“Yeah… ha-ha,” I say.
The bland desert stretches out on either side—dull shades of brown, all burned and peeling. The brush is tangled, brittle. The cacti rot beneath the dust and sand—the car exhaust—the hazy, cancerous sky.
And Chip Barnes, well, he keeps driving. He keeps driving and talking and talking and driving. As we pass strip mall after strip mall. As we pass a rash of housing communities—with one oversize home after another, pressed up practically touching one another. Indoor living. Giant air-conditioned cages with no yards or individuality. Stalinist Russia on steroids. The American dream.
Is this what I’m getting sober for? Is this the society I’m trying to become a productive member of?
I listen to Chip as he goes on blathering. I listen to Chip and I nod my head. I listen to Chip outlining the next year of my goddamn life.
“Based on what we know about you,” he says, still smirking his smirk, “the team and I have decided that it’d be best to keep you on phase one for at least a couple months. All that means is that you’ll be going to group on-site during the day and then out to meetings at night with the guys. As long as you’re on phase one, you won’t be allowed off the grounds unless accompanied by one of the senior residents—that’s phase four or higher. They’ll be responsible for signing you out, so if anything happens, it’s on their head. That’s one of the ways we try to create accountability around here. Anyway, as part of phase one, you’re not allowed to use the phone or computers unless, of course, there’s some sort of emergency you make us aware of. As well, because we want to keep you focused on your recovery, we don’t allow any non-twelve-step-related reading material, and you won’t be able to play that guitar you brought with you—so we’ll go ahead and keep that locked in the office. That way you’ll be free to really spend some time getting to know the other guys—and really getting to know yourself.”
My eyes close as I breathe in through my nose, long and slow. There’s a cramp in my stomach and a cold, glossy sweat broken out all down my back.
My voice comes out stuttering and shaky. I can’t help it. “Okay,” I say. “Yeah, all that sounds, uh, good, I guess. The one thing is, though, before I relapsed, I was able to get a book deal, which was, like, such a total miracle. I mean, I never really went to college or anything, so I kinda feel like this is my one shot, you know? Anyway, I was able to finish about half of it before I got involved in this relationship and started using again. But I guess everyone was really encouraging about the pages I’ve already written, so, uh, now that I’m sober, I’m really looking forward to writing again. And I’m pretty sure I could finish the rough draft within a month or two, which would be so awesome—but I’d definitely need to use a computer. You think we could work something out so I could spend some time writing every day—if I promise not to go on the Internet, or whatever?”
Obviously Chip must’ve been listening, ’cause he responds to what I’ve said, but without even thinking about it for two seconds. He laughs, almost as if he’d been expecting this question the whole time—which he probably was.
“No, Nic, sorry, I don’t think writing a book is something you should be focusing on. You need a real job, where you can just be one of the guys. One of our boys just made manager at the local Albertson’s grocery store. So he’s worked out a deal with them to start hiring the new guys we got coming in. That’s the kind of job I want for you.”
My teeth grind together so it’s actually painful. My jaw pops back and forth.
“But,” I say, still stuttering my goddamn ass off, “I mean, why couldn’t I do both? I’ve worked jobs like that before. Hell, I worked at a grocery store in LA for almost six months. I’ve got no problem with that. But can’t you guys give me some time to write as well? Honestly, man, that’s like the one thing I have to hold on to.”
My voice cracks, and I hope to God I don’t start fucking crying.
“If I didn’t have this book,” I try again, “I don’t think I would’ve even made it through detox. It’s, like, the only chance I’ve got.”
Chip’s expression doesn’t change. He’s just silently laughing—grinning like a bastard. “See, that’s my point, Nic. Seems to me like your priorities are all screwed up. Writing a book isn’t gonna get you anywhere. What you need to do is focus on working the twelve steps and on building your relationships with other men. Nothing else should matter to you right now. You don’t need to be writing. You don’t need to be hanging out with girls. You don’t need anything that your brotherhood can’t give you. All that other crap is just a distraction—a waste of time.”
“Yeah,” I say, inhaling through my nose all at once. “Sounds to me like the twelve steps and your stupid male bonding are the real wastes of time. If who you are is any indication of what that’ll do for me. I’m not sure managing a sober frat house in the middle of nowhere exactly qualifies you to make any sort of judgments about anyone else’s life.”
I mean, I figure why not fight back? Obviously I’m fucked either way.
But, still, his goddamn expression doesn’t change. “I’ll tell you what qualifies me to pass judgment on how you’re living your life. I have over fifteen years of living clean and sober. Seems to me you’re having trouble even getting a couple days without being locked up in some institution.”
He snorts at his little comeback.
Man, it really is all I can do
