“Alright,” Dexter said, looking up from his notepad, “let’s switch gears here for a moment. I understand this isn’t your first time through treatment.”
“That’s right.”
“And where were you before you came here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I can’t remember the name right now.”
“You can’t remember? Are you sure? It’s important that we get it into the file.”
“Look,”—Monty stared up at him. His face was sweating, his hands were shaking, and his teeth were chattering so hard it felt like they were about to shatter into a million pieces on the floor—“how much longer is this going to take? I really need some medication. I don’t feel well at all.”
“Well,”—Dexter rolled back his sleeve and checked his wristwatch—“we still have a ways to go.”
A ways to go? Jesus, he needed some fucking medicine. What was it about withdrawal that these people didn’t understand?
“But, I suppose we could finish up some other time, if that works for you?”
“Please.”
“Okay. Let me see if I can get the RA up here.”
Thank God. Finally.
Dexter picked up the phone and punched in a couple of numbers, then swiveled away from Monty holding the receiver between his shoulder and his ear. “Yeah, hi, this is Dex. Is Nicholas down there? He is? Can you send him up please? I have a patient ready for check-in. Yes, tell him we’re in the front room foyer. Thank you.”
Dexter put the phone back into its cradle then set his pen and pad of paper back into the drawer. “Okay, we’ll finish the intake when you’re feeling a little better. I think I’m probably gonna be your primary counselor, so we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. For now, I want you to think about what I said about life on life’s terms, and when you feel up to it, I want you to read through the first couple chapters in the Big Book. Do you have a copy?”
“No.”
Dexter got up from his chair and walked over to one of the cherry wood bookcases that were set up on either side of his desk. He pulled down a book from the very top shelf then took it back with him over to Monty’s chair. The cover was dark blue and made of soft vinyl with the words, Alcoholics Anonymous in gold lettering imprinted on the front.
“You ever read it?” Dexter said, as he held it outward.
“Kind of.”
“What’s kind of?”
“I’ve browsed through it once or twice.”
“Well, it’s not enough just to browse through it. You have to own this thing. Digest it. Go through it cover to cover. You know?”
“I know.”
“Start with the first chapter, The Doctor’s Opinion, and try to find the similarities between you and Dr. Bob. We can talk about it tomorrow morning when you’re feeling better. Deal?”
“Sure.”
“Excellent. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
I won’t.
Monty took the book, thanked him, and stuffed it in the side pocket of his gym bag.
Just then there was a loud thud against the door like a reindeer butting its antlers against the fender of a car. Monty turned and looked. There was a kid, standing in the middle of doorway, wearing big, baggy jeans and a white t-shirt that was three sizes too big. “What’s up, Dex?” the kid said, out of breath and panting, stains like mustard caked in both armpits.
“Oh hey Nick. How’s it going?”
“Oh pretty good, pretty good. You know me…I can’t complain.” The kid looked over at Monty and shot him a bright, blinding smile. “What’s up dawg?”
Monty didn’t respond. He was too entranced by the kid’s metallic set of incisors. They looked like the front grill of a Roll’s Royce convertible—every single tooth had been capped with platinum and he had another five pounds of it dangling around his neck. He looked like a caricature of one of those thugs from an MTV rap video, only this kid was Caucasian, very Caucasian, and his jeans were so baggy he had to hold them up by the crotch.
“Monty,” Dexter said, placing one arm over the kid’s scrawny shoulder, “this is Nick. He’s the RA for the men’s side of things. He’s gonna be checking you in this evening.”
Monty nodded his understanding, trying not to stare, which was almost impossible.
“Be careful with this one, Nick. He’s a sly one—chemical engineer all the way from Denver.”
“No shit? You a chemical engineer, dawg?”
Monty nodded.
Nick’s eyes lit up like a Roman candle. He covered his mouth and let out an ecstatic cry. “Oh shit. So, do you know how to make meth and shit?”
Monty couldn’t help but laugh at the kid’s impulsiveness. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never really tried.”
“Fuck dude. I bet you could whip up a wicked batch of that shit.”
“Hey come on,” Dexter interjected. “Don’t forget where you are now.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, my bad, my bad. I guess I get carried away sometimes. It’s that disease, you know? It’s a fucking sickness—a sickness in my fucking head.” The kid started slapping his head like he was trying to knock water out of his eardrum. “You know what I’m saying dawg? It’s a fucking illness.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Monty said, scooting backwards, trying to get as far as he could away from the kid.
“Pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
“Alright,” Dexter said, checking his wristwatch. “I need to head on down to group. You take good care of my patient now, Nick. No screwing around. I need him over at detox just as soon as you’re finished checking him in.”
Nick stood on his tiptoes and gave Dexter a kind of mock salute. “Aye, Aye captain. You can count on me.”
Dexter nodded somewhat suspiciously, as if he didn’t trust a word that the kid just said. “Hey Monty, you hang in there, alright? And think about what I said. Next time we see each other, we’re gonna dive into your recovery, and you’re gonna have to be open with me, otherwise this thing’s not gonna work. Got it?”
Monty nodded just to get rid of him. In reality, he had no intention of telling this guy a damn thing. He just wanted to do his five days detox and get the fuck out of here, then he could go back to his apartment and complete the plan.
“Alright,” Dexter said, “I’ll see you later. Have a good night and try and get some sleep.”
Yeah right.
Nick waited until Dexter was out of the office then turned to Monty and clapped his hands. “Alright, dawg. Let’s get you checked in. Where’s your shit?” He motioned to Monty’s green gym bag on the floor. “Is that it?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright then. Bring it on up here big boy.” He slapped the top of Dexter’s desk. “I need to check your bag, make sure you’re not trying to sneak any paraphernalia up in here.”
Monty gripped both sides of the armchair and slowly pushed himself up. Crouching to the floor, he grabbed his green gym bag, lifted it by the shoulder strap, and set it on the desk. As he returned to his chair, he could feel his heart rate beginning to quicken as cold beads of sweat ran down from his head. Damn, he felt sick. He wasn’t going to last much longer. The simple act of lifting a gym bag was enough to make him out of breath.
He bent his knees and sank back into the armchair, watching as Nick furiously opened and closed the bottom desk drawers. After a few minutes, he found what he needed—a black permanent marker and a box of Ziploc bags. He unscrewed the cap and brought the tip of the marker underneath his nostrils then took a deep whiff and arched his eyebrows. “I’m just kidding,” he said then doubled over, grinning, with that metal toaster shoved inside his mouth.
Jesus, this guy was messed up. There were definitely a couple screws missing. Wonder what did it to him? Was he mentally challenged? Could it have been all the drugs? Or maybe he was always like this. Maybe he was that kid in kindergarten, the one who ate all the other
kids’ crayons. Then again…maybe once upon a time he was the most popular kid in high school—the quarterback, the prom king, the president of the student council. Then, one day, he started self-medicating and look at what happened—he became this twisted, perverted pile of platinum deteriorating right before Monty’s eyes.
As Nick collected himself, he cocked his head sideways and stuck out his tongue like he was doing an impersonation of Michael Jordan. Then he took the magic marker and began printing Monty’s name, spelled MONTEY, in all capital letters on the side of the bag. He paused mid-stroke and looked up at Monty and asked him what his last name was. Monty told him: “Miller.” Nick nodded and mouthed the word slowly as he printed the name onto the side of the bag.
Once he finished, he leveled his head and studied his penmanship then blew on the ink so it would dry. “Okay,” he said, as he walked over to a metal file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a box of blue latex gloves. “Time for inspection.”
Oh great, again with the latex?
Nick snapped on the gloves, one after the other, then began rubbing his fingers together, making a terrible popping sound. He pulled up his jeans and straightened his posture then began circling the green gym bag like a shark stalking its prey.
Oh great, now what? What was he doing? Why was he just walking around the bag in aimless circles?
