by Nic Sheff
So I smoked one cigarette after another.
And I began to fantasize about ways of ending my life.
Because having to live like this, man, I’ll tell you, it’s not worth it.
But today is a new day. The sun is growing warm—the winter giving way to spring. Of course, I’m tired as shit, but I’ve agreed to go with a couple of guys to a twelve-step meeting, just to check it out, you know? The two guys are in their forties, I’d guess, and neither one of ’em was around talking shit last night, so maybe that’s something.
But, anyway, the meeting’s only a couple of blocks away, so we all walk together. Thank God my mom sent me those cartons of cigarettes when I was back at Safe Passage, ’cause otherwise I think I really would snap completely. But she came through with that, so I’ve been chain-smoking all morning.
From what I’ve seen of the town, it seems pretty desolate—torn apart by chain stores and fast-food restaurants. The houses are all duplicates of one another, pressed tight together with competing green lawns that are ridiculously out of place in this dry desert wasteland. We pass a gas station with a big mini-mart, and this guy from the house, Peter, mentions to me that it’s the recommended place for everyone to buy candy and drinks and cigarettes.
I thank him.
Across from the meeting there’s a concrete park with teenagers skateboarding all over the place. I have to sort of laugh at how angst-ridden and full of rage they seem to be—pierced and tattooed, with dyed hair and chains on their wallets—yelling at each other and spitting and saying “dude, dude” all the time. Still, some of them are crazy good, and I use watching them as an excuse not to have to talk to all the people gathered out in front of the meeting. Those moments at the beginning and end of the meeting are always awkward as hell. Fuck, in LA, man, they even had ten-minute coffee breaks around the hour mark of the meeting. Most everyone would kind of mill around talking all jovially and everything—laughing and slapping one another on the back. But, honestly, unless I’d come with a couple of friends, all I’d do at these breaks was check old voice mail messages or randomly decide to text someone just so I’d at least look like I was doing something important.
Because I’m new, though, a bunch of different men introduce themselves and tell me, “Welcome.” I don’t know what to do but thank them and pretend I have to go do something else. Basically, I just end up walking back and forth to the coffee urn about ten times—never actually getting any coffee.
Finally, though, the meeting is called to a start, and I take my seat. I guess ’cause we’re using the basketball court of the local school, the overhead lights are bright-ass fucking bright.
So, yeah, like I said, they start the meeting, and it’s basically the same as every other meeting I’ve ever been to. Man, I remember how amazing it was the first time I went to one of these things. I’d been checked in to my first rehab a couple days earlier, and they finally felt I was ready to go off the grounds with the rest of the patients. We had to take a city bus down to the Marina, so I was quizzing everyone the whole time about what to expect, since I had absolutely no idea. But none of their explanations really made it any clearer.
The first part of the meeting, when they read the preamble and all this different stuff, made no sense at all to me, but then this elderly British woman went up to the front and started telling us her story. It was so crazy. I mean, despite the fact that she was from a totally different generation and the details of her life were totally different from mine, all the feelings she described about why she started drinking and what drinking gave to her and how her life had begun spiraling out of control—all of it was so dead-on to everything I had experienced. It was the first time I realized that I really was an alcoholic. And, in terms of the meeting and this program she was talking about, I knew right then it was exactly where I belonged. It’s a feeling that’s lasted since I was eighteen right up to now—despite my relapses and sometime doubts. I know this is where I belong—where I have to belong.
But today, man, fuck.
This guy is telling his story up at the front, telling the same story I’ve heard a thousand times before. Everyone’s sort of laughing in unison at his jokes—nodding their heads in agreement with almost everything—becoming emotional—then laughing again.
But me? Me, I don’t feel a goddamn thing. The man talks about the solution—finding God—being saved by the different people in the rooms—his sponsor—his sober brothers. He talks about taking commitments at meetings—greeting people at the door or cleaning up the cigarette butts or whatever—different things that helped him become more connected with the program. And he’s right, you know; it all brought me closer to the program and my friends and my sponsor. But suddenly I realize I have no connection to any of that shit anymore. The sense of hope I always had—the complete faith in everything they preached—it’s all gone. Sweat breaks out all along my neck and back and chest. My balance goes. The sickness keeps burrowing in.
So I stand.
The meeting’s not over, but I go on and push my way through the crowded aisles—almost everyone turning to stare and silently criticize me in their heads for not being, you know, serious enough. At least, that’s what I imagine. Their collective eye definitely follows me out the heavy fire doors of the gym. Doors that slam conspicuously hard behind me. I mean, fuck.
The pavement is already hot from the blur of sun, which is somehow bigger than I’ve ever seen it—filling half the goddamn sky. My sweat soaks through my shirt as I strip off my jacket and lie faceup on the burning concrete. I light a cigarette and try to smoke on my back without choking. Man, I wish I could just stay right here forever—being swallowed by the sun—my head all filled with strobe lights and static. I could just drift off and never wake up. I mean, halle-fucking-lujah. The smoke fills my lungs, and I curl onto my side, one arm buried between my legs as I tuck my knees up to my chest, fetus-like. The heat is scalding. I decide just to sleep here for the rest of my life on this goddamn glittering sidewalk. My eyes stay closed. My mind goes blank.
