Sick City

by Tony O'Neill

  Every year or two Randal had to make the trip to rehab at his family’s behest, or face the prospect of being cut out of his inheritance. Now that his father was dead, Harvey would no doubt be in charge of the estate. Dad had been senile and soft, prone to bouts of sentimentality and sudden forgiveness when he was drunk. Harvey, though, could be a hard-nosed bastard. The prolonged infantilism that Randal’s meth habit brought about had changed their relationship as siblings, twisting Harvey into the tough-loving older brother. Only these days it was more toughness than love.

  As Randal waited for his car, he supposed that there were worse things than rehab. He would have a bed, meals, and he’d met more than one girlfriend while undergoing treatment. After all, there’s no icebreaker in the world like a shared love of hard narcotics.

  Randal limped to a nearby Jack in the Box and headed straight for the bathroom. He tried to clean the drying shit off of himself as best he could. He used the abrasive brown paper towels and cold water to scrub some of the stench away. He shoved the shitty, wet paper towels in the toilet bowl. When he had done all he could, he flushed the toilet. It immediately backed up, and started to flood. He fled the bathroom and walked as nonchalantly as possible past the customers waiting for their Jumbo Jacks with Cheese. He staggered out to the sunlight again as filthy water began to seep out from under the door and into the restaurant.

  When he made it back to the bus stop the car was waiting for him. Randal slid into the backseat and opened the window wide. The driver, an enormous, sweating black man with a shaved head and an ill-fitting polyester uniform, took off without saying a word.

  “Hey, man. What’s your name?”

  “Christian,” the driver replied, with a heavy African accent.

  “Hey, Christian. My name is Randal. I was just wondering if we could make a stop on the way. . . .”

  “No stop. Mister Earnest specified no stops. No stops until the hospital.”

  Christian turned the radio up to signal that the conversation was at an end. Goddamn, Harvey! Hopeless, Randal closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze against his face. After a while he heard some off-key singing and opened one eye. Christian was singing along in a weird, fractured falsetto to Jennifer Rush’s “The Power of Love.” He looked at one of the business cards that had been left in the backseat. DIVINE LIMO, it read, it’s not just when you get there—it’s how you get there! Groaning, he closed his eyes again and waited for sleep.

  Chapter Five

  After lunch at Spago Beverly Hills, cocktails at Bar 19, and a furtive blow job in the backseat of his Mercedes-Benz, Dr. Mike was adjusting his tie in the rearview mirror when Lai said, “So, I take it from the ring that you’re married?”

  Dr. Mike smiled without any emotion and said, “Yes. Happily married with two children. But I’m sure you already knew that. I assume you are familiar with Google?”

  Chastised, Lai quieted down. This was Hollywood, after all. Everybody involved knew what the deal was.

  Lai had no illusions that she would ever have the opportunity to talk to Dr. Mike once this encounter was over. But she had got half of what she came for: the addictive, instantaneous thrill of bedding a celebrity. As far as that went, Dr. Mike was okay. Not as exciting as getting head from Dave Navarro in a back room of the Sky Bar, but definitely better than last year’s coke-fueled bathroom sex with stand-up comedian Randy Dick. She looked at the full condom, knotted in the ashtray. Catching her gaze on it, Dr. Mike said, “You know, if you’d like to, uh, freshen up . . . I have a travel-size Scope right there in the glove compartment.”

  Lai shook her head. There was only one more thing she needed.

  “We never had the chance to talk about my brother. . . .”

  “Your who?”

  “My brother.”

  “Oh, yes. An alcoholic, yes?” Dr. Mike began to shake his head. “I’ve dealt with many alcoholics in my time. . . .”

  “He’s addicted to cocaine, Dr. Mike. Crack cocaine.”

  “Oh, oh, yes. Yes. Where do you live?”

  “Oh. Los Feliz.”

  “We can talk while I drive you over there. . . .”

