Five Boroughs 01 - Sutphin Boulevard (30 page)

“But I left you high and dry.”

“You’re not on vacation.”

“I know, but I still feel guilty.” I tugged the spiral wire, twirling it around my finger. “The kids have been without a real teacher for over a month. I hate it when students are put in this position. Like when that guy quit in the middle of the semester last year.”

“And I’ll say it again, this situation is not about you choosing to walk off the job.” Frustration seeped into her tone. I was sure it had more to do with me disagreeing with her than her desire to ease my conscience. “Did you get the paperwork I faxed to the facility?”

“Yeah. I sent everything to the DOE.”

“Then don’t worry. Your position is secure, Michael. When you get out of treatment, it will be here waiting for you. The students will be here waiting for you.” This time there was a longer pause. “Unless you don’t think you’re coming back.”

I pulled the wire, watching it straighten and curve around my finger again.

“Do you not think you’re coming back?” she pressed.

“I want to come back.”

“But do you think you will?”

Through the window along the wall, I watched my fellow patients moving from the cafeteria and splitting in separate directions as the next set of activities began. Four days in, and I still wasn’t used to the routine—or the nightmare of group therapy.

“Michael?”

“Sorry. Someone was talking to me.” I uncurled myself from the couch. “I plan to come back,” I said with forced conviction. “And I want to thank you for supporting me.”

“We’ve been working together for five years now. What else would I do?”

“You’d be surprised. My former principal would have hung me out to dry.” My former principal had also possessed a Napoleon complex that had sent dozens of teachers fleeing the school in a mass exodus. “So thanks again. I’ll call you when I’m closer to the completion of the program.”

I hung up but didn’t let go of the handset. I wanted to call Nunzio again.

I’d dreamt of him the night before, and I’d woken up with the taste of blood and ashes in my mouth. The details of the nightmare were unclear, but it had left me exhausted and heartbroken, and now I was desperate to know if he would wait for me. If he still loved me.

I replayed the message I’d left him every day, and I wondered whether it had been enough to convince him to give me another chance. Not knowing was killing me, but I didn’t make the call. I’d promised myself to make a real effort with rehab and that meant playing along.

My one-on-one therapist had advised against reaching out to people in the first week. He thought my friends and family had become triggers that sent me plummeting into binges when things didn’t go my way.

He was right, but it didn’t lessen my yearning to talk to Nunzio.

I returned the phone to the desk and headed to my group therapy session.

It was the typical cliché—a circle of chairs, everyone introducing themselves and citing their addiction at the start of each session, and a counselor who led the meetings with different themes or topics every day. Typically Jones used questionnaires and worksheets to spark up a deep sharefest of emotions and epiphanies. It just left me wanting to jump out a window.

The second daily meeting wasn’t as bad. Those centered on the biological aspect of how having a love affair with drugs and alcohol would eventually shrivel your insides.

The demographics of the groupings had no rhyme or reason. We all had different addictions, different problems, and different reasons for either checking ourselves into the treatment center or for being mandated by a court. The biggest commonality was that there were very few people above forty, and at least half of the patients were under twenty-five.

Their presence was disquieting in ways that were hard to ignore. Group sessions with a bunch of nineteen-year-olds felt too much like sitting in advisory and listening to Shawn talk about the horror story of his family life, but multiplied by six.

Jones gave me a stern look when I took my usual spot by the window.

“I’m only two minutes late.”

“You’re still late,” Drew sang out. Over the past few days, he had continued to miss the fact that his sass was the least adorable thing on the planet. “Calling your woman?”

“Calling my boss.”

“Ohhh, excuse me. I forgot you’re a big-time fancy teacher.”

Jones opened his mouth to thwart the conversation, but another patient piped up. It was Tracy, one of the few women in the program. “You’re an idiot,” she sniped at Drew. “Teachers are fucking broke.”

I’d noticed her during the first session because she was the only one who didn’t show any interest in my existence, which made her infinitely more likable than everyone else. She was a tough-looking girl, and the scar that twisted from her mouth to her ear only emphasized that.

“Okay, let’s pause this conversation.”

Jones held up both hands, face masked in the calm lines of neutrality. I could see through it, though. Even if it was the cliché setup of a group therapy session, the counselors were anything but the peace-and-love type. I could tell the kids in the group didn’t take Jones seriously because of his shaggy hippie hair, and a daily uniform of chinos and flannel, but I didn’t miss the track marks running up his arms. The man had a past.

“We have four new members to the group today, and this isn’t the way we want to represent ourselves.”

Drew shrugged and crossed his legs, once again swinging one like a go-go boy.

“Let’s get started.”

Everyone began dutifully introducing themselves and saying their substance of choice. Most of the younger kids, Drew included, were in for a love affair with Oxy while the older crowd was split between alcohol and heroin.

“My name is Carina.” The new girl wiped an arm across her forehead. “I’m an alcoholic, and uh, I smoke a lot of weed.”

“Oh please.”

Carina faltered when Drew interrupted. She shot a slightly panicