Rene came by and picked my up at seven-thirty this morning. I don’t think that I was even awake. All I remember is that I was showered and dressed and hadn’t had any coffee. It felt real weird leaving the house without seeing Siobhan. Real weird. I missed her bein’ there and I missed her makin’ me breakfast. I even missed her coffee.
But I wanted ‘out’. I was getting crazy with hangin’ around the house. Not that it was all bad, ‘cause it wasn’t, but after a while, with nothin’ to do, it just made me nuts. And I know that when I start feeling nuts, bored isn’t far behind, and after bored, that’s when I can get into trouble. I don’t want trouble. Not now. I know that I don’t need it, not for myself, not for the bad press it brings, not for any reason at all.
The weekend was great, too. Why spoil that? It was so good to see Mindi again, even if she’s not single or anything like that. It felt like old times. Good times. She hasn’t changed a bit, well, not much. She’s even more ambitious than she used to be. Her new CD is doin’ great. Not my bag, not really. But I only gave it a little listen. Jazz. Instrumental. Somethin’ that really shows off what she can do. She was so much better than the band she was playing with when she played with us. Now it looks like she’s gettin’ a lot of recognition that she deserves. About time.
And she’s happy with Stan. Stan’s another session guy from around here. I guess he fits with her. They’re both busy; they fit in their time together. It’s kinda like how I thought it would be with Sarah and me, even with Amanda and me, but I see that it’s not really the way I would want things. I don’t think I’d like bein’ left behind while someone else is out doin’ their thing. If I’m bein’ honest. I can’t see it, see myself out on the road or heavy into recording and bein’ on my own, you know, only hookin’ up with my lady whenever it was convenient. I get too… I don’t know, too somethin’, that’s for sure. I’m always thinkin’ that there’s somethin’ else in the other person’s life that’s going on that’s more important than bein’ with me. And even only thinkin’ that in my head I wonder how the hell can I be that selfish. But I am. It’s nasty, but I am.
I’m not gonna think about that right now, ‘cause I’m tryin’ to think about nothing, only it ain’t workin’.
Breakfast was okay. Made a big mistake, ordered French toast and it didn’t taste nothing like what Shi makes for me. There was no cinnamon, there was no little fruit cluster, and the bread was kinda soggy. I just covered the whole mess with syrup and ate it anyway.
After that Rene and I hit the links. It wasn’t too hot out that early in the morning, and I didn’t mind bein’ the driver today. I even hit a few balls but I can tell that this fucking foot is gonna be a problem for a while. Every time I turned my foot, it ached like a bitch. So I didn’t do too much of any of that, I just hung out, drank too much water, and watched. Probably would have been better if we could’ve picked up two more players for a foursome. I got a little bored out there. Rene and I have talked about everything fifty times over. And there’s just some things that I don’t want to talk about any more at all.
So we did that, for eighteen holes. At least it went kinda fast, ‘cause we weren’t walking the course. After that it was off to the doctor’s and the stitches came out. That made me wanna barf. I don’t like it when things go real wrong with my body. I don’t like needles. I don’t like even bein’ in doctor’s offices. That was the absolute low point of the day. But the stitches are out and it didn’t hurt half as much as I thought it would. Doc said to just go about my business. Even though that piece of glass really dug in there, there was no nerve damage or anything like that, so it’s cool.
Rene tried to talk me into goin’ to dinner with him. I’m not interested. Even if it is a new place that’s supposed to be kinda great. Instead, I’m sitting in our AA meeting right now, and letting my mind drift this way and that. Any which way. But every time I let my head wander, it’s wandering right over to my kitchen.
I can see Shi, and what she’s doing. More like how she’s doing things. She’s cutting and peeling and humming to herself. Maybe she’s got the music on, now that I showed her how to work the sound system in the house. Shit, it never even occurred to me that she’d want to listen to anything, and I don’t use the system that much myself. Now that she knows what she’s doin’, though, she plays it all the time. So she’s up to her elbows in some vegetable she’s gonna try and coax me to eat, and there might be somethin’ on the stove in a frying pan, or there might be somethin’ hot in the oven, but the whole house is gonna be smelling great when I walk in that door tonight.
I’ll bet she has the blender full of something, too. Fruit and ice and sugar and who knows what all, and when I come in she’ll make me one of those great frosty drinks. Sometimes she even slides in a little tonic and it tastes like a drink, drink. And sometimes she puts in a little ice cream and it’s like a milkshake. And sometimes she just gives it to me straight, and it’s a smoothie.
I dunno. I think I’m gettin’ spoiled.
That makes me laugh out loud to myself, and a couple people turn around and stare at me. I think it was the wrong time to laugh, ‘cause there’s a lady talking up front and she’s cryin’. Damn. I hate it when people cry. Not happy tears, ‘cause that’s, well, that’s happy. But these sad tears, ‘cause drinking has ruined their lives.
I missed a lot of sessions here these last coupla weeks, and to tell you the truth, bein’ back here isn’t making me feel that way it used to. I might cut back. I guess not coming here every day makes a difference in how I’m seeing things. Like, I don’t feel like I need to drink or anything. I feel pretty good, actually. But I don’t think I need this as a constant thing. I mean, I know everything I’m hearing. I can recite all this from memory. Listening to other people’s stories, it’s just that, listening to stories. Nothing new. It’s all, ‘I drank, it wrecked my life, here I am tryin’ to get better’.
