Dreamseller

by Brandon Novak

  It is normal for recoving addicts to, in a sleeping state, experience a succession of vivid images and sensations reminiscent of their drug experiences. This is because the dreamer is mourning the loss of something equivalent to the relationship one shares with a best friend, family member, lover, or mistress.

  Withdrawal. The body, in adapting to continued drug abuse, undergoes defensive chemical alterations in order to lessen the drug’s effects. This phenomenon, “tolerance,” requires the addict to administer increased doses of the drug in order to achieve the level of high he once experienced. This progression develops into a matured state—“physical dependence.” The body’s chemical adaptations that once had occurred to oppose the drug now happen in expectation of the drug, and if unopposed, cause the addict to suffer depression, anxiety, and physical pain, or “withdrawal.” Withdrawal may take up to several days, which is why addicts refer to the first week of rehab as “Hell Week.”

  With tearing eyes, mucus in continuous flow from my nose, I lie under the blankets, covered head to toe in a fetal position. I have a fever, yet I am shivering and cold. Although I am physically and mentally exhausted, comfort is an impossibility and sleep is futile.

  The only thing keeping me together is the thought of my mother. I find comfort in imagining her calm, soothing voice, telling me, “Hang in there, baby, you can do it, you’re strong. I have faith in you.”

  As I lie on the bed, I observe some markings that a former resident, who has slept on this very bed, has drawn on the ceiling. Above me are two groups of lines, which I recognize as a countdown chart to keep track of his days remaining in this place. But as I count them I realize there are only nine, and I come to a sad realization that this patient had not completed his fourteen days of detox and had gone back to the streets. A.M.A., against medical advice. He could be dead by now. I wonder….

  Nausea causes me to jump from my bed and run to the bathroom. My mouth, full of throw up, explodes warm vomit all over the bathroom tiles. I slump over the toilet, spitting my guts up. Since it’s been quite some time since I’ve eaten, the throw up consists of bile and the lining of my stomach, mixed with a little bit of blood. It hurts so bad, but I’m somewhat happy because I know the toxins are leaving my body.

  I stand up to wipe my mouth with toilet paper. I flush the toilet and stare at the vomit all over the floor. I don’t want to clean it up, but I know it’s the right thing to do. I’m starting to understand that this whole process of change begins with doing things I don’t want to do. Discomfort. So I retrieve cleaning supplies from the closet, and mop, rinse, and clean the vomit from the floor. Now finished, I put the supplies away and return to my room where my warm bed awaits my arrival.

  Now in bed, with wrenching pain throughout my body, I fade in and out. My reality exists in moments of awareness, separated by moments of non-awareness….

  FADE IN:

  “Yo! Yo, white boy! White boy!” My eyes open, and I see Toby standing above my bed. “You ain’t dead are you?” he asks with a smile on his face.

  I reply, “No, but right now that might be my best option.”

  “Stop trippin’, white boy we got you!”

  Dane says, “You missed breakfast. It’s time for lunch, you coming?”

  I shut my eyes and shake my head. “No.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Yes.”

  Dane replies, “Nephew! You got to eat; you need as much strength as you can get to make it through that motha fuckin’ jungle. My cousin works in the kitchen. I’m gonna get him to hit me off with some extra shit and bring it back up for you.”

  I whisper a feeble, “Thank you.”

  BLACKNESS.

  FADE IN:

  I awake and notice that Dane has procured extra food from the cafeteria. A sandwich and fries. This is no easy feat, because servings are limited to one meal a person. This gesture proves to me that Dane is a man of his word, but unfortunately, I’m so sick that the mere thought of eating makes me want to throw up.

  BLACKNESS.

  FADE IN:

  My eyes open as I hear Dane’s voice. “Nephew, you need to eat. Take a few bites of this.” Dane holds a sandwich to my mouth and begins feeding me. “I know it probably makes you sick to think of, but it’s another one of those things you just have to do.”

  As I take each bite, I grow more and more nauseous, but I need all the strength I can get. The faster I recuperate, the faster I can feel like I’m worth anything at all. Then and only then I can rebuild my life and most important, my mind.

  BLACKNESS.

