The Drunk Logs (2 page)

Immediately, a female nurse with a Woody Woodpecker print on her shirt walked in, clipboard in hand.

“Jack, what are you doing? How many times have we told you? You had better stop or you’re going to get us in trouble with Dr. Lyedecker.” She snatched the tongue depressor from Jack Jack’s hand and shoved him toward the door. “I swear, I don’t understand what it is with you and checking someone’s anus.”

“Almost, I almost had this one,” Jack Jack said as he pinched his fingers, squinted his eyes, and disappeared out into the hallway.

The nurse closed the door and put the tongue depressor back into the white medical cabinet. She walked over and slid the blood pressure belt back onto my right arm. “Sorry about that, he’s more than ten people can handle.”

I was taken aback by what had just happened, but my senses were heightened by the sweet smell coming at me like vapors from the nurse’s smoke-stained teeth, that sweet smell of vodka. I lowered my brow and squinted my eyes, wondering how this person was going to help me. Her red hair dangled in front of my face, and the smell of hairspray overpowered the vodka and started to make me dizzy.

“Okay, we’re done here,” she said, as the vapors brought me back to consciousness. “Are you taking any medication, Matt?”

“No.”

Tearing the Velcro, she wrote onto her clipboard. “Well, your blood pressure is high, 185 over 100. Probably due to the alcohol, so we’re going to have to give you some medication to bring that down.”

She reached down and grabbed my wrists with her clammy hands, “Now hold them straight out in front of you, as steady as you can.”

I raised my arms as stiff as a board, but to my complete shock, my hands shook uncontrollably. Embarrassed, I lowered my hands and slid them under my legs, but the damage was done.

The nurse clicked her pen and wrote again on her clipboard, “That’s withdrawal from the alcohol, so we’ll give you some Valium to help with the tremors. Now you’re only in here for alcohol right, not drugs?”

“Yes.”

“Just double checking.”

She stopped writing and walked over to the medical cabinet.
Oh, not this shit again
, I thought.

“All right, this is the last thing, I just need to take some blood to see what’s going on inside.”

She wrapped a rubber belt around my arm and injected a needle; the prick made my left eye twitch. Quickly, she removed the needle, slapped my name on the vial, ripped open a Band-Aid, and covered the small hole of blood that trickled out, before I even had time to think about the blood that had left my vein.

“We’re done. Now if you will just follow me, we’ll make one more stop, then you’ll be able to go to your room.”

With one rhythmic motion, she snapped the rubber gloves, threw them into the “hazardous waste only” can, and disappeared out of the room. I felt my back pocket for my wallet and hopped off the table, panicking to keep up with her. I exited the room and grabbed my suitcases, but didn’t notice the pale and anxious newcomers that grew from the leather chairs. The speed at which I was going seemed like a dream, but it was welcomed after the nightmare in which I’d been living.

I pulled the handle from my suitcase and frantically looked for my nurse, who appeared and disappeared in the congestion of patients and nurses. I spotted her and weaved between the masses, cautious not to make any physical or visual contact with the ones I was suspicious of. When I arrived at what I thought was a safe place, she noticed me and abruptly finished her conversation with the other nurses about food.

“Ready, Matt? Just go into this room and someone will be in shortly,” she said as she held the door to the room open.

I entered the room and sat in a chair opposite the desk where only a computer and telephone lay. I looked back as the door automatically closed, left alone in another green and vanilla room with my thoughts. Again, there wasn’t much to the room; usual color, with only minimal amenities. When I looked up at the ceiling I noticed something I hadn’t noticed in the vitals room: a camera.

I sat and tried to review what I had been through since the time I had entered. However, my mind was a complete haze and the notion of a camera staring at me took my attention away. I could only imagine what the image must look like on the other side.

“Pitiful” first came to mind on how I must have appeared, but then, I had become an artist in manipulation over the course of my life.

As far as I recalled I had the definition of a “typical” family upbringing. A family of self-ordained traveling socialites, where hard work, an education, sexual promiscuity, public and private indecency, and everyday drunkenness became the norm.

