“Sorry, man,” I tell him. “I’m kinda dazed out right now—and, uh, nervous. Are you here for the Matrix thing?”
He nods and smiles, taking off his black Wayfarer sunglasses and reaching out to shake my hand. “Yeah, I’m Justin,” he says. “And I actually know who you are. My mom brought me to come see you and your dad speak at the Starbucks in Westwood. It was pretty cool. I enjoyed it, for sure.”
I thank him and make some joke about how I’m sorry he had to sit through our stupid talk. Then we kinda just talk back and forth about whatever—how much clean time we both have—where we live—what we do for money—all that. Turns out he manages an apartment complex in East Hollywood—which is actually surprising to me, considering he looks pretty young—I mean, even younger than I am. But, still, I’m definitely intrigued by the fact that he might be able to help me find a place to live. That is, if I were to ever get to that point. Anyway, it’s not like that’s the only reason I keep talking to him. He really seems kind of amazing—even in just this short amount of time. He’s supersweet and insightful and, I don’t know, introspective… maybe even wise. Plus, he’s, like, really into movies and books and music and stuff, so that’s cool for me. He actually tells me that he’s going to see a screening of that old ’80s movie The Lost Boys at the Nuart after group, and he invites me to go along.
“Oh, man, totally,” I say. “I’d fucking love that. I watched that movie, like, a thousand times when I was little.”
“Yeah, me too. Anyway, I was gonna just go by myself, so that’s awesome. Literally every single one of my friends is still using, so I don’t really have anyone to hang out with anymore. Plus, I’m super awkward when I’m sober.”
“Nah, you’re not awkward at all,” I tell him, stamping out my cigarette on the ground. “And I’m totally down to hang out with you. I’m trying to stay as far away from my girlfriend as possible right now, so it’s perfect. And, besides, I don’t know, I get a really good feeling from you. I mean, I’m having an easier time talking to you than I have anyone in a long-ass time.”
I smile and then feel kind of embarrassed suddenly that I said that. Not that it’s a lie, or anything. I do really like this kid already, but I think I might be freaking him out a little.
“Yeah, you too,” he says, smiling sweetly—playing sort of absently with his long, sun-bleached hair. “For sure.”
“All right, then, cool. Should we go up to group?”
He nods and I follow him inside, the two of us still talking a whole lot while we climb a couple flights of concrete stairs to the third floor. It’s kinda far-out, you know—meeting this kid. I mean, already I really like him—and that’s definitely saying something, since I suck at making friends when I’m sober—especially with other guys. Anyway, it’s a good start, right? And a good way to start this whole outpatient thing, for sure.
Of course, we’re late walking into the group, but they all kinda stop for us ’cause I’m new and I have to introduce myself and all. So I do that real quick, and everyone tells me “hey,” and then I finally look around for the first time.
The group leader is a very striking, tall, thin, blond, Eastern European–looking woman who sits very straight and talks like she’s narrating one of those guided-meditation tapes. The rest of the people are all, like I said, right around my age—more girls than guys—which is definitely fine by me. There’s actually this one girl here who says she relapsed this weekend on heroin but has cleaned up again and is asking for the group’s support—which is totally surprising to me, since every other outpatient I’ve ever been to will kick you out immediately if you relapse. But the way they see it here is that relapse does happen, and they just want people to pull themselves out of it as fast as they can. So, basically, the group is here to help them no matter what, not to penalize or whatever. It’s pretty great. I mean, I’ve definitely been in positions where I’ve relapsed and wanted to get help, but I knew it was too late and I was already gonna get kicked out, so I just decided to go all the way. Hearing this girl tell her story and watching the group leader and the rest of the group doing their best to support her is really inspiring. And, you know, again, just like meeting Justin, this definitely seems like a good start to the whole outpatient thing.
I don’t know, it’s like things just seem to be making sense suddenly—like I’m on the right path or whatever. And, I mean, it’s gonna be slow, for sure, but somehow that seems like the only way this is ever gonna work. My whole life I’ve been looking for the easy way out. It’s like I’ve been wearing those little plastic water wings, pretending that I could swim but never actually taking the time to learn how. So here I am, twenty-four years old, and I can’t even swim. The water wings are gone, and I’m sinking—I’m going down and I’m gonna die if I can’t get someone to teach me how to swim. In the past, of course, I’d be too damn ashamed or proud to ask for help. Instead, I’d just keep going back for the water wings ’cause I couldn’t survive without them. But now, man—now I’m finally asking for help. And I really do believe that this psychiatrist I’m working with and this outpatient program are the right ones to teach me how to swim—genuinely—with no shortcuts or hidden flotation devices.
