Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  “I’ll be back with your ginger ale,” Jill said as she crept across the bedroom then disappeared into the hall.

  As she closed the door, the room fell silent except for the scraping of a tree branch against the window directly above his head. He shifted his body underneath the blankets then stole a quick glance at the other beds. One of the lumps was beginning to shudder, making a soft moan like someone having a bowel movement. He quickly turned away and tried to focus on his own breathing, curling his knees up against his chest. His toes began to thaw and his heart rate grew steady. Finally. It seemed the Benzo’s were kicking in.

  As he listened to the wind, his mind drifted to Victoria, her curly, black hair, her warm brown skin. He could feel her there, lying next to him, her soft breasts pressed tightly against his chest. He draped his arm around her body and nuzzled his nose against her neck. “Goodnight,” he whispered into his pillow. “I love you, Vicky.”

  Vicky didn’t whisper back.

  Chapter 22

  No Fraternizing

  THE next thirty-six hours were an endless stream of ginger ale and Benzo’s, nightmares and hallucinations, puking and pissing, sweating and shivering. Most of the time, Monty couldn’t tell if he was awake or dreaming—the nightmares and reality seemed to fold in on top of themselves. Was the wind outside really slamming against the walls of the trailer or was it all just part of an ongoing dream? Was he really here in bed, inside this trailer, sweat slicking the backs of his arms and legs? Why couldn’t he think clearly? Why was everything all muddled? And why did it feel like he was paralyzed from the neck down? It was like his brain wasn’t connected to the rest of his body—like it was on the floor spinning in circles, like a dog chasing its tail around and around. He had no control over the tremors running up and down his muscles or the sweat pouring from his back and sliming the thin, rough hospital sheets. He couldn’t stop the images that materialized before him—the figments of an imagination sick from the fever boiling inside his brain—images of Vicky holding a knife to her son’s jugular, threatening to slice it open if he didn’t read the twelve steps of AA…the counselor from last night, Dexter, standing naked behind her, his partially erect penis grinding against the cleft of her ass. “Read them,” Dexter said, wiping the lens of his glasses. “Say them with conviction, with passion, with pride. This is your life we’re talking about here, not some game of Monopoly. Without these steps you’ll never survive.”

  “Do it,” Vicky pleaded. “Do it for me, Monty. Do it for Tommy. Save us. Don’t let us die.”

  Monty’s eyes shot open. He ripped off the covers then swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t lie here any longer, conjuring up these perverted images, allowing them to run wild inside his imagination. He had to get up. He had to get out of here, out of this room, out of this trailer.

  He planted his feet into the carpet then slowly straightened his legs. Looking around the room, he noticed the other beds were empty—nothing but indentations where people once slept. Where was everyone? And what time was it? How long had he been asleep?

  He crept across the bedroom towards the windows, parted the curtains, and wiped away the fog. It was light out, but not light enough to be lunch time, and certainly not dark enough to be time for dinner. The sun was out but shrouded by a canopy of snow-laced treetops, which bent and swayed with the gusting of the wind. Across the yard, he could see the main house’s back porch area where people sat like stumps on benches, clinging to their cigarettes like dead leaves clinging to the trees. How did he end up here? How could he be so stupid? How could he allow this to happen again? He should just leave now before anyone noticed, before everyone out there knew him by his face and name. He could sneak out the back door and trudge through the forest, find that ravine and throw himself off the edge. It would be so simple, so quick and so painless—a moment of freefall followed by a sudden, bone-shattering blow. But what if he didn’t die on impact? What if he survived the fall? Would he freeze to death alone in the forest, his blood spilling out into the snow? How long would that take—an hour, maybe two hours? What if someone found him and took him to the ER? What if he ended up a vegetable, brain dead and paralyzed, sucking oatmeal through a plastic tube? Would his parents cut the cord? No, of course they wouldn’t. They were too damn weak to ever let him go. They’d keep him on that life support, hoping for a miracle even when the doctors said he’d have no chance in hell. And he’d just have to lie there and take it while his mother bawled all over him, unable to speak, unable to move. He should’ve just done it back when he had the chance in Denver, back when he still had a little bit of control. Now, he had none. He was trapped up here in these god damn mountains surrounded by miles and miles of nothing but snow. Even if he did sneak away, how was he going to get back inside his apartment? How was he going to get money to pay for a ride home? His wallet was locked away in that safe in Dexter’s office, along with his health savings card and all his keys.

  He sighed as he released the curtains then tiptoed across the carpet and sat on the bed. After pulling on his shoes, he reached into his gym bag and pulled out his gloves and his black, wool hat. He put them all on then grabbed his snowboard jacket, opened the door and wandered out into the hall.

  As he approached the nurse’s station, he heard the sound of country music playing through a set of static-filled speakers. Jill, the nurse, was behind her desk staring at the computer, playing with a strand of red, curly hair. She looked up at Monty as he walked through the saloon-swinging doorway, and gave him a bright, red lipstick-smeared smile. “Well, look who’s up,” she said, a little too cheery, especially for someone who was stuck in this trailer too. “And how are we feeling this morning? Did you sleep okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “Aw what’s wrong, sweetie? You still got the shakes?”