  ——————

  They were heading down Sunset, toward Vermont. Lai was talking, and NPR was droning softly in the background. Dr. Mike’s face was cocked at an angle, and he was dreamily listening to what Lai had to say. Her brother was indeed a habitual user of crack cocaine, but not only that, he was a transgender who made for a more than convincing woman. When Lai had pulled out the picture of her and her brother, Dr. Mike had scrunched his eyes, disbelieving. Never in his years of trawling the underbelly of Los Angeles had he seen a more beautiful and convincing transvestite.

  · · ·

  “You see . . . Joseph is . . . well, my parents are very old-fashioned. Very traditional. He’s the only son and—they prefer to think of him as DEAD rather than deal with the fact that he’s . . . like THAT. He doesn’t even like me to call him Joseph anymore. He insists on being referred to as . . . Champagne.”

  “Hm. This complicates matters somewhat. Dual-diagnosis patients are much more difficult to treat—”

  “Dual diagnosis?”

  “When there are obvious . . . psychological problems unrelated to the addiction itself. Dual diagnosis is a broad term. It can cover anything from manic depression to a case like your brother’s where there are, uh, sexual issues. . . .”

  “I mean—I love my brother. And I accept him. But the way he’s living his life . . . I suspect he’s supporting his drug habit . . . by . . . by prostitution. There are always these creepy old men around him, and I know that Joseph would never dream of hanging out with these guys unless they were supporting him.”

  Dr. Mike looked at the picture again. Dr. Mike had thought that Lai was pretty, maybe not stunning, but definitely pretty. However, next to her brother, Lai looked hopelessly plain, nondescript even. Champagne was beautiful, truly stunning. He wondered if Lai was upset that he made a prettier female than she did.

  “Has he sought any kind of treatment for his drug use?”

  Lai shook her head. “He says that he’s happy. But I know that he isn’t. I know him. I can see the scared little boy underneath the makeup.”

  When she said that, Dr. Mike felt his breath get wet and heavy in his throat. His hand trembling slightly, he passed the photograph back to Lai.

  “Write your brother’s number on the back,” he said. “I can’t promise anything, but I can at least call him to offer my advice. If he wants to seek treatment . . .” Dr. Mike shrugged. “Well, I can see if I’m in a position to help him. But as I said, I can’t promise anything.”

  “Sure, sure. Thank you. . . .”

  Lai scribbled the number on the back of the picture and handed it to the doctor. He slipped it into his suit pocket.

  “You understand that we won’t really be able to . . . continue to see each other after this. . . .”

  “You don’t have to give me the speech. I’m a big girl. I just want you to help my brother.”

  “I can promise to try. That’s it.”

  “That’s good enough.”

  He pulled up. Lai looked at Dr. Mike. He smiled at her. She hugged him awkwardly. What to say now? “It was fun”? “Say hello to your wife”? “I hope you enjoyed the blow job”? I mean, what do you say in this situation?

  “It was nice to . . . meet you,” Dr. Mike said.

  “Yeah, you too. Do you have any smokes?”

  Dr. Mike shook his head, and she got out of the car.

  “You really shouldn’t smoke those things, you know,” he called after her. “They’ll kill you one day.”

  And then with a roar, he was gone. She was back in the disappointing realm of reality once more. She went inside, turned on the TV, and another stupid day passed like a dream.

  Chapter Six

  “So tell me, Randal, what brings you here?”

  Randal was sitting across from an impossibly young drug counselor. H
e looked to be, what, twelve? Thirteen? He was wearing a Circle Jerks T-shirt, and Randal noticed that he had a Misfits tattoo on his arm. I mean, did this kid really have any clue about who the Circle Jerks were? Or did he just think the T-shirt looked cool?

  “Uh, what?” Hearing that the kid’s voice had gone up expectantly at the end, Randal snapped out of his thoughts. “How do you mean? I came in a taxi.”

  “No, I mean . . . why do you feel you need treatment?”

  Randal was wearing a pair of ill-fitting tracksuit bottoms and a huge Denver Nuggets T-shirt. Both items of clothing had been taken from the lost and found box. Randal’s filthy suit was in a trash bag, next to his feet. Upon arriving he had been immediately led to the showers. The warm water felt good against his aching muscles. The sensation was fleeting. Now Randal was agitated again, and there seemed to be endless rounds of paperwork to be completed before he would be dosed with medication and allowed to pass out.

  And on top of it all . . . there was this wannabe punk rock kid, with his stupid fucking questions.

  “Look,” Randal said, “I’m here because my brother is gonna take away my credit cards if I don’t get clean.”

  “And you do meth, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long?”

  “Until it runs out.”

  “I mean, how long have you been doing meth?”

  “Shit, I dunno. Years. Put down ‘years.’ I can’t think straight right now. I’m crashing. When do I get my medication?”

  “When we complete your paperwork, and the nurse checks you out.”

  Randal watched the kid as he filled out the form on his Mac notebook. Everything in the office looked new, expensive, and shiny. The building itself was vast and painfully white. It smelled of bleach and new carpets. Clean, happy, productive, neat, new. The staff walked around here with cultish smiles on their faces, attacking him at every turn with attempted hugs and cries of “Welcome!” All of the friendliness made Randal want to puke.

  “So you work for, uh, Dr. Mike, the TV doctor, huh?”

  The kid pursed his lips.

  “Dr. Mike is very much a REAL doctor.”

  “But I mean—I just mean, the one on TV?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he be treating me?”

  “Dr. Mike treats all of the patients. It’s a common misunderstanding that he’s some kind of a Dr. Phil character, a ‘TV doctor,’ as you say. But Dr. Mike has always retained a regular practice here, and meets with every patient on a one-to-one basis.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “He’s only here on Fridays. The rest of the time you’ll have your day-to-day counselor. You’ll be assigned one. Do you attend AA meetings, Randal?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever attended AA meetings?”

  “Only when I’m in rehab.”

  “The meetings are mandatory here. Just so you know. We believe that the twelve-step program is an essential backbone to any attempt at recovery.”

  “So my room won’t have a minibar?”

  “No,” the kid said without cracking a smile, “it won’t have a minibar.”

  ——————

  “Okay, spread ’em, buddy.”

  Next Randal was looking into the face of a puffy Southern ex-drunk, with a bristly red mustache and ruptured blood vessels all over his face. The top row of teeth was missing. He was wearing a T-shirt with the Confederate flag on it, and chunky silver rings adorned eight of his fingers. He had a soft lilt to his voice, but there was steel underneath it.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  · · ·

  Randal was in another closed, antiseptic room. “Big Jim” had directed him here after his meeting with the punk rock kid. By way of introduction Big Jim had looked into Randal’s eyes and muttered, “Say ah.”

  “Ah?”

  “Longer. Like at the dentist. I’m checking your mouth for contraband. Say AH.”

  “Aaaaahhhhhhh.”

  “You got some fucked-up teeth in there. You a methhead?” Jim asked when he was done poking around in there.

  “Yeah. You got some pretty fucked-up teeth yourself, Jim. You do meth, too?”

  “Been clean for comin’ up to thirteen years. But, nuh, I was a drunk. I just liked to kick the shit sometimes. And sometimes, I got the shit kicked outta me.”

  Big Jim shot Randal a big, toothless grin. Then—maybe deciding that the time for small talk was over—Big Jim said:

  “Okay, spread ’em, buddy.”

  Sensing Randal’s confusion, he clarified: “Drop the pants, turn around, bend over, and spread your cheeks. I gotta check for contraband.”

  “I don’t have contraband.”

  “Sure. Nobody has contraband. We still gotta check.”

  Randal sighed. He had been through this routine before. He dropped the sweatpants, turned around, and halfheartedly pulled his ass cheeks apart. Big Jim pulled out his key chain. He had a little pocket flashlight attached on there. He flashed it into Randal’s asshole.

  “Nice job you got there,” Randal said, gritting his teeth. “Your mom must be real proud.”

  “My momma’s dead. She was a drunk, too, only she didn’t see the light in time. Okay, buddy, you can get dressed.”

  Randal straightened up. He turned and looked at Big Jim reproachfully. Big Jim just grinned at him.

  “And anyway, it ain’t a job.”

  “Uh?”

