Dreamseller

by Brandon Novak

  I figured as much. Sometimes I used to spot rich cokeheads from Harford County driving around in their BMWs in the shadier parts of Baltimore City looking for a score when their usual connections were dry. These were rare occasions, ones I thanked God for, because rich whites are afraid of black people, so they would inevitably see me and ask if I could score for them. They’re naïve, paranoid of getting busted, and scared of the neighborhood, so they’re easy to take advantage of. In addition to a cash fee for making the score, I’d burn them as well. If they wanted dime bags, I’d get them nickels. If they wanted eight-balls, I’d pinch off half. But if I was having a horrible day, they were shit out of luck because I would just disappear with their cash. And the beauty of pulling a scam on one of these punks is they always have too much to lose and are frightened to take retribution.

  I never cared for these Harford County brats, but something about this Sean Williams kid shows character. I like him for some reason. I’m curious, and now I’m the one asking the questions. “How old are you, Sean Williams?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Is this your first time in rehab?” I ask.

  “Yup. That’s why I really wanted to come here. My parents wanted me to go to some really rich-kid rehab that’s more like a vacation than a lesson. I thought about going there, but to me, going someplace nice seemed more like a reward than a wakeup call. I don’t want to stay isolated in a rich-kid world. I don’t think that would help me understand what I can lose in life if I go back to using. I decided I need to gain a little…worldliness, I guess is a good way to say it. I wanted to be with guys who have way worse backgrounds than me, so I can understand what addiction really means, how bad things might get, and what I might turn into if I don’t shape up.”

  “Do you still live at home with your parents?”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “They’re really cool and super supportive of what I’m doing. I’m going back home instead of a halfway house when I get out of here, but I’m gonna make it. I don’t want to get high anymore,” he says with determination.

  I figure I should share some of my experiences with Sean Williams. Hell, it might help the kid. After all, everyone else here is trying to help me. What was that Mrs. Evans said? The “therapeutic value of one addict helping another.” I guess it’s my turn to help.

  I perk up, as much as my body would allow without vomiting. “Check this out. At one time I was exactly like you. I was eighteen, in rehab. You like coke, well I like Dope; that’s the only difference. My mother was very supportive; everyone still trusted me. I hadn’t really lost anything yet due to drugs and I still had a good bit of cash put away for when I was released. All the old-timers would approach me with the same comment: ‘Young man, I wish I had the chance to try to get clean at your age. Take advantage of this opportunity. Stop while you have the chance.’

  “As you can see, Sean Williams, I didn’t heed their warning, because I’m offering you the same advice right now. What they said was true. Now I’m passing the word. If you don’t stop, you’ll end up just like me, if you don’t die first. I have no one in my life because I didn’t learn during my first trip to rehab. I’ve betrayed, robbed, and lied to everyone who cared about me. You still have a home to go to. You still have hope to salvage your relationships. I have no one and nowhere to go when I leave here. It’s a very sad and lonely road, but you don’t have to travel it. You still have a chance, I swear to you, Sean Williams.” As our conversation winds down, I feel that I might be developing a friendship with this kid.

  We are interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker. “Okay, it’s that time, gentlemen. Return to your room; lights out in ten minutes. Congratulations on another day clean.”

  chapter fifteen

  Mentally Sick

  I get some more sleep. When I awake, I stare into the darkness around me. Toby is sleeping quietly. Dane bellows out loud snores. I’ve given up on trying to keep track of the time; withdrawal has made the concept irrelevant. Life now consists of two times: day and night.

  I am burning hot and my sheets are drenched. I relocate to the cold cement floor. The cold hard tiles feel so good on my body, but I am still unable to find relief. My head is pounding. Pounding with pain, but also questions.

  Along with the physical pain, withdrawal brings emotional pain. The pain of ignorance. The realization that there are so many things to understand.

  Self-doubt plagues me. Can I really do this?

  A thousand daggers stab at my mind: my childhood, my mother, my brother and sister. All the friends I’ve lost. All the pain I’ve caused. This is what makes detox so difficult—facing reality. I’m full of shame and guilt, with no one to lean on because I’ve torn apart every relationship I have.

  I’ve mistreated everyone in my life. When people loved me, I saw opportunity to take. When they showed me kindness, I saw it as weakness. I stomped out the good intentions and feelings of the beautiful people God had blessed me with.

  How could I be so selfish?

  All I have ever done with those who have loved me is betrayed their trust. I was a dreamseller, a medium through which my loved ones could project what they wanted to believe, what they dared to dream—that I would be well. I sold them a dream, something that never existed in the first place, their own idealistic vision of me. The dream that I was a recovering addict who just needed a few dollars so I could get something to eat, or I needed money to buy new clothes for a job interview, or I needed a security deposit for an apartment. I told them anything they wanted to hear, anything to get my precious next fix.

  My mind was clouded for so long, all I could see was that fucking drug.

  I must learn to re-create the way my mind thinks and reacts.

