Some Are Sicker Than Others (27 page)

Dexter lowered the camera and glared at the picture with what looked to be a sick, perverted smile. “Oh, this is a good one. You look like you’ve been run over by a garbage truck.”

What the hell was wrong with this guy? Was he actually enjoying seeing him in pain? What kind of sadistic counselor was Monty dealing with? Could someone in his position be this deranged?

“This one’s gonna have to go in my scrapbook.”

“Can I see it?” Monty said, leaning forward, trying to sneak a peek over the large oak desk.

Dexter quickly pulled the camera away and nestled it tightly into his lap. “Nope, sorry. Not until your time here with us is up. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a copy when you get ready to leave. That way you’ll never forget just how messed up you were when you first showed up.” Dexter studied the picture for a few seconds longer then shut off the camera and set it aside. “Okay,” he said, as he grabbed a pad of paper and fountain pen from a fancy gold plated holder that had his name etched across the top, “enough messing around. Let’s get down to business.”

Monty took a deep breath and swallowed, staring at the carpet fibers underneath his feet.

“I understand that alcohol is your drug of choice. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember how old you were when you had your first drink?”

“No, not really.”

“Just ballpark it. What were you…twelve, fourteen, sixteen?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Which? Sixteen?”

“Yeah.”

Dexter mumbled the number to himself as he marked it down in his note pad. “Okay, now—how much would you say you drank per day, on average?”

“When?”

“When what?”

“Well, I drank different amounts at different points in my life. When specifically would you like to know how much I drank?”

“Oh, uh, right before you got here would be fine.”

Monty dropped his head and leaned forward, rubbing his forehead with both hands. “I’d say about…a handle a day.”

“Of liquor?”

No, prune juice. Yes, of course, liquor. What the hell else?

“Yes. Liquor.”

“But a handle per day? That’s what, like a half a gallon, right?”

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“You sure? That’s quite a bit.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why? You don’t believe me?”

“No, no, I do, I do, it’s just¬…”

“What?”

“Well, a half a gallon is quite a lot. I mean, I’m not sure if anyone could survive that much.”

“Well, I’m not just anyone. I’m an alcoholic.”

“So, you admit it?”

“What?”

“That you’re an alcoholic.”

“Of course. Why else would I be in here?”

Dexter laughed and cocked his head sideways then set his fountain pen down on the desk. “That’s great, Monty. That’s just fantastic. Do you know how much easier that makes my job?”

“I’m glad I could be of service.”

Dexter shook his head and reclined backward. He looked like he was enjoying himself at a comedy club. “Well Monty, you should have no problem here. I mean, you already admit you’re an alcoholic. Now, all we gotta do is get you to stop drinking.”

“A little easier said than done, don’t you think?”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Of course.”

“What was the longest stretch you’ve ever stayed sober?”

“A year.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.” He marked it down in his note pad. “And when was that?”

“This past year.”

“Really? Well, what happened?”

“I relapsed.”

“Well, yeah, but why?”

“I just did.”

“No reason?”

“Nope.”

“Aw come on, there’s gotta be a reason. How does someone with a whole year under their belt suddenly start drinking again?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Come on, don’t be like that, Monty. I’m here to help you. How do you expect me to help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you wanna stay sober?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what will happen to you if you start drinking again?”

“I have an idea.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’ll probably die.”

“No, not probably. You
will
die. You will most certainly die.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll die.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know!”

Dexter shook his head and reclined backwards, folding his arms over his chest. He sat there, unblinking, for what felt like an eternity, glaring at Monty like he was trying to see inside his head. Then he cleared his throat, took off his glasses, and began cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. “You know what I think, Monty?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“I don’t think you want to die at all. I think this whole thing is just an elaborate cry for help.”

Monty would’ve laughed in his face if he wasn’t afraid he might vomit. A cry for help? Was that really the best he could do?

