I’m shaking all over.
I want to cry and scream.
“Believe me,” I tell him, “if just staying sober’s what it’s all about, I woulda had this shit beat when I was eighteen. Anyone can stay sober. It’s actually having a life that’s worth staying sober for that’s the hard part. Honestly, I rather be strung out, or dead, than a self-righteous ‘sober man’ on a goddamn power trip. No, I’m not interested in sobriety like that. So, yeah, go ahead, put me on phase one. I don’t fucking care. Fuck.” I pound my fist into my leg. “I can’t believe this shit.”
For the first time since we started driving, I realize he’s gone silent for a second. I mean, he isn’t even smiling. Veins protrude like parasitic growths along his neck and forehead. His tan face is turning almost purple.
I guess I got what I wanted.
Though now, well, I’m not so sure I want it anymore.
All his smug, serene whatever has turned into rapid, screaming craziness.
He lets me fucking have it.
“If you’re trying to tell me you don’t want to be here, then fine. I don’t care. You can take the coward’s way out—since that’s obviously what you are. Anyway, you wouldn’t be the first. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. In fact, I’ve seen you a hundred times before. You think you’re unique? Ha, you’re not unique. Nic Sheff after Nic Sheff after Nic Sheff have come through here. Usually they end up walking down the street to the Greyhound station and catching a bus outta here. Then a week or two later they come crawling back, licking their wounds and begging me for another chance—not so high and mighty anymore. The ones who don’t come back, well, usually I get a phone call from their parents saying that their son is dead or in jail. That’s what happens to people who don’t give themselves over to this program. And you think I’m gonna give a rat’s ass when I get that call about you? No way, not me. I’ll be sleeping soundly, knowing that I offered you everything you could have possibly needed to get better, and you still wouldn’t take it. I’ll tell you what—the twelve steps work—my program works—they work for everyone and anyone. The only people who fail are the ones who don’t do exactly what I say. People like you, who are too arrogant and, frankly, too much of a damn pussy to do what it takes to really commit to this thing. So you want me to drop you at the bus station? That’s fine. We’ll go there right now. But I got a feeling ain’t no one gonna be helping you get that ticket. And by tomorrow night you’re gonna be selling your ass just to have a place to sleep. ’Cause, I’ll tell you, these high desert nights are cold as sin. But I’ll drive you to the station. That’s fine by me. In fact, you better decide right now, ’cause if you wanna be admitted to my facility, you’re gonna have to shut your mouth and do exactly, I mean exactly, what I say. ’Cause as far as I’m concerned, we’re done already. So if I hear you’re giving anyone any problems—talking to the guys about how this is some cult or anything like that—well, I’ll lock the door on you and throw away the key, and you’ll never set foot on my property again. You understand me?”
I stare at the creased black-leather dashboard—my eyes stinging—still fighting back the tears that’re trying to get through.
I breathe.
I breathe some more.
Should I try this thing?
Should I pray that Sue Ellen will have mercy on me? After all, a Greyhound ticket’s gotta be cheaper than a flight. I can’t believe I didn’t think of taking a bus before. But what if I can’t stay with her? What if I’m throwing away my last chance? What if I really do need this program?
“Look,” I say, surprisingly calm. “I’m sorry. It’s been a fucked-up, you know, emotional couple days. The truth is, all I really want is to get well. But I’m just so frustrated. I mean, I’ve tried this shit so many times, but I still keep fucking up. I don’t know. I feel like there’s gotta be another way, ’cause nothing I’ve been doing has been working. And I’m so sick of hearing that my only chance is the twelve steps. Honestly, I’m scared that, for some reason, they just won’t work for me. I’m scared I’m a lost cause. So I’m sorry I took it out on you. I mean, I’m sorry I was being an asshole.”
At this point I’m really not interested in what he’s doing with his face, so I keep my focus kinda blurred out the window.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, already sounding a whole lot more cheerful. “That’s my job, all right? And I can assure you that you’re not a lost cause. The twelve steps are the answer for everyone—I mean, every last one of us. I can promise you that. So if I were you, Nic, I’d stop worrying about what might be wrong with the program, and I’d start trying to figure out what’s keeping you from fully committing to it. In fact, since tomorrow’s Sunday and you don’t have group, I want you to write me a thorough list of everything that is blocking you from working the steps.”
He pauses a second.
“And, as well, I want you to write a list of all the things that have kept you from developing meaningful relationships with other men and how that is fueling the fears you have about being here. Does that all sound good?”
I realize, suddenly, that we must have turned off the highway at some point, ’cause Chip’s stopped his car in front of a single-story, sort of ’70s, Brady Bunch–looking ranch-style house. There’s no sign out front, but this is obviously the place.
My stomach goes all knotted