Of course, it can’t last. Pretty soon that Peter guy from Gallup House is shaking me and loudly whispering, “Hey, get up, you’re embarrassing us.”
I do get up, jaw clenched, my eyes fixed on his. I don’t say a word.
“You’re also not allowed to leave a meeting before it’s over,” he tells me. “That’s a rule we all have to follow.”
I laugh just to piss him off, lighting another cigarette and saying, “Man, come on, I’m just goin’ through some shit. Anyway, why the hell do you care? It’s not like it affects you at all.”
His nose lifts, all indignant. “I’m taking you to the office and reporting this to Adam.” He tugs at me kinda roughly. “Right now!” he almost shrieks, acting like I’m fighting him, even though I’m totally not.
“Fuck, all right, fine, whatever,” I say. “At this point, honestly, man, I don’t even care.”
I realize that’s the truth right after I say it. But, I mean, I still make him get his fucking hands off me.
His eyes go kinda wild as he yells, “Well, we’ll just see about that now, won’t we?”
He stomps off toward the office and I follow, dragging my feet on the ground behind him.
Not surprisingly, I guess, Adam seems to take my transgression just as seriously as everyone else. His face goes very kinda angry, or whatever—jaw set, eyebrows all furrowed and shit. He tells me to take a seat and I do, on one of those low-to-the-ground office chairs with the little wheels. It makes a metallic, sort-of-groaning noise as I lean back.
“So, Nic,” he says, his voice deep and affected. “I’m Adam, the weekend manager. We haven’t had a chance to meet yet.”
I don’t say what I wanna say, which is, “No shit.”
I really don’t say anything at all.
“Well, look,” he continues, crossing his thick, tanned arms, all covered in coarse-looking white-blond hairs. “When I talked to Chip this morning, he told me yo
u two made some kind of a deal that you were going to change your attitude and not make any trouble. He also told me that if you went back on this deal in any way, I was to ask you to leave immediately. Now, do you remember having that conversation with Chip yesterday?”
What I really want to do is roll my eyes, but I’m able to stop myself. “I remember,” I say, sucking in a lot of breath—holding it—exhaling. “But I wasn’t causing any trouble. It’s just… for some reason when I was listening to that speaker, all this shit started coming up for me. I don’t know, it’s like, I used to get so much out of those meetings, but today I couldn’t connect at all. I mean, it just seemed like such bullshit. And that was really scary to me, man. I’m serious. I know how much I need those meetings, so feeling like that, fuck, it freaks me out. I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to buy into that shit again. And, believe me, I want to super fucking bad.”
My body’s rocking back and forth involuntarily. I look around the cramped, institutional white-painted office. There are no photos on the wall, no inspirational posters, no art prints, nothing—nothing to focus on but the shelf holding the client folders. Actually, I’m pretty sure mine hasn’t even been started yet. I mean, I definitely can’t see it up there.
“Hey,” says Adam, I guess noticing that I’ve spaced out for a second. “Is this boring you? ’Cause there’s nothing keeping you here if you wanna go. Hell, I’ll even help you pack. Because I can tell you right now, this is not how I want to be spending my Sunday, either. So if you wanna leave, leave. Otherwise, I’d stop giving excuses and start improving your attitude. ’Cause all I hear you saying right now is that your addict has total control over you. So if you want to give in to that, fine. Otherwise I don’t wanna hear one more complaint about you criticizing the program, or anything else, ’cause we got no tolerance for that here.”
I really do wonder for a second if this guy might just be fucking with me or something. Maybe this is like some initiation, some hazing thing for the new people.
“Wait, are you serious?” I ask, allowing myself a kind of forced laugh. “I can’t talk about having doubts or anything? I mean, I’m telling you, I’m genuinely freaked about this whole thing. Should I just, like, pretend I’m not feeling this stuff?”
Man, his expression goes even angrier than before. “I’m not gonna debate with you, okay? We don’t debate here. You listen. So if you think you can start doing that, then you’re welcome to stay. If not, just come into the office and we’ll get your discharge paperwork all ready.”
He turns back toward the small computer monitor in the corner and immediately starts typing something.
Me? I walk over to the house pay phone.
The pay phone that’ll be off limits to me for however long they feel like making it.
I have no change, but I have that phone card Sue Ellen bought me, so I go on and give her a call. There are a few guys outside smoking pretty close to me, so I turn my back and hope to God they’re not rats, like everyone else in this goddamn place.
Sue Ellen answers after the third ring, the connection all crackling like a beat-up old record spinning around. Still, her voice comes through soft and sweet and beautiful and like the best sound I’ve ever heard in my goddamn life. It takes about two minutes to convince her to get me the bus ticket. I mean, I can hear her anxiety, and I’m scared, too, but she tells me to go to the station—my ticket from Gallup, New Mexico, to Charleston, South Carolina, will be waiting for me. Besides all the fear and everything, I can tell we’re both excited. Before we hang up, we both say, “I love you.” It feels very real.
