate you lending it to me. Thank you.
Don’t worry about it.
I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.
Warren nods and I turn and I leave the Room and I walk through the Unit. Men are doing their morning jobs, getting ready for the day, walking to breakfast. Roy is standing in front of the Job Board with his friend. I walk past him.
James.
I keep walking, don’t look back.
You still have to do the Group Toilets.
I keep walking and I don’t look back and I raise my middle finger over my shoulder so he can see it.
James.
I keep my finger raised.
JAMES.
I make my way through the Halls toward the Dining Hall. With each step I take, a profound need for a drink or something harder or both or everything grows on me. My feet get heavy and my pace slows. My mind is filled with one thought and it runs through over and over and over. I need to get fucked up. I need to get fucked up. I need to get fucked up. I need to get fucked up.
I walk through the Glass Corridor that separates the men and the women and I get in line. I can smell the food, it is breakfast food. Eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast. It smells fucking good. I see the oatmeal in a big crock off to the side. Fuck that oatmeal. Disgusting gray mushy bullshit. I can smell the food, it is breakfast food. Eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast.
I move forward. I move closer, closer, closer. My need to get fucked up has grown exponentially. It has grown to the point that it is no longer a thought and it has grown to the point that I don’t have any thoughts. There is just a base instinct. Get something. Fill me. Get something. Fill me.
Someone bumps into me and I look at them and the Girl I met a few days ago is standing in front of me and she’s dropped something. Get something. Her name is Lilly. Fill me. I pick up whatever she dropped and I see it’s a small piece of folded white paper. Get something. I hand it back to her. Fill me. She starts to say something. Get something. I ignore her. Fill me. I step forward. Get something. Fill me.
I grab a tray and I ask the woman working behind the Glass Counter for eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast. She doesn’t give me enough, so I ask for more. She gives me another helping, but it’s still not enough. I ask again. She says no, the plate won’t hold anything else.
I grab a stack of napkins and some silverware and I find an empty table and I tuck the napkins into the front of Warren’s shirt and I sit down and I get a bottle of syrup and I cover the eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast with the syrup and I start devouring the food. I don’t look at what it is and I don’t taste it and I don’t care what it is or what it tastes like. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have something and I’m going to take as much as I can as fast as I can. Get something. Fill me.
I finish the plate. My face and my fingers and the napkins protecting Warren’s shirt are covered with eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast and syrup. I lick my fingers and I wipe my face and I pull the napkins out of the shirt and I ball them up and I drop them on my tray and I lick my fingers again. I want more, but for the moment, my needs have been met. I lean back in my chair and I look around me. Men and women are streaming through the Glass Corridor. They bump into one another, exchange glances, share the same space, but they do not speak. There is obvious tension.
The women’s area is nearly filled. Some of the women have showered and made themselves up, some of them have not, and they have divided themselves up according to Socioeconomic Class. The rich sit with the rich, the middle with the middle, the poor with the poor. There are more rich than middle, more middle than poor. The rich women talk and laugh and hardly touch their food and they behave as if they are on some sort of vacation. The middle women are less animated, but they also look as if they’re enjoying themselves. The poor women are not made up at all and they hardly talk. They concentrate on their food, as if these are the best meals they have seen and the best meals they are going to see.
Although my table is empty, most of the tables in the men’s area are filled. The divisions among the men are not made by class, but by drug of choice. Drunks sit together, Cokeheads sit together, Crackheads sit together, Junkies sit together, Pillpoppers sit together. Within each of these groups, there are two other divisions. One group is made up of the Hardcore. They are the heaviest users and the truly fucked up. The other group is made up of the Wussies. They are the functional and the potentially saved. The Hardcore make fun of the Wussies and tell them they don’t belong here. The Wussies don’t respond with words, but with looks that say thank God I’m not one of you. Ed and Ted and John sit among the Hardcore, Roy and his friend and Warren and the Bald Man sit with the Wussies.
I sit alone watching them all, wondering what the fuck I am doing here, desperately wishing I had something that would fuck me up. The food has killed the instinct for the moment, but I know it will come back and I know it will come back stronger. Get something. Get something hard and get something fast. Fill me. Fill me till I die.
Leonard sits down at my table. He is wearing a different Rolex and a different Hawaiian shirt. His plate is covered with sausage and bacon and nothing else.
Hey, Kid.
He unfolds a napkin, places it on his lap.
Hi.
He takes another napkin and he cleans his knife, his fork and the edge of the glass of orange juice.
When’d you get the teeth?
Yesterday.
What’d they have to do?
Cap the outside two, fill a cavity on this one.
I point to my outside left tooth.
Root canals on these.
I tap the middle two. They are firm.
They give you good drugs?
They didn’t give me anything.
No fucking way.
Yeah.
They didn’t give you anything?
No.
You got root canals on your two front teeth without any drugs?
Yeah.
Leonard looks at me as if what I have said is incomprehensible to him.
That’s the worst fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
It sucked.
Sucked isn’t the word I would use.
It fucking sucked.
He laughs, sets down his fork.
Where the fuck did they make you, Kid?
What’s that mean?
Where does someone like you come from?
I’ve lived a lot of places.
Like where?
Why do you care?
Just wondering.
Stop wondering.
Why?
I don’t want to make friends here.
Why?
I don’t like good-byes.