  My brain needs to change. A real chemical and emotional change, not a drug-induced stupor.

  I pace like a caged lion.

  What’s this? I spot a familiar-looking blue-covered book on Dane’s desk that is titled, The Basic Text, which addicts call “The Big Book.” This paperback is equivalent to a recovering addict’s Bible, because it outlines the AA and NA Twelve-Step program. I’m familiar with this book because I was given a copy during a former trip to rehab. I took it home and would act as if I was reading it whenever I wanted to scam my mother for drug money. Occasionally, in an act of defiance, I would cut up dope on the cover. I never even thought about really reading and understanding it until tonight. I grab the book and walk out into the hallway with a blanket wrapped around me, looking somewhat like a monk.

  I hear the washer and dryer running in the laundry room at the end of the hall. When I arrive, the small, warm room seems perfect for me to do some reading without being distracted. The vibration and heat of the dryer feel good on my back as I open the Blue Book and begin my journey.

  The book teaches me that in order to recover, addicts must put to rest our current behaviors, responses, and reactions that had set us up for failure in life. We must recondition ourselves and learn to create a new lifestyle centered around priorities, positivity, morals, and values. It outlines techniques to transform old habits into a new, productive, fresh way of living. The book breaks recovery down into a format. If the addict really desires to recover, and has the will to follow the steps, this book can pave the way to a successful recovery.

  I lose track of the time until I hear voices as everyone is waking up. Morning. Before the hallways become full of people lining up to go to breakfast, I hightail it back to my room to avoid any conversations.

  As I enter the room, Dane and Toby are waking up. Toby says, “Where you comin’ from? What, you have a date last night?”

  I look at my bed to find that it has been made. Dane says, “I know you must have had a rough night and you could use a little help.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Dane.”

  “Man, shut up, nephew. I’ve been in your situation and someone was there to help me.”

  I grab my towel and toothbrush and proceed to the
showers, feeling relaxed, comfortable. The heat from the water is absorbed through my skin, into my bones, and provides relief from the withdrawal.

  As I brush my teeth, I glimpse myself in the mirror again. As I mentioned before, for the past few years I have avoided my reflection because it evokes feelings of depression. But this time, the outcome is positive. Now I see hope, progress, a future. I see someone I recognize. Brandon?

  I leave the bathroom feeling much better. I’m physically clean, mentally clean, and I’m prepared to make improvements.

  I enter my room to find that someone has left a bag of clothes on my bed and a note that reads:

  Brandon,

  I thought I’d stop by this morning. I asked how you were and he said you had a pretty rough night. Way to hang in there! You give me hope, and our conversation gave me a lot of inspiration. I thought you could use some extra clothes. They’re all brand new. I seemed to have over-packed, so help yourself. I’ll see you later.

  Your friend,

  Sean Williams

  It’s so unusual for people to show me gratitude. I search my feelings for the appropriate response and realize I don’t really know how to react.

  A strange, unfamiliar sensation scratches at the pit of my stomach…

  What’s this? Hunger? I’m actually starved; it’s a fucking miracle. My body is showing signs of life. I’m coming around. I make a dent in the pile of food that has been accumulating on my dresser by the grace of Dane’s street cred: donuts, sandwiches, French fries—I eat it all, and top it off with a vitamin that Toby gives me.

  Toby shouts out, “He’s alive. Maybe you’re not going to die on me after all, white boy.”

  “I’m not going out that easy!”

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Dane says, “Come in.”

  The door opens. It’s a thin black man of average height. He has a fresh haircut and is sharply dressed.

  “Are you Mr. Novak?” he asks.

  “Yeah, what’s going on?”

  “Mr. Novak, I’m Guy Leeper, your counselor.”

  I shake his hand.

  “We have an appointment this morning,” Mr. Leeper says.

  “Oh, yeah, I completely forgot. Sorry, man.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Get yourself together and meet me in the office in a few minutes,” my counselor says.

  “I can be ready in one minute. If you just wait a second, I’ll go with you.”

  Guy Leeper replies, “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Let me throw some pants and a shirt on; I’m pretty much ready to go.”

  “Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” Mr. Leeper says.

  “Already did!”

  “I like your motivation,” Guy says.

  “Motivation for what?”

  He replies, “Motivation to change your life. Let’s go to my office. Today is the day we start airing out your old life and bringing you into the new one, Mr. Novak.”

  chapter sixteen

  The First Step of a Long Journey

  It is 8:30A.M. I am cradled in the deep cushions of a soft, velvety chair, the purpose of which is to comfort those who employ it. It is not working for me.

  It is the counselor’s job to assess client strengths, problem areas, severity of dependence, and readiness to change. He must develop strategies that assist clients to set goals and to effect change. Since I am here for only a two-week rehab, Mr. Leeper has less than 14 days to achieve these goals.

  Mr. Leeper sits quietly, shuffling papers and writing notes. My anticipation makes me feel as if he’s doing this just to agitate me.

