by Nic Sheff
I reach over to squeeze Sue Ellen’s hand, but she quickly pulls away—hunched over—a mess of tears. She walks toward Marion in a sort of trance. And I watch them both walk off together.
Sue Ellen’s shadowed frame is bent and defeated.
A new sickness cuts its way through my stomach, like swallowing crushed glass and antifreeze.
For the first time I finally admit to myself that maybe I’ve made a big-ass mistake by getting involved with Sue Ellen. I keep asking myself, over and over, if I’ve actually hurt her more than helped her—if I’ve robbed her of her chance to really heal at the fucking Safe Passage Center. If nothing else, I know all our plans are ruined now. We had our chance, but we screwed it all up.
And the other thing I know is that now, after all this, I have no choice but to stick by her, no matter what happens. I mean, this is my fault.
So I start up the trail, my hands shaking bad.
I may have done some fucked-up things in my life.
But I’m gonna make this one better.
I have to.
I mean, I have no choice.
Ch.11
So, of course, Melonie is here.
Along with Marion and this wormy counselor Mathew.
Plus Shoshana, another counselor, who basically looks exactly like Melonie but with a different face.
They call this meeting with me a “round table”—and I can tell how serious it is, ’cause they’ve brought the head of the entire program in to watch me squirm. But it’s still Melonie who’s doing all the talking.
“The point is,” she says, her face flushed almost purple, “you’ve violated the trust of the entire community. And by your actions, whether you know it or not, you’ve essentially spit in the face of everyone who’s tried to help you. To say I’m disappointed would be such a gross understatement. I feel personally violated, Nic, I really do. It’s obvious you have absolutely no respect for me whatsoever. I see issues of borderline personality all over this—borderline, with sociopathic tendencies. You’re in a lot of trouble, buddy. If you don’t get help soon, I imagine you’ll be dead within three months.”
I watch the seconds tick by on the circular wall clock above me.
“Okay, hey, Nic!” Melonie practically shouts at me, snapping her fingers in front of my face, making me want to break them off. I mean, goddamn, even if I had zoned out for a minute, you still don’t do shit like that.
“What?” I say back, holding my jaw locked and my fists all clenched up. “What? What? What?”
She leans back and smiles.
I mean, fuck. I swear to fucking God.
“There’s no need to get defensive, Nic. We’re trying to help you. The staff here has been working hard to find a program for you to transition into. As it is, I think we’ve found the perfect option. And just so you know, I contacted the director and explained your situation to him in detail. He agreed that you are a perfect candidate for what they have to offer. And, luckily, they have one open bed left, so you’ll be able to leave first thing tomorrow. I spoke with your father, and he’s completely on board with all of this. In fact, he’s not willing to speak to you until you’ve checked in to the program.”
My breath gets caught in my throat suddenly. I feel my heart pounding through my head—blown-out speakers buzzing, loud and distorted.
“Wh-what program?” I stutter.
“Well, it’s an all-male sober living house, which I’d say is absolutely essential for you. They offer group during the day, but after thirty days you’ll be required to get a job in the local community—a city called Gallup, New Mexico, about an hour outside of Albuquerque—in the middle of nowhere, so you’ll be completely safe and isolated. Of course, they require you to attend twelve-step meetings and get a sponsor to help walk you through the steps. You’ll have extensive chores and restrictions on your writing and drawing and playing guitar—also essential to your recovery. But, as I said, the most important thing is that you will only be with other men, so you’ll have no opportunities to engage in your sex and love addiction. And, because the program requires a one-year commitment, you’ll be able to get a substantial period of abstinence under your belt.”
She pauses—I can only imagine for dramatic effect and for giving me time to squirm.
“Of course,” she continues, looking around at her fellow counselors as though trying to impress them with her bitchiness—I mean, her expert handling of this unspeakably evil act I’ve committed. “Of course, you do have a choice in all this. But if you decide not to attend, I’m afraid you’re going to be asked to leave the premises within the next hour. Otherwise you’ll be able to spend one last night here, say your good-byes, then leave for the airport tomorrow morning. Those are your only two options—and I need your answer right now so we can protect the community.”
