The Drunk Logs (19 page)

“Well, you know how crack heads always need to have a shit load of lighters? Well, we thought of having a lighter that is attached to a butane tank, which will give them an endless supply of fire. And when they do run out, they just go up to the local hardware store and have it refilled.”

“And how would they carry it around?” Sam added.

“There’s a shoulder strap or a carrier with wheels they can use,” Shorty said.

His eyes were as wide as his smile as he looked over to Sam and me and waited to see our reaction.

“You can go one step further and invent disposable crack pipes. Cheap to make and you’ll always have return customers,” I joked.

As I waited for a reaction, I looked at Sam, who appeared to be stunned by my response, and the patients who listened in the background returned to their previous conversations.

“Shitmanfuck, that’s not a bad idea,” Shorty said excitedly. “We’ll have to look into that.”

Aggravated, Sam stood up and threw his cigarette into the grass. “You guys are all crazy.”

The rest of the table laughed as we walked back down the path to the building.

“Well, it was good knowing you guys, even if it was for a few days,” Shawn said as we all exchanged handshakes.

“Yeah, you two definitely came up with some strange stories,” Sam laughed. “Be good and take care of yourselves.”

The vanilla and green hallway started to blend into my memory and wasn’t quite as noticeable as when I first entered. Even the patients that passed in the hallway would have become mundane, if it were not for the families, Pat’s nervous behavior, and Jack Jack’s sad state of affairs.

As we entered the cafeteria, there at the head of the room by the door sat Maureen, alone on a single chair. It was relatively quiet, except for the thrust of the vents that blew out cold air, the juice machines that rumbled and spat out their last bit of liquid, and the shuffle of more patients who strolled in. Sam and I noticed our usual table where Father Tom had already rested his tired bones, slid out the chairs, and joined him in a small amount of relaxation.

“Hello, people, my name is Maureen Ballsik and I am an alcoholic, bulimic, and an addict. I am a counselor here at Stone River and will be teaching this weekend group,” she said as she walked over to the middle front of the tables. I would have bet that I saw her smile that she didn’t have our group that day.

The doors still opened and closed as she stood and waited for the last patient to arrive.

As she was about to continue, the door opened one last time and in walked Mick and Molly, who apologized as she helped Mick over to our table. She sat him down, politely asked us to return him when the group was over, and left, before we could respond. He sat next to Sam, appeared to be the sad, distant shell from before, and stared into the top of the table with his glasses on the edge of his nose.

“It’s your turn,” I giggled as Sam prepared himself to catch Mick if he started to fall.

“Again, hello, my name is Maureen Ballsik and I am an alcoholic, bulimic, and addict. I am a counselor at Stone River and will be teaching this weekend group. Will everyone please try to occupy these front tables, because I do not want anyone to miss the learning plan that I need to discuss.”

Our table sat idle as the rest of the cafeteria walked over to the front tables and filled the seats. As Maureen looked around, she noticed that our table had not moved, but before she uttered a word, she seemed to realize that we were consumed with the care of Mick and decided to overlook the formality.

She began the lecture, but I was more enthralled with Mick and Sam and the situation in which they had found themselves. I knew it was only a matter of time before Mick started to slump to one side. Slowly, he leaned toward Sam, who pushed him back up with his elbow, and tried to pay attention to the lecture. Father Tom and I struggled to hide our laughter when Mick started to drool onto Sam’s arm. The lecture was done and the cafeteria of patients divided into two groups.

“Hey, why don’t you guys come over, considering I have to take care of Mick here,” Sam yelled. The group of patients formed a makeshift conference table with the empty tables around us.

We appeared to be everyday Joes, blending in with the people of everyday walks of life, because we, at one point, had been part of that society. We followed, or were believed to follow, the normal routine, walk, talk, dress, and action. We were wolves in sheep’s clothes and would strike without notice. The only thing that was different between us and them was the same thing that bound us together.

Once everyone was situated, I realized that I had completely no idea what we were supposed to do and so I decided to heed my ignorance and attack first.