You gotta say them though.
No, you don’t.
I stand and I take my tray and I get back in line and I get more food and I get more napkins and I make my way toward an empty table in the corner and I sit down and I eat my food. I eat slower this time. With each bite I take I feel my stomach expanding. It is an awful, uncomfortable feeling, but I can’t stop. I take bite after bite, I feel worse and worse. I look at the food and I don’t want any more, but it doesn’t matter. I take bite after bite, I feel worse and worse. Get something. Fill me. That is all that matters. Fill me.
I finish the plate and I stand and I walk slowly, slowly, slowly across the Dining Room and I put my tray on the conveyor belt to the dishwasher. When I turn around, Lilly is standing in front of me. Although I saw her a little while ago, I didn’t really see her, and although I have met her twice before, I have never really looked at her. She has long black hair to the middle of her chest and she has blue eyes. Not ice blue, water blue. Deep clean water blue. She is pale white, pale pale pale white, and her lips are thick and blood red, though she is not wearing lipstick. Her jeans are old and worn and her black sweater is old and worn and her combat boots are old and worn and everything is too big for her body, which is small and thin. She is holding a tray and smiling. Her teeth are straight and white, and they are straight in a way that came without braces and white in a way that has nothing to do with toothpaste. I smile back. She speaks.
You have teeth.
Yeah.
They look nice.
Thanks.
You doing all right?
Not even close. You?
Yeah, I’m okay.
Good.
I step around her and I walk away. I know she is watching me, but I don’t look back. I make my way through the Halls and I go to the Lecture Hall and I find a seat among the men of my Unit and I sit down. Leonard sits next to me and I get up and I move so that there is a seat between us. He looks at me and he laughs. I ignore him.
The Lecture starts. It is about Letting Go and Letting God. The man giving the Lecture has been sober for a decade. Whenever he is troubled or something is going wrong in his life, he turns it over to God and goes to an AA Meeting. God does with it what he will, resolving it for better or for worse, and the man doesn’t worry about it or try to control it. He just waits and trusts, waits and goes to Meetings, waits and assumes whatever happens is what is supposed to happen. When he talks of God and of his trust in his mighty male God, his eyes glaze over. It is a glaze I know and have seen many times before, usually when someone is fucked out of their skull on strong, hard drugs. His God has become his drug and he is high, high as a Motherfucking kite, and he rants and raves, paces back and forth, God this and God that, blah blah blah. If I was closer to him or if I could get at him, I would punch him in the mouth just to make him shut the fuck up.
He finishes and everyone is impressed and everyone claps. I get up and I leave. When I get outside the door, Ken is waiting for me.
Hi, James.
Hi.
Could you come with me for a little while?
Why?
Your test results have come back and Doctor Baker wants to speak with you.
Okay.
We walk back through the light of the Halls and it makes me uncomfortable and Ken tries to make small talk and I ignore him. I ignore him because my need to get fucked up is growing and it is screaming at me and it is all I can think about and all I can concentrate on. I would kill for a drink right now. Kill. Drink. Kill. Drink. Kill.
We walk into the Medical Unit and Ken takes me to the Waiting Room and he tells me to wait. He leaves and I smoke a cigarette and I watch television. The cigarette tastes good and it burns my throat and my lungs and though it is the lowest and weakest drug that I am addicted to, it is still a drug and it feels fucking good. I don’t care what it’s doing to me, it feels fucking good.
There is a coffee machine in the corner and I get up and I get myself a cup. I pour sugar into it to the point of saturation and I take a sip and it is hot and it hurts to drink it and I like it. My heart speeds up almost immediately, and though it doesn’t speed up like it normally does, and though I am not addicted to coffee, it is still a drug and it feels fucking good. It feels so fucking good.
Ken comes back to the Room and he says the Doctor is ready and I stand and he leads me through the Medical Unit to a small, clean, white Examination Room. There are three chairs and a window and a set of shiny steel shelves with instruments on them and an examination table against one of the walls and an X-ray viewing machine hanging near the door. Doctor Baker is sitting in one of the chairs with a file. He stands when we enter.
Hi, James.
He offers his hand. I shake it.
Hello, Doctor Baker.
We sit.
Can I see your teeth?
I smile.
They look good. Doctor Stevens said you were very brave.
Doctor Stevens was good to me. Thank him for me next time you speak to him.
I will.
Now tell me why I’m here.
Dr. Baker opens his file.
I have the results from the tests we took a few days ago.
How bad is it?
He looks at the file, he takes a deep breath. He leans back in his chair and he looks at me. He speaks.
You have done significant damage to your nose, your throat, your lungs, your stomach, your bladder, your kidneys, your liver and your heart. I have never seen so much and such extensive damage in someone so young. We would need to do more tests to know the specific extent of it, and if you want them done we can facilitate that, but from what I have here, I know a few important things. The first is that you are lucky to be alive. The second is that if you ever have another drink or use any type of hard drug again, there is a good chance that you will die. The third is that if you start drinking or using drugs regularly, you will be dead within a few days. Your body has suffered from a pattern of such profound and prolonged abuse that it will not hold up anymore.
Ken is staring at me, Doctor Baker is staring at me. I look past him and out the window where the Storm is still raging. I finally know with absolute certainty what I have suspected for a long time. I am almost dead.
It’s a happy fucking day.
