I think that the cleaning service he’s chosen, or whoever has chosen, will be adequate now that they’re actually doing the job. Tomorrow they’ll come to do the bathrooms. After that I’ve earmarked the living room, the ‘den’, and the rest of the house as needed until each room shines. I want to see washed window, shampooed carpets, and the furniture moved and cleaned behind and under and around. This place is going to sparkle, and once it’s sparkling, THEN they can come two or three days a week to maintain things. I’ll handle the rest.
Tish and I have supper on our tiny slip of patio. It’s nice outside, and there are no mosquitoes. Flies in abundance, but no mosquitoes.
“I think those dogs need a bath, mom,” Tish says as we’re finishing up our meal. Spaghetti. Something simple. The dogs have been outside on the level above us, tethered to the iron fence and whining to come down and join us. I think they want the spaghetti leftovers more than they want the company.
“I’ll probably take them to a groomer one of these days,” I tell her.
“I could do it.”
“Honey, you’ve never bathed a dog in your life. And they’re big.”
“I could do it. I don’t think it would be that hard. There’s a hose right there, and I could use some shampoo on them. Make them nice and silky.” She smiles at me. “And I wouldn’t charge as much.”
“I see,” I say. I do see. Tish is a capitalist. She’s too young to get a job, but she’s no stranger to chores. What she IS a stranger to is pocket money. I’ve been tempted to just give her an allowance for breathing, and consider it back pay for the years she’s been working her best for nothing more than a pat on the head. I’ve got cash now, and I don’t see why she shouldn’t have some. Then I think of my employer, the word ‘spoiled’ comes to mind, and I say, “I’d used the baby shampoo, then. You’ll probably have to clean them a few times.”
“Cool.” She runs off to her bathroom to get the shampoo and leaves me with the dishes. She comes back in a bathing suit with the shampoo and an armful of our old towels. The house came with linens and we’ve been using them. They’re far and away in better shape than our threadbare towels, and she knows it. Without another word she runs up to the dogs, laughing, sending the three animals into a barking frenzy.
I don’t ask her if her homework is done, it is. She does that when she gets home. She’s told me it’s not very demanding work, and I’ve taken some passing glances at it and have to agree with her. I don’t know if that’s the caliber of the school, or if it’s part of easing her into her new school. The administration explained to me that they have many students come and go in the course of a year, and they’ve found that a gradual build up to full course work has shown better results in acclimating students. As long as Tish does the work and is learning, whatever system they’re using is fine with me.
The dishwasher in the pool house seems ridiculous for two people. I turn on the stereo in the living area and wash the dishes by hand, watching out the window as my daughter soaks herself and the dogs. They all seem to be enjoying it so I don’t plan on intervening unless there’s a suds incident of mammoth proportions. Instead, I make quick work of the dishes and slip into my own bathing suit, tying a wraparound skirt over it. We have pool privileges and I’m going to exercise them, but I’m also going to take the leftover spaghetti I made up to the main house. Tish won’t take it for lunch, there’s nowhere for her to heat it at school, but I can have it, or Mr. M is welcomed to it, too.
The inside of the house is cool, dark, and quiet. I smell a mixture of lemon, orange, and ammonia when I let myself into the kitchen. I smell the clean of the place. There’s still a doggy smell, but it’s no longer overbearing. I put the spaghetti in the refrigerator, then take a walk through, my last of the night. I put the alarm on, which Mr. M seems reluctant to do, but I consider necessary. I make sure the dog gates are in place, fill their water dishes, and spread out their blankets. Tomorrow I’ll clean them. Everyone in the house should have somewhere clean to sleep.
I go through the house checking windows and doors, leaving lights on where it seems appropriate. I work my way up to the master suite. The drapes are drawn, the windows opened wide to let the ocean breezes in. The bed is made, and I turn it down, make it ready for him. I chuckle to myself. If I thought he had a sense of humor, I’d leave a chocolate on the pillow. In fact, I don’t care if he has a sense of humor, or not, I go back to the kitchen and get a handful of Hershey Hugs. From his request for Cookies and Cream ice cream, I take it that Mr. M is not a huge fan of solid chocolate, so I bought him some of these milk and white chocolate candies.
I fold back the heavy, down comforter and the sheet before setting three Hugs on the pillow.
‘Have a laugh,’ I think to myself.
A laugh might do this kid some good.
A swim will do ME just fine.
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By the time I get home the lights are out in the pool house. It’s late, later than I thought it would be. Rene and I went to our AA meeting, and then a group of us all went out for burgers and coffee. We ended up lingering, then moving on to someone’s house for more coffee, cake, and talk. I didn’t talk too much, I just sat in this person’s yard and smoked while everyone else went on and on about their problems; their drinking and how it affected everyone around them. Some of them are like me, multiple substance abusers. All of us smoke.
In the end, it wasn’t a bad night. It was good to get out, to be with people, even if it was kinda boring. Most of these people, they’re not like me. They’re Hollywood casualties. They’re people that have been trying for years to get that big break, but never did. Some of them are still trying, most of them have moved on to ‘regular’ life, with ‘regular’ jobs, or jobs ‘in the industry’ but ‘behind the scenes’. I’m the most high profile addict in this small group of survivors, although my profile has been lower than usual these past months. No one cares, though, and that’s the good part. The other good part is that most of these people in our group are guys, or married women who aren’t looking for anything other than an ear to bend. I’m not tempted to screw up with this set of people.
They’re all older than me, too.
