Sick City (10 page)

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 relationships 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.

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 tantrum. 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.

“And how did that make you feel?”

Dr. Mike was back on familiar ground. He pressed home his unexpected advantage. “I'm sure that those negative emotions made your disease stronger.”

“Well, that's just it. My pop wasted away in a hospital bed. All they could do was give him morphine to stop
him
from screaming. You see, my pop had a disease. It wasn't his fault. One day he went to the doctor, they stuck a finger up his asshole, and told him he was rotting away from the inside out. It was an awful slow, painful death.”

“I'm terribly sorry to hear that,” Dr. Mike said in a monotone.

“I am addicted to drugs because I've been taking them daily since the age of fourteen. Really, this is all my fault. I didn't contract a disease. I chose this life.”

Dr. Mike shook his head. “You didn't
choose
this. It chose
you
. Usually it's a combination of things. Genetics. Was your father an addict?”

“No.”

“Really? He never drank?”

Randal laughed. “Sure, he drank. But he wasn't an alcoholic.”

“Are you sure of that? Not all alcoholics can be found pushing a shopping cart full of bottles down skid row. A functioning alcoholic can still have a healthy family life; in fact, he can seem perfectly normal in every way. . . .”

“So what, then? If his life is unaffected, how is he an alcoholic? If he has a glass of wine with dinner, or cocktails at six, how is he an alcoholic exactly?”

“The disease, Randal. It is all about the disease. Genetics is one factor. Childhood trauma is another. There are many factors that go into making an addict.”

“Cancer is a disease,” Randal said quietly. “I just like to get high.”

“I want you to be a success. I've spoken to your brother about your case, and I feel that with due diligence on your part we can help you. He's very concerned about you. He loves you.”

Randal smirked.

“What are your success rates?”

“How do you mean?”

“Here at Clean and Serene. When people graduate, and they attend meetings like you suggest, what are the success rates?”

“This is a serious disease. Most people inside of this facility will not make it. You should take a look around. Within a year some of these people will be dead. Many of them will be back on drugs at least. A small percentage will remain clean.”

“Jesus,” Randal said, “if I joined fucking Weight Watchers and they told me that in a year half of the class would be fatter than ever, some would have adult-onset diabetes, and maybe one or two would actually lose weight, I'd be asking for my money back. I read this thing I'd like to talk to you about. . . .”

· · ·

Dr. Mike sat back in his seat and sighed. He looked at his watch.

“Make it quick, Randal. We have a few minutes only. And please, try to keep it recovery-related. I'm not here to debate you. I'm here to help you.”

“You see, I've read a lot about the twelve steps, because Harvey lives and breathes that stuff. I mean, I just wanted to find out what the statistics were, because none of it seemed to add up to me. I read this thing about Dr. George Vaillant. He's on the Alcoholics Anonymous World Service Board of Trustees. You see, he did this study—”

“Oh, Christ,” Dr. Mike said, rolling his eyes. “This old story again?”

“No, wait—listen. He's an AA guy. He did the only study of treatment outcomes for people who do the whole AA thing. . . .”

“Randal—”

“He followed one hundred people who were trying to quit drinking with AA for eight years—”

“Intellectualization, Randal! You are trying to intellectualize your problem—”

“And he found that—please—let me finish—he found that only five percent made it, which is the same—”

“Randal, our time is up. I suggest that we—”

“Which is THE SAME percentage of people who spontaneously quit on their own!” Randal began to recite the part of the study that had stuck with him. To Randal, it had the same resonant power that the
Big Book
of Alcoholics Anonymous had to others in recovery. As Randal spoke, Dr. Mike stood and walked toward the door.

· · ·

“After initial discharge, only five patients in the Clinic sample never relapsed to alcoholic drinking, and there is compelling evidence that the results of our treatment were no better than the natural history of the disease.”

“Thank you, Randal,” Dr. Mike was saying, “our time is up. We can continue this discussion at a later date.”

“But don't you see? It doesn't work. IT DOESN'T FUCKING WORK. So why are you selling me this?”

Dr. Mike walked over to Randal.

“Mr. Earnest,” he said, “this attitude is not going to be helpful to you in your recovery. If you don't like the way my facility works, then you know where the front entrance is, and I will tell you again that door is NOT locked.”

Randal stood. He was shaking slightly. He looked the doctor in the eyes.

“But I WANT to quit. I don't want to stay like this.” He was almost crying now. “I want to get better. But I don't want to do it this way. . . .”

Dr. Mike smiled, his face suddenly full of compassion. It caught Randal off guard slightly. The doctor moved toward him and held Randal's hand, tenderly. Randal almost recoiled, but stopped himself. His hand was shaking.

“Randal,” the doctor said, softly.
“Randal. You've tried it your way. Yes? You've tried it your way. You've tried analyzing it, and overthinking it, and reading studies, and flying off to monasteries, and therapists, yes? You've tried it. Look at this. Look at your hands.”

Randal looked down. Dr. Mike held Randal's hand in his palm. The back of the hand was facing up. The skin was white and heavily scarred from years of the needle probing his flesh looking for working veins. Even now the wounds were fresh and angry. There were solid masses of toxins under the skin and discolored patches where it seemed that the hand was rotting away from some hideous disease.

“This is where your way got you, Randal. Here. We follow a very simple program. You just do as you are instructed. One of our mottos here is
Keep it simple, stupid.
Keep it simple. Listen, and follow instruction. Okay?”

In that moment, Randal realized why the doctor was where he was in life. Randal was dumbstruck. He just shook, and he could feel tears coming. He fought them back with all of his might, feeling used and pathetic. He croaked out, “Thank you, Doctor,” and left the office with the uneasy feeling that he had been taken advantage of, without quite knowing how.

Dr. Mike closed the door and locked it. He sat down and called his wife. It went straight to her voice mail. Today she was in Beverly Hills, shopping. He left a message.

“Hi, honey, it's me. Just checking in with you. Hope you're having a good day. It's been crazy here today, so I wanted to call you quickly before it starts up again. I might be home a little late, so you'll have to pick up the kids. I'll e-mail you if I get a chance. Bye.”

He pressed the receiver down and got a dial tone. He took the photograph out of his wallet and dialed the number on the back. On the third ring she picked up.

“Hey. It's, uh, it's Mike. Are you at the hotel? Yeah. And it was all taken care of, yes? You didn't need to sign in, show ID, any of that, correct? Okay, listen, I'm leaving now and I'll be there shortly. Remember—don't make any calls to room service, and stay in the room for now. As far as they're concerned you're a high-profile case of mine who wishes to remain anonymous. The staff have been instructed to stay away. Yes, I have the medication. See you soon.”

He pressed the receiver again. He dialed 0.

“Daisy? Hold all of my calls. I have an emergency with a client. Yes. I need to go off-site to deal with this; I'll be back later. No. If it's an emergency, e-mail me marked urgent if it really can't wait. I have my BlackBerry. No calls. Thank you.”