Dreamseller

by Brandon Novak

  She sees something special in me? The very thought that I am actually worth something is foreign. For as long as I remember, if I was treated with respect, it was because I either had Dope, money, or was on the verge of a score. The sense of responsibility that is brought about by another person’s respect gives me a feeling of discomfort.

  Mrs. Evans continues to ask some basic questions such as: “Who do you live with? Are you married or single? Do you have any family?”

  Then the big question hits. “How will you be paying for your treatment?”

  I think for a second, and naturally, I make up a lie: “My mother said she would pay, but she’s working today and she can’t drop the check off until tomorrow evening.”

  Mrs. Evans gives me a knowing look that implies she has heard this excuse many times before. She answers, “Fine.”

  I know that if I make it upstairs to detox and treatment, and my mother is able to verify this is the truth and not one of my many lies, she will help me once again. This sucks. I did not even want to tell her about rehab in order to spare her feelings in case I fail once again. But I am willing to do whatever it takes. I need this.

  Mrs. Evans then says, “Okay, you’re all finished with me here; I’m gonna bring you those clothes tomorrow. You just missed the smoke break. Do you want to go out front with me and smoke one?”

  “I’d love to.”

  For some odd reason, even though my life is an absolute wreck, I feel at peace, and I owe this feeling to Mrs. Evans for making me feel welcome. She is a powerful example that it can be done.

  chapter ten

  Mrs. Evans

  Mrs. Evans and I stand in front of Tuerk House. She lights her cigarette and offers me one.

  I tell her, “I have cigarettes; I’m good.”

  “Save yours; you’ll need them. Actually, take the rest of mine, too.” She hands me the pack.

  “Mrs. Evans, you don’t have to be so nice to me. I know you mean well…”

  She replies, “Sure, I’m being nice, but I’m doing the same things for you that someone did for me when I was in your shoes many years ago. That’s what being here is about. It’s called the ‘therapeutic value of one addict helping another.’”

  Not being sure what that means, but expecting to find out, I reply, “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Evans looks at me as if to let me know what she is about to disclose is intended to bring me strength or inspiration. “Sweetie, I have a story I want to tell you before we part ways. Just something for you to think about, maybe, when things get a little shaky in here. I entered this place years ago in the same exact shape you’re in. I had no one left in my life. I had betrayed everyone who crossed my path. I’m talking about this grown lady who stands before you at this very moment was sucking dick for two dollars on the avenue. I’ve sold my own daughter’s body for a quick fix.”

  Although I was prepared to hear a speech, I was by no means prepared to hear that. This calm, professional, sweet-looking old lady continues on with her story.

  “One night at about three o’clock in the morning, I was on the avenue tricking when a man pulled up in a car and offered sixty bucks to fuck, and I took him on his offer. It started out as a normal trick until the guy punched me in the face. He pulled out handcuffs and cuffed my hands behind my back, and wrapped electrical tape over my mouth and around my head. Then he threw me in the trunk and drove to an abandoned house. For hours and hours, he repeatedly beat and raped me.”

  I have no idea how to react, as sobriety sends a chill throughout my body. Mrs. Evans finishes her story.

  “When he was finished with me, he pulled out a needle, cooked up some Heroin, and injected himself, then me. After he pulled the needle out, he informed me that he just shot me up with his AIDS-infected needle. He looked me in the face and said, ‘Now you’re gonna die just like I am, you dirty bitch!’ Then he unlocked the handcuffs and left me to wallow in the sickness that he forced on me. Eight months later, I went to prison, was tested, and the results came back HIV positive. When I was released from prison I used for about three more months before I entered this treatment center.”

  I just stare at her. What can I possibly say?

  “Brandon,” Mrs. Evans says, “I didn’t tell you that story to make you nervous. I told you because I know when you look at me that’s not what you see. But if you really want to clean up your act, with a lot of hard work and determination, you can change from who you are right now to the person you want to be. It’s never too late.”