Doctor Baker speaks.
This is not a joking matter, James.
I look at him.
I know it’s not, but what the fuck am I supposed to say? I have received my sentence.
Ken speaks.
What’s that mean?
What do you think it means?
We’re here to help you, James. We’re here to help you get better and to help you learn how to stop killing yourself. If you do what we tell you to do and you follow the Program we prescribe, you will live a long and happy life.
I have received my sentence.
It doesn’t have to be carried out. Just trust us.
I look at Doctor Baker.
You got anything else to say to me?
I hope you’ll trust us, I hope you’ll give us a chance to help you, and I hope to God you’re here tomorrow.
I stare at him. His eyes are thick and wet and breaking. He is obviously sad and obviously disappointed. I’m tired of making people sad and I’m tired of disappointing them and I’m tired of seeing them break. I have seen this too many times. He will be the last.
I appreciate your time and your efforts. Both of you. Thank you.
I stand and I open the door and I walk out of the Room and I shut the door behind me and I head back to my Room. Although I have just been told that further use of alcohol and drugs is going to kill me, and kill me soon, what I want right now is a nice strong drink and a blast of rock. I want them badly. Get something. I want them so badly. Fill me. I would kill for them. Get something. Kill for them. Fill me. I am completely fucked.
All around me, People are going about their day. Patients are going to counseling and to therapy, Doctors and Therapists are giving them whatever they need. People are either getting help or giving help and they are all doing it willingly. Their bodies are recovering and their minds are recovering and they are rebuilding their lives and they are following the Program and they are trusting in the Program. They have turned themselves over and they believe and whether it works or not in the long run doesn’t matter. For now, they believe. I do not know how they are doing it.
I get to my Room and I see that someone has retrieved the Bible and the Big Book that I threw out the window and placed them back on my bed. They are soggy and wet, the pages swollen, the covers warped. The fact that they are back and that someone has brought them back makes me angry. I pick them up and I carry them to the Bathroom and I stuff them in the garbage can beneath the used razors, the brown Q-Tips and the dirty snot rags. If I could, and if my body would cooperate, I would stuff them into the toilet and I would shit on them.
I walk back to my bed and I lie down and I close my eyes and the finality of Doctor Baker’s words start to sink in and the words clear my mind and kill my urges and slow my heart. I have received my sentence. A few days of regular drug and alcohol abuse is going to kill me. I will be dead, gone, no more. I will cease to exist in any way, shape or form. I will meet the blackness and the blackness will be eternal. Somehow I always knew I would meet my end this way. Somehow I always knew that I would kill myself with drugs and alcohol. I knew each time I took a drink, I knew each time I snorted a line, I knew each time I hit a pipe or sniffed a tube or took a pill. It is nobody’s fault but my own. I knew each and every time. I could never stop.
I can imagine my obituary. The truth of my existence will be removed and replaced with imagined good. The reality of how I lived will be avoided and changed and phrases will be dropped in like Beloved Son, Loving Brother, Reliable Friend, Hardworking Student. People will change their view of me, from reckless Fuck-Up to helpless Martyr, from dangerous Fool to sad Victim, from addicted Asshole to unfortunate Child. They will say things like my God, what a waste. Oh, what he could have been. He had so much going for him, what happened? And it will be fucking false, every single word of it will be false.
I know who I am and I know what I’ve done and I know why I am about to die. I have faced the reality and the reality is simple. I am an Alcoholic and I am a drug Addict and I am a Criminal. That is what I am and who I am and that is how I should be remembered. No happy lies, no invented memories, no fake sentimentality, no tears. I do not deserve tears. I deserve to be portrayed honestly and I deserve nothing more and I start to write an honest obituary in my own mind. I write the obituary that should appear, but never will. I start at the beginning and I stick to the facts and I move to what I know will be my end.
James Frey. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, September 12, 1969. Started stealing sips from drinks at seven. Got hammered for the first time at ten. Vomited from abuse for the first time at ten. Smoked dope at twelve. By thirteen was smoking and drinking regularly. Blacked out for the first time at fourteen. At fifteen got arrested three times. For Driving Without a License, for Vandalism and Destruction of Property, for Public Intoxication and Possession of Alcohol as a Minor. Went to Jail for a night. At fifteen tried cocaine, acid and crystal meth for the first time. Got arrested three more times at sixteen. Started drinking and doing drugs before School. Started selling liquor and drugs to his fellow Students. Blacked out and vomited regularly. Three more arrests at seventeen. Got first DUI. Blew a .36, and set a County Record. Went to Jail for a week. Drank and did drugs every day. At School, at Home, everywhere. Vomited and blacked out several times a week. Made first attempt to quit. Experienced delirium tremens. Drank to make them go away. Two arrests at eighteen. First drug overdose, first case of alcohol poisoning. Tried to quit again, lasted two days. Vomited blood for the first time, had first cocaine-induced bloody nose. Nineteen. Blacked out five days a week, vomited five days a week. Pissed bed for the first time. Shook visibly when not drinking. Woke up for the first time without knowing where he was or how he got there. Twenty. Blacked out seven days a week. Vomited several times a day, seven days a week. Smoked cocaine for the first time, smoked methamphetamine for the first time, smoked PCP for the first time. Twenty-one. Three arrests. Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Assaulting an Officer of the Law, Felony DUI, Resisting Arrest, Attempted Incitement of a Riot, Possession of a Narcotic with Intent to Distribute, Felony Mayhem. Skipped bail on everything. Smoked crack for the first time, started smoking crack regularly. One overdose, three cases of alcohol poisoning. Twenty-two. Accelerated alcohol abuse, accelerated crack abuse. Took anything and everything possible, whenever possible. Was constantly sick. Vomiting and shitting blood daily. Tried to quit four times. Never lasted longer than twelve hours. Twenty-three. Continued acceleration of abuse, continued decline in health. Two overdoses, constant alcohol poisoning. Rarely knew where he was or how he got there. Tried to quit twice, lasted a total of six hours. Fell down fire escape and destroyed face. Checked into Treatment Center. Left Treatment Center. Died two days later. Fatal dosage levels of alcohol and cocaine found in system. Death ruled accidental overdose. Should have been ruled suicide. Intentional Suicide. He is survived by no one. His Family had written him off, his friends had written him off.