I tell myself not to cry. Seeing me cry will only satisfy her all the more.
But I go ahead and cry anyway.
I can’t help it.
I mean, a year? In the middle of nowhere in New Mexico? Surrounded by nothing but fucking men?
There’s no way I can do it.
I actually lived in an all-male sober living once. It was my nightmare of what a goddamn frat house would be like. I lasted there a week. That’s all I could take. I mean, it was so goddamn depressing.
And that’s the thing I don’t get—how are people supposed to stay sober when they hate their lives? Fuck, man, my will to live isn’t all that strong in the first place. Facing a year at a place like that, I just know I’m gonna relapse—or take my own life. It’s not worth living sober and being miserable. It’s not. I keep thinking that if I ran my own sober living, it would be all about trying to help the residents feel excited about life. At least, I know that’s the only way I’ll ever stay clean. So this Gallup place… hell, Melonie says I’ll be dead in three months if I don’t go. Well, I guarantee you I’ll be dead in three months if I do. There’s not even a fucking question.
Of course, I have no money.
That’s literally zero dollars and zero cents.
Thank God my mom sent me a carton of cigarettes, so at least that’s something, but it doesn’t exactly help with the whole food, shelter, and transportation thing.
It’s a big fucking risk.
But Sue Ellen will help me. I know she will. Besides, I got her into this mess—telling her I loved her—that we were going to be together—that we were built for each other. How much of an asshole would I be if, after having gotten caught, I just pussed out and abandoned her completely?
So, yeah, they’re all just gonna have to back the fuck up, ’cause I’m done with this shit.
I wipe my stupid tears outta my eyes. I stand up. “All right, then,” I say, my voice definitely shaking all over the place. “I’m gonna go pack. And, don’t worry, I’ll be gone within the hour.”
Melonie immediately jumps up in front of me.
“Don’t do it, Nic. It’ll be the worst mistake you’ve ever made in your life. You have to listen to me.”
There’s actually panic and a kind of fear in her voice that just makes me all the more determined.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I tell her—as detached as possible.
I walk toward the door.
I’m really done with all this.
I step around Melonie and just keep walking.
“Do you think you’re in love with her?” she asks the back of my head. “Is that it? ’Cause, oh boy, you’ve got another thing coming. I feel sorry for you, Nic. I really do. But I can’t stop you from self-destructing—and obviously you can’t, either. So, fine, go pack your things. I’ll have your discharge packet ready at the CA’s office when you’re done.”
I walk out into the quickly fading sun, up the trail—hopefully for the last time.
My hands are trembling.
What am I gonna do now?
Ch.12
It’s actually this lawyer kid, Jason, who’s saving my ass—at least for
tonight. He’s already on Day Program and has a room at the Residence Inn, so he kinda reluctantly agrees to let me stay with him—though he wants me out by tomorrow. Honestly, I feel like he’s being kinda fucked up about the whole thing. I mean, he totally knew what was up with me and Sue Ellen. We all used to hang out together. I really thought he was my friend—in fact, one of my better friends in this place. We would talk and joke around and confide in each other and play Scrabble. But now, since I got caught, he’s suddenly acting like I’m this dangerous predator. Hell, he was totally into that Jessie girl who’d been a call girl, and he was constantly trying to get together with her. And he would’ve, too, if she hadn’t kept blowing him off. So his puritanical, I’m-Mr.-Poster-Child-of-Recovery thing is pissing me off. Though it’s not like I can do anything about it. I mean, I need his room.
Besides, I was able to talk to Sue Ellen, and she told me real quick that her mom had gotten her a room at that same Residence Inn for a couple nights—just till she could get a flight back to South Carolina. I don’t think either one of us would be comfortable spending the night together. I mean, it’s just too much pressure. But we are anxious to hang out and talk and all, so staying with Jason is perfect.
