by Tony O'Neill
Jeffrey gingerly wiped another stray pubic hair from the rim of the toilet. It seemed impossible that these filthy crap receptacles had been cleaned at all in the last month. The smell of stale piss and bleach made his stomach flutter.
“ . . . So the call comes one day, and basically my pop is about to die, and if we want to say our good-byes, then now is the time to do it. It finally dawns on me that my own father is about to die, and I am never going to see him again. Not only that, but fucking Harvey is gonna be in charge of the estate, the houses, the money, and basically everything . . . well, man, the only logical response to that was to get fucked up, you know? So instead of going to the hospital I call up my connection. He hasn’t spoken to me in six months. He says, ‘Hey, Randal, I thought you were dead or some shit.’
“ ‘Nah. Worse. I’ve been straight. I want to pick up two ounces.’ ”
“So I walk outta the office without even saying good-bye. I tell you, that was a great feeling walking out of there and never looking back. It was like suddenly the birds started chirping in the trees, and the sky turned a perfect shade of blue. Finally, I didn’t have to think about my father at all. I didn’t have to think about anything. I practically skipped all the way over to my connection.”
“Wait,” Jeffrey interrupted, slightly dazed by the way that Randal had suddenly opened up to him, “you gotta explain this to me. Your pop founded Metro Studios. So you’re part of the Earnest dynasty?”
“Randal P. Earnest, that’s me.”
“So your brother is Harvey Earnest.”
“Yeah.”
“Owner of Dreamscape Studios?”
“Yeah. And the biggest douchebag in Hollywood, bar none.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Yeah. He thinks I need it tough this time. And with Pop gone, Harvey signs the checks. I really don’t know what I’m going to do this time. Without Pop around, Harvey finally has me where he wants me. He’ll never let me live by my own rules. He’s a fucking control freak shithead. That’s why he’s so fucking rich. You don’t get to run a place like Dreamscape without being the world’s biggest asshole.”
“I guess not.”
· · ·
“All I ever wanted was to be left alone by my fucking family. To be free from that fucking weight of expectation. Like I’m supposed to be impressed by Jack fucking Nicholson because my pop worked for him? I’m meant to kiss his ass when he comes around the house and pretend to care? Fuck that! I’m supposed to enjoy the company of these fucking people? Ugh. I mean, have you ever heard a bunch of movie people when they actually get together and talk? There’s nothing more boring than an actor without a script. De Niro, Nicholson, it doesn’t matter. They’re basically props with speaking roles. I can’t begin to tell you how much I fucking hate that world. There was no way I could handle it, you know, straight.”
“Why don’t you leave Hollywood?” Jeffrey said, as he moved onto the next toilet. “Start over somewhere else? Away from your family?”
Randal laughed. “I’ve thought about that just about every day of my life. But go where? With what money? Harvey would cut me off in a heartbeat. I mean, if I just said, “Fuck Harvey” and set out on my own, what would I do? Get a job? Put on a fucking suit five days a week and show up to an office, again? Nah, that ain’t me. I can’t do that. The only kind of career I could ever have would be in the industry. No matter how fucked up I am, I will always be able to make a living in Hollywood. Anywhere else in the world, and I’d be totally fucking unemployable. The movie business is worse than the fucking Mafia. You can’t escape a name like my father’s that easily. When Pop was alive I could get away with agreeing to rehab twice a year, and things would pretty much carry on as normal. Now everything’s different. This is shaping up to be a pretty lousy year. . . .”
“What are you two ladies talking about in here?”
Randal and Jeffrey looked up, and there was Luke standing in the doorway, scowling. He was in his uniform of acid-washed jeans and a lumberjack shirt, with his pudgy thumbs hooked into the waistband. His beady eyes glared at them.
“There’s too much fucking talking going on here for my liking. If you ladies have time to talk, then maybe you need some extra tasks.”
Luke was the kind of asshole who was corrupted totally by whatever token bit of power the facility had bestowed upon him.
Randal stood and turned to Luke.
“We’re working, Luke. Nobody said we had to do it in silence. This ain’t a fuckin’ monastery, man.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t a fucking vacation camp neither. Why don’t you stop dicking around, or maybe you want me to write you up?”
“For what?” Randal laughed. “Having a fucking conversation? Kiss my ass.”
Luke walked over to the showers. He pulled back the plastic curtain and peered into the first stall.
“So you’re done with this one?” he asked Randal.
“Sure.”
“Come here.”
Luke crouched down and ripped up the slip mat, flipping it over.
“Look at this.”
“Look at what?”
“Look at this mildew.”
Randal peered closer. Around the suckers that held the slip mat in place there were a few remaining traces of mildew. “Oh,” Randal said.
“Oh, indeed. I suggest you scrub that off straightaway, unless you want me to write this up.”
Luke entered the shower stall to look closer.
“Luke! Come on, man! You’re fucking standing in my clean stall with your fucking boots, man!”