My mind is clear and my urges are gone and my heart is beating slow and steady. In my mind, my obituary is done. It is done and it is right. It tells the truth, and as awful as it can be, the truth is what matters. It is what I should be remembered by, if I am remembered at all. Remember the truth. It is all that matters.
My mind is clear and my urges are gone and my heart is beating slow and steady. I have made my decision and I am comfortable with my decision. It’s what I always knew would happen, though the details are just now coming into focus. I am going to leave here and I am going to kill myself. I am going to leave here and I am going to find something to drink and I am going to find something to smoke and I am going to drink and smoke until I die. I am going to leave here and I’m not going to look back and I’m not going to say good-bye. I have lived alone, I have fought alone, I have dealt with pain alone. I will die alone.
I think about when I’m going to leave. I don’t want to be seen and I don’t want to be followed, I want to disappear quickly and quietly and without any drama, I want as much time in the darkness as I can possibly have. The darkness provides cover, the darkness provides places to hide and the darkness provides comfort. Darkness usually comes around dinner, but dinner would be too obvious. We are required to show up and we are required to eat and though I don’t fraternize during dinner, it would be noticed if I were gone. The Lecture follows and the Lecture would be better. People get up and leave during Lectures all the time. They get up and go to the Bathroom, head outside for a smoke, leave to meet with a Counselor or a Shrink, run to get sick. It would not be noticed if I left, and by the time anyone realized I was gone, which would probably be three or four hours later, I would be far enough away that there would be no bringing me back. I would be in the darkness. I would be alone. I would be comfortable. There would be no bringing me back.
My mind is clear and my urges are gone and my heart is beating slow and steady. I am going to leave here and I am going to kill myself. The thought makes me smile. It makes me smile because it is sad and horrible. It makes me smile because the mystery of my death is gone and without the mystery it isn’t scary anymore. It makes me smile because I would rather smile than cry. It makes me smile because it’s going to be over. It is finally going to be over. It is finally going to be over. Thank you.
I take a deep breath and I wonder how many breaths I have left. I feel my heart beat and I wonder how many more. I run my hands along my body and my body is warm and soft and I know that soon it will be cold and hard. I feel my hair, my eyes, my nose, my lips. I feel the whiskers growing on my cheeks. I touch the skin on my neck, my chest, my arms. It will all be rotting soon. Decomposing and disintegrating. Disappearing. Every trace will cease to exist. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We return from which we came. I will be rotting and decomposing and disintegrating soon.
I hear the door open and I sit up. Roy and Lincoln walk in. Roy is smirking and Lincoln looks pissed. Lincoln speaks.
What are you doing?
Sitting here.
Why aren’t you in group?
I needed some time alone.
You should have told somebody.
I didn’t feel like telling anybody.
Things here aren’t always about what you feel like doing.
If you’re here to bitch at me about group, I’ll go right now. If you’re here to bitch about something else, let’s get it over with.
Lincoln turns to Roy.
Roy.
Roy steps forward.
You didn’t clean the Group Toilets this morning.
I laugh. Roy looks at Lincoln. Lincoln speaks.
What’s so funny?
His dumb-ass attempt to get me in trouble.
Roy speaks.
I’m not attempting anything. You didn’t clean the Group Toilets this morning.
I laugh again.
Fuck you, Roy.
Roy looks at Lincoln. Lincoln looks at me.
They’re not clean, James. He just showed them to me.
I look at him.
I cleaned them at about four o’clock this morning. Cleaned them till they fucking sparkled. If they’re dirty now it’s because somebody used them or somebody, most likely him, fucked them up to get me in trouble.
Roy speaks.
Not true.
I laugh.
Fuck you, Roy.
He turns to Lincoln. Whines like a spoiled little boy.
It’s not true.
Lincoln speaks.
Whether they were clean earlier is irrelevant. It’s your job to keep them clean all the time and right now they’re dirty as hell. You need to go clean them again.
No way.
Absolutely yes.
No fucking way.
Right now.
You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna touch those toilets. I cleaned them earlier and Roy fucked them up to get me in trouble. Let Roy clean the goddamn things this time.
Lincoln steps forward, I lean against the back of the bed. He looms over me, puts on his fighting face.
You’re going to clean them whether you want to or not and you’re going to do it right now and you’re not going to say another word about it. You understand me?