“You’re just scared, Monty, like everyone else that comes through those doors—scared by the power of your own addiction—scared that if you don’t have your alcohol you won’t be able to cope with life on life’s terms.”

Oh great, clichés already? Couldn’t he have at least waited ‘til tomorrow to give him the “life on life’s terms” sermon?

“Have you heard that before, Monty? Life on life’s terms?”

No, never. Only from my sponsor a million fucking times.

“Yes, I’ve heard it.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes.”

“You see Monty, you don’t really wanna die. If you did, then why not just put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger? It’d be quicker and a hell of a lot easier than trying to drink yourself to death.”

“I’ve considered that.”

“I don’t doubt you have. But here’s the thing,”—Dexter leaned forward, fixing his glasses back on his face—“I don’t think you wanna die. I think you wanna live. But your problem is, you haven’t figured out how to deal with life on life’s terms.”

Why did he have to keep saying that?

“You’d rather give up on life and go hide inside a bottle than have to deal with life’s little unpleasant inconveniences.”

What? Monty lifted his head. Did he really just say that? Who in the hell did this guy think he was? Had he ever lost anything before? Had he ever lost a loved one? Had he ever had to watch his fiancé drown in a fucking car? If anyone deserved to drink, it was Monty. He earned the right to be a miserable drunk. He lost everything that night—his heart, his love, his friend, his soul mate…the one thing in his life that made him who he was. What had this guy lost? Anything? What made him think he had a right to judge? What did he know about pain? What did he know about suffering? As far as Monty could tell, this guy was a fucking joke—probably some washed-up, born-again, recovering crack head who thought that just because he found God and got clean and sober then everyone else should too. Well, fuck him. Fuck his superiority. Fuck his invasiveness. And fuck his questions.

“Well,” Monty said, trying as best he could to remain collected, taking deep breaths in and out through his nose, “you’re entitled to your own opinion.”

“That I am,” Dexter said, smirking and nodding, scribbling something down into his pad. “That…I…am.”

Monty couldn’t do this. He couldn’t last much longer. Anymore questions and he was going to hurl. He was cold but hot, sweaty but dehydrated…it felt like his internal organs were coming up out of his throat. How much longer was this guy going to continue? How many more questions could he possibly ask?

“Alright,” Dexter said, looking up from his notepad, “let’s switch gears here for a moment. I understand this isn’t your first time through treatment.”

“That’s right.”

“And where were you before you came here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can’t remember the name right now.”

“You can’t remember? Are you sure? It’s important that we get it into the file.”

“Look,”—Monty stared up at him. His face was sweating, his hands were shaking, and his teeth were chattering so hard it felt like they were about to shatter into a million pieces on the floor—“how much longer is this going to take? I really need some medication. I don’t feel well at all.”

“Well,”—Dexter rolled back his sleeve and checked his wristwatch—“we still have a ways to go.”

A ways to go? Jesus, he needed some fucking medicine. What was it about withdrawal that these people didn’t understand?

“But, I suppose we could finish up some other time, if that works for you?”

“Please.”

“Okay. Let me see if I can get the RA up here.”

Thank God. Finally.

Dexter picked up the phone and punched in a couple of numbers, then swiveled away from Monty holding the receiver between his shoulder and his ear. “Yeah, hi, this is Dex. Is Nicholas down there? He is? Can you send him up please? I have a patient ready for check-in. Yes, tell him we’re in the front room foyer. Thank you.”

Dexter put the phone back into its cradle then set his pen and pad of paper back into the drawer. “Okay, we’ll finish the intake when you’re feeling a little better. I think I’m probably gonna be your primary counselor, so we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. For now, I want you to think about what I said about life on life’s terms, and when you feel up to it, I want you to read through the first couple chapters in the Big Book. Do you have a copy?”

“No.”

