Some Are Sicker Than Others (28 page)

“Yeah.”

“Alright then. Bring it on up here big boy.” He slapped the top of Dexter’s desk. “I need to check your bag, make sure you’re not trying to sneak any paraphernalia up in here.”

Monty gripped both sides of the armchair and slowly pushed himself up. Crouching to the floor, he grabbed his green gym bag, lifted it by the shoulder strap, and set it on the desk. As he returned to his chair, he could feel his heart rate beginning to quicken as cold beads of sweat ran down from his head. Damn, he felt sick. He wasn’t going to last much longer. The simple act of lifting a gym bag was enough to make him out of breath.

He bent his knees and sank back into the armchair, watching as Nick furiously opened and closed the bottom desk drawers. After a few minutes, he found what he needed—a black permanent marker and a box of Ziploc bags. He unscrewed the cap and brought the tip of the marker underneath his nostrils then took a deep whiff and arched his eyebrows. “I’m just kidding,” he said then doubled over, grinning, with that metal toaster shoved inside his mouth.

Jesus, this guy was messed up. There were definitely a couple screws missing. Wonder what did it to him? Was he mentally challenged? Could it have been all the drugs? Or maybe he was always like this. Maybe he was that kid in kindergarten, the one who ate all the other kids’ crayons. Then again…maybe once upon a time he was the most popular kid in high school—the quarterback, the prom king, the president of the student council. Then, one day, he started self-medicating and look at what happened—he became this twisted, perverted pile of platinum deteriorating right before Monty’s eyes.

As Nick collected himself, he cocked his head sideways and stuck out his tongue like he was doing an impersonation of Michael Jordan. Then he took the magic marker and began printing Monty’s name, spelled
MONTEY
, in all capital letters on the side of the bag. He paused mid-stroke and looked up at Monty and asked him what his last name was. Monty told him: “Miller.” Nick nodded and mouthed the word slowly as he printed the name onto the side of the bag.

Once he finished, he leveled his head and studied his penmanship then blew on the ink so it would dry. “Okay,” he said, as he walked over to a metal file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a box of blue latex gloves. “Time for inspection.”

Oh great, again with the latex?

Nick snapped on the gloves, one after the other, then began rubbing his fingers together, making a terrible popping sound. He pulled up his jeans and straightened his posture then began circling the green gym bag like a shark stalking its prey. 

Oh great, now what? What was he doing? Why was he just walking around the bag in aimless circles?

Suddenly, Nick stopped and pointed to the zipper, like a detective on a crime scene investigation show. “Wanna go ahead and unzip that for me?”

Monty sighed and stood up from the armchair then, with his hands trembling, he carefully unzipped the bag.

“Okay. Start taking everything out and place it right here for me.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Monty started digging out his belongings, laying them down on top of the desk. First, came the undershirts and his plaid, cotton boxers sitting on the pile near the very top…then came the jeans and long-sleeve sweatshirts underneath layers and layers of plain white socks. He began to wonder where all these clothes came from. Did his dad pack it? He must have, because he sure as hell didn’t remember packing any of it. When he got to the bottom, he found his black leather shaving kit and set it with his clothes on top of the desk.

“Whoa,” Nick said, stepping forward, his eyes fixed on the shaving kit. “What do we have here?” He picked up the kit and pulled open the zipper then dumped the contents out onto the desk. “Uh-oh. Jackpot.” He picked up a bottle of cologne and read off the label: “Chanel Sport. Very nice. Too bad you can’t have it. Contains alcohol. See?” He pointed to the small print at the bottom of the label. Sure enough, it said fourteen percent alcohol by volume.

So what? What did he think he was going to do, drink it? He’d have to be a lunatic to try and drink that stuff.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Nick said, as if he could read him. “You’d have to be crazy to drink this shit. But, I’ve been here a long time, and believe me, people do some pretty fucked up shit in here. You know those hand sanitizers? The ones they got in the restrooms at the airport?”

Monty nodded. He happened to know exactly what the kid was talking about. He hated those things. They made his hands feel gross.