  FADE IN:

  The lights are out. Toby is asleep. Dane is on his knees praying.

  BLACKNESS.

  chapter thirteen

  Dane

  My eyes open. Toby stands over me. “Yo! It’s time for the first smoke of the day, you coming, cuz?”

  “What time is it?” I squint.

  “Five. You coming?”

  “I just can’t…”

  Things are bad, I think, when a cigarette, the one thing that will take the edge off, will require too much energy to smoke.

  My two roommates scuttle about to make roll call. As they get dressed, Toby acts as though he’s getting ready for a social event, changing several times until he finds the right outfit. Dane, on the other hand, preferring to let his reputation speak for him, throws on a pair of sweat clothes. As they leave, they extend their offer one more time, but again I decline.

  I lay back in a spell of self-pity. Overtaken by the overwhelming urge to shit, I jump from my bed and hurry to the bathroom, but the exertion overwhelms my body so much that I can’t hold back. Diarrhea runs down my legs. “Damn,” I scold myself. “Look at me. Twenty-five years old and shitting myself like a baby.” As I sit on the toilet to finish what I have already started, I wipe the shit from my leg. Physically and emotionally, I have been reduced to an infant. I stand and flush the toilet, humiliated and worthless.

  As I exit the stall, I see a young white kid washing his hands and face. I size him up: a hundred percent Irish, red hair combed with a sharp part, an expensive-looking gold necklace, button-up oxford blue shirt, freshly ironed khaki shorts, new pair of summer sandals, clean shaven. All of these features lead me to believe that he is either a paid employee or a college intern, save one remarkable quality: upon his face is a smile.

  “What’s your name?” the white kid asks.

  “Brandon. What are you, my counselor or something?”

  “No, man, I’m a patient. I’m Sean Williams. Good to meet you.”

  I think, Fucking liar! What’s so good about meeting me?! But I reply, “Yeah, good to meet you, too.”

  As I attempt to make my way to my room, he continues. “How long you been here?”

  I stop, turning halfway to him. “I got here yesterday.”

  “So you’re in your second day without drugs?” Obviously.

  I roll my eyes. “Yup, my second day in here, my second day without drugs. Got any more questions for me?”

  He replies, “No.”

  As I walk away, he calls out, “Hang in there, you can do it”—a comment I do not acknowledge. Why does everyone here seem to have such confidence in me? Don’t they know I always fuck up?

  Again in the room. Dane enters, followed by Toby, who storms through the door, rapping. Once inside, Dane assumes his usual position on his bed, propping his legs on a pillow, folding his hands behind his head.

  Toby pulls a picture from his drawer and stares into the photo. He looks at me, looking at him. “You want to sneak a peek?”

  I say, “Sure.”

  Toby shows me a picture of a beautiful black girl in sexy lingerie.

  He says, “You like that shit, don’t you, white boy?!”

  “Yeah.”

  Dane, possessing only a fraction of Toby’s energy, breaks his silence. “Nephew, how you holdin’ up?”

  I reply, “Fucking horrible, but I’m doin’ it so
mehow.”

  “Just hold on, son. Lemme tell you, if I would have cleaned up at your age, I would look and feel like a completely different person now. I might look pretty bad at fifty-eight, but, at one point, I had it goin’ on. Say, you ain’t eat breakfast, you coming to lunch?”

  “No thanks, not yet.”

  Toby tells Dane, “Come on, man. Let’s hit lunch. White boy just needs sleep.”

  Dane looks at me, troubled. “Nah, son, I’ll meet you down there.”

  Toby, uncertain, replies, “Yo, I’ll just wait.”

  But Dane refuses. “Nah, go ahead, nephew. I’ll meet you there.”

  Toby shrugs in an insecure manner. “All right I guess.” He gathers up his nerve and leaves.

  Dane knows I’m not holding up too well. I place my hand over my face in hope that he’ll believe I’m just too exhausted to talk.

  “Cuz, what’s wrong?” he asks.

  I answer, “Nothing, Dane, why?” I’m not fooling him. He knows the exact problem. He senses my self-doubt. He’s fifty-eight; he’s been here before.