Luke glared at him.
“This stall ain’t clean. I’m doing you a favor. You need to start over and stop half-assing it. You know your problem, Randal?”
Randal folded his arms.
“No. I guess you’re gonna tell me, though.”
“You half-ass everything. You half-ass this shower stall. You half-ass your recovery. It’s no wonder you are where you are. With all of the opportunities you’ve had handed to you in life, you’ve found yourself on your knees cleaning a fucking shower stall. That must suck.”
Randal smirked.
“You think it’s funny?”
Randal started to laugh and just shrugged.
“You think you’re a tough motherfucker,” Luke snarled. “Well, I got news for you. You ain’t tough. You ain’t tough at all. I’ve shat tougher things than you.”
With that, Luke stormed out. Randal and Jeffrey looked at each other for a moment, before erupting. When the laughter came it was free and easy. The first honest-to-God laugh either of them had had since checking into this place.
“He’s shat tougher things than you!” Jeffrey wheezed, gasping for air.
“Oh, Jesus. That fucker has a way with words.”
“What a fucking asswipe!”
When the laughter subsided, they began scrubbing again with renewed vigor. Luke’s interference had actually improved their mood. It felt good to be united in their hatred for the balding, wannabe tough guy.
“Oh, boy, I’ve come across dickheads like that in every rehab I’ve been in,” Jeffrey said.
“How many times you been in these places?”
“Six or seven. Some back in England. That’s where I started using. I’m Irish, originally, but I went over to London when I was fifteen. Got into it there. A boyfriend introduced me to it originally. You know I’m a fag, right?”
Randal shrugged.
“Don’t make much difference to me either way. But you don’t scream it out or anything.”
“Yeah, well, I was never one for the feminine boys who listen to techno and dig Will and Grace. Where I grew up, if you were a fag you kept it hidden.”
“Six or seven rehabs, huh? Why do you keep coming back?”
“I guess I keep thinking that the next time will be different. A lot of those other times I went because there was someone, usually some wealthy boyfriend, who wanted me to get my shit together. My relationshi
ps always seem to follow the same fucking pattern. I’ll be twenty years younger than them, and they’ll want to save me. They’ll always think it will just take love, or money, to fix me. It even took me a while to realize that you can’t fix people. Life’s all about learning how to live with everything that’s wrong with you. It got so that I started to think that sending someone to rehab was a normal first step for any long-term relationship.”
Jeffrey smiled, without any real humor.
“Of course it never worked like that. I was always able to stop for a while. I mean, this whole recovery thing was never really a factor in how long it lasted. It was always a conscious decision to start using again. Because without getting high, man, I would be so bored. And I’d realize just how boring everybody else was. In the end I figured I’d start using again to save whatever relationship I was in at the time. I even told one guy: ‘I’m smoking crack because you’re too uninteresting when I’m not smoking it. As long as I’m sober, I feel that I’m too good for you.’ ”
Randal laughed. “Wow. I’ve been dumped a bunch of times, but no one ever used that line on me.”
“That guy said something similar actually. That one ended particularly badly, and I had to leave London. Long story. . . .”
“So that’s why you ended up in LA?”
“Well, that was Bill. My last boyfriend. I met him online. He flew out to Manchester, where I was staying at the time, to see me. At first I was kinda shocked when I saw him. He was older than he looked in his pictures, a lot older than my usual guys. But he was handsome. And he had charisma. He just had something that I liked.”
“What? Money?”
“Yeah, well, there was that. But something else. Power. A kind of quiet power. Bill looked after me good. Nobody knew about us. But he looked after me. Got me my paperwork for the U.S., no questions asked. He was everything to me. . . .”
“So what happened?”
“Bill died. Went in his sleep. And I don’t know what the fuck to do next. I need to start over. I’m just hoping that this time it’s different for me. I need to stop this shit. At least for now.”
“But why come here?” Randal asked. “Why not just go on vacation? Take a fucking break. Hang out on the beach. It’d probably be cheaper than coming to this fucking place.”
Jeffrey shrugged.
“I have a lot of stuff going on right now. My living situation just changed, everything just changed. I just know I won’t be able to deal with all of that if I’m fucked up. Who knows? Maybe something will stick. Maybe I’ll come out of this place full of the joys of sobriety.”
Randal snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Ya never fuckin’ know, right? It’s a nice idea.”
Somewhere in the building a bell rang. Randal dropped his sponge.
“Fuck this. Sounds like it’s time for coffee.”
“Thank Christ.”
They stood up and surveyed the bathroom one last time.
“You know it’s gonna look like shit within the hour,” Jeffrey said.
“Yeah, well, fuck that. That’s life.”
“I guess.”
· · ·
They walked down the corridors together, joining the other men who came flooding out of the bedrooms and the stairwells, all drawn by the bell out into the cafeteria, where for a few minutes at least they could forget sobriety and just shoot the shit and laugh. At least until the bell rang again and it all started up all over again.