Dexter got up from his chair and walked over to one of the cherry wood bookcases that were set up on either side of his desk. He pulled down a book from the very top shelf then took it back with him over to Monty’s chair. The cover was dark blue and made of soft vinyl with the words,
Alcoholics Anonymous
in gold lettering imprinted on the front.

“You ever read it?” Dexter said, as he held it outward.

“Kind of.”

“What’s kind of?”

“I’ve browsed through it once or twice.”

“Well, it’s not enough just to browse through it. You have to own this thing. Digest it. Go through it cover to cover. You know?”

“I know.”

“Start with the first chapter,
The Doctor’s Opinion
, and try to find the similarities between you and Dr. Bob. We can talk about it tomorrow morning when you’re feeling better. Deal?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

I won’t.

Monty took the book, thanked him, and stuffed it in the side pocket of his gym bag.

Just then there was a loud thud against the door like a reindeer butting its antlers against the fender of a car. Monty turned and looked. There was a kid, standing in the middle of doorway, wearing big, baggy jeans and a white t-shirt that was three sizes too big. “What’s up, Dex?” the kid said, out of breath and panting, stains like mustard caked in both armpits.

“Oh hey Nick. How’s it going?”

“Oh pretty good, pretty good. You know me…I can’t complain.” The kid looked over at Monty and shot him a bright, blinding smile. “What’s up dawg?”

Monty didn’t respond. He was too entranced by the kid’s metallic set of incisors. They looked like the front grill of a Roll’s Royce convertible—every single tooth had been capped with platinum and he had another five pounds of it dangling around his neck. He looked like a caricature of one of those thugs from an MTV rap video, only this kid was Caucasian, very Caucasian, and his jeans were so baggy he had to hold them up by the crotch.

“Monty,” Dexter said, placing one arm over the kid’s scrawny shoulder, “this is Nick. He’s the RA for the men’s side of things. He’s gonna be checking you in this evening.”

Monty nodded his understanding, trying not to stare, which was almost impossible.

“Be careful with this one, Nick. He’s a sly one—chemical engineer all the way from Denver.”

“No shit? You a chemical engineer, dawg?”

Monty nodded.

Nick’s eyes lit up like a Roman candle. He covered his mouth and let out an ecstatic cry. “Oh shit. So, do you know how to make meth and shit?”

Monty couldn’t help but laugh at the kid’s impulsiveness. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never really tried.”

“Fuck dude. I bet you could whip up a wicked batch of that shit.”

“Hey come on,” Dexter interjected. “Don’t forget where you are now.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, my bad, my bad. I guess I get carried away sometimes. It’s that disease, you know? It’s a fucking sickness—a sickness in my fucking head.” The kid started slapping his head like he was trying to knock water out of his eardrum. “You know what I’m saying dawg? It’s a fucking illness.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Monty said, scooting backwards, trying to get as far as he could away from the kid.

“Pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

“Alright,” Dexter said, checking his wristwatch. “I need to head on down to group. You take good care of my patient now, Nick. No screwing around. I need him over at detox just as soon as you’re finished checking him in.”

Nick stood on his tiptoes and gave Dexter a kind of mock salute. “Aye, Aye captain. You can count on me.”

Dexter nodded somewhat suspiciously, as if he didn’t trust a word that the kid just said. “Hey Monty, you hang in there, alright? And think about what I said. Next time we see each other, we’re gonna dive into your recovery, and you’re gonna have to be open with me, otherwise this thing’s not gonna work. Got it?”

Monty nodded just to get rid of him. In reality, he had no intention of telling this guy a damn thing. He just wanted to do his five days detox and get the fuck out of here, then he could go back to his apartment and complete the plan. 

“Alright,” Dexter said, “I’ll see you later. Have a good night and try and get some sleep.”

Yeah right.

Nick waited until Dexter was out of the office then turned to Monty and clapped his hands. “Alright, dawg. Let’s get you checked in. Where’s your shit?” He motioned to Monty’s green gym bag on the floor. “Is that it?”