The other group Rene and I used to go to had more ‘professionals’ in it. Those of us who did upscale rehab out of state, who had to make formal statements, who get watched more often when in public because everyone knows that we have a problem. We’re the ones that still have ‘fans’ and who are under a microscope; people are waiting for us to slip. Nine times out of ten, we deliver, too. They were all youngish, even some teenagers, and they all knew who I was, the same way I knew who they were. Sometimes I miss that group, because we were all dealing with the public side of our using, but most days I’m okay with where I’m at, because I’m not gonna get in trouble there.
Now that I’m home I don’t want any more coffee. I guess it’s good that there isn’t any made, then. The pot stands empty. And I don’t want any soda or anything sweet, because I’ve eaten way too much cake tonight. And cookies, too. At the meeting. And some ice cream after dinner. But my mouth is still screaming to be filled. I poke through the pantry, but I don’t want chips, I don’t want anything in there. I poke through the freezer, but that means I’ll have to cook something and I don’t want to wait. I poke through the refrigerator and there’s a bowl of something in there.
Spaghetti.
Yes.
I don’t bother to heat it, I just take a fork from the drawer, take the bowl with me to the den, and sit in front of the television with it. It’s just what I wanted. Lots of garlic. Thick, thick sauce full of meat. Tons of stringy pasta, the thin kind. I start out wolfing it down, and settle in for smaller bites once my mouth is full of the flavor of it.
There’s nothing to watch on television. I know that I could stick a DVD in the player, but then I’d have to get up to do it and I don’t want to. I just want to sit here and surf channels and eat this stuff until I can’t stand it.
Movie. Seen it. Movie. Seen it. Movie. HATED it. Movie. Chick flick. Infomercial, infomercial, infomercial. Sports. Don’t like to watch sports on TV. Re-run, re-run, re-run. Movie. Movie. MTV. MTV2. I have a satellite system, about fifty THOUSAND channels and there ain’t shit on. I settle on VH1. That seems harmless. Pretty videos. I used to make videos. Lot of work. Days of it to come up with, like, five minutes of material. I guess about ninety percent of what gets shot for these things ends up tossed. Sometimes it’s the best stuff, too.
But it’s fun, too. You get to dress up, be someone else for a while. Sometimes they’re so stupid, too, the story lines and stuff, that you end up laughing your ass off half the time. The directors have been cool, at least the ones I’ve worked with. Sometimes they let you play with the equipment, the cameras and stuff. I’ve pulled off a decent shot or two.
Hngh. I haven’t thought about THAT in a while. I have all this camera equipment. Not movie stuff, although, you know, I got a ton of those little hand held personal video cameras. We’re always getting stuff like that for nothing, all kinds of toys and stuff. But I mean camera, cameras. That you take pictures with. Photographs. I got a ton of equipment somewhere in the house. I haven’t played with any of it in, I don’t know, months, I guess. Since last summer. I ought ta dig it up.
Hngh. Maybe Shi already has. I didn’t even know I had dog gates. Or a sugar bowl.
I’m full. I’m full in a disgusting way. I wasn’t even hungry to begin with and now I’ve eaten like, half the bowl of pasta here. And now they’re playing Nick’s fucking video and that’s enough for me tonight. The last thing I need to see is my, my, what the hell is he? Friend? Not lately. Coworker? My group hasn’t done anything in about two years, and we’re not looking to be doing anything together any time soon. No, I don’t know what Nick Carter is to me right now other than an annoying pain in my ass. I slap the television off and take the bowl back to the kitchen. I better put this away, because I don’t think that Shi would appreciate me leaving half-eaten food out on the counter. Damn, I hope none of that was for her, ‘cause I’ve eaten right out of the bowl, well, hell, I don’t think that she would put it in the fridge if she didn’t want me to have it. Right? Shit. Oh well. I’ll just put it back where I found it and tell her that it was damn good, because it WAS damn good.
And where are the dogs? I haven’t heard them since I got home.
I look in the dining room and there they are, curled on their blankets, sound asleep. That looks like the best idea yet. I try not to make any noise as I walk away, because I don’t want to wake them. Shi must have worn them out today or something, for them to be sleeping like that.
She left lights on, too. All over the house. That’s nice. I don’t have to stumble around looking for them. I don’t have to turn them on myself. I can just go upstairs and swallow three pills and be done with today. Well, it’s after two in the morning, so I guess I’ve BEEN done with YESTERDAY for a while. Which also means that today isn’t starting out too bad.
What’s this? That’s hilarious. She put candy on my pillow. Just like a hotel. Makes me feel more at home than I have for a while. Shit, cold spaghetti, a turn down, and chocolates. Umm, HUGS. I love HUGS. Both kinds. I’ll save ‘em for after meds. Shit, I forgot water. I wonder if I called her, would she bring me a bottle? Like room service. I cackle out loud to myself. I don’t think so. I don’t remember anything about our agreement that says anything about two A.M. calls for water. Shit, she’ll be here in about five hours anyway, and I’m tired now. I can live without the water.
Not the meds, though. Not yet. I go into the bathroom, strip, take the pills, hell, I even shoved my clothes down the laundry shoot. She’ll drop dead from the shock, I’ll bet.
Umm. Candy. Three sweet treats. I crawl into bed and savor each HUG, one after the other, making them melt against the roof of my mouth.
Hugs.
Wish I had one. It would top off the night. Morning. Whatever.
Turn out the light, McLean, you’re not making any sense anymore.
But a hug would be nice.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