Suddenly, Nick stopped and pointed to the zipper, like a detective on a crime scene investigation show. “Wanna go ahead and unzip that for me?”
Monty sighed and stood up from the armchair then, with his hands trembling, he carefully unzipped the bag.
“Okay. Start taking everything out and place it right here for me.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Monty started digging out his belongings, laying them down on top of the desk. First, came the undershirts and his plaid, cotton boxers sitting on the pile near the very top…then came the jeans and long-sleeve sweatshirts underneath layers and layers of plain white socks. He began to wonder where all these clothes came from. Did his dad pack it? He must have, because he sure as hell didn’t remember packing any of it. When he got to the bottom, he found his black leather shaving kit and set it with his clothes on top of the desk.
“Whoa,” Nick said, stepping forward, his eyes fixed on the shaving kit. “What do we have here?” He picked up the kit and pulled open the zipper then dumped the contents out onto the desk. “Uh-oh. Jackpot.” He picked up a bottle of cologne and read off the label: “Chanel Sport. Very nice. Too bad you can’t have it. Contains alcohol. See?” He pointed to the small print at the bottom of the label. Sure enough, it said fourteen percent alcohol by volume.
So what? What did he think he was going to do, drink it? He’d have to be a lunatic to try and drink that stuff.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Nick said, as if he could read him. “You’d have to be crazy to drink this shit. But, I’ve been here a long time, and believe me, people do some pretty fucked up shit in here. You know those hand sanitizers? The ones they got in the restrooms at the airport?”
Monty nodded. He happened to know exactly what the kid was talking about. He hated those things. They made his hands feel gross.
“Well, we used to have those in the cafeteria, so people could wash their hands before lunch and dinner and shit. Well, some crazy-ass alcoholic figured out that there was like fifteen percent alcohol in there. So, you know what he does? He gets up one night, sneaks down to the cafeteria, and busts all the containers wide fucking open. Then, he takes that shit upstairs to his room, shuts the door, and sucks it down like it was Coca-Cola.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nah man, I wish I was. You know what happened to that poor motherfucker?”
“What?”
“Well, alcohol ain’t the only thing they put in that shit. Also has a whole bunch of chemicals, but you probably know all about that, being a smart chemical engineer and all.” Nick grinned and poked Monty in the shoulder to which Monty just lowered his eyes and looked away. “Anyway, all them extra chemicals made him sick as a dog. Dude looked green when they brought him down in that gurney, like the fucking jolly green giant. Only this dude was pretty far from jolly. It looked like his head was about to pop off like a fucking piñata. They had to rush him to the ER down in Frisco and pump his stomach like they was pumping a well.”
Monty put his hand over his stomach. The thought of getting pumped full of charcoal made him feel like he was going to hurl.
“Since that happened, we had to get rid of all them sanitizers and now we check everything. So, stuff like mouthwash, cologne, cough syrup—you can’t take any of that shit up in here with you.”
Nick continued to sift through the contents of the shaving kit, using his black felt pen like he was some kind of forensics expert. When he came to a set of shaving razors, he looked up at Monty as if he was the dumbest person in the world. “Razor blades? You kidding me? You definitely can’t have these.”
“Don’t blame me,” Monty said, defensively. “I didn’t pack any of this. My dad did. I have no idea what’s in there.”
“Oh, yeah right, I’ve heard that one before. You think I was born yesterday? I hope I don’t need to tell you why you can’t have razors in here.”
This kid was really starting to get on Monty’s last nerve. All he wanted to do was get some sleep and some god damn medication. Didn’t they understand what he was going through? He was sick. He needed medication—something, anything to take away the withdrawals.
“Now, don’t worry, man. You can still shave. You’ll just have to check these razors out when you’re ready. They’ll be right here in this safe along with all your other shit.” He pointed to a metallic safe on the floor behind the desk. “When you’re ready, just come down and someone will check ‘em out for you.” His eyes moved up and down Monty’s torso then stopped abruptly at his feet. “I’m gonna need those shoe laces too my friend.”