  She is completely right. When I look at Mrs. Evans I see a sweet, caring, warm grandmother figure, not the woman in the story she just told.

  As we wrap up our smoke break, a tall, slender, middle-aged black man opens the door and calls outside, “Mr. Novak?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Your room is ready, just follow me, sir.”

  I look at Mrs. Evans, not wanting to leave her side, but knowing I have to. In parting, she gives me a hug and tells me she will see me tomorrow. “I have a feeling about you, cutie. Stop this nonsense.”

  chapter eleven

  Kindness from Strangers

  The thin man instructs me to follow him, leads me into a small room, and asks, “Do you have any belongings with you?”

  I reply, “No.”

  “Okay, I’m gonna need you to empty your pockets for me.”

  I comply. From my front left pocket I bring forth two packs of cigarettes and a lighter. From my front right pocket I produce my syringe and spoon, both of which the man instructs me to drop into a trash can lined with a plastic biohazard bag. As I prepare to throw away everything I live for, I note that I am not the only resident of the Tuerk House who has attempted to begin a new way of life, as there are several other needles and cookers in the bottom of the can.

  The thin man asks me to sit in a chair so he can take a Polaroid picture of my face. Its purpose is to remind the addict, upon discharge, of the progress he has made. Before the thin man takes the photo, I attempt to smile, and I say to myself, “What the fuck do I have to smile about?” The flash goes off.

  The man says, “Well, that’s it” in a monotonous demeanor I interpret as indifference toward his job.

  He leads me through the hall, into the elevator, and presses“3,” the men’s floor. The second floor is where the women stay. In the Tuerk House, men and women are separated at all times. It is the philosophy of this institution that in order for addicts to fully engage themselves in the rehabilitation process, they should take all precautions to avoid diversions. One powerful distraction addicts use to replace their dependency on drugs is the preoccupation with the opposite sex.

  As the thin man and I step off the elevator and enter the hallway, I am faced with an element of rehab I have dreaded since my decision to admit myself: a line of approximately thirty men, waiting to be escorted to group therapy. The presence of other addicts in this multitude, brought to order, forces me into a submissive state. Each individual possesses a certain quality, whether in a facial expression, a story, or a mannerism, that reflects a different facet of my sickness. Cumulatively, these men represent my disease, addiction. I fix my eyes on the floor as I feel the gaze of the other addicts. Stripped of pride and self-esteem, I make my way behind the thin man.

  This institution resembles, in many ways, an elementary school. The ceiling is white and houses fluorescent light fixtures down its center. The pigmentation of the walls and floor resemble the color of piss. Lining the hallway are the doors to the rooms; every room holds three beds and each bed has a dresser. There is one window per room. A rule of the Tuerk House dictates that the blinds are to remain shut, because as previously stated, this rehab is situated in a neighborhood where there are many Dope shops and we addicts need no more temptations than the ones we are currently facing.

  As the thin man leads me down the hall, I look into a room and see several addicts seated at a table. They break out in laughter at the punch line of a joke.
I am struck with jealousy, having not had a sincere laugh for as long as I can remember.

  The slim man stops at my room, number 361. The man says, “Here we go, this is your room. Your bed is that one in the corner.” There are items on the dressers of the other beds. A framed photo of a cute little black girl of approximately seven catches my eye. I suppose she is a relative of one of the occupants.

  Before leaving, the slender man stops and says something that completely catches me off guard. “Good luck, I will pray for you.” The sincerity in his eyes causes me to realize I had misjudged him. He turns and walks away.

  I feel so sick right now that all I want to do is get in bed, curl up in a ball, and not move until the withdrawal is over. But first, I need a shower.

  My bed has already been made; on it lie two standard white towels, a toothbrush, soap, deodorant, and a letter stating that if I need a razor, I must consult my counselor. Obviously, thoughts of suicide are common among recovering addicts.