So immediately I go back to my dingy-ass room and pack my things quickly—filling my duffel bag with the few clothes I have left and then putting into my backpack some stuff I figure I’ll need on the bus: a notebook, some pens, a Michael Chabon novel I borrowed from Jason before things got bad, a couple of packs of cigarettes, some energy bars left over from my mom’s care package, and a bottle of water. Now, I guess, all that’s left is to get my guitar back from Adam and, I hope, convince him to give up all my meds. I tell myself for, like, the thousandth time that it’s all gonna be okay. I tell that to myself over and over, even though I know damn well just how many things could go wrong. I mean, what if Sue Ellen asks me to leave after a couple weeks? What if somehow my dad figures out how to get in touch with her parents, convincing them not to let me in their house at all? Actually, I’m sure that’s the first thing he’s gonna do, ’cause I know he’s gonna flip his shit when he finds out I split outta here. And, uh, that’s putting it mildly. I figure I’ll give him a call from the road just to let him know I’m all right. Even though that’s gonna be a fucking shit show, for sure. But, the thing is, this really is the right thing for me. And even though he won’t be able to see that now, I know someday he will. As it is, I’d say the best thing for both of us is just not to communicate at all for a good while. I’ll tell him that when I call. I mean, it’s gonna be all right.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the office. When the other guys see me all packed and everything, they don’t say a word, but they stare longingly—there’s no mistaking it. Our eyes meet, and they are all so goddamn defeated.
I look away.
It’s over now.
I’m walking free.
Ch.17
The bus shudders to a stop and the doors open, letting in the night air all hot and thick—almost tropical—sticky—wet.
I’ve been riding for two days now, and I’d say I have about two days left.
I stumble to my feet, legs cramped and aching, barely able to walk down the aisle and the three steps to the pavement outside. My vision is still blurred from having been asleep just minutes before, but I can make out another passenger smoking a little way off. Bugs are chirping and crackling loudly all around us. There is little light. The damp and heat is like another world.
“Hey, man,” I call out, the sound of my voice so foreign suddenly. “Where are we, do you know?”
He coughs some before responding. “Louisiana,” he says. “What’d you think?”
I light my own cigarette—dizzy, teetering. “Honestly, man, I have no idea.”
Ch.18
It’s night as the bus pulls into the Charleston Greyhound station.
Or, uh, morning, I guess. Around two a.m. eastern fucking standard time.
I haven’t slept or eaten for about a day and a half.
I mean, those energy bars my mom had sent ran out after the first two days, and I’ve been traveling at least forty-eight hours since then.
Plus, my phone card ran out somewhere in the middle of Texas, so I haven’t talked to Sue Ellen at all. If she doesn’t come to get me at the station, well, I’m not sure what the fuck I’m gonna do. At least it’s warm down here—a whole lot better than the freezing-ass nights in Arizona and New Mexico. Still, sleeping outside pretty much sucks, no matter what, and I’ve been dreaming of food and a real bed for the last eight hundred miles or so. I’ve even caught myself praying that she’ll be there. Praying like—what’s the expression? An atheist in a foxhole?
Exactly.
Praying ’cause this could be my last chance.
Praying ’cause this is all I have left.
Praying ’cause I ain’t got shit else to do.
But, still, I mean, even if Sue Ellen does show up, well, I figure she’s probably gonna be pretty freaked out about me actually being here. I’m sure she’s gonna feel a ton of pressure and, as much as I want to be cool about it, this whole thing is a big-ass leap in terms of our relationship. The last thing I want to do is make it all the way here just to have her kick me out ’cause she thinks I’m moving everything too fast. Hell, as it is, I’m showing up with no money and my life in a goddamn duffel bag. If I push even a little bit, she could panic. If she panics, then I’m on the street. So it’s all very, you know, delicate. I’m just gonna play it like I’m her friend. I’m not gonna try and kiss her, and we’re not
gonna have sex, and I’m gonna let her go about her day like she normally would. That’s the only way this is gonna work. And even then, well, fuck…
The bus shuts down and the lights come on, and my heart is going like I just slammed enough coke to drop me to the floor with convulsions.
I get my breathing together—or try to, anyway. Sweat soaks through my jeans and T-shirt—my whole body is shivering, despite the outside heat. The driver takes out my bag and guitar from the storage compartment underneath. There’re actually about ten other people getting off at this stop. They all seem to know just exactly where they’re going, climbing into waiting cars, walking off in different directions, leaving me alone in the deserted parking lot—trash strewn from one end to the other, the lights in the waiting area suddenly turned off by some unseen person.
Fuck.
Through the thick, strangling air and the dim overhead streetlights, I can make out what look like projects on all sides of me—two-story, institutional-looking brick buildings divided into run-down apartments with boards on some of the windows and graffiti all over. There are clotheslines strung up in rows—sheets, dress shirts, pants, dresses, socks, and whatever hang drying in the warmth of the night. A barely noticeable wind rocks the lines back and forth. A man’s voice echoes through the street—screaming something I can’t make out. I hoist my bag up on my shoulder. There’s nothing to do now but walk. That’s what you do when you’ve got nowhere to go—you walk and walk and walk and walk.