“My shoe laces?”
“Yep. Can’t have ‘em in detox, or your belt for that matter. I’ll need ‘em both.”
“What for?”
“They don’t want you trying to hang yourself in here. Nurses can’t keep an eye on you crazy motherfuckers twenty-four seven.”
Monty unbuckled his belt and slung it out from around his waistband.
“Come on, chop-chop, pick it up. Shoe laces too.”
He squatted down to the carpet then started pulling the laces from his shoes.
“Don’t worry, dawg. You can have your laces and belt after you get outta detox. Oh by the way, what’s your drug of choice?”
“What?”
“Your drug of choice? What is it?”
“Alcohol.”
“Alcoholic, huh? That figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The kid shrugged. “Nothing. You just look like an alcoholic…talk like one too. Shit, you even dress like one…Mr. Chemical Engineer.” The kid snickered as he picked up the belt and laces and stuffed them into the Ziploc bag. “Shit, we don’t get too many of you guys in here.”
“Well, what’s your drug of choice?”
The kid looked at Monty like he was offended. “What? You can’t tell?” He stuck his palms out and started twirling as if he was a model at a fashion show. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Monty shrugged.
“I’m a meth head, dawg. Smoked it, snorted it, injected it…you see these things?” He opened his mouth so Monty could see his teeth. “Had to get these bitches capped. My real teeth rotted out. That’s what smoking that shit does to you, man. Makes your damn teeth rot out. You’re lucky you’re just an alcoholic. All that other shit just fucks you up.”
Yeah right. Monty was real lucky. He was trapped in a rehab in the middle of the god damn mountains.
“Alright, let’s take some stock here.” The kid went to the drawer and pulled out a clipboard then started checking the items off in the bag
. “Okay, so we got some shoe laces…Check…one belt…Check…one bottle of Chanel.” He paused and looked up at Monty. “Very nice, by the way.” He winked and started giggling. “And one, two, three, four razor blades…Check. Oh, you got a cell phone?” Monty didn’t say anything, just shrugged his shoulders. Nick laughed and skipped the box. “No sweat man. You don’t gotta tell me. Just don’t let them catch you with it. They’ll take it away and give me a bunch of shit for not snatching it off you. Okay, now last thing—I’m gonna need your wallet.”
“My wallet?”
“Yeah man. We can’t have you ordering a bunch of pizzas in here.”
Monty sighed and patted his back pocket, but his wallet wasn’t there, so he tried his jacket pockets, but it wasn’t there either, so he tried his green gym bag, and found it buried in the very bottom of the side pocket. Thank god, at least he still had it. At least his dad didn’t try and take it from him. He pulled it out and unfolded it. There was no cash inside, but at least he still had his health savings debit card. “Here you go,” he said, as he handed it over.
“Thanks.” The kid snatched it and stuffed it inside the Ziploc bag. “Alright, that about does it. I just need you to sign right here.” He pointed to a dotted line at the bottom of the checklist. “It just says I searched your shit and pulled out all the items checked off here in these boxes.”
Monty picked up the pen and tried to sign, but his hands were shaking so bad he could barely hold his fingers around the grip.
“You can just put an X if you want.”
Monty drew an X, but it looked more like a capital Y.
“Okay. Good. You can go ahead and toss your other stuff back in the bag.”
The kid folded up the checklist and placed it in the Ziploc bag, then sealed it, walked over to the safe and squatted down. Turning his back so Monty couldn’t see him, he punched in some numbers on the digital keypad. He opened the safe and tossed in the plastic baggy then shut the door and stood back up. “Okay, so all your stuff will be right here when you get out. Remember, once you get out of detox you can come in here and grab your belt and shoelaces. Don’t want you running around here with your britches falling off.” He winked at Monty, holding his jeans up by the crotch. “Alright you good?”
Some Are Sicker Than Others Page 22