  The hallways are empty. Perfect. I cross to the bathroom, approach the shower, strip down, peel the clothes from my skin, and step into the stall. Most people, in considering a hot shower, envision a peaceful, relaxing moment of reflection and solitude. In my state, however, in the grip of withdrawal, and having not properly bathed for months, the sensation of the water on my skin will be almost unbearable. Just to imagine being clean leaves me feeling awkwardly uncomfortable. I turn on the water, adjusting the temperature.

  I step toward the shower head, take a deep breath, and submerge my body under the running water, which beats on my skin like hard rain. Soon my body is acclimated to the water, and I feel comfortable enough to apply soap. As I wash, I note that around the drain, the suds rinsed from my body are black, similar to the soap scum produced by an auto mechanic’s hands after a day’s work. I scrub my body several times, each pass yielding lather lighter in shade, until the layers of dirt have finally been removed.

  I step from the shower and grab my towel, and as I dry off, I amuse myself with the thought that the last time I showered I had dried myself with my dirty shirt. With the towel around my waist, I gather my toothbrush and toothpaste and make my way to the sink. I cannot remember the last time I brushed my teeth, and my gums are so sensitive that the cold water will sting like an abrasion. I wait until the water runs warm and begin brushing, and soon the blood gushing from my gums overpowers the taste of toothpaste.

  I lift my head to look into the mirror for the first time in perhaps six months. Damn, I’m not as ugly as I feel. I stare into my eyes. I am looking at a stranger.

  I cross the hall to my room. The light shining through the doorjamb tells me it’s time to meet my roommates. I open the door and see a kid of approximately twenty, skin dark black and ashy, sitting on his bed and writing what seems to be a treatment plan. On the next bed, lying face up with legs elevated on his pillow, is a black man in his late fifties. His arms and hands are swollen, pitted and pock marked, and on his legs are the noticeable protrusions of abscesses.

  The young man looks my way. “Yo, what’s up? I’m Toby, and that over there is Dane.”

  “What’s up, I’m Brandon,” I say as I proceed to shake both of their hands.

  Toby continues, “What brings you here, kid?”

  “Dope.”

  He laughs. “Wait, let me guess, you one of those rich white boys who probably ran their mother’s credit card up and was threatened to be kicked out, so you realized you had a problem and it’s time to fix it, right?”

  I reply, “No, actually I’m from an abandoned garage by Fayette and Patterson Park.” Dane turns his eyes to Toby. He seems to understand that I have been set apart from the white stereotypes commonly known to them: BMW-driving rich kids who haunt black neighborhoods in search of drugs or prostitutes. Toby returns Dane’s glance with a nod, and a personal connection, now established, sets us at ease.

  As I prepare to put on the same clothes I have been wearing for the past few weeks, Toby asks, “Yo, where’s the rest of your stuff?”

  I reply, “You’re looking at it.”

  Dane shoots Toby a look. Toby then turns to me and says, “Yo, I’m not a real smart black man but I’m guessing your family is done with you, and your friends are done with you too. The way I look at it, you ain’t got shit and need all the help you can get.”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  Toby opens his dresser and tosses me a fresh pair of boxers, T-shirt, jeans, and socks. “Here, take this shit and there’s plenty more where that came from.” Dane then stands and throws me a sweatshirt. I thank them and again we shake hands.

  Even though we are not the same color and our backgrounds are diverse, we have a mutual understanding through our common bond called Dope.

  Dane relaxes with his feet propped on his pillow. Toby, on the other hand, has focused his attention on me. Although I respect and appreciate his kindness, I am Dope-sick and tired, so I keep the answers to his questions very short. The conversation feels like an interrogation.

  TOBY: Yo, cuz, how old are you?

  ME: Twenty-five.

  TOBY: What you fuck with?

  ME: Dope and coke.

  TOBY: You pump or sniff?

  ME: Pump.

  TOBY: Damn! You was goin’!

  ME: Yeah, pretty much. What’s your deal?