I push myself off the bed and I stand and I stare him in the eye.
You gonna force me?
I stare him in the eye.
You gonna try to force me?
I stare him in the eye.
Come on, Lincoln. What are you gonna do?
We stare at each other, breathe slow, clench our jaws, wait for a jump. I know nothing is going to happen and that gives me the advantage. I know that if he touches me he’ll lose his job. I know the job is too important to him to risk for me. I know he’s gotten soft after years of sobriety and I know that at this point, the black clothes and the boots and the haircut are little more than a costume. I know nothing is going to happen and that he has taken this so far is humorous to me. I laugh in his face. He speaks.
This is not a laughing matter.
I laugh again.
I’m not cleaning your fucking toilets, Tough Guy. No fucking way.
I step around him.
James.
I start to leave.
No fucking way.
I walk past Roy and I walk out of the room and I go to the Upper Level of the Unit and I drink a cup of coffee and I smoke a couple of cigarettes and the nicotine and the caffeine feel good inside of me. They speed up my heart, slow down my brain, settle my hands, jump-start my feet. They are strong enough so that I can feel their effects, but not strong enough to really do anything significant. I like them and I like the combination they form. One speedy and manic, the other slow and depressing. They ebb and flow so that I experience them on both ends of the spectrum. Fast as I can go, low as I can go, everything in between. It’s fun playing with the doses and the levels and it’s fun manipulating the buzz. It’s like firing a gun at a target. I get the feeling and I get the rush and I get the experience, but there’s no danger. I am in complete control of what I’m doing and what I’m feeling. As in a gunfight, I know that when I switch to the real thing there will be no controlling anything. No fucking way. As much as I can as fast as I can. Till I die.
Men begin filing in from their groups and heading to the Dining Hall for lunch. I follow them and I eat with Leonard. He asks me a lot of questions and I don’t answer any of them. He thinks it’s funny and I think it’s funny and at a certain point he gives up and he tells me stories about our fellow Patients. They are all the same. Had it all, got fucked up, lost it all. Trying to recover. The Great American Sob Story.
After lunch we go to the Lecture, which is about exercise and sobriety. I don’t listen to a single word of it, don’t care one fucking bit, and Leonard throws pennies at the Bald Man who is now my Roommate. He aims for his head and he gets excited when he hits the center of the bald spot on the top of the man’s skull. For some reason the man tolerates it.
The Lecture ends and we go back to the Unit and I attend my first Group Therapy Session. The topic is amends. The group is led by Ken and they discuss the necessity of making amends. Ken believes they are imperative, as do most of the men in the group. Making them allows one to start with a clean slate, to get rid of the guilt Addicts accrue with their actions, to shed the skin of their previous life. Whether they are accepted or not isn’t important. What is important is the act of apologizing, the act of admitting fault, the act of asking for forgiveness.
The men who don’t believe in amends are the worst of the group. They know that most of what they have done shouldn’t be forgiven and won’t be forgiven. They don’t want to make the effort of asking because the pain of rejection and the reminder of their actions will hurt too much. They want to move on and forget, even though forgetting is impossible. I am in their class. I know I won’t be forgiven and I’m not going to bother to ask. My amends will be my death. No one I have hurt will ever have to see me, hear from me, or think about me ever again. I won’t be able to damage them or fuck up their lives anymore, I won’t be able to cause them the pain I have caused previously. Forget me if you can. Forget I ever existed, forget I did whatever it was I did. My suicide will be my apology. Even though it is impossible, please forget me. Please forget.
After the group all of the men of the Unit gather in the Lower Level and there is a Graduation Ceremony. Roy and his friend are both leaving. They have done their time, worked their Programs and they are ready to rejoin the outside World. They both receive a Medal and a Rock. The Medal signifies their current term of sobriety, the Rock their resolve to stay sober. They both give small speeches. About half of the men despise them and think they’re full of shit, the other half admire them and wish them the best. I sit in the back of the Room with Leonard, who reads the USA Today sports page and swears under his breath.
The Ceremony ends and everybody claps and Roy walks around giving out hugs and good-byes. He avoids me, as does his friend. They both seem very happy and they both have the glazed eyes of the Converted. They clutch their Medals and their Rocks, have their friends sign the backs of their copies of the Big Book. They both look scared and they both look fragile. They both look as if they’re running from something and they both look as if they’re hiding from something. They both look as if they know they’re going to get caught. I give them a month before they’re both so fucked up that they can’t see straight. I give them a month at best.
Most of the men head to their Rooms and start getting ready for dinner. I head to mine to get ready to leave. I take off Warren’s oxford and put on my T-shirt and I write Warren a note of thanks and I put it in the front pocket of the oxford and I walk over to his area and I fold the oxford and I set it on his bed. I go back to my area and I write another note that has Hank’s name and the address of the Clinic and says Please Return This Jacket and thanks Hank for his kindness and friendship. I put this note in the front pocket of the jacket he lent me so it will be found when I am found and I put the jacket on and I look around for anything else I might have, but there’s nothing. I look in the drawers, on the bed, under the bed, under the sheets, in the medicine cabinet, in the shower. There is nothing. I have nothing.