  Finally, Mr. Leeper looks up. “Mr. Novak?”

  “Right, yeah, you got it,” I reply.

  He gives me the standard introduction: “My name is Mr. Leeper. I am a certified counselor, and I’ll be helping you out with your drug problem. I can answer any questions you have. Hopefully we can form some kind of relationship, because what it all comes down to is that the more you trust me and let me in, the more I can help.”

  He blinks, as if to accent the importance of his following statement. “But ultimately, Mr. Novak, I can only help you if you want it, and you and only you know if you’re truly done with this drug problem of yours. You may be able to lie to me, but ultimately, you’re only lying to yourself. I get my paycheck regardless, if you want help or not. But by the look of all your previous attempts to get clean, you could probably use my help.”

  I stare at him, waiting to hear the rest.

  He proceeds. “Look, Mr. Novak, I know this isn’t fun in here, a grown man constantly being told what to do, when to eat, when to smoke, when to go to bed, when to wake up, basically being treated like a little kid. I don’t say that, Mr. Novak, to belittle you or make you feel like I’m better than you in any way. At one point in my life I sat on the other side of this table in that same chair you sit in at this very moment. I, too, was once a client of this treatment center. By no means was it easy, but it was absolutely worth every struggle and hard time I went through to obtain the life that I now live.”

  He looks at me to see if I’m with him. I’m listening.

  “What’s your drug of choice?” he asks in a calm, serious tone.

  Still nervous and uncomfortable, I answer, “Dope.”

  “Have you been arrested for drugs or drug-related charges?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “How many times have you been arrested?”

  “Maybe fifteen or twenty.”

  “Well, I’m looking at your chart here. It says this is your third time at Tuerk House, and you have spent time in what looks to be seven other rehabs. Is that correct?”

  “Something like that.”

  He continues. “Well, if it gives you any encouragement, I didn’t get it on my first try either. Actually not on my second, third, or even fourth try. Sometimes the individual may need a drastic relapse to see clearly what it is that causes addiction: a disease. Mr. Novak, one of the first things you are going to have to change, if you have the desire to cure your disease, is your thinking, attitude, and behavior, in every aspect of your life.

  “Mr. Novak, I’m only scratching the surface with you right now, and I think you’re doing pretty good because you seem quite receptive to my theory on how to fight your problem. And I plan to go much deeper with you. However, we can’t do that until we develop a more trusting and comfortable relationship with each other.”

  He stares at me again. Am I supposed to respond?

  He breaks the silence. “I feel like I’ve asked enough questions for the time being. Do you have any for me, Mr. Novak?”

  One came to mind: “Yeah. If you don’t mind me asking. How long have you been clean? What was your drug of choice?” Now I was curious.

  “I liked to shoot Dope and coke all day every day. I was addicted to drugs from the age of fourteen to forty-four. In 1993, I began methadone treatment in order to stop taking heroin, but I still shot coke until 1998. On this November twentieth of 2003, I will have four years clean.”

  “Did you ever question yourself on being able to stay clean?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Leeper looked upward. “You see, Mr. Novak, we as human beings condition ourselves to a certain way of living. In your case, and in my case, too, it was the lowest state of poverty possible. We addicts set our standards on a much lower level than let’s say a ‘normal person’ does. So we live on this animalistic level so long we can’t even fathom living as a functioning productive member of society. It seems unobtainable. And so, as a result, we settle for a life full of failure and pain, and that becomes what’s normal. Abnormal equals comfort to junkies. Creating this situation is a way to avoid reality and ourselves.”

  We sit in silence until Mr. Leeper says, “Mr. Novak, I’m fairly confident in your desire to put that needle down and keep it out of your arm. There are three things you must remember during your recovery process. They are honesty, open-mindedness, and willingness. If you practice them, and acc
ept my help, you can do it.”

  He closes my file and stands, drawing our session to a close. “Well, Mr. Novak, I think that about does it for today. You have morning lecture right now so you go on to that and we’ll continue tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine with me.” A strange excitement washes over my mind, the anticipation of healing.

  Minutes later, I stand in the doorway of the lecture hall. The instructor is in mid speech, delivering the lesson to the room full of addicts I have successfully avoided for the past two days. The addicts, craving distraction, focus on me. I make my way in.

  In scanning the rows of seats, I manage to avoid eye contact with those who are sizing me up. I notice the only other white person in the room, Sean Williams, who smiles at me. Next to him is Toby, giving me the finger. Dane, sitting beside Toby, slaps Toby’s head as if to tell him he needs to take this lecture seriously. Dane gives a wink and a nod of his head, indicating to me and the others in the room that he is inviting me to sit with him. I return his nod and proceed to my appointed chair.

  The others return their attention to the instructor, and Toby wings a penny at my head. It just misses and hits a landscape painting behind me. Bap! The instructor glances at the back row to find the culprit, but Toby plays it off, acting as if he is taking notes. The instructor shrugs it off and continues his speech.