“Don’t say that, Monty. You have to get out of here. Don’t worry about me. Save yourself.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I believe in you, Monty. Go now. Get up! Get up!”
Just then, Monty’s eyes shot open as his head bounced against the window’s glass. The bed was gone and Vicky’s screams had vanished, replaced by the squeal of brass horns coming from the van’s speakers.
“Come on, get up, Monty,” the old man whispered, as he tugged and pulled on Monty’s wrist. “Get up. We’re here.”
Monty groaned and peeled himself from the headrest then rubbed his eyelids and let out a deep yawn. He could see the house emerging through the clearing. It looked like something out of a Shakespearean play. It was three stories high, white and colonial, surrounded on all sides by an imposing wall of Ponderosa pines. The trees’ branches were curved, long, and intrusive, embracing the house like a pair of giant, wooden hands. The north side of the house was completely covered in ivy, shrouding the white stone walls with a cloak of ice-laden, emerald vines. An impressive wooden porch painted as white as the snowflakes wrapped from one side to the other like a giant, albino anaconda all the way around the stone. Fat, Greek columns spiraled up towards the heavens supporting the weight of a curved balcony that sat on the top floor. It looked like the only way up was a brass, spiral staircase that commenced from the bottom and wound upwards towards the top.
The old man squeezed the brake as he pulled around the semi-circle driveway, stopping right in front of the grand, white porch. “Alright,” he said as he cut the engine. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”
Monty cracked the door open and carefully eased himself down from the van. His legs were still asleep from the long haul up the mountain and he barely had enough coordination to even stand. He stood idle for a moment while the blood returned to his muscles, the pins and needles poking into his skin.
He couldn’t believe this place. Even the driveway was a thing of beauty. Not one stone was the same as the other. Some were rich, like dark chocolate, scattered in crazy jig-jag patterns, while others were smooth and round with a light shade of brown sugar fitting together in perfect symmetry. There was a massive granite fountain overrun with tangles of ivy, its impressive four tier stone basins casting shadows against the snowy ground.
The old man shut the trunk and came around with Monty’s green gym bag. “Alright Mr. Monty, you ready to go?”
Monty nodded and moved forward slowly, following the old man up the creaky porch steps. His legs were so weak that he could barely keep his posture. He had to take a break about halfway up the porch.
“You alright?” the old man said, looking back at him.
Monty nodded then grabbed hold of the icy, iron railing and used both hands to slowly pull himself up the steps. When he finally got to the top, he pressed his back up against one of the spiral columns and put his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath.
“You sure you’re alright?” the old man said.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.” The driver dropped Monty’s bag then turned his fist into a knocker and pounded it against the door so hard that it sounded like he was trying to break it in. “Hello? Is anybody home?”
They waited a few seconds, but there was no answer. So, the old man mashed the doorbell with the club of his thumb. But still, there was nothing—no answer—and so he tried the doorknob, but it was locked. “Well,” he said, as he scratched his scraggly chin hair, “looks like we oughta head around back.”
Just as they were about to leave, the door flung open, and a tall, lanky black man stood grinning in the doorway, his bald head reflecting the glow of the overhead porch lamp. He was somewhat academic looking with oval shaped glasses, neatly pressed khaki’s, and a gray, wool sweater vest. “Well, hello there,” he said, as he pushed the screen door open. “You must be the young man I’ve been hearing so much about—the chemical engineer from Denver. My name’s Dexter, but you can call me Dex. Welcome to Sanctuary.”
Monty looked down and inched forward. He noticed that the guy’s hand was balled into a fist. Oh great. He probably wanted one of those ridiculous fist bump things. Whatever happened to just a normal handshake? He forced a smile then gave the man a slight knock of the fist. “Hi,” he said, retreating backwards, trying to keep his back against the column’s support. “Nice to meet you. I’m Monty…but you can call me Monty.”
Dexter threw his head back and started laughing. His cackle was a booming, baritone crack. “I see you still got your sense of humor. That’s good, that’s good. You’re gonna need it.”
Monty tried to be a good sport and smile with him, but all he could muster was a faint snort.
“So listen,” Dexter said, grinning like a court jester, looking Monty up and down. “I understand you’re one of Robby’s sponsees.”
“Yeah. Why? Do you know him?”
“I sure do. He was my sponsor. In fact, everything I know about addiction, I learned from him.”
Oh great, Monty thought, just what he needed—another disciple of Robby to make him feel right at home.
“He used to have this job, you know?”
“Really?”
“Yep. He was running this place back when I came through.”
Of course, now it was all starting to come together. No wonder they made him come here. It was Robby’s fucking alma mater.
“Let’s see,” Dexter said, musing up at the porch lights, “that was back in ’95. Nearly, ten years ago. Wow.” He shook his head and let out a long whistle. “I can’t believe it. Time sure flies by fast, doesn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“Well,”—Dexter clapped his hands together—“what do you say we get you in here and out of the cold?”