I know that this is gonna be for the rest of my life. I know that I’m going to have good days and bad days and in between days. Sometimes I still wake up and want a drink. WANT one. In the morning. Sometimes I take a sip of coffee and wonder why it tastes so fucking funny, and I realize that it’s because there’s no booze in it. Or I’ll drink a chocolate soda and my tongue’ll be reaching for the taste of Frangelico. There isn’t any night that I don’t want a drink. Not one. It gets to be a certain time of day, that dusky time when I used to go out to clubs and stuff, and my mouth starts to want that taste, any taste.
And there are the bad, bad days, when I just want to sit and drink because I don’t want to think, or want to be alone, or, or that I just don’t want to be me. Those days are the days that I think I should be back in rehab, where it was safe.
I loved rehab. Well, that’s kind of a lie. I loved it after a while. I loved it after I dried out and didn’t feel like shit twenty-four seven. I loved it once I could feel the heat of the place, and I understood that I was in the same boat a lot of other people are. If I could have had the choice, I would have stayed there much longer that a month. Once I got used to the routine, to the sameness of the days and the drill of the weeks, I didn’t want to leave at all. I guess if I hadn’t had to go back to work, I would have stayed for a coupla more months than I did.
Because it was safe.
There was nowhere for me to get drugs. There was nowhere for me to get a drink. Not even a place for me to TRY to do that. Right there, that made life real easy for me. Then there were no real demands on my time, or on me, even. I mean, I had to do some things that I don’t usually do, like, like make my bed and shit. Shit that Shi does for me. But after a while it was no big deal, ya just did what they told you to do, you went to the sessions, and the days began to slip by.
When I got out, and had to get right back on the road again, I thought I was gonna lose my fucking mind.
Some days can still be like that. So when the tour ended, I started going to daily meetings, and here I am. But now, now that I’ve skipped some and not had any stronger urges than usual, this all seems like one big drag. I mean, listening to this poor woman cry is not helpin’ me in the least. Not at all. It just makes me a little sad for her, that she’s just starting out at this, and it reminds me of how shitty living like this can be.
I don’t want that reminder. Not the shitty part. I want something that’s gonna remind me that life is okay without being shit faced drunk. I want to be around people who are a little happier to be sober, so that I can remember that I AM happy to be sober and livin’ my life.
I shift my eyes a little bit and look at Rene. He’s laughing. I know it doesn’t look like he is, but he is. He’s so full of shit. He’s sittin’ there, acting like it’s all cool, and I know for a fucking fact that he’s using. Maybe not today, or yesterday, or even tomorrow, but when he gets the urge, he just does it. And no one ever narced on him, hell, I’M not even gonna do that. But he’s laughin’ and I know he’s not into this, or that he’s even takin’ it the least little bit serious.
Some days I just hate his guts.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
I open the front door and I can smell my dinner on impact. It’s gonna be somethin’ good. I’m hungry, too. Starving.
Everything’s just like I imagined it. Shi’s at the sink, shoving something down the garbage disposal. There are pots steaming on the stove. Something’s cookin’ in the oven, too. She hears me, turns, and smiles.
“You’re home early,” she says.
“Meeting was short,” I tell her. Not true. I made Rene leave.
“Supper’s going to be a while yet.”
“Could you make me one of those fruity things to drink?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I sit at the bar near the stove and watch her. Her hands are good with the knives as she cuts up fruit. She’s not one of those people who’re afraid to get their fingers dirty, either. She squeezes the oranges and lemons with her bare hands, catchin’ the pits and tossin’ ‘em into the sink. She picks the green tops of some strawberries off, digging into them and pulling them out with her nails. Everything she does she does with a purpose.
“How’s the foot?” she asks.
“Good, it’s gonna be fine. Golfing is still a bitch, but my game sucks anyway, so it’s hard to tell if it’s affecting it or anything.” I laugh. My game DOES suck. My fault, I don’t concentrate worth a damn.
“You never know,” she says, “this may have been just the thing you needed to improve it.” And she laughs a little as she turns the blender on. The handful of ice she adds at the end makes the whole thing thick and frothy. She takes a martini glass from the freezer, her new home for a lot of the glasses, and pours the drink into it when it’s the consistency she’s waiting for.
“I don’t think there’s much out there to improve my game,” I tell her.
“Oh, you sound like you’re being hard on yourself.” She lifts the lid on a pan and prods something with a long handled fork.
“No, not hard, just honest.”
“Well, I think the more you play, the more you practice, the better you’ll become. But I didn’t think golf required you to be particularly good, as much as it requires you to enjoy yourself.”
“You don’t play it, do you?” I ask, already knowing the answer to the question.
“No, not at all.”
“’Cause if you did, you’d know that the game is aggravating as hell.”
“Yes, I’ve heard THAT, too, which always made me wonder something.” She’s poured herself some of the drink, and she takes a sip before looking me in the eye with that greenish-blue stare of hers that goes right through me. “Maybe you can tell me, but WHY would anyone do something to aggravate themselves?”
She laughs again, and I can tell she doesn’t really expect an answer. Which is good, because I don’t have one. Instead, I laugh right along with her, knowing the jokes on me and not giving a damn that it is.
I’m just glad to be home.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
