by Nic Sheff
Nothing.
And there’s just no way out.
My plane doesn’t crash.
It touches down in Albuquerque.
Ch.15
In twelve-step meetings and rehabs, they always say this thing about how the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. Of course, they mean it in the sense that as addicts, we keep trying to use again even though we suffer such devastating consequences every time. But, I’ll tell you what, walking off the plane to go meet up with the director of this fucking program feels pretty goddamn familiar. The only difference is that this time I’m not expecting different results. I know how insane it is for me to be here. So I guess that makes the rest of the people in my life the fucking crazy ones. And, me, well, I guess I’m finally fucking sane.
Not that it matters.
I still have no choice but to play along.
So I walk down to the baggage claim.
The director of the program has no trouble identifying me from the description Melonie must’ve given him. I mean, I definitely don’t look a thing like the other passengers standing around. Especially ’cause I’m wearing this stupid, fringed tapestry jacket that was Zelda’s ex-husband’s and these bell-bottoms that were actually Zelda’s.
“You must be Nic,” he says, sounding very masculine and chummy, like we just met at a goddamn football-watching party or something. He shakes my hand, doing his best to show me just how confident he is. A confidence, I’m sure, that can be achieved only after spending a year or more at his very own recovery frat house high up in the New Mexico desert. He smiles at me like, “Trust me, little queer boy. Give me just one year and I’ll make a man out of you yet.” Seriously, I mean, these all-male treatment programs really are cults—run by smooth-talking con men with their smug “I’m enlightened” Tom Cruise smiles. And this douche bag here’s not a fucking bit different. He shakes my hand hard, like a man should.
“Chip Barnes,” he says, proudly. “Glad to meet you.”
He’s short and squat with a thick, ’70s porn star mustache.
He’s wearing a shiny suit and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.
Christ.
I get my bag, and we walk out to the parking lot together.
His car, of course, is this monster sport-utility vehicle. It’s got a built-in camera on the back bumper so you don’t have to turn around when you’re backing up. The leather interior smells kind of lemon-scented. I ask if I can smoke, but I’m just being an asshole.
He tells me I’ll have plenty of time to smoke when we get to Gallup.
He laughs deeply, like he just said something really funny.
Fucking Chip Barnes—the man who’s finally going to set me straight. The man who’s gonna teach me whatever it is I’m gonna need to know to become a confident, successful, influential male.
Driving his luxury SUV.
Air-conditioning on full blast.
Hair slicked back.
Smiling that fucking smile.
Not shutting up once the whole goddamn ride.
“Nic, I can already tell, this is gonna be exactly what you need. Alcoholics Anonymous was founded on the principle of men working with other men.”
He laughs at the joke he’s about to make. “And that was back when being a man actually meant something, you know what I mean? Not like today, where we’re supposed to be ashamed to even own a pair.” He laughs some more, smirking and laughing and smirking again. “Am I right?”
He takes one hand off the wheel and punches my shoulder with it.
“Yeah… ha-ha,” I say.
The bland desert stretches out on either side—dull shades of brown, all burned and peeling. The brush is tangled, brittle. The cacti rot beneath the dust and sand—the car exhaust—the hazy, cancerous sky.
And Chip Barnes, well, he keeps driving. He keeps driving and talking and talking and driving. As we pass strip mall after strip mall. As we pass a rash of housing communities—with one oversize home after another, pressed up practically touching one another. Indoor living. Giant air-conditioned cages with no yards or individuality. Stalinist Russia on steroids. The American dream.
Is this what I’m getting sober for? Is this the society I’m trying to become a productive member of?
I listen to Chip as he goes on blathering. I listen to Chip and I nod my head. I listen to Chip outlining the next year of my goddamn life.