Chapter Seventeen
When Friday rolled around, Randal finally had the chance to meet the fabled Dr. Mike. He was given an appointment slip and sent up to the third-floor offices fifteen minutes before. He waited with a bored-looking receptionist until Dr. Mike’s prior patient finally emerged. He was beaming. He backed out of the room muttering, “Thank you, Dr. Mike . . . thank you . . . yes, I’ll see you soon. . . .”
The secretary smiled at the guy as he left, and said, “Randal? You’re next.”
Randal closed the door behind him.
“Dr. Mike, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I was beginning to think you were a figment of the collective imagination over here.”
Dr. Mike looked at Randal, but did not stand up. The doctor was handsome and tanned, possessing the anonymous good looks of a daytime soap actor. When he spoke, dazzling white teeth peeked out from between his thin lips. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his gray hair was neat, trimmed close to the skull. He wore a navy shirt and salmon pink tie. Good living radiated out from him, and Randal had the impression that if he stood close to Dr. Mike, he would smell fragrant, freshly scrubbed. The doctor held his hand up to Randal and clutched the phone closer to his ear. “Yes . . . ,” he said, “yes, I understand that, but you must tell him no. No more medication. None. I’m with— I’m with— I’m— Listen, I’m with a client. If he keeps screaming, let him scream. This is a tantrum, that’s all. The pain is not real. It’s psychological. Yes. Yes. Okay. I’m with a client. Yes. Good-bye.”
He hung up the phone.
“Sorry about that,” he said, without a hint of apology in his voice. “Sit down, please, Mr. . . .”
“Earnest. Randal Earnest.”
“Ah, yes. Randal.”
They sat there like that for a while, Dr. Mike studying a sheet of paper with a furrowed brow. He stopped, leaned forward, and said, “So how are you feeling today, Randal?”
“Okay,” Randal said.
“You’ve been in population for two weeks, yes? How are you finding it?”
“Fine. I know the routine. I’ve done this before.”
“Yes.” Dr. Mike consulted his sheet. “I see several admissions here. Wat Tham Krabok, in Thailand, was the most recent.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dr. Mike laughed a little.
“You’ve tried it all now, yes? You’ve tried to quit on your own accord, you’ve tried self-will, you’ve tried denial, and you’ve even tried voodoo. And here you are.”
“Voodoo?”
“The Thai retreat. Wat Tham Krabok.”
“It’s not voodoo. It’s an herbal purification system. It’s all about, uh, looking inside of yourself, flushing the toxins from inside of you. . . .”
Dr. Mike snorted.
“Voodoo, Randal. I don’t mean people in grass skirts dancing around and drinking chicken blood. I mean voodoo in the general sense of the word. Snake oil. As long as there have been addicts, there have been charlatans queuing up to take advantage of their desperation. I’m sure it cost you a pretty penny.”
“A little less than here, actually.”
“And what good did all of this introspection do you? That detox took place in the spring. And now here you are.”
Randal thought about the monastery. About the silent monks who made vile-tasting herbal concoctions that literally made him vomit the toxins out of his body. When he had arrived back in LA he had looked thinner, healthier than ever. He was high within twenty-four hours, though.
“The problem was,” Randal said, “that when I looked inside of myself I didn’t see anything. Nothing at all. In fact, when I looked inside of myself I realized that I am only truly happy when I’m high.”
“Hm. That is your disease talking, Randal. The sooner you realize that, the better. What are your plans? When you get out of here. What are your goals?”
“Financial independence.”
“And . . . meetings?”
“Maybe.”
“If you don’t attend meetings,” Dr. Mike said, “you will die. This disease is a chronic and incurable one, but with diligence and care it can be arrested.”
“I’ve heard this before, Doctor. As well as Thai voodoo, I have plenty of experience of the American variety, too.”
Dr. Mike smiled, coldly.
“If you don’t want to be helped then there really is nothing anyone can do for you.”
The phone rang again.
“Excuse me, Randal.” Dr. Mike picked up the phone. “Yes? Yes, I can hear him. This is a tantru
m. He has who on the phone? His surgeon? I don’t need to speak to his surgeon. I— I— Yes, I am well aware of his medical condition. I will say it again. No painkillers. The pain is psychological. He is an addict. Yes. Yes. Look, I’m with a patient. I know. I’d suggest earplugs. Good-bye.”
“Sounds rough,” Randal said, as Dr. Mike hung up the phone.
“Just another addict angling for pills. You get used to it. Addicts are by their very nature cunning and devious. They use pity and emotional blackmail on the outside to get what they want, so why should it be any different in here?”
· · ·
“Dr. Mike, do I have any other options besides AA?”
“Sure. You can continue to use drugs and die. Nothing else has been proven as effective in arresting the disease of addiction as the twelve-step program. Total abstinence is the only solution.”
“My father died of cancer recently,” Randal said quietly.