I learned at an early age that friends and loved ones were only acquaintances, because their need for me was only a need to fill their emptiness. So I created a shell to live in. I wasn’t alone; it was just easier to control my emotions when I kept them to myself. And on that lucky birthday of thirteen I found new feelings I could control that came from the magical liquid in the leftover glasses of a neighborhood get-together.

Over the years I would be able to mold myself into anything that suited me at the time—a best friend, a hard worker, a scholar, a lover, a person of interest…a bull-shitter. I grew in power and prestige with the help of alcohol, and if any person, place or thing that came into contact with me could not handle the essence, the enigma that I had created, it could fall by the wayside and I would not care.

Those were good times
, I thought. My world, through my eyes, was functioning, with job still intact, house that kept up with the Jones’s, car running on a full tank off gas, and a sexual prowess normal for anyone my age. But the strings to make it all dance were pulled tight.

Eventually, all good things always come to an end. I found, one day in my haze, I could not function without alcohol. I became accustomed to my perceived self and was afraid of the real self.

The cracks began to form and the emptiness from within began to show. The job vanished, the house was not kept up with the Jones’s, the car ran on fumes, and my sexual prowess was now that of a eunuch.

Could I tell you when I had my last drunk? The day that concrete smashed my face and then politely asked me if I was all right? No. Not on that day, but on the day after. May 28th, 2009.

The door opened. I turned my head back and was struck by the vision of a tantalizing, gorgeous, goddess of a woman who entered the room. Long, brown, curly hair rested on her shoulders like snakes; brown crystal eyes and soft lips, breasts snug tight in her white, Saran-wrapped dress, followed by long, gymnastic-strong legs in black high heels.
Maybe this place isn’t all that bad
, I thought.

“Mr. Hoffman? Mr. Hoffman?”

I reluctantly came back to reality and smiled as she sat at the other side of the desk, looking concerned. She gave a small smile.

She put a group of highlighted papers on the desk, and spun them around so I could read them.

“Hi, I’m Sarah, and I’m from the admissions department. I’m here to go over all the legal information, and when we’re done, if you understand everything, you’ll sign it stating you understand. Okay?”

I said nothing. I was caught in her spell.

“Okay. The first page shows that yes, you are Matt Hoffman. You are currently under the care of Stone River medical facility, on this said date, which is today’s date. And you are letting us release all medical information that we gather to your insurance provider.” She extended a pen across the desk and pointed to the highlighted area. “Please sign here.”

I grabbed the pen and signed; the entire time staring at Sarah’s soft white fingers with red nail polish.

She then flipped to the next page. “This one indicates that you are giving us permission to treat you for your illness, as we see fit. Furthermore, patient understands they are allowed to receive any and all information upon their request. Please sign here and here, and initial here.”

I signed again and moved my eyes up her hairless, milky white arms and onto her heaving breasts. I could faintly make out her nipples.

Again, she flipped another page, “This page indicates the patient understands all rules and regulations, and the patient acknowledges that failure to comply with these rules and regulations will result in immediate dismissal.”

I signed again, and worked my eyes from her breasts to her red, plush, wet lips. I handed the pen back to Sarah and soaked in the entire picture. I was satisfied.

She smiled, stacked the papers, and slid a folder across the desk. “This contains the rules and regulations, emergency information, and weekly schedule.” She opened the folder, pulled out the room key, held it snug between her thumb and finger, and positioned it right in the center of her face. “This is your room key, with the room number on it. This key will only lock and unlock your closet, not the door. In detox, all room doors must be left open, so make sure anything of value is locked at all times inside the closet.”

She put her hand down and slowly slid the key into the pocket of the folder and closed it. “I know it’s hard to process all this information, but do you understand?” she asked with sympathetic eyes.

“Yes,” I said, with what I still hoped passed for a boyish smile.

“Okay, you are all set. You can go to your room and settle in.”

She stood with confidence, exited the room, leaving behind a wave of perfume that crashed into me. It left me battered and bruised, but I enjoyed the state she had left me in. If this was all I had to do, I would have taken it for now, until it, too, faded away. I eventually got my bearings, collected the folder, and slapped it under my arm. I picked up my suitcase and duffle bag and headed toward the door. Flipping the light switch off, I turned back and slowly watched the door close behind me. My recent memories had become like my past, trapped in complete darkness.

I stood in the hallway with my suitcases as the numbers 1, 0, 5, stared back at me on the vanilla wall next to the crème doorframe with the door slightly ajar; the room was fully lit. I stepped in and gazed around at my new surroundings with all the minimal necessities. There were exactly two single hospital beds, two pine nightstands, two pine cabinet closets, one pine desk, two pine side chairs, one shared bathroom, and one mirror and sink, that was plastered on the beige wall next to the door.

“Great, now I’ll probably get stuck with some weirdo,” I mumbled to myself as I chose the bed farthest from the door. I threw my suitcase on the purple comforter and watched it bounce across the bed like a jackrabbit. As I put my backpack on the floor I heard the bathroom door unlock and open.

“Whew, I wouldn’t go in there for a while,” a surprisingly effeminate voice said, as the owner of the voice fanned his behind.

He was a tall, slender man, who wore black tasseled shoes, black jeans, and a white collared dress shirt, with a clear name tag pinned to the front pocket. He had black hair, a clean shaven face with neatly outlined sideburns, a Roman nose, and piercing black eyes. He could have been considered a man among men, but the lip gloss and slight lisp in his voice screamed out otherwise.

“My name is Carl and I’m with security,” he said as he walked over and shook my hand. “I’ll need to check your bags for any drugs, alcohol, or weapons. If you will, open your bags please.”

“Is this normal procedure here?” I questioned and unzipped my bags.

He moved in and started to take all of my belongings out. “Yes, it is. It’s not that we’re apprehensive about you, but instead we want to protect you from the others. After all, you’re here to get help, not high, or die.”

He pulled out every article in the suitcases like he was sifting through a file looking for one specific document, and placed them neatly on the bed. The bags were even checked for hidden compartments.

“You’re clean,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder and sashayed out of the room.

I stood in the room alone and felt as if I was in the middle of an empty football stadium, violated. I took a deep breath and started to grab some of my clothes, when I heard my name being called over the intercom.

“Matt H., report to the nurses’ station. Matt H., report to the nurses’ station.”

Frightened and confused, I held on tight to my socks and prayed that if I didn’t move, maybe they would forget about me.

“Matt H., report to the nurses’ station, Matt H.” the intercom screamed again.

With a deep breath, I threw my socks back into the piles of clothes, walked to the door, stopped at the mirror on the wall, and glanced at my face. “Damn it. Still swollen,” I whispered and exited the room.

I stood at the green carpet and rubbed my protruding forehead, trying to hide my face as I walked down the hallway that was packed like sardines with nurses and patients. But from the laughter and the stares, I realized that this futile attempt had only drawn more attention to my predicament, so I released my hand and let them stare.
If they want to get a good look, get it now
, I angrily thought. At least I could look at myself in the mirror.

I arrived at a long line and stood behind colorless, rotten, beaten down figures, slaves to their addictions. They used to be wide-eyed bushels of the future and fountains of joy. Now they were outcasts, aliens only accepted by the ones who share in the same.

I kept my head down the entire time that I was in line, looked at the tightly woven green carpet and the back of the white tennis shoes in front of me, and tried to hide my swollen, purple, red, and black face. I moved only when the white tennis shoes moved and looked up only when the tennis shoes were gone.

In front of me, behind a half-door, stood the vodka-soaked nurse with a multi-drawer plastic cabinet and a very large male nurse in the shadows.

“Matt H.?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said as I fanned my eyes back and forth, embarrassed to look up.

“I’m Molly. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier,” she said as she turned the handle, opened the half-door, and pointed. “Come on in and sit over there.”