“Based on what we know about you,” he says, still smirking his smirk, “the team and I have decided that it’d be best to keep you on phase one for at least a couple months. All that means is that you’ll be going to group on-site during the day and then out to meetings at night with the guys. As long as you’re on phase one, you won’t be allowed off the grounds unless accompanied by one of the senior residents—that’s phase four or higher. They’ll be responsible for signing you out, so if anything happens, it’s on their head. That’s one of the ways we try to create accountability around here. Anyway, as part of phase one, you’re not allowed to use the phone or computers unless, of course, there’s some sort of emergency you make us aware of. As well, because we want to keep you focused on your recovery, we don’t allow any non-twelve-step-related reading material, and you won’t be able to play that guitar you brought with you—so we’ll go ahead and keep that locked in the office. That way you’ll be free to really spend some time getting to know the other guys—and really getting to know yourself.”
My eyes close as I breathe in through my nose, long and slow. There’s a cramp in my stomach and a cold, glossy sweat broken out all down my back.
My voice comes out stuttering and shaky. I can’t help it. “Okay,” I say. “Yeah, all that sounds, uh, good, I guess. The one thing is, though, before I relapsed, I was able to get a book deal, which was, like, such a total miracle. I mean, I never really went to college or anything, so I kinda feel like this is my one shot, you know? Anyway, I was able to finish about half of it before I got involved in this relationship and started using again. But I guess everyone was really encouraging about the pages I’ve already written, so, uh, now that I’m sober, I’m really looking forward to writing again. And I’m pretty sure I could finish the rough draft within a month or two, which would be so awesome—but I’d definitely need to use a computer. You think we could work something out so I could spend some time writing every day—if I promise not to go on the Internet, or whatever?”
Obviously Chip must’ve been listening, ’cause he responds to what I’ve said, but without even thinking about it for two seconds. He laughs, almost as if he’d been expecting this question the whole time—which he probably was.
“No, Nic, sorry, I don’t think writing a book is something you should be focusing on. You need a real job, where you can just be one of the guys. One of our boys just made manager at the local Albertson’s grocery store. So he’s worked out a deal with them to start hiring the new guys we got coming in. That’s the kind of job I want for you.”
My teeth grind together so it’s actually painful. My jaw pops back and forth.
“But,” I say, still stuttering my goddamn ass off, “I mean, why couldn’t I do both? I’ve worked jobs like that before. Hell, I worked at a grocery store in LA for almost six months. I’ve got no problem with that. But can’t you guys give me some time to write as well? Honestly, man, that’s like the one thing I have to hold on to.”
My voice cracks, and I hope to God I don’t start fucking crying.
“If I didn’t have this book,” I try again, “I don’t think I would’ve even made it through detox. It’s, like, the only chance I’ve got.”
Chip’s expression doesn’t change. He’s just silently laughing—grinning like a bastard. “See, that’s my point, Nic. Seems to me like your priorities are all screwed up. Writing a book isn’t gonna get you anywhere. What you need to do is focus on working the twelve steps and on building your relationships with other men. Nothing else should matte
r to you right now. You don’t need to be writing. You don’t need to be hanging out with girls. You don’t need anything that your brotherhood can’t give you. All that other crap is just a distraction—a waste of time.”
“Yeah,” I say, inhaling through my nose all at once. “Sounds to me like the twelve steps and your stupid male bonding are the real wastes of time. If who you are is any indication of what that’ll do for me. I’m not sure managing a sober frat house in the middle of nowhere exactly qualifies you to make any sort of judgments about anyone else’s life.”
I mean, I figure why not fight back? Obviously I’m fucked either way.
But, still, his goddamn expression doesn’t change. “I’ll tell you what qualifies me to pass judgment on how you’re living your life. I have over fifteen years of living clean and sober. Seems to me you’re having trouble even getting a couple days without being locked up in some institution.”
He snorts at his little comeback.
Man, it really is all I can do not to punch him in the face.
I’m shaking all over.
I want to cry and scream.