Finally. He was about to have a convulsion. Any more chitchat and he was going to keel over right in the snow. “Sure,” Monty said, then peeled himself from the column and carefully shuffled towards the front door.
“Alright. Come on in here and we’ll get you processed.”
With his hand on his shoulder, Dexter ushered Monty forward then turned toward the old man as he pulled open the screen door. “Thanks Cap. I got it from here. You got anymore tonight?”
“Yeah,” the old man said. “I got one more after supper. Gotta pick him up from the courthouse.”
“Back in Denver?”
“Yep.”
“Dang Cap. You’re in for a long haul tonight, aren’t ya?”
“I sure am.”
“Well, you be safe out there my friend and don’t stop for any hitchhikers.”
“No sir.” Cap chuckled and turned to Monty, extending his wrinkled, raisin-like hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Monty. You take care of yourself now, you hear?”
Monty took the old man’s hand and shook it, struggling to give it a firm enough squeeze.
“And do everything these guys tell you to. They know what they’re talking about.”
Yeah right. Monty had heard that one before.
“Thanks. I will,” Monty said as he released the raisin then bent down and scooped up his gym bag from the porch.
“Alright,” Dexter shouted. “Let’s do this thing. You ready?”
Monty nodded and took a deep breath inward then followed Dexter inside the grand, old house. He tried to move in small, calculated movements, afraid that if he moved to abruptly his knees might bow inward like a flamingo.
“Right this way,” Dexter said, as he pushed a set of French doors open and flipped on a light switch that was mounted on the inner wall.
Monty readjusted the strap of his bag higher against his shoulder then followed Dexter into a modestly sized, windowless room. The room was carpeted and must’ve just been vacuumed, because he could still see the long striations in the fibers underneath his feet. There was a large, rectangular desk sitting in between two bookcases and a couple of armchairs and couches strewn along the sidewall
s.
Dexter moved around behind the desk and collapsed backward into a swivel style, leather office chair. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a large green armchair that was sitting a few inches from his desk.
Monty let his bag fall off his shoulder then carefully eased himself into the chair. He took another deep breath and leaned forward, squeezing his elbows with both hands.
“You okay?” Dexter said, as he began rifling through the bottom drawers of his desk.
Monty shook his head and shut his eyelids, swallowing as often as he could to try and suppress the bile.
“Don’t worry. This won’t take long. We’ll get you all set up in detox and have you feeling better in no time at all. But first, we’re gonna need a picture.”
Monty lifted his head. “A picture? What for?”
“Don’t worry. We take everybody’s picture. We like to do a before and after kind of a thing. Ah-ha! Found it.” Dexter pulled out a bright, red digital camera and proudly held it up as if he’d just caught a fish. “Now we’re in business,” he said, as he hit the power button and brought the camera up to his face. “Okay Monty, would you mind looking here for a minute?”
Monty leveled his eyes and stared blankly into the camera, but he was shaking so bad that he could barely hold himself still.
“Okay, I’m gonna need you to try and stop moving. Can you do that for me?”
Monty wrapped his hands around his elbows and squeezed like he was giving himself a tight hug. He tried as hard as he could to stop the trembling, but the more he tried, the more he shook.
“Come on, Monty, I need you to try and hold still.”
God damnit—what the hell was this guy’s problem? Didn’t he know anything about alcohol withdrawal? He couldn’t hold still. He could barely even swallow. Everything inside of him was about to explode.
“Okay Monty, just give me a big smile and say…Recovery!”
The flash went off and Monty winced forward, clenching his teeth as tight as he could.
Dexter lowered the camera and glared at the picture with what looked to be a sick, perverted smile. “Oh, this is a good one. You look like you’ve been run over by a garbage truck.”
What the hell was wrong with this guy? Was he actually enjoying seeing him in pain? What kind of sadistic counselor was Monty dealing with? Could someone in his position be this deranged?
“This one’s gonna have to go in my scrapbook.”
“Can I see it?” Monty said, leaning forward, trying to sneak a peek over the large oak desk.
Dexter quickly pulled the camera away and nestled it tightly into his lap. “Nope, sorry. Not until your time here with us is up. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a copy when you get ready to leave. That way you’ll never forget just how messed up you were when you first showed up.” Dexter studied the picture for a few seconds longer then shut off the camera and set it aside. “Okay,” he said, as he grabbed a pad of paper and fountain pen from a fancy gold plated holder that had his name etched across the top, “enough messing around. Let’s get down to business.”
Monty took a deep breath and swallowed, staring at the carpet fibers underneath his feet.
“I understand that alcohol is your drug of choice. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember how old you were when you had your first drink?”
“No, not really.”
“Just ballpark it. What were you…twelve, fourteen, sixteen?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Which? Sixteen?”
“Yeah.”