  “I said, this ain’t a job for me. Nuh-uh. I’ve been doing this for thirteen years, and it ain’t a job. It’s a vocation. There’s no better feeling than watchin’ some sorry sack of shit like yourself walk into this place thinking they know it all, thinking that the program don’t got nuthin’ to show them, thinking that they can still do it their way . . . watching the moment come around that they finally GET IT. Finally let go, and let God. That’s what gets me outta bed in the morning.”

  “I guess it’s nice to have a vocation,” Randal said.

  Big Jim was on his cell phone. “Yeah, he’s ready. You can take him up.”

  A few moments later the punk rock kid reappeared and said, “It’s time to get you medicated.”

  “Halle-fuckin-lujah.”

  Randal’s feet squeaked against the tiles as he was led to the detox unit. The unit consisted of several rooms, each with three beds, a bathroom, and a single television bolted to the wall. There was a nurse’s station and a small kitchen. He was left with the nurse, an older woman with frizzy red hair. She had a vague beaten-up look about her face that suggested she had once been a drunk or a doper. Randal silently had his blood pressure taken, his eyes, ears, and throat examined, his weight assessed. Finally the nurse went to the medicine closet and returned with a paper cup full of pills.

  “Something to help you sleep,” she said, pushing a pill toward him.

  “Some diazepam to help with your anxiety.

  “Some clonodine to regulate your blood pressure.

  “Some Tylenol to take away your aches and pains.”

  Randal scooped up the pills, popped them into his mouth, and swallowed them with a practiced efficiency. He wondered if the diazepam would be enough to make him feel something. As the nurse explained his dosing regimen to him, he started making instantaneous calculations. He would receive a 10 mg diazepam three times a day. If he saved them up, he could maybe cop a buzz at bedtime. It would be better than nothing. Even in a place like this, Randal knew that it was always possible to work the angles.

  “And this is chloral hydrate.”

  The nurse passed Randal a small cup of toxic-looking green goo. Before she could say any more, he gulped the contents down.

  “Say,” he said, “isn’t that the shit that killed Marilyn Monroe?” The nurse just shrugged.

  He smiled at her, already feeling better. Just the idea that his stomach was digesting these little miracles and that soon the chemicals would be in his blood and he would again feel like a real human being—howeve
r briefly—was a great comfort.

  “Is there food?” Randal asked, smiling sweetly, momentarily filled with artificial goodwill.

  “There’s bread and fruit in the kitchen. Cereal, too.”

  Randal stood. “I’m hungry.”

  “Mr. Earnest—”

  “Randal, please.”

  “Randal—you may start to feel a little unsteady soon. Maybe you should wait a moment before you—”

  Randal shook his head.

  “I’m feeling great. Shit, I could drive a car on stronger shit than this.”

  “The chloral hydrate will take effect pretty quickly. I’d suggest just lying down for a moment to see how it affects you. . . .”

  Randal laughed a little and made for the kitchen anyway. The nurse shrugged and turned away to finish her paperwork. In the detoxification unit it was silent. The only other patient was an older woman whom Randal glimpsed as she shuffled from a bedroom to a bathroom, heavily medicated.

  “If you need me,” the nurse said over her shoulder, “just whistle.”

  “Yup.”

  She found him in the kitchen, twenty minutes later, with the toast cold in the toaster, the plastic knife still in his hand, facedown in a pool of saliva at the kitchen table.

  “Aw shit! We got another sleeper!” she yelled.

  Chapter Seven

  In the shitty part of Hollywood where all-night newsstands, peep shows, transient hotels, and check-cash stores bordered uneasily the desolate ass end of the tourist strip, Bee was getting hassles from his old lady. He hissed into his cell phone:

  “I toldja. I’m coming back now. I’m gonna get a ride with Pat.”

  “All of these shady fucking speed freaks sitting around the place lookin’ to score. . . . The fucking apartment is getting like Union fucking Station! And then fuckin’ Henry shows up with his girlfriend a couple of fucking granolas from San Francisco . . . I mean, he’s just bringing random people who he bumped into at the club over now? This is my HOME. I don’t want it to turn into some kind of fucking crash pad for Henry and his dopey friends. . . .”