“Believe me,” I tell him, “if just staying sober’s what it’s all about, I woulda had this shit beat when I was eighteen. Anyone can stay sober. It’s actually having a life that’s worth staying sober for that’s the hard part. Honestly, I rather be strung out, or dead, than a self-righteous ‘sober man’ on a goddamn power trip. No, I’m not interested in sobriety like that. So, yeah, go ahead, put me on phase one. I don’t fucking care. Fuck.” I pound my fist into my leg. “I can’t believe this shit.”
For the first time since we started driving, I realize he’s gone silent for a second. I mean, he isn’t even smiling. Veins protrude like parasitic growths along his neck and forehead. His tan face is turning almost purple.
I guess I got what I wanted.
Though now, well, I’m not so sure I want it anymore.
All his smug, serene whatever has turned into rapid, screaming craziness.
He lets me fucking have it.
“If you’re trying to tell me you don’t want to be here, then fine. I don’t care. You can take the coward’s way out—since that’s obviously what you are. Anyway, you wouldn’t be the first. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. In fact, I’ve seen you a hundred times before. You think you’re unique? Ha, you’re not unique. Nic Sheff after Nic Sheff after Nic Sheff have come through here. Usually they end up walking down the street to the Greyhound station and catching a bus outta here. Then a week or two later they come crawling back, licking their wounds and begging me for another chance—not so high and mighty anymore. The ones who don’t come back, well, usually I get a phone call from their parents saying that their son is dead or in jail. That’s what happens to people who don’t give themselves over to this program. And you think I’m gonna give a rat’s ass when I get that call about you? No way, not me. I’ll be sleeping soundly, knowing that I offered you everything you could have possibly needed to get better, and you still wouldn’t take it. I’ll tell you what—the twelve steps work—my program works—they work for everyone and anyone. The only people who fail are the ones who don’t do exactly what I say. People like you, who are too arrogant and, frankly, too much of a damn pussy to do what it takes to really commit to this thing. So you want me to drop you at the bus station? That’s fine. We’ll go there right now. But I got a feeling ain’t no one gonna be helping you get that ticket. And by tomorrow night you’re gonna be selling your ass just to have a place to sleep. ’Cause, I’ll tell you, these high desert nights are cold as sin. But I’ll drive you to the station. That’s fine by me. In fact, you better decide right now, ’cause if you wanna be admitted to my facility, you’re gonna have to shut your mouth and do exactly, I mean exactly, what I say. ’Cause as far as I’m concerned, we’re done already. So if I hear you’re giving anyone any problems—talking to the guys about how this is some cult or anything like that—well, I’ll lock the door on you and throw away the key, and you’ll never set foot on my property again. You understand me?”
I stare at the creased black-leather dashboard—my eyes stinging—still fighting back the tears that’re trying to get through.
I breathe.
I breathe some more.
Should I try this thing?
Should I pray that Sue Ellen will have mercy on me? After all, a Greyhound ticket’s gotta be cheaper than a flight. I can’t believe I didn’t think of taking a bus before. But what if I can’t stay with her? What if I’m throwing away my last chance? What if I really do need this program?
“Look,” I say, surprisingly calm. “I’m sorry. It’s been a fucked-up, you know, emotional couple days. The truth is, all I really want is to get well. But I’m just so frustrated. I mean, I’ve tried this shit so many times, but I still keep fucking up. I don’t know. I feel like there’s gotta be another way, ’cause nothing I’ve been doing has been working. And I’m so sick of hearing that my only chance is the twelve steps. Honestly, I’m scared that, for some reason, they just won’t work for me. I’m scared I’m a lost cause. So I’m sorry I took it out on you. I mean, I’m sorry I was being an asshole.”
At this point I’m really not interested in what he’s doing with his face, so I keep my focus kinda blurred out the window.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, already sounding a whole lot more cheerful. “That’s my job, all right? And I can assure you that you’re not a lost cause. The twelve steps are the answer for everyone—I mean, every last one of us. I can promise you that. So if I were you, Nic, I’d stop worrying about what might be wrong with the program, and I’d start trying to figure out what’s keeping you from fully committing to it. In fact, since tomorrow’s Sunday and you don’t have group, I want you to write me a thorough list of everything that is blocking you from working the steps.”