  Monty nodded.

  “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” Jill sifted through a stack of manila file folders and propped one open on the top of the desk. “Let’s see, it says you’re due for another dose at”—she looked up at the clock ticking above the freestanding water fountain—“right now, actually.” She stood up and disappeared from the glass window then came out through the saloon doors carrying a small, plastic cup. “Here you go, sweetie. This should help.”

  Monty took the cup and dumped the pills into his mouth then walked over to the fountain and got a mouthful of water. He threw his head back and swallowed the pills.

  “You hungry sweetie?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? I think they stopped serving breakfast, but you could probably get a bowl of cereal. You should really try and eat something. It might make you feel better. Help to even out that blood pressure.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Alright, well, is there anything else I can get you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Why don’t you go back to bed and try and get some more sleep?”

  “I can’t sleep anymore.”

  “Well, if you’re interested, I think Dexter’s giving a lecture this morning. You’re more than welcome to attend. It might be nice for you to get out and get some fresh air, meet some of the other patients.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh good. You know how to get over there, right? Just walk straight out this door and go around through the back way. No need to go in through the front of the house. You can just go right in through the back gate and over by the dining hall. I’m sure they’ll all be out there smoking and drinking coffee. You can’t miss ‘em.”

  Monty walked out the trailer door and trudged his way over, wading through the snow around to the house’s back gate. Jill was right. They were still all outside bundled up in their winter jackets, smoking and chatting, braving the early morning chill.

  Monty kept his head down and slogged right past them, trying to ignore their curious stares. He was sick and cold, shaky and nauseous and wasn’t really in the mood for an ex
change of pleasantries. When he got by them, he slid open the door to what must have been the main meeting area, judging by the way the chairs were set up in a semi-circle in the middle of the room. The chairs were empty except for a few people, scribbling in spiral bound notebooks that were unfolded in their laps. Most of the people were up standing around an industrial sized percolator anxiously waiting for the brewing light to turn red.

  Monty did his best not to make any eye contact and shuffled his way through the cluster of folding chairs. He picked the chair with the fewest people around it then bent his legs and carefully sat down. With his elbows on his knees, he bent slightly forward and took deep breaths in and out. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have just stayed in the trailer. But what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t sleep. Maybe if he just sat here quietly no one would bother him. Maybe he could just blend in with the rest of the group.

  A few minutes passed and the glass door slid open and the patients began to meander in from the outside porch. They smelled like smoke and sounded like hyenas, laughing and chatting, their cheeks bright red from the morning cold. Monty made the mistake of looking towards the doorway when his eyes accidentally locked with a short, grungy looking man’s. He had a reddish-brown beard and was walking kind of funny, balancing two cups of coffee, trying not to spill any on his hands.

  Oh no, Monty thought, looking away quickly…please don’t come over here…please don’t sit next to me.

  The man limped his way down the line of perfectly good empty folding chairs just so he could stop at the one right next to Monty’s. “Is anyone sitting here?” the man said, gnashing his teeth together, like he was chewing on a piece of bubble gum that wasn’t really there.

  “No,” Monty said, scooting his chair over, trying to make as much space he could between him and the other chair. “It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.” The guy crouched down and set his two cups of coffee on the carpet, then took off his jacket and draped it across the back of the chair. With one hand on the seat and the other on his knee, he carefully eased himself down into the chair. “I’m Dave,” he said, as he snatched one of the cups from off of the floor.

  Monty said nothing and just nodded, slowly breathing in and out through his nose.

  “You got a name, kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Monty.”

  “Monty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool name.”

  “Thanks.”

  The guy blew into his cup then took a long slurp of coffee, making a repulsive gurgling sound with his throat. “So, when’d you get here, Monty?”

  Oh for Christ’s sake. Why? Why did people always do this? Was there a sign on his back that said I’m lonely, please come and talk to me?

  “I got here uh…two days ago, I think.”

  “No shit? Me too. Where’d they put you?”

  “What?”

  “What floor did they put you on?”

  “Oh, I uh…I’m not in the house. I’m in the trailer.”

  “What trailer?”

  “It’s around back.”

  “What’s it for?”

  Monty sighed and leaned forward. Couldn’t this guy tell he didn’t feel like talking right now? “I don’t know. I guess it’s supposed to be some sort of makeshift hospital. It’s where they put the people coming off of stuff.”

  “Oh yeah? You coming off something?”

  “Alcohol.”

  “Alcohol? What? That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Shit man, that’s nothing. I’m coming off crack and they didn’t put me in no detox.”

  Oh great, Monty thought, another crack head. He should’ve known by the way the guy was chomping on his fingernails. “Yeah, well, crack’s a stimulant.”