“Well, we used to have those in the cafeteria, so people could wash their hands before lunch and dinner and shit. Well, some crazy-ass alcoholic figured out that there was like fifteen percent alcohol in there. So, you know what he does? He gets up one night, sneaks down to the cafeteria, and busts all the containers wide fucking open. Then, he takes that shit upstairs to his room, shuts the door, and sucks it down like it was Coca-Cola.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nah man, I wish I was. You know what happened to that poor motherfucker?”

“What?”

“Well, alcohol ain’t the only thing they put in that shit. Also has a whole bunch of chemicals, but you probably know all about that, being a smart chemical engineer and all.” Nick grinned and poked Monty in the shoulder to which Monty just lowered his eyes and looked away. “Anyway, all them extra chemicals made him sick as a dog. Dude looked green when they brought him down in that gurney, like the fucking jolly green giant. Only this dude was pretty far from jolly. It looked like his head was about to pop off like a fucking piñata. They had to rush him to the ER down in Frisco and pump his stomach like they was pumping a well.”

Monty put his hand over his stomach. The thought of getting pumped full of charcoal made him feel like he was going to hurl.

“Since that happened, we had to get rid of all them sanitizers and now we check everything. So, stuff like mouthwash, cologne, cough syrup—you can’t take any of that shit up in here with you.”

Nick continued to sift through the contents of the shaving kit, using his black felt pen like he was some kind of forensics expert. When he came to a set of shaving razors, he looked up at Monty as if he was the dumbest person in the world. “Razor blades? You kidding me? You definitely can’t have these.”

“Don’t blame me,” Monty said, defensively. “I didn’t pack any of this. My dad did. I have no idea what’s in there.”

“Oh, yeah right, I’ve heard that one before. You think I was born yesterday? I hope I don’t need to tell you why you can’t have razors in here.”

This kid was really starting to get on Monty’s last nerve. All he wanted to do was get some sleep and some god damn medication. Didn’t they understand what he was going through? He was sick. He needed medication—something, anything to take away the withdrawals.

“Now, don’t worry, man. You can still shave. You’ll just have to check these razors out when you’re ready. They’ll be right here in this safe along with all your other shit.” He pointed to a metallic safe on the floor behind the desk. “When you’re ready, just come down and someone will check ‘em out for you.” His eyes moved up and down Monty’s torso then stopped abruptly at his feet. “I’m gonna need those shoe laces too my friend.”

“My shoe laces?”

“Yep. Can’t have ‘em in detox, or your belt for that matter. I’ll need ‘em both.”

“What for?”

“They don’t want you trying to hang yourself in here. Nurses can’t keep an eye on you crazy motherfuckers twenty-four seven.”

Monty unbuckled his belt and slung it out from around his waistband.

“Come on, chop-chop, pick it up. Shoe laces too.”

He squatted down to the carpet then started pulling the laces from his shoes.

“Don’t worry, dawg. You can have your laces and belt after you get outta detox. Oh by the way, what’s your drug of choice?”

“What?”

“Your drug of choice? What is it?”

“Alcohol.”

“Alcoholic, huh? That figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The kid shrugged. “Nothing. You just look like an alcoholic…talk like one too. Shit, you even dress like one…Mr. Chemical Engineer.” The kid snickered as he picked up the belt and laces and stuffed them into the Ziploc bag. “Shit, we don’t get too many of you guys in here.”

“Well, what’s your drug of choice?”

The kid looked at Monty like he was offended. “What? You can’t tell?” He stuck his palms out and started twirling as if he was a model at a fashion show. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Monty shrugged.

“I’m a meth head, dawg. Smoked it, snorted it, injected it…you see these things?” He opened his mouth so Monty could see his teeth. “Had to get these bitches capped. My real teeth rotted out. That’s what smoking that shit does to you, man. Makes your damn teeth rot out. You’re lucky you’re just an alcoholic. All that other shit just fucks you up.”

Yeah right. Monty was real lucky. He was trapped in a rehab in the middle of the god damn mountains.