He pauses a second.
“And, as well, I want you to write a list of all the things that have kept you from developing meaningful relationships with other men and how that is fueling the fears you have about being here. Does that all sound good?”
I realize, suddenly, that we must have turned off the highway at some point, ’cause Chip’s stopped his car in front of a single-story, sort of ’70s, Brady Bunch–looking ranch-style house. There’s no sign out front, but this is obviously the place.
My stomach goes all knotted again, but I try not to let on. I mean, I’m even able to put on a goddamn smile.
“Sure,” I say. “That seems like it’ll be really helpful.”
I finally let myself look over at him, and I can see he’s just beaming at having turned me around so fast.
“Well, good. I’m gonna drop you here, but I need you to go check in at the office right away. I’ll make a time to sit down with you first thing Monday. And, seriously, Nic, if you start feeling squirrelly, you have one of the guys give me a call. The Greyhound stop’s just down the block that way, so I don’t wanna come back on Monday to find you skipped out on me.”
He’s nice enough to point toward the bus station for me before continuing on.
“Remember, God created this program for you as well as me and the rest of us alcoholics. All ya gotta do is start giving yourself over to our care, and the healing can begin. You got that?”
I nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thank you.”
He helps me get my stuff out of the trunk, and then we shake hands.
He tells me, “Good luck,” getting back into his prized car and driving off.
I don’t go right in like he told me.
I sit on the curb and smoke a cigarette.
The neighborhood suburban and crumbling all around me.
I sing that Talking Heads song quietly to myself.
I repeat it over and over.
This is not my beautiful life.
This is not my beautiful life.
I shut my eyes. I hold them closed. But it’s no good.
I mean, I’m still he
re.
And this is the only goddamn life I’m ever gonna have.
Ch.16
So I made it through the first night.
Even if I did wake myself up screaming, not knowing where the hell I was.
But then I turned to see my new roommate sitting up on the narrow built-in twin bed, looking like I’d just freaked him the fuck out.
I told him I was sorry.
He grunted, lying back down so he faced the textured, off-white painted wall. He pulled the blanket up, hiding most of his head. It was the weekend, so I guess everyone was allowed to sleep in, but it was no use to me. The images from my dream played over and over against the blurred nothing of my unfocused eyes. It was a dream about Zelda. Of course. She’d been given some sort of poison and was dying on the floor of my dad’s house in Point Reyes. My fingers couldn’t dial the right numbers on my phone to get her help. I couldn’t find a hospital. Everything was closed. No one would answer my questions. Until, finally, someone told me I should forget about trying to save her. She was gone already. The person said all I could do was bury her. Screaming, I held her.
I mean, fuck. After everything that’s happened, I still dream about her almost every night. I keep waiting to dream about Sue Ellen, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Anyway, I gave up on trying to go back to sleep. It wasn’t gonna happen. Besides, I figured I should get outta there so I didn’t keep my roommate up any more than I already had—even if he did seem kinda like a dick. I mean, I guess that’s not true. He was totally indistinguishable from most of the other guys there. The night before, I’d sat around talking with a bunch of the kids in the little courtyard. They all looked the same—tan, muscular, close-cropped hair stuck up with gel in the front. They smoked Marlboros, and quizzed me about using and girls, and kept one-upping all my stories. There were a few, like, hipster kids there—with shaggy hair and bangs swooped to one side—Converse sneakers—tight-ass jeans. But, really, they were the same as the others. All they talked about was drugs and wanting to fuck—taking a definite pleasure in bragging about how much more they’d used than everyone else. Even some of the older guys came over, and they were talking about drugs and fucking and all the shit they were gonna do when they got the hell out of this place. No one offered any hope. No one seemed to want anything except escape.