He drives me to the hotel in his stupid rental car, and I bring my bag up to his room. All I’ve got is one bag, plus an over-the-shoulder backpack thing and that guitar from the Safe Passage Center, which I figure they owe me.
Immediately Jason is sort of pacing back and forth across the tacky, worn-thin, patterned wall-to-wall carpeting—a grayish-black color, probably to help hide all the stains. But actually it’s a totally fine room, with a separate sitting area and a couch and a mini-kitchen with mini-appliances. There’s some abstract, corporate framed art on the walls that look like bad Miró imitations.
“All right, Nic, all right,” says Jason, definitely not sounding like my friend anymore at all. “I’m trying to be cool about this, but I need to know, what’s your plan? I can’t have you staying here after tonight, okay? You need to get your shit together, man.”
I think I maybe roll my eyes a little. “Of course,” I tell him, looking down at the cheap, dark-colored fake tile on the kitchen floor. There’s a swarm of ants moving steadily along the grout beneath the sink—keeping perfect pace with one another—falling in line—instinctively, unthinkingly working, working, working—serving the queen—each individual ant indistinguishable from the rest.
“Well?” Jason demands, pretty goddamn forcibly. “So what is your plan, then?”
My attention stays fixed on the blind obedience of the ant colony.
“Honestly,” I say—distant—escaping the terror and humiliation of being in my body. Watching myself watching the ants from a corner of the textured, off-white ceiling. “Honestly, I don’t totally know. I wanna be with Sue Ellen. If I have to, I’ll go back to South Carolina with her. I mean, I love her, man, I really do. And I’m gonna take care of her. But, look, you know, I really appreciate you letting me stay here tonight. I swear I’ll get out of your way tomorrow. It’s just for a night. You’ve been so good to me, man. I mean, I’m really honored to have you as a friend.”
Which is true—except he’s being such an asshole.
And he’s still pacing, running his right hand over and over through his greased-back hair. It’s weird, you know, ’cause I swear people really do mold themselves to look exactly like they’re supposed to look. I mean, like, take Jason. He’s a young lawyer from Manhattan, and he looks exactly like a fucking young lawyer from Manhattan—sharp, handsome, clean-cut, with expensive clothing and greasy hair and just kind of a greasy slimeball look in general. That is, a very traditionally handsome greasy slimeball look. Not too far off from American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman, you know?
Something like that.
“Jesus, Nic,” he says, louder than he should. “Do you really expect me to believe that? Well, I don’t. And I’m not gonna sit back and cosign your bullshit while you throw your life away—especially since you’re trying to take Sue Ellen down with you. My counselor pulled me aside after group today. She explained everything to me. You’re toxic, man, and as long as you remain in the community, we’re all gonna be unsafe. Besides, you and I both know you’re not capable of loving anybody. I mean, whatever happened to learning how to love yourself first? Whatever happened to taking things slow?”
My body shifts around uncomfortably.
“Nothing,” I tell him, exhaling loudly at the same time. “Hell, I know I still have a ton of work to do on myself. And I know Sue Ellen does, too. But there’s no reason we have to stop doing that work just ’cause we’re not in the program anymore. I mean, even the counselors keep telling us this is a lifelong practice. It’s not like the only way we can make it is to stay at Safe Passage Center the rest of our lives. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is endanger you, or anyone else. But I don’t see how my decisions can possibly do that. I mean, y’all can think for yourselves, right?”
Jason’s pace speeds up even more. “Nic, listen to me, you’re making a mistake. And the thing that pisses me off more’n anything is that you’re gonna take Sue Ellen down with you. You’re a user, Nic. I know. How many times have you had to borrow money from me since being here—a fucking lot, right?”
He pauses as though actually expecting an answer, so I sort of half whisper, “I don’t know. You always made it seem like you wanted to help. I don’t have any money, and that sucks. But I can pay you all back for everything. Once I finish the second half of my book, I’ll get more of my advance. That’s another reason why I wanna get out of here—to start working again and be able to finally support myself.”