  Dane swings his feet off the bed and to the floor. He pulls a chair from the corner of the room, places it by the side of my bed, and in sitting, touches his right hand to mine. “Nephew, check this out.”

  Dane’s voice alters in tone, from forceful and stern to caring and compassionate. “You’re twenty-five, and by the looks of you, you’ve been to hell and back several times. I know this isn’t your first time in detox so you know this feeling. But listen…”

  I take a good look at Dane, and I can tell that he’s having a difficult time with what he’s about to say. In my condition, I don’t have the energy for concentration. But, seeing that what he was about to tell me was so painful for him, I found myself clinging onto every word.

  Dane continues. “When I was seventeen years old, my mother was a maid for some white folks and my father was a street hustler who made very good money by catering to the upper-class whites. By this point in my life I was a full-blown Heroin addict who got his fix by skimming off the top of each package I delivered for my father, usually to some white man in a big limo. It was a cold January morning. I’m up in my room throwing up due to lack of Dope in my system. When I heard footsteps on the way to my door, I felt better because I knew what was about to go down. After a knock on my door I yell, ‘Come in.’

  “My father entered. He says, ‘Look here, son, I need you to go to North Broadway and East Preston. You’ll see a white limo. Hop in and give this package to the man.’ I act like I don’t want to, just to make him believe he can fully trust me. When he leaves me with the package, I grab my needle, cooker, and some clean water. I stop at the convenience store bathroom one block from my house to fix up and skim some for later. I guess I skimmed a little too much, because I was so high by the time I got home, my father saw the condition I was in and took me straight to rehab.”

  Dane swallows and continues the story. “The second day into it I’m woken up by my counselor who tells me we must speak immediately. She takes me to her office, where my father sits in a pool of tears. He tells me the man I delivered to the day before kicked in the door that morning and stabbed my mother to death, and left a note that read, ‘I bet you won’t short any more of my packages.’”

  I stare at him, sorry for the horrible experience he is still trying to recover from more than forty years later.

  “Nephew, I tell you that story for a reason. Always remember: Yesterday’s history, tomorrow is a mystery. Everything that has happened, or ever will happen, is somehow a part of a larger plan. You may not understand why you have to go through some experiences, but you have to trust and believe in the process. Because that process is your life, and that’s all you got.”

  After a moment of silence, Dane says, “Enough of this deep intimate shit. You need some new food; that stuff I brought you yesterday is stale. I’ll bring you a sandwich and something to drink.” As he exits, he leaves me with one more statement. “I got your back, nephew, I’m here for you.”

  I don’t know what I did to deserve his kindness, but I gladly accept it.

  As I lie in the bed, I am overcome by a cramp so violent that it seems to contract my every muscle, ligament, and organ. The pain of being alive is almost too much to bear. My body involuntarily lifts my head and projects a mouthful of vomit directly to the floor, my dresser, and my shoes. In an attempt to clean the mess, I force myself to stand, and the room gets foggy….

  My eyes open. Toby is frantically shaking me. “White boy, white boy, please don’t die on me! Come on, cuz, wake up, please!”

  I look from side to side and realize that I am lying on the floor in the pool of vomit. “Sorry about the throw up, I’m gonna clean it up right now,” I tell him.

  I hear Dane’s voice. “Like hell you are! I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do, you’re gonna drink this water. Me and Toby will clean this up.”

  As Dane hands me a cup of water, Toby screams, “What? I don’t even clean my own room, why should I clean that shit?”

  Dane shoots Toby a very serious look. “’Cause you should! Now get some towels, and a bucket and a mop.” Toby doesn’t question Dane’s authority; he immediately heads to the hall closet to retrieve the supplies.

  “I’m sorry, Dane. I meant to clean it up.”

  “Yo, I know you meant well. Don’t worry about Toby, he just don’t know any better.”

  Dane helps wipe the vomit off me as he gives Toby instructions on how to use a mop. I take a moment to grasp the significance of this situation, that two people I’ve just met are taking care of me in my worst condition.