I walk to the Dining Hall and I get in line and I grab a tray and I take a deep breath and the smell of the food floods my body and I am hungry, hungry, hungry and I want to eat and I want to eat a lot. Tonight’s meal is meat loaf and mashed potatoes and gravy and brussels sprouts and apple pie. It is a meal I like and it is suitable for what will probably be the last real meal that I eat. I get as much as the woman behind the counter will give me and I get utensils and napkins and I find an empty table and I sit down and I spread the napkins on my lap and I take a deep breath. This is probably going to the last real meal I ever eat.
The meat loaf is good and wet and juicy and the potatoes are real potatoes and the gravy is warm and thick and tastes deeply of beef. I eat slowly, savoring each bite, letting each bite sit in my mouth until it dissolves. My Mother made meat loaf for my Brother and me when I was a Child, made this exact meal about once a week. Eating it now and eating it as my last meal brings back the memories of those dinners and of many more. My Father would be working or away somewhere on some trip, my Brother and I would be at School or running around whatever neighborhood we happened to live in at the time. At six-thirty every night, we’d have dinner with my Mother. She made great dinners, and she loved the routine of sitting down and eating with us. After dinner we’d watch television or play games or my Mother would read to us. When my Father made it home we would spend time together as a whole and then it was off to bed for my Brother and me. We were a Family, a happy Family, and we stayed that way until I stopped showing up. It would be nice to have my Family here with me now. It would be nice, despite the disintegration of our relationship over the past years, to have a final dinner with them. Though I doubt we would talk much, it would be nice to look each of them in the eye and say good-bye to them. Though I doubt we would talk much, it would be nice to hold each of their hands, tell them that I’m sorry, that me being who I am wasn’t their fault. Though I doubt we would talk much, I would like to tell them to forget me.
I finish eating and I lean back in my chair and I see Leonard walking toward me with a tray of food. He sets down his tray on the table and he sits across from me and he starts unfolding napkins and cleaning his silverware.
How are ya, Kid?
I’m good.
You’re good?
Yeah, I’m good.
That’s the first time I ever heard you say that.
I’m coming to terms with some shit.
What?
None of your business.
One of these days you’re gonna talk to me.
No, I’m not.
You’ll get tired of being an Asshole and you’ll get tired of not having any friends and you’ll talk to me.
No, I won’t.
I’m gonna keep sitting with you until you do.
I laugh.
I’m gonna keep sitting with you. Mark my motherfucking words.
I grab my tray, stand.
Have a nice life, Leonard.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Have a nice life.
I turn and I walk my tray to the conveyor and I drop it on the belt and I start to walk out of the Dining Hall. As I head through the Glass Corridor separating the men and women, I see Lilly sitting alone at a table. She looks up at me and she smiles and our eyes meet and I smile back. She looks down and I stop walking and I stare at her. She looks up and she smiles again. She is as beautiful a girl as I have ever seen. Her eyes, her lips, her teeth, her hair, her skin. The black circles beneath her eyes, the scars I can see on her wrists, the ridiculous clothes she wears that are ten sizes too big, the sense of sadness and pain she wears that is even bigger. I stand and I stare at her, just stare stare stare. Men walk past me and other women look at me and Lilly doesn’t understand what I’m doing or why I’m doing it and she’s blushing and it’s beautiful. I stand there and I stare. I stare because I know where I am going I’m not going to see any beauty. They don’t sell crack in Mansions or fancy Department Stores and you don’t go to luxury Hotels or Country Clubs to smoke it. Strong, cheap liquor isn’t served in five-star Restaurants or Champagne Bars and it isn’t sold in gourmet Groceries or boutique Liquor Stores. I’m going to go to a horrible place in a horrible neighborhood run by horrible people providing product for the worst Society has to offer. There will be no beauty there, nothing even resembling beauty. There will be Dealers and Addicts and Criminals and Whores and Pimps and Killers and Slaves. There will be drugs and liquor and pipes and bottles and smoke and vomit and blood and human rot and human decay and human disintegration. I have spent much of my life in these places. When I leave here I will find one of them and I will stay there until I die. Before I do, however, I want one last look at something beautiful. I want one last look so that I have something to hold in my mind while I’m dying, so that when I take my last breath I will be able to think of something that will make me smile, so that in the midst of the horror I can hold on to some shred of humanity.
A woman walks over to Lilly and she leans over and she whispers something in her ear and Lilly shakes her head and she shrugs. The woman looks as if she has some sort of Authority and I don’t want to get Lilly in trouble because of what I want, so I wait until she looks back at me and I smile and she smiles a beautiful perfect smile back and I have the image I want. Good-bye, Lilly. I will hold your image dear. Good-bye and thank you.
I walk to the Lecture and I find a seat in the back row of the Lecture Hall and I sit down and I stare straight ahead and I ignore everything and everyone around me. In fifteen minutes I’ll be out of here, gone for good on a beeline to Hell. In the simplest terms, what I’m doing shouldn’t be hard. Stand up, walk out, keep walking. The abstract, however, is starting to sink in. The abstract is starting to sink in and it is starting to make this harder for me.
I am going to die. When I die I will dead, gone, no more. There will be no more thinking, no more breathing, no more feeling of any kind. There will be blackness and the blackness will be eternal. There will be silence and the silence will last forever. I am going to die.
I take a deep breath. I am doing the right thing. I am doing the right thing. I am doing the right thing. It is time to end this charade, it is time for me to leave. I can’t take my life anymore, I can’t take myself anymore. I can’t look into my own eyes, I can’t bear to face my own image. I have tried to get better and I can’t. It is time for me to die.