Dexter mumbled the number to himself as he marked it down in his note pad. “Okay, now—how much would you say you drank per day, on average?”
“When?”
“When what?”
“Well, I drank different amounts at different points in my life. When specifically would you like to know how much I drank?”
“Oh, uh, right before you got here would be fine.”
Monty dropped his head and leaned forward, rubbing his forehead with both hands. “I’d say about…a handle a day.”
“Of liquor?”
No, prune juice. Yes, of course, liquor. What the hell else?
“Yes. Liquor.”
“But a handle per day? That’s what, like a half a gallon, right?”
“Yeah. That sounds about right.”
“You sure? That’s quite a bit.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why? You don’t believe me?”
“No, no, I do, I do, it’s just¬…”
“What?”
“Well, a half a gallon is quite a lot. I mean, I’m not sure if anyone could survive that much.”
“Well, I’m not just anyone. I’m an alcoholic.”
“So, you admit it?”
“What?”
“That you’re an alcoholic.”
“Of course. Why else would I be in here?”
Dexter laughed and cocked his head sideways then set his fountain pen down on the desk. “That’s great, Monty. That’s just fantastic. Do you know how much easier that makes my job?”
“I’m glad I could be of service.”
Dexter shook his head and reclined backward. He looked like he was enjoying himself at a comedy club. “Well Monty, you should have no problem here. I mean, you already admit you’re an alcoholic. Now, all we gotta do is get you to stop drinking.”
“A little easier said than done, don’t you think?”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Of course.”
“What was the longest stretch you’ve ever stayed sober?”
“A year.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Interesting. Very interesting.” He marked it down in his note pad. “And when was that?”
“This past year.”
“Really? Well, what happened?”
“I relapsed.”
“Well, yeah, but why?”
“I just did.”
“No reason?”
“Nope.”
“Aw come on, there’s gotta be a reason. How does someone with a whole year under their belt suddenly start drinking again?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Come on, don’t be like that, Monty. I’m here to help you. How do you expect me to help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you wanna stay sober?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know what will happen to you if you start drinking again?”
“I have an idea.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’ll probably die.”
“No, not probably. You will die. You will most certainly die.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll die.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t know!”
Dexter shook his head and reclined backwards, folding his arms over his chest. He sat there, unblinking, for what felt like an eternity, glaring at Monty like he was trying to see inside his head. Then he cleared his throat, took off his glasses, and began cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. “You know what I think, Monty?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“I don’t think you want to die at all. I think this whole thing is just an elaborate cry for help.”
Monty would’ve laughed in his face if he wasn’t afraid he might vomit. A cry for help? Was that really the best he could do?
“You’re just scared, Monty, like everyone else that comes through those doors—scared by the power of your own addiction—scared that if you don’t have your alcohol you won’t be able to cope with life on life’s terms.”
Oh great, clichés already? Couldn’t he have at least waited ‘til tomorrow to give him the “life on life’s terms” sermon?
“Have you heard that before, Monty? Life on life’s terms?”
No, never. Only from my sponsor a million fucking times.
“Yes, I’ve heard it.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes.”
“You see Monty, you don’t really wanna die. If you did, then why not just put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger? It’d be quicker and a hell of a lot easier than trying to drink yourself to death.”
“I’ve considered that.”
“I don’t doubt you have. But here’s the thing,”—Dexter leaned forward, fixing his glasses back on his face—“I don’t think you wanna die. I think you wanna live. But your problem is, you haven’t figured out how to deal with life on life’s terms.”
Why did he have to keep saying that?
“You’d rather give up on life and go hide inside a bottle than have to deal with life’s little unpleasant inconveniences.”
What? Monty lifted his head. Did he really just say that? Who in the hell did this guy think he was? Had he ever lost anything before? Had he ever lost a loved one? Had he ever had to watch his fiancé drown in a fucking car? If anyone deserved to drink, it was Monty. He earned the right to be a miserable drunk. He lost everything that night—his heart, his love, his friend, his soul mate…the one thing in his life that made him who he was. What had this guy lost? Anything? What made him think he had a right to judge? What did he know about pain? What did he know about suffering? As far as Monty could tell, this guy was a fucking joke—probably some washed-up, born-again, recovering crack head who thought that just because he found God and got clean and sober then everyone else should too. Well, fuck him. Fuck his superiority. Fuck his invasiveness. And fuck his questions.
“Well,” Monty said, trying as best he could to remain collected, taking deep breaths in and out through his nose, “you’re entitled to your own opinion.”
“That I am,” Dexter said, smirking and nodding, scribbling something down into his pad. “That…I…am.”
Monty couldn’t do this. He couldn’t last much longer. Anymore questions and he was going to hurl. He was cold but hot, sweaty but dehydrated…it felt like his internal organs were coming up out of his throat. How much longer was this guy going to continue? How many more questions could he possibly ask?
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