“Sure,” I say. “That seems like it’ll be really helpful.”
I finally let myself look over at him, and I can see he’s just beaming at having turned me around so fast.
“Well, good. I’m gonna drop you here, but I need you to go check in at the office right away. I’ll make a time to sit down with you first thing Monday. And, seriously, Nic, if you start feeling squirrelly, you have one of the guys give me a call. The Greyhound stop’s just down the block that way, so I don’t wanna come back on Monday to find you skipped out on me.”
He’s nice enough to point toward the bus station for me before continuing on.
“Remember, God created this program for you as well as me and the rest of us alcoholics. All ya gotta do is start giving yourself over to our care, and the healing can begin. You got that?”
I nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thank you.”
He helps me get my stuff out of the trunk, and then we shake hands.
He tells me, “Good luck,” getting back into his prized car and driving off.
I don’t go right in like he told me.
I sit on the curb and smoke a cigarette.
The neighborhood suburban and crumbling all around me.
I sing that Talking Heads song quietly to myself.
I repeat it over and over.
This is not my beautiful life.
This is not my beautiful life.
I shut my eyes. I hold them closed. But it’s no good.
I mean, I’m still here.
And this is the only goddamn life I’m ever gonna have.
Ch.16
So I made it through the first night.
Even if I did wake myself up screaming, not knowing where the hell I was.
But then I turned to see my new roommate sitting up on the narrow built-in twin bed, looking like I’d just freaked him the fuck out.
I told him I was sorry.
He grunted, lying back down so he faced the textured, off-white painted wall. He pulled the blanket up, hiding most of his head. It was the weekend, so I guess everyone was allowed to sleep in, but it was no use to me. The images from my dream played over and over against the blurred nothing of my unfocused eyes. It was a dream about Zelda. Of course. She’d been given some sort of poison and was dying on the floor of my dad’s house in Point Reyes. My fingers couldn’t dial the right numbers on my phone to get her help. I couldn’t find a hospital. Everything was closed. No one would answer my questions. Until, finally, someone told me I should forget about trying to save her. She was gone already. The person said all I could do was bury her. Screaming, I held her.
I mean, fuck. After everything that’s happened, I still dream about her almost every night. I keep waiting to dream about Sue Ellen, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Anyway, I gave up on trying to go back to sleep. It wasn’t gonna happen. Besides, I figured I should get outta there so I didn’t keep my roommate up any more than I already had—even if he did seem kinda like a dick. I mean, I guess that’s not true. He was totally indistinguishable from most of the other guys there. The night before, I’d sat around talking with a bunch of the kids in the little courtyard. They all looked the same—tan, muscular, close-cropped hair stuck up with gel in the front. They smoked Marlboros, and quizzed me about using and girls, and kept one-upping all my stories. There were a few, like, hipster kids there—with shaggy hair and bangs swooped to one side—Converse sneakers—tight-ass jeans. But, really, they were the same as the others. All they talked about was drugs and wanting to fuck—taking a definite pleasure in bragging about how much more they’d used than everyone else. Even some of the older guys came over, and they were talking about drugs and fucking and all the shit they were gonna do when they got the hell out of this place. No one offered any hope. No one seemed to want anything except escape.
So I smoked one cigarette after another.
And I began to fantasize about ways of ending my life.
Because having to live like this, man, I’ll tell you, it’s not worth it.
But today is a new day. The sun is growing warm—the winter giving way to spring. Of course, I’m tired as shit, but I’ve agreed to go with a couple of guys to a twelve-step meeting, just to check it out, you know? The two guys are in their forties, I’d guess, and neither one of ’em was around talking shit last night, so maybe that’s something.
But, anyway, the meeting’s only a couple of blocks away, so we all walk together. Thank God my mom sent me those cartons of cigarettes when I was back at Safe Passage, ’cause otherwise I think I really would snap completely. But she came through with that, so I’ve been chain-smoking all morning.
From what I’ve seen of the town, it seems pretty desolate—torn apart by chain stores and fast-food restaurants. The houses are all duplicates of one another, pressed tight together with competing green lawns that are ridiculously out of place in this dry desert wasteland. We pass a gas station with a big mini-mart, and this guy from the house, Peter, mentions to me that it’s the recommended place for everyone to buy candy and drinks and cigarettes.
I thank him.
Across from the meeting there’s a concrete park with teenagers skateboarding all over the place. I have to sort of laugh at how angst-ridden and full of rage they seem to be—pierced and tattooed, with dyed hair and chains on their wallets—yelling at each other and spitting and saying “dude, dude” all the time. Still, some of them are crazy good, and I use watching them