“Alright, let’s take some stock here.” The kid went to the drawer and pulled out a clipboard then started checking the items off in the bag. “Okay, so we got some shoe laces…Check…one belt…Check…one bottle of Chanel.” He paused and looked up at Monty. “Very nice, by the way.” He winked and started giggling. “And one, two, three, four razor blades…Check. Oh, you got a cell phone?” Monty didn’t say anything, just shrugged his shoulders. Nick laughed and skipped the box. “No sweat man. You don’t gotta tell me. Just don’t let them catch you with it. They’ll take it away and give me a bunch of shit for not snatching it off you. Okay, now last thing—I’m gonna need your wallet.”

“My wallet?”

“Yeah man. We can’t have you ordering a bunch of pizzas in here.”

Monty sighed and patted his back pocket, but his wallet wasn’t there, so he tried his jacket pockets, but it wasn’t there either, so he tried his green gym bag, and found it buried in the very bottom of the side pocket. Thank god, at least he still had it. At least his dad didn’t try and take it from him. He pulled it out and unfolded it. There was no cash inside, but at least he still had his health savings debit card. “Here you go,” he said, as he handed it over.

“Thanks.” The kid snatched it and stuffed it inside the Ziploc bag. “Alright, that about does it. I just need you to sign right here.” He pointed to a dotted line at the bottom of the checklist. “It just says I searched your shit and pulled out all the items checked off here in these boxes.”

Monty picked up the pen and tried to sign, but his hands were shaking so bad he could barely hold his fingers around the grip.

“You can just put an X if you want.”

Monty drew an X, but it looked more like a capital Y.

“Okay. Good. You can go ahead and toss your other stuff back in the bag.”

The kid folded up the checklist and placed it in the Ziploc bag, then sealed it, walked over to the safe and squatted down. Turning his back so Monty couldn’t see him, he punched in some numbers on the digital keypad. He opened the safe and tossed in the plastic baggy then shut the door and stood back up. “Okay, so all your stuff will be right here when you get out. Remember, once you get out of detox you can come in here and grab your belt and shoelaces. Don’t want you running around here with your britches falling off.” He winked at Monty, holding his jeans up by the crotch. “Alright you good?”

Monty nodded.

“Got everything?”

Monty nodded again.

“Alright let’s get you some medicine and under them covers.”

“You read my mind.”

Chapter 21

The Trailer

MONTY followed Nick back through the main foyer and out into the bitter Colorado evening cold. The snow was coming down in fluffy, white flurries and the wind, like a freight train, whistled through the trees.

“Shit man,” Nick said, as he zipped up his hoody, “it’s colder than a motherfucker out here. Weatherman says we’re supposed to get a couple feet of this shit by morning. Can you believe that?”

Monty nodded as he clutched the porch railing and carefully descended the icy, wooden steps.

“Careful dawg, that shit’s icy. Don’t want you breaking your neck before you get detox’d.”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a trailer out back. It’s the detox slash hospital. That’s where you’ll stay for the next couple of days, until you get that liquor outta your system. You’ll like it over there. It’s nice and quiet and you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want. There’s no meetings, no groups, no prayers, none of that bullshit. You can sleep in as long as you want, eat whenever, shower whenever, plus man, who knows, maybe there’ll be a cute little girl in there for you to play with. They don’t keep the men and women separated like they do in the main house. If you’re quiet, you can sneak up in her bed and give her a little something, something. She’ll be so out of it from them detox pills she won’t know what hit her. You know what I’m saying?” The kid clenched both fists and started thrusting his pelvis forward. “Pow! Pow! Pow!”

Monty shook his head. Didn’t this kid have any decency? Or was he so far gone that he just didn’t care? He sighed and dug his hands into his pockets, then carefully followed the kid around the side of the house. The snow was deep, probably about eight inches—like fiberglass insulation, it seemed to sag as he walked.

“Come on,” Nick said, looking back at Monty, his hand motioning to a rectangular structure up ahead in the dark. “There it is.”

The kid wasn’t joking when he said it was a trailer. That’s exactly what it was—an old, dilapidated doublewide. It wasn’t something he’d expect to see up here in Colorado—maybe where he grew up in white trash north Florida, but not up here, not in the mountains. The roof was coming off, the paint was chipping, and the snow was piled so high around it that it looked like it was sagging into a sinkhole.

“Come on,” Nick said, waving Monty onward, jogging the last couple yards up to the trailer’s front steps. “It’s cold as shit out here.”