Leonard sits down next to me and he stares at me. I stare straight ahead.
Why you wearing that big coat?
I ignore him.
You cold?
I ignore him.
Why you wearing that big coat?
He stares.
Talk to me, you Little Fucker.
I stare straight ahead.
Why you wearing that big coat?
I ignore him. He reaches for me and he puts his hand on my shoulder and he shakes me.
Why’d you tell me to have a nice life?
I remove his hand from my shoulder and I forcefully set it in his lap and I turn and I look him in the eye.
Leave me the fuck alone.
He looks back, right in my eye.
Why’d you tell me to have a nice life?
Leave me alone, Old Man. Leave me the fuck alone.
I turn away from him and I stare straight ahead. I can feel him continue to stare at me. I don’t know why he’s doing this or why he cares or what he thinks it is going to achieve. If he tries to stop me, I will prevent him from doing so and I will leave anyway. It is time for me to die.
The Lecture starts and he turns away from me. On the Stage, a man about my own age starts telling his life story. He drank some beer and smoked some pot as a Kid and got sober when he was fourteen. He joined AA and he found a Higher Power and it changed his life. He got straight A’s in High School and he went to Harvard. Now he’s an Investment Banker and he’s engaged to be married. He still goes to Meetings, places all of his trust in his Higher Power, and he gets down on his knees every night and he prays before he goes to bed. As he speaks of his nefarious past, he refers to pot as grass and beer as brew. He talks about having the spins and taking sips from a flask at a School Dance. He talks about the guilt and shame he felt in committing these acts.
I do not relate to this man in any way whatsoever. I do not relate to drinking brew and smoking grass and the spins and sips from a flask. I do not connect these things to any sort of true and dangerous addiction, I do not connect these things to any sort of need for recovery. I suspect that this man would have joined a Twelve Step Group had he felt he had been watching too much television or eating too many hot dogs or playing too much Space Invaders or picking his goddamn nose too many times a day. I suspect that had he not found the Twelve Steps, he would have found the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Pentecostal Christians or the Hassidim or the UFO Redemption Group. I suspect that his membership in AA doesn’t have anything to do with brew and grass or any sort of addiction to them, but to a desperate need to belong to something. Belonging is not something I have ever concerned myself with and is not something I give two shits about. I have lived alone. I am about to die alone.
I stand and I start to make my way out of the Aisle. As I pass Leonard, he reaches for my arm. I push his hand away and I keep going, past the rest of the seated men, toward the door, out and into a Hall, toward another door that leads outside. I reach the door and I open it and I am hit by the cold and the rain and the wind and the sleet and I am hit by the darkness and I am hit by what lives within the darkness.
I button up the jacket and I flip the collar and I take a deep breath and I stare into the black. They are waiting for me. The drink and the drugs and the Dealers and the Addicts and the Criminals and the Whores and the Pimps and the Killers and the Slaves and the pipes and the bottles and the smoke and the vomit and the blood and the human rot and the human decay and the human disintegration. They are there in the darkness and they are waiting for me.
I step out from beneath the cover of the door and I start walking. One step at a time, away away away. The cold is quick and bitter, the rain and sleet are hard and wet, the ground a mosaic of mud and rock and water, the darkness the darkest darkness. Away away away, one step at a time, it is waiting for me, it is waiting for me. About twenty feet from the Entrance, I hear the door open and I turn around and I see Leonard coming outside. He’s not wearing a jacket and he’s immediately drenched and he is heading straight toward me.
Hey, Kid.
I turn away from him and I keep walking. I hear his footsteps in the wetness and I hear the pace of them increase and I hear them getting closer to me. I keep walking.
Wait up a second, Kid.
I don’t wait, don’t stop, don’t turn around.
Where you going?
Footsteps closer.
Where you going?
A hand on my shoulder. I push it off.
Stop for a second, Kid.
A hand on my shoulder. I push it off. Hands on both my shoulders. Stronger than I expected. They stop me and they turn me around. Leonard is drenched and dripping. He speaks.
Where you going?
I push his arms off of me.
Leave me alone.
I start walking.
Where you going?
He follows me.
Away from here.
What are you gonna do?
Get fucked up.
No way I’m letting that happen.
You think you’re gonna stop me?
Yeah.
I stop, turn around, grab him by the throat, squeeze his Adam’s apple. I don’t want him following me, don’t want him trying to stop me. I am in the darkest darkness. I am going Home.
Leave me alone, Old Man.
I let go, push him to the ground. He grabs his throat, gags. I start walking and the lights of the Clinic start to fade and the black begins to envelop me. I hear Leonard stand and start after me again and I clench my fists and prepare to use more persuasive means to stop him.
I can see the fist, Kid, and it’s gonna take a whole lot more than that to take me down.
I keep walking.
And even if you can take me down, I’ll have you found and brought back here.
He follows.
And I’ll keep doing it as many times as you leave and as many times as it takes to get your goddamn head on straight and make you start fixing yourself.
I keep walking.
You don’t know me and you don’t know who I am, but I have the resources and I’ll fucking use them. I’ll bring you back again and again and again.
I stop and I turn around. He’s a few feet behind me. He stops and he stares at me.