He laughs, but not like he thinks it’s funny at all. “Your book, huh? Yeah, right. You might be able to fool little Sue Ellen with that shit, but not me. You’re a con man, Nic—a leech. Hell, I used to be the same way. That’s why I can see it in you. We’re the same, man. And what is it they say, ‘You can’t kid a kidder’? Well, that’s how it is. Now, look, my counselor specifically told me I was not to have any contact with you once you left the program, but I’m gonna give you this one night. She also told me that if, for some reason, I do have to talk to you, the only thing I’m supposed to say is that I want you to go to the program they suggested in New Mexico. So I’m saying that, Nic. Honestly, I think that’s the one chance you’ve got.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, or, well, yell real loud. “You know what Jimmy Cliff says, right? ‘I’d rather be a free man in my grave than living as a puppet or a slave.’ ”
Jason stares me down like he doesn’t even see me anymore.
“Man, your addict’s in full force. I don’t know what’s the point of even talking to you right now. You’re delusional. I mean, it’s sad to see.”
I turn toward the door, pulling on the big Army jacket my old roommate gave me.
“Whatever,” I tell him, kinda quietly. “I’m gonna smoke. Just remember that whole time you were so hung up on Jessie I never judged you—not once. I supported you. I supported you ’cause I used to fucking respect you.”
He doesn’t have time to respond before I get the door open and step out into the cold, cold night, slamming the fucking thing behind me.
Ch.13
The wind tears through the sterile, corporate-looking suites—everything radiating harsh yellow from the rows of staked lights in the sparse planter boxes surrounding the imitation cobblestone courtyard.
The wind stings my face as I walk down the short flight of stairs, fumbling to get a cigarette outta my pack.
There’re some plastic chairs set up in the courtyard, so I take a seat—turning my head, kinda startled, when I hear the door to the suite below Jason’s click open.
At first I just figure I’m gonna have to apologize for smoking in front of the person’s door, but then suddenly the face comes into focus and I actually jump.
“Oh, shit, Sue Ellen. Is that your room?”
She seems pretty startle
d, too.
She clenches her hands, and her eyes go wide, and she sort of takes a step back.
There’s something in her voice, like she’s trying to keep me at a safe distance—like she’s telling me not to come too close, without really telling me anything at all.
“Nic, oh, yeah. Uh, wow, I didn’t expect you to get here so fast.”
“Me neither. They, uh, they were able to get my meds from the doctor sooner than they thought. You want a cigarette?”
I hold out my pack to her.
Her small, pale hand reaches over to take one.
She sits down on one of the cheap lounge chairs, but not right next to me.
I light her goddamn cigarette and then, just to do it—I kiss her on the forehead, whispering, “It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll take it all slow.”
Then I bend down and kiss her mouth.
She pulls away after just a few seconds. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice coming out curt—her body tensed and withdrawn—angry, almost. “Look, I… I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, everyone’s acting like you’re gonna die or something if you don’t go to that program in New Mexico. I can’t deal with this. All my friends are turning on me. I feel like some sort of disease. This isn’t right, Nic. This can’t be right.”
I turn and kick the closest plastic chair with just about everything I’ve got—watching sort of mechanically as it smashes against one of the planter boxes, knocking dirt and cheap, fake-looking carnation petals out onto the concrete.
A crash echoes down the corridor—amplified—reverberating—loud enough that I’m even a little bit startled.
I make a noise like “ugh,” stomping my half-numb, half-pained foot on the ground. “That’s fucking bullshit. I mean, I’m sorry, but I’ve been goin’ in and out of these rehab places since I was eighteen, and I’m just so sick of their manipulative crap. The truth is, they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. They act like they have this goddamn divine authority—like whatever they say is straight from God’s mouth. But it just doesn’t work like that. And, besides, all it really comes down to is business, anyway. These rehabs make a shitload of money, and the only way they can do that is to present themselves as infallible institutions that know, absolutely, the difference between right and wrong. That’s why if you ever question their system, they have to turn everyone against you—otherwise they’ll lose their illusion of absolute power.”