  TOBY: Well for me, I grew up aroun’ the shit. The local boys would sell right on the corner down my street. I took a job here and there when I was a kid, you know what I mean, lookout for the squad cars for the corner shops on my bike at the age of thirteen. They let me start selling once I was old enough, like fifteen, sixteen. I started sniffin’ every now and then, on Friday nights when me and my boys would go out to clubs. Soon it became an “every-other-day thing,” and then, an “every-day-thing.” But then I let it get me. I was droppin’ weight, not goin’ out with my boys, they could tell what was up, but we was cool, cuz I didn’t let it get me too bad. But then it really got me. Soon, I was sellin’ just to cover the habit, and I started shortin’ the bags I was sellin’, and my people finally came down, told me to clean up. No big thing. So here I am, I’ll get through it and get back easy enough! I’m good like that. I always end up on my feet. So, what’s your story, cuz?

  Toby is interrupted by Dane. “Nigga, you remember what you felt like your first day here?!”

  Toby answers, as if to a father figure, “Yeah, Dane.”

  “You know you wasn’t up for no fucking conversation. Let the man sleep, Lord knows he probably needs the shit.”

  Toby replies, “You’re right,” and turning to me, sympathizes. “Yo, I holler at you later when you’re up to it.”

  I curl my body into the bed and pull the covers over myself. Dane bids me goodnight. “Sleep well, nephew, I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat, and don’t feel too bad; life ain’t as bad as you think! Remember this, and never forget it, things could always be worse!”

  “You’re right. Thank you for everything, Dane. Thanks, Toby.”

  As I try to fall asleep, I think about my two new roommates, and how together, the three of us in this room represent the full circle of the Dope game. Toby is how we all started out. He thinks he has all life’s answers and swears he will never end up a junkie. Next, there is me, on the next level of Dope addiction, yet still possessing enough youth and sense to escape a life of pain. Then there is Dane, representing those whose days of addiction outnumber those clean. At one point, Dane made the decision to sell his soul to the devil. Then, at almost sixty years of age, he woke up, wondering if there might be any hope for his future.

  I am somehow intrigued by Dane, this original gangster, a powerful father figure who seems to have enough respect and street credibility to issue orders to whomever he wishes. His scars and abscesses attest to the fact that he has been to hell and back, several times over. What brings him here? Is rehab a part of a plea bargain through which he is avoiding a jail sentence? Perhaps he is sincere in his attempt for recovery
, but why now, at his age? But then I see it. At the foot of his bed, on the dresser, sits the picture of a little black girl with a few baby teeth missing and one of the cutest smiles I have ever seen. She’s so innocent, hasn’t discovered that the world can be cruel. But, the more I think about it, she probably already has experienced the world’s cruelty to some degree. By watching Dane go through hell, he, unintentionally, took her right along with him. As I drift off to sleep, my mind continues to contemplate Dane and his experiences on this earth.

  chapter twelve

  Physically Sick

  Slowly, I drift into a carefree world. My body has shape, yet no density or consistency. It floats, curving, bending over and over like a piece of paper dropped from the sky.

  And I land, delicately back in that abandoned garage, on the three wet cushions I call my bed. In the fantasy of my mind, I have just drawn up a sizable fix of coke and Dope. I hit a vein, and my eyes roll upward in utter ecstasy as the blood shoots into the syringe. I apply pressure on the plunger and let this wonderful drug take hold of my body and mind.

  A warm sensation flows outward from my brain stem, like rippling water splashing over my body. A bittersweet scent fills my nostrils and my expanding lungs, forcing the delicious air into my bloodstream as I surrender to all present stimulus.

  A shot of Dope. Freedom. Responsibilities disintegrate. Burdens dispel. The only thing that now has relevance is another shot of Dope. Neither morals, nor character, nor principles. Thirty ccs on the hypodermic will disperse life’s petty obligations in all directions.

  My eyes snap open and dart from side to side. Yes, the room is my own, the bed is my own, number 361-B. My nightmare is over, but I am not relieved. I wish it had been real.