  “Yeah. No shit. So what?”

  “So, it doesn’t have any of the physical withdrawal that sedatives have.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well then how come I feel like I’m about to die?”

  “It’s psychological. You might feel like you’re about to die, but you won’t—at least not from cocaine withdrawal.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well then what about heroine?”

  “Heroine’s a different story. It’s a sedative, like alcohol. Depending on how much you’ve been taking, if you suddenly stop without the proper detox, you could end up going into convulsions and dying from a seizure.”

  “How the hell do you know all this man? You a doctor or something?”

  Monty laughed. “No. I almost finished my PhD, before…well, before all this.”

  “No shit? So you’re a scientist?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Chemical engineering.”

  “Chemical engineering?”

  “Yep.”

  “God damn kid, are you sure you’re supposed to be here? I don’t even know what a chemical engineer does, but the last place I thought I’d meet one is in a fucking drug rehab.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly elect to be here.”

  “Oh yeah? What happened? You get court ordered?”

  “Sort of.”

  “No shit?” Dave’s eyes lit up like two atom bombs in the desert. “Me too!”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Hell yeah. You think I wanna be here? Fuck no. This place is for loonies.” Dave looked back over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening then covered one side of his mouth like he had a secret to tell. “You see that guy over there, the one with the leather jacket and mustache...looks kinda like Geraldo Rivera?”

  Monty looked over his shoulder and saw who he was talking about. The guy did look a little like Geraldo Rivera, bushy mustache and all. “Yeah, I see him.”

  “That motherfucker told me that he was blessed to be in here—that this was some kinda fucking vacation for him. Can you believe that shit? A fucking vacation?” Dave shook his head and took another slurp of coffee. “I’m glad I sat next to you. You actually seem somewhat normal. Some of these other people in here are just plain nuts.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess some are sicker than others.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Dave laughed and reclined backwards, scratching the splotches of reddish brown hair on his neck. “So, what kind of drugs they giving you over there?”

  “Where?”

  “In the trailer.”

  “Oh uh…just benzos.”

  “The fuck’s that?”

  “It’s a depressant…supposed to keep people from going into seizure, but I’ve heard doctors prescribe it for insomnia as well.”

  “Oh yeah? Makes you tired?”

  “Yeah. It makes me groggy.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It’s better than the alternative. I’d rather sleep than have to go through alcohol withdrawal.”

  “I hear that. I didn’t sleep a fucking wink last night. They stuck me with some dude who has chronic sleep apnea. He had on one of those fucked-up looking prescription sleeping masks. Looked like Darth Vader or some shit, like he had a fucking vacuum cleaner attached to his face.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “He said it was supposed to muffle his snoring.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Hell no. The dude still snored all fucking nightlong. The god damn walls were shaking so bad I thought a tornado was ripping through the house. Shit, talk about feeling groggy. I feel like fucking shit right now. I didn’t even get a good five minutes.”

  Monty smiled and motioned to the line of cups underneath Dave’s chair. “Well, I see you got your coffee. That should help wake you up.”

  “Nah, this shit’s watered down or something. I’ve had three cups and I still feel like a fucking zombie.”

  “Yeah, I think they do water it down. Probably afraid that if they give us real coffee we
might start tearing the place apart.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “It was like that at the last rehab I was in. The stuff tasted more like dishwater than actual coffee.”

  “You were in rehab before this?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately.”

  “What happened? You couldn’t stay sober?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “That sucks man. I’m glad I don’t have that problem. Shit, I can quit whenever the fuck I want.”

  Monty looked up at Dave, surprised he just said that. Was he serious? Or was he just joking around? He waited for him to break into laughter, but he didn’t—his face was as serious as a man choking on an atomic fireball. “Wait a minute,” Monty said, turning in his seat towards him, “if you can quit whenever you want, then how’d you end up here?”

  Dave sniggered as if that was an unmerited question, as if Monty was an idiot for even having asked. “Well,” he said, as he reached for his coffee then blew across the surface and took a small sip, “it’s a long fucking story, kid.” He took another sip and winked at Monty when something caught his attention on the other side of the room. “Uh-oh. Watch out. It looks like they’re about to get this show on the road.”

  Monty turned to see where Dave was nodding. Sure enough, there was Dexter, bouncing down the kitchen steps. He was dressed to the nines with a tie, lapels, and a double-breasted jacket, shiny, black shoes and an elaborate, gold watch. He had a big grin on his face and was singing and dancing. He looked like a preacher about to give a sermon at a Pentecostal church. “Good mornin’ everybody,” he said, as he glided across the meeting room and bumped fists with the people sitting in the front row.

  “Good morning, Dexter,” the room replied somewhat unenthusiastically, like they’d seen this act a couple times before.

  Dexter frowned and grabbed a chair from against the back wall and propped it open in the center of the room. “That was a little uninspiring. Let’s try that again, shall we?” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted as loud as he could: “GOOD MORNING EVERYBODY!”