Again and again and again, Kid. I’ll keep doing it.
I told you to leave me alone.
Come back inside.
No.
Where you gonna go?
I’m gonna go get fucked up.
And then what?
I’ll see what happens.
You’ll end up dead.
Maybe.
When you’re dead, you’re dead.
I know.
There’s no coming back.
I know that.
That’s not what you want.
It’s my only option.
No, it’s not.
He steps forward.
One more step and I’ll drop you.
I’ll get back up.
No you won’t.
What are you scared of, Kid?
Fuck you.
He steps forward.
What are you scared of?
Take a step back, Old Man.
He stares at me, I stare at him. He steps back and he speaks.
I’m not scared of anyone and you scare the shit out of me. Ed and Ted won’t eat with me anymore ’cause they’re worried that you might snap on them, and all day all anybody talked about was how you stared Lincoln down and laughed in his face when he tried to get rough with you. As much as I admire it in a certain sense, it’s no good being the way you are. It’s no good at all.
I am what I am.
That’s not what’s inside of you.
Fuck you.
You can’t fool me.
Fuck you.
You can’t fool me.
FUCK YOU.
Fine, fuck me. Go find some booze and whatever else it is you do and get fucked up and go die in the gutter with piss on your pants and shit in your drawers. That’s a good way to go, Kid, an honorable way out. Be proud.
It’s my choice.
If you think you’re making that choice, you’re wrong. Your choices are made by the shit that controls you and by the shit you can’t quit. You walk out of here and that shit’s gonna kill you and that’s fucking wrong.
Maybe, maybe not.
Maybe not, my ass. How about walking back in and being a fucking man? How about walking back in and putting up a fucking fight? How about walking back in and doing what’s decent and right and honorable and showing a little pride, just a little bit of fucking pride?
Not possible.
Why?
It’s just not.
You’re strong enough to get your teeth drilled without drugs and you’re strong enough to scare the shit out of a bunch of hardened fuck-ups and you’re strong enough to do whatever the fuck you’ve had to do to end up like you are and you can’t walk back into that Clinic and try?
No.
Why?
I’ve tried before. I can’t do it.
Why?
It’s too hard.
Life is hard, Kid, you gotta be harder. You gotta take it on and fight for it and be a fucking man about how you live it. If you’re too much of a pussy to do that, then maybe you should leave, ’cause you’re dead already.
I stare at him and he stares back. Unlike most of the eyes that look upon me, there is no pity in his, no sadness, no sense that he’s looking at a lost cause. There is an anger and there is a hardness and there is a resolve. There is truth, and that is all that matters. The truth. I don’t know why he’s out here or why he’s doing this but I know by his eyes that he means what he says, that he will follow through with his words.
Why do you give a shit?
Because I do.
Why?
It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that I’m here and that I’m not gonna accept any of your bullshit or any of your excuses. You can make this easy, and come back right now, or you can make this hard, and make me call out my dogs. Either way, you’re here till you get better.
I can’t promise that’s gonna happen.
Promise that you’ll try.
I stare at him.
Trying can’t hurt, Kid,
There is truth in his eyes. Truth is all that matters.
And trying’s nothing to be scared of.
Truth.
Just try.
I take a deep breath. I stare at him. I am in the darkest darkness and I am comfortable. Except for my time inside, I have been sober for a total of four days in the last six years. My attempts at sobriety were weak at best. There was always liquor around, there were always drugs around, I was always around people who were using them. I am profoundly physically, mentally and emotionally Addicted to two separate substances. I am profoundly physically, mentally and emotionally Addicted to a certain way of life. I don’t know anything else anymore, I don’t remember anything else anymore, I don’t know if I can be anything else at this point. I am scared to try. I am fucking scared to death to try. I have considered my options to be Jail or death. I have never considered quitting to be an option because I have never believed that I could do it. I am scared to death to try.
I stare at Leonard. I don’t know him. I don’t know who he is or what he does or what he has done to arrive at this moment. I don’t know why he is here or why he has followed me or why he gives a shit. What I know is in his eyes. What I know is an anger, a hardness, a resolve and truth. What I know is that I respect his eyes and I believe his eyes. What I know is that what’s in his eyes is different from any of the other eyes that have looked at me, judged me, pitied me and written me off over the last years. What I know is that I can trust his eyes because what lives in them, lives in me.
Twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours what?
I’ll stay here for twenty-four hours. If I feel the same way I feel now, I’m gone.
I’ll call out my dogs.
Call them. I’ll bite their fucking heads off.
He smiles.
You’re a scary Motherfucker, Kid.
Don’t forget it, Old Man.
He laughs.
Come here, I’m gonna give you a hug.
I stay where I am.
I agreed to twenty-four hours. That doesn’t mean I’m hugging you and that doesn’t mean we’re friends.
He laughs again, steps forward, puts his arms around me, hugs me.
All you got to do is try.
I pull away, he motions toward the faded lights of the Clinic.
It’s fucking cold out here and I’m soaking wet and I don’t want to get sick. Let’s go inside.
I’m not going back to that Lecture.
I don’t care if you do or you don’t, as long you’re inside, I’m happy.
We walk back to the door and I open it and we go inside. The lights are bright and I don’t like them and I am scared to death.
I am scared to death.
Scared to death.
Scared.
Fucking scared.