  After they finish wiping up my bile, Toby complains until Dane tells him to “Quit acting like a fucking baby. You got to understand something, son. Discipline. Lemme tell you, there’s a difference between a grown man and a real man. And that difference is, a real man knows how to take personal responsibility for things, and to do the things in life that ought to be done. And this begins with doing the little things that you don’t want to do, which give you the courage to face the bigger things. You’ll come to see that as time goes on.”

  Turning to me, Dane says, “Okay, it’s time to get to group. I know you ain’t making this session, white boy. Toby, let’s go.”

  Before Toby exits, he kneels down beside my bed. “Look, cuz, we’re two different people from two different places who come off a little different. But at the end of it all, I’m here for you. If you need anything, just ask.”

  “Thank you, Toby, I appreciate that. I don’t think you know how much that means to me.”

  He replies, “Yeah, I do,” winks and exits.

  Again I fade out. Dusk falls. As I lie in the pitch-black room, the door opens and I’m blinded by the hallway light.

  “Brandon? Brandon, are you in here? Is that you?”

  I reply with, “Who the fuck is that?”

  “It’s me, Sean Williams.”

  Christ! I forgot all about this kid and was hoping to keep it that way. What does he want?

  chapter fourteen

  Sean Williams

  “Brandon? Can I come in?” asks Sean Williams.

  I really wanted to say, “Fuck, no, you can’t come in! I don’t have the energy to be around someone displaying your level of happiness and joy!” But I take into consideration that Sean Williams is, after all, a good kid who probably needs to get some things off his chest to the only person in rehab he could identify with. After all, we are the only white guys there. I reply, “Sure, come on in.”

  Sean Williams grabs a chair, pulls it up to my bed, a bit too close, and sits, staring into my face. His air of intense enthusiasm is, to put it bluntly, uncomfortable. I break the silence. “What’s going on, Sean Williams?”

  “Nothing much. I was worried. I didn’t see you at lunch or dinner today. I’m so glad you didn’t leave, even though I thought you did.”

  “Your caring for me is a nice gesture, but the reality of the situa
tion is I’m too sick to even make it to the bathroom. If I wanted to leave, I have nowhere to go, not to mention I don’t even have ten cents to my name, let alone ten dollars for a fix. So at this point my only option is to remain in this bed. You don’t have to worry about me going anywhere anytime soon. I can’t afford it and I don’t have it in me.”

  “I was just in the lounge watching TV with Toby, Dane, and some other fellows you haven’t met yet.”

  Who the fuck gives a shit? Jesus, doesn’t this guy take a fucking hint?

  I say, “That’s great and all, Sean Williams, but the way I feel right now I could care less if an atomic bomb was about to blow this whole world up. Actually, I might get excited if that were the case.”

  Sean Williams continues. “Man, your roommate Toby is hilarious. He’s back there putting on a rap concert while his buddy supplies the beats with his mouth, while he uses the table for a drum.”

  I am taken back, amazed at this kid, this eternal optimist. No matter how hard I try to blow him off, no matter how little interest I show, he keeps trying to get to know me. This is pretty strange. I sit up to take in a clear picture of this guy named Sean Williams.

  “Yeah, Toby is a handful,” I reply.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but Dane told me about you, and he told me I could find you here. He said that I should come and talk to you, about stuff,” Sean Williams said.

  This guy is a friend of Dane’s? I become more receptive to the conversation.

  “What brings you here, Sean Williams?”

  “Coke,” he tells me. “Where you from, Brandon?”

  “East Baltimore, and yourself?”

  “I’m from Harford County. As you probably know, it’s real nice there. My parents have a nice house, and I had a good childhood and a lot of great opportunities. Well, anyway, a few years ago, I started smoking weed and drinking on the weekends. I had one group of friends who were using coke. One night I was out with them and got curious and did my first line before the wine was served. I really liked it! It started out as a social thing, but then I got into it really bad. First I did a bump or two when I was up late studying or trying to complete a term paper in time for a tight deadline. Then I was doing a bump before class to stay awake, then lines in the bathroom at parties. Part of the problem was that I had the money to pay for it, so, I kind of dug quite a deep hole for myself before things fell apart. By the end, I was at a point where I would barricade myself in my room and do like two eight-balls a day by myself. I would start puking out my windows and calling the police saying people were after me. It got totally out of hand.”