“So, how are we going to do this thing?” I asked as I pretended to care for another’s thoughts.

Big Toledo spoke, his size and the cockiness of youth taking over; he believed he was the wisest choice to lead the group.

“Well, first we need someone to write everything down, so we have it for the later lecture.”

One individual at the far end of the table, who gave the appearance that he was only there to satisfy others, slowly raised his hand.

“Next, I believe, we just rattle off experiences, because they are all going to be the same.”

I shook off the small amount of nervousness and was relieved that the chance I took worked.

Everyone agreed and Big Toledo started to read off question number one.

“What do you believe brought you to this place at this particular moment in your life?” He looked around the tables.

“Alcohol,” “drugs,” “wife,” and “the court” were the words that began to flow easily from the gallery.

The list continued, for now there wasn’t any shortage of reasons. Some had even been repeated a few times, before the individual at the end of the table turned a new page. Eventually, the blizzard of words began to lessen and the quiet was broken by a lonely, drawn out voice.

“Manslaughter,” the voice said. Heads turned toward Mick as he struggled to lift his heavy, dead eyes.

The word hung in the air like a dirty pair of shorts on a clean clothesline. As it started to fade, it was energized again by his drawn out voice.

“Vehicular manslaughter.” Exhausted, he forced his last two words out and slumped even further into his chair; his eyes succumbed to the heavy weight.

The group sat astonished at those two simple words.

Maureen had been walking between the two groups to examine our progress when she stumbled onto our group. She looked as though she realized someone had said something profound. Our faces must have given us away.

“Is everything all right, gentlemen?” she asked.

“Write it down,” Sam said angrily as he held Mick up with his arm.

The note-taker wrote down the words as Big Toledo continued to the next question. Maureen said nothing and walked slowly by the group and up to the front of the cafeteria.

“What will you do to keep your sobriety?”

“Nothing,” “I don’t have a problem,” “work the program,” and “call people” were the most common responses. I thought of another one that might come from Mick’s lips…prison.

Finished, we sat for the last few minutes and waited to be excused. I thought about the answer that Mick gave and wondered about the severity of my own predicament.

At the farthest table, the conversation stalled when Maureen stated time was up and the groups could go on their separate ways, but had to be back with written answers to discuss later in lecture. We rearranged the tables as they were before, and most proceeded out the door, while Sam, Father Tom, and I stood behind to attend to Mick.

I walked around the table and extended a helping hand. “All right, Mick, it’s time to go back to the nurses’ station.”

Sam and I both struggled as we tried to lift Mick from his chair. “Come on, Mick, you need to help a little. It’s not easy lifting dead weight,” Sam grunted.

In his zombie-like state, Mick followed Sam’s and my lead as we proceeded out the cafeteria doors and into the hallway, with Father Tom close behind.

“Hey, Mick, look, they changed the color of the walls and carpet,” I said as I tried to make light of the situation.

Slowly, we proceeded down the hall, the center of attention of all those we passed. Embarrassment was not an issue that time; we genuinely felt sorry for Mick and did the best we could.

Molly graciously thanked us for our help, for Mick had become a full-time occupation and she had neglected her other patients. She asked us to bring Mick to his room, as one last favor, and help him into his bed.

As we left the room, I stopped and asked Molly about Mick.

“Well, I’m not supposed to be saying anything, but you’re going to hear it sooner or later.” She looked to see if any personnel were around. “Apparently, he killed a small girl who was riding a bike in her driveway in his development. He doesn’t remember anything, because he blacked out or something,” she said as she took another look around. “Well anyway, the court ordered him to come here, before he gets sentenced and goes off to prison.”

“Then why is he so heavily medicated?”

“You should have seen him when he came in,” she said. “He consumed so much alcohol before and after the accident, that either he was trying to kill or pickle himself. I tend to believe the former.”

I stood like a statue as she walked away. I joined Sam and Father Tom as they waited by the elevator, and knew, that even through the craziness of the fun times, reality still smacked me back to sanity.

The elevator bell rang and we entered onto the second floor where the hallways were littered with patients and their families. We parted, sifted through the clans, and made our way to our respective rooms. I walked in and interrupted Pat as he showed our room to his ex-wife and children. Slightly embarrassed, I apologized and started to show myself out, but he stopped me on the way.

“Matt, you don’t have to leave; I was just showing our living arrangements to my family. Come on, let me introduce you.” He grabbed my arm.

“This is my wife, Roberta.” I extended my hand and stared into a blank face. “And these are my twins, Richard and Samantha.” I waved as they stared at the green carpet.

They were old before their time, as Pat, who sounded like an auctioneer, tried to sell them as brand new. But no matter how many words were lathered on top of one another, it could not hide the faceless, emotionless, empty shells that stood before me. Time had not been kind to these people who did not deserve what they had no doubt contended with for so long. But maybe their being here proved there was a small flame of hope burning that one day…maybe, it would all be different.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I smiled and headed over to my nightstand. As I picked up my Big Book, I debated on whether I should leave or not.

“Well, that’s about all that there is to the room. So, we can go to lunch if everybody wants to?” Pat said nervously.

They all agreed and left the room.

“It was nice to meet you,” I said, but got no response as they disappeared into the hall.

I leaned back into my bed, took a deep breath, imagined what Mick must be going through, and was thankful I was not him. I began to realize that someone or something brought him to this place at this particular point in his life, the same as all the people who passed by my doorway. In my own right, I had lost everything and suffered along with those that I had hurt. Ever so slowly, I understood myself and my life, and the chance that I had for a future.

After I read a few chapters, I decided to break and see what Sam might be up to. As I wandered through the hall, I noticed a few patients who looked weakened from the visitor’s day, as they were forced to see it through to the end, Jack Jack especially. He was down the hall, and argued with his father as his ex-wife or girlfriend watched nervously. I approached Sam’s door, knocked, and let myself in.

Sam was in a single bedroom, which was the same as everyone else’s, except one bed less. He sat at the edge of his bed and clipped his toenails.

“The last thing a woman wants is your crusted old feet, Sam,” I said, as I sat at the desk.

“No, but in your case, it’s a pop and a lick,” Sam bellowed with his loud gravel laugh.

Finished, he threw the nail clipper on the nightstand and started to put on his socks. The white line was perfect from side to side.

“I thought you wanted to hit the gym before lunch?”

“Crap, it’s too late now,” he said as he looked at the clock above the door. “I definitely need to work off some of this.” He grabbed his belly with two hands.

He walked over to the sink by the door and turned on the water.

“So what do think of Mick and what happened to him?” Sam asked, as he grabbed the bar of soap.

“It’s messed up. That could have happened to any of us and I’m glad my problems aren’t as bad as his,” I said, staring into the green carpet. “I mean…I don’t know.”

Sam grabbed a towel from the hook on the wall, started to dry his hands, and leaned against the sink. “That’s the thing. It could have happened to any one of us. Hell, when I was high on crack, I used to sit in my house alone, with a gun, paranoid. If anyone would have come a’knocking, I would have blown ’em away.”

Sam threw his towel onto the bed and walked toward his closet, opened it, but seemed to have forgotten what he had looked for.

“Remember what you told me, Sam—‘remember the past, but don’t dwell on it.’”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam closed the closet door. “Come on, it’s a nice day, let’s get out of here.”

Outside, the view was still the same, with patients and a few family members who walked about the grounds. It was a time when the word “free” had meant something. Where lecture, group, or meals did not dictate where the patient was, but they were free to roam within reason, and adhere only to common courtesy.

We walked up the path toward the pavilion, lit our cigarettes, and looked for an empty place to sit. Alone in the field by the pond stood an empty picnic table, the place where we had gone before to find refuge and count the minutes of the day. We picked up speed through the grass and hoped to claim our territory, when Robby started to shuffle towards our destination. Our footsteps slowed but we regained our stride, arrived at our destination victorious, and staked claim to this small patch of earth. As we sat down, the picnic table moaned from the extra weight.