There were just two bottles of gin, and gin wasn’t as bad as vodka, so I cracked open one of the Bombay Sapphires. This was a new drink for me. I didn’t expect it to be so thick. Almost oily. It was also sweeter, fruitier than I expected. The juniper was front and center with a strong citrus flavor. Good enough for me. I drank both bottles. By this point I was no longer using the glass. I wanted to preserve the scent of the whiskey.
For the first time in months, my cares melted away. Completely out of mind. Pain’s blade was blunted. I was cozy and warm. The only thing I was missing was somebody to share this king size bed with. Jesus, I was hungry. I ate the $13 bag of cashews from the mini fridge and pulled out another bottle of vodka. I tried to call somebody to come over, but I couldn’t remember any numbers and the hotel phone looked strange and unfamiliar. Plastic. Analog buttons and a twirly cord. Why was the cord always twirly and curly? Then I remembered that I also had a phone. Right in my pocket. A little black square phone with a screen that lit up so bright. The TV was now so loud. My ears were being attacked. Everything moved in slow motion. I told my hand to turn the volume down, then waited while my arm and hand worked together to point the remote at the TV, or near the TV, at least at the same wall as the TV, and give the command. This felt right. This is how life should be lived. Everybody was drinking, and now, finally, I was too. Oh, I had to pee. The bathroom was over there, so that’s where I had to go. I moved and the room rolled a few degrees to the left. Like the hotel had set sail on the high seas. The toilet had a tricky lid, but finally I got it open and peed fire. This was a good sign. Since I was already peeing out alcohol, I could drink more. Having successfully flushed and returned to the bed, I reached into my pocket and fished out the phone. My phone. I looked at my phone and told Siri to call Riley. I took another swig of the Absolut Vodka and listened to the hums my phone made.
“Caish?”
“Yeah, iss me.”
“Okay...”
“Riley, do ya wanna meet me at the Hilton? I’m here and have a king size with your name on it.”
“Caish, you’re drunk.”
“Maybe a lil’ buzzed, yeah. Prolly wouldn’t argue with ya there.”
“Are you with anybody?”
“Noooooooope. Thass why I’m callin’ you. Ya gotta come on over”
“Okay, Caish, where are you?”
“Didn’ I say? The Hilton.”
“Which one?”
“Oh! Oh. Iss not the Hilton. Well it is, but iss a lil’ different. Iss... umm... iss called the... umm...”
“Okay, Caish, you need to stop drinking. It sounds like you’ve had enough. Go home and go to bed.”
“Mmm... Can’t. Don’t have a home right now. Juss a shade shy a homeless. Can’t you come over, Riley? Yur makin’ me sad.” Suddenly a wave of sorrow crashed on me. I couldn’t hold back the tears. Sobbing. Sloppy sobbing. I needed a tissue but didn’t see one within reach so I used the comforter.
“Caish, I don’t even know where you are. I hope everything in your life is going good, but I think it’s best if we moved on.” There were those words again. Riley had been talking to Agent Palmer. Everybody wanted to move on.
I hung up. Riley made me sad. I didn’t need sad. Alcohol was here to save the day. Alcohol made me happy. I didn’t have a care in the world until Riley called me, tryin’ to bring me down. I cracked open the second bottle of Grey Goose.
My phone was buzzing. I opened my eyes and was blinded. The room was full of light, like the sun wanted a closer look and was just outside my window. And what window was that? I would never put up such hideous curtains. And what is this headache? A headache in the morning? I lifted myself onto my elbow and looked around. Ah, that’s right. I was at the DoubleTree by Hilton. Nine little plastic bottles were scattered throughout and around the bed I was laying in. My phone had stopped buzzing, then started buzzing again. My eyes still hadn’t adjusted, but I answered anyway.
“Hello?”
“Caish, your color has been called. Be here in ten minutes.”
18
“Oh, good morning Jennifer. Um, I—”
“Will be here in ten minutes.”
“Wait, Jennifer, I can’t this morning, I’ve got the flu. And it is awful. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
“Don’t try it, Caish. You know that doesn’t change anything. Get in here and pee. If you pee dirty, you violated your probation and we’ll deal with it. If you don’t show up to pee, you violated your probation and we’ll have to track you down and deal with it. Do you understand?”
“I can’t move without throwing up.”
“Then bring a barf bag.” Jennifer hung up.
Fuck. I stumbled into the bathroom and drained myself. After peeing I forced myself to throw up, which wasn’t too difficult. The room still swayed a bit. I couldn’t go in. Jennifer hadn’t shown any leniency in my first year of probation, and she didn’t sound like she was in the mood to show mercy this morning. I took my time getting dressed. Maybe I could tell her I was forced. Kidnapped and forced to drink. Ah, dammit. She wouldn’t believe that.
Think. I had to think. I lit a cigarette and stood next to the window (this was a non-smoking room, so I had to blow the smoke out the window).
The upside was that Jennifer would never be able to find me. My house was empty and there was no way she could find me. She could send a sheriff but they wouldn’t find me. The downside was that I would violate my probation and be thrown in jail as soon as they found me. I plugged my phone in and googled how long alcohol stays in the blood. Google told me: “Alcohol can show up on a blood test for up to 12 hours.” Twelve hours. So if I stopped drinking last night at midnight, I would be good to go at noon. But I can’t be sure that I stopped drinking at midnight. I remember first savoring that glass of Jack Daniels around 8:00 p.m., and then I remember diving into the rest pretty quick after that. By noon I should be good. I’ll drink all the water in the fridge, order room service for a big breakfast and more water and orange juice and milk and coffee. Then I’ll stagger into Jennifer’s office just after noon and pee into a cup. Perfect plan.
Room service brought me scrambled eggs, hash browns, toast, bacon, sausage, and pancakes, along with tall glasses of orange juice and milk, a pot of coffee, and three glasses of ice water. Halfway through my breakfast, Jennifer called again. I knew she’d be angry, but I didn’t dare ignore the call.
“Hello?”
“Caish, you didn’t arrive on time for your testing, so you are in violation of your probation.” She didn’t sound any more mad than she usually sounded. “We have sent the sheriff to bring you in. Would you like to come in on your own, or in the back of a squad car?”
“Jennifer, I think I’ll be able to come in at noon. I’m feeling better, but I still throw up and almost shit myself whenever I try to get out of bed.”
“Back of the squad car then?”
“I’ll come in at noon, I promise. I’m already feeling—”
“Save it, Caish. See you soon.”
She hung up. At this point I really was starting to feel sick. I tripped over my tangled sheets on my way across the room toward the bathroom. I stumbled into the bathroom and fell to my knees in front of the toilet just in time. My stomach contracted and blasted vomit through my throat and out my mouth and nose. The porcelain of the toilet bowl was ice-cold in my grasp. The tile was about as comfortable as tile could be. My stomach squeezed and wrenched until there was nothing left. I spit and blew my nose into the toilet, then flushed it all away. I took the hottest shower I could tolerate, then returned to my breakfast.
Jennifer didn’t call again. I drank everything in front of me, and ate almost all of the breakfast. I peed a few times throughout the morning and none of them stung. I was in good shape. I readied myself for the wrath of Jennifer. I had to look presentable, but still like I was sick.
I pulled into the parking lot and made it inside without being tackled to the ground and thrown in jai
l, so maybe everything would be fine. Jennifer’s office door was open, so I walked in. It was 1:23 p.m.
In my sickest voice, I said, “Hi Jennifer,” and coughed a couple times.
“Caish, you violated your probation this morning. I have filed a report with the court with my recommendation that your probation be adjusted accordingly. Now, let’s see what the damage is. Here’s your cup.”
Without another word, I took the cup from Jennifer’s hand and walked to the bathroom like a sick person walks. I peed into the cup and, just to be safe, sniffed my urine. Sure enough, not a trace of alcohol. My urine was nearly clear and hardly smelled like anything. I put the cup on the shelf and walked back to Jennifer’s office.
“Wait in the hell. I mean hall. Wait in the hall,” she said without looking up from her paperwork.
So far, so good. Everything was going as planned. Whatever she did to “adjust my probation” would be undone with my clean pee test. Even if not, I could just explain to a judge that I had the flu. The judge would understand. I still felt nervous, though.
Twenty minutes later Jennifer stepped out into the hall. She looked down at me like a teacher ready to scorn a pupil.
“Caish. Would you like to see the results from your urine test?”
“Maybe you could just tell me?” I asked.
“Sure. The test detected ethyl glucuronide metabolite. You’ve been drinking. That’s another violation of your probation.”
“No, I wasn’t drinking. I just—”
“Wait here, Caish.”
In the half hour that followed, I thought about making a break for it. I was not going to jail for five years. That was not an option. The tiled hallway was empty. A florescent bulb buzzed and flickered. There wasn’t a police officer in sight. I could make it back to my car, stroll into my hotel room, pack everything, and be out of town in a matter of minutes. Then, once in Canada, I could call a moving company to bring me my stuff from the storage unit. I could lay low and—
“Caish.” Jennifer was standing over me. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Judge Kanter’s courtroom.”
“Who is Judge Kanter?”
“The judge that is going to approve my recommendation for an adjustment to your probation.”
“What is the adjustment to my probation?”
“Mandatory testing every other day and mandatory enrollment in Alcoholics Anonymous for one year. We’re going easy on you since this is your only violation in a year.”
“But I’m not an alcoholic.”
Jennifer didn’t respond. We walked into the courtroom and waited ten minutes in silence. The bailiff examined me and didn’t break eye contact when I met his gaze. We stood when Judge Kanter entered the courtroom, then sat down when the clerk of the court told us to. Jennifer spoke to the judge quickly and with a level tone. She told the judge that I missed this morning’s test then showed up and peed ethyl glucuronide, which was detectable for up to three days after the consumption of alcohol, into a cup (thanks a lot Google, didn’t tell me about that). The judge nodded along as Jennifer spoke. Probably thinking about dinner. When Jennifer was finished, the judge shuffled some papers, then said, “Approved,” and stood up and left the courtroom. We went back to Jennifer’s office where she gave me the address of the AA meetings, which I was required to attend twice a week. There would be a place for me to sign in. She also told me about mandatory testing every other day, and whenever else they felt like calling me in.
Back in the Suburban, I sat and thought about how well everything had turned out. A few AA meetings and a couple extra pee tests? No problem. The AA meetings started at the beginning of next week.
When the third of the month came, I paid movers to move my belongings into the Crown Lofts. Sure enough, there were free hot dogs, just like Candice said. The Crown Lofts were the newest, nicest apartments in Missoula. The exterior was that new style of putting as many different surface areas onto the building as possible: bricks along the bottom, siding over there, metal vertical siding over there, stucco on this side, rusted metal plates up there, and plenty of glass. Very contemporary. My unit was comfortable and spacious. 1600 square feet, nine foot ceilings, and an open floor plan. The appliances were the newest offerings from Samsung, black stainless steel. I had too much stuff to fit into this space, so I kept the storage unit. The only hiccup was that the Suburban wouldn’t fit into the parking garage, so I had to park outside.
The AA meetings turned out to be the most productive meetings I had ever attended. The first week I was there, nothing of note happened. By my fourth visit, I had a breakthrough. The meetings were held in Missoula’s First Baptist Church on Tuesdays and in Smokey’s Diner on Fridays. It was a Friday when I first met Susie. After the meeting I stepped out to burn a cigarette.
From behind I heard, “Hey, Caish, right?”
I turned to see a skinny woman with thin hair and a broad smile. Obviously poor. She knew my name because every meeting when we went around the room and introduced ourselves, I said, “Hi, my name is Caish, and I’m an alcoholic,” even though I wasn’t an alcoholic. It’s just what everybody said. They were all alcoholics, and I wanted to lay low, so I introduced myself the same way.
“Yeah, Caish. Remind me of your name?”
“Susie, Susie Granger. Like Hermione.”
“Hermione?”
“Yeah, ya know? Harry Potter?”
“Hmm... I didn’t see the movies.”
“Oh come on, ya know. Hermione Granger?”
“Oh! Yeah yeah. Okay, I’m with you. You get that a lot?”
“Enough to where now I just inoculate against it by leadin’ off with it.”
I smiled at Susie and took another drag of my Camel. She pulled out a pack of her own and I offered a light. My Led Zeppelin Zippo was a good conversation starter. When that small talk ran its course, Susie asked, “So, what brings ya to AA?”
“I violated my probation and got assigned mandatory attendance. What about you?”
“Same. Drug charges?”
“No. Well, sort of, I guess. I was in an accident and somebody died and cocaine was involved and all that, so they put me on probation for five years. What about you?”
“Drug charges. Got fucked by an undercover cop.”
“Literally?”
“Haha, I wish! Haha, no, just busted. I got AA and NA assigned to me as part of my probation.”
“Ah, I see.”
“So they got ya pissin’ in a cup too?” Susie asked.
“Every other day at eight sharp.” I lit another cigarette. Susie seemed thoughtful. So I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothin’ much. I just wanna help ya out.”
“How so?”
“Well. How do ya relax now that ya gotta piss inna cup? Can’t taste the syrup, can’t chase the dragon, can’t ride the lightning. Must be agony.”
“Of course.”
Susie dropped her cigarette to the asphalt and stepped on it, moving her heel side to side like she wanted to work the cigarette butt into the parking lot. “Here’s what ya gotta do. Go to the ER one night and tell ‘em ya got a splittin’ migraine. Tell ‘em they run in your family and they just been gettin’ worse and worse, and that ya can’t hardly even stand it’s so bad. One of the doctors will prescribe ya Vicodin or OxyContin or Demerol or somethin’. Get your prescription filled, then pay a visit to your probation officer. Tell him that ya have a migraine from hell and that the doctor prescribed you such and such, and show him your prescription. Your probation officer’s gonna give ya shit, but then he’ll say, ‘Yeah yeah, whatever, if a doctor prescribed it ya can take it.’ He’ll probably be proud that ya even asked.”
“But what’s Demerol going to do for me? I’ve had painkillers and they don’t do shit.”
“Well, maybe not if ya take the recommended dosage, but bump it up a touch and you’re in business. Plus, this is just how it starts. We’ll get you goi
n’ on some real shit in no time.”
“So, what’s the catch?” I asked.
“Sell me some of your pills, and I sell you some of mine.”
“Why don’t you just go get a prescription of your own?”
“Oh I’ve got one of those. I’ve got fuckin’ six. I’m just tryin’ to help ya out, Caish. Ya get ninety percent of the benefit from this little charade, I just want to be your friend and get you some spare cash when you need it, and ya help me when I need it.”
I flicked the butt of my cigarette into a bush and thought about Susie’s proposition. It seemed like a loophole that the system couldn’t possibly allow. I was absolutely forbidden from taking heroin, but I was allowed to take hydrocodone — heroin’s twin sister? There’s no way.
“There’s no way, Susie. Why would it be a violation of my probation to shoot heroin and not a violation to shoot hydrocodone?”
“Because a doctor prescribed you the hydrocodone.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not kiddin’ ya, Caish. Go to the ER tonight and get your prescription. Talk to your probation officer about it t’morrow mornin’. Maybe even call t’night to make it seem like you’re really in pain. If he says no, no harm no foul. Fill your prescription and I’ll pay you twenty times what you paid for the pills. If he says yes, you have me to thank when you take your Vicodin and feel the pain of life loosen its grip.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Please do. And here, let me get your number,” Susie said as she pulled out her phone.
I didn’t have anything else going on, so I drove straight from Smokey’s Diner to the hospital. The ER nurse gave me paperwork to fill out, then sent me to a room to wait for a doctor. Dr. Rupert heard me out, ran a few tests, then, just like Susie said, wrote me a prescription for Dilaudid. Just like that, I was given doctor’s orders to take painkillers. On my way out of the hospital I called Jennifer. Jennifer saw right through the shtick, and told me that if I peed dirty the next morning she would request jail time from Judge Kanter. I told her that my head felt like it was splitting open and she first told me that it wasn’t her problem, then told me to take an Ibuprofen. But the next morning when I showed her Dr. Rupert’s orders, she begrudgingly relented, and had me fill out a form detailing what “medication” I had been prescribed. I drove straight back to my apartment, opened the Dilaudid, poured a few four-milligram pills onto my coffee table, and used a razor to chop them up into a fine yellow dust. The process brought back fond memories of wealth and the associated cocaine. I wondered if Dr. Rupert could prescribe me with that. I’ll ask about it during my next visit. “I’m feeling a bit sluggish, Doc, got anything white that’ll bump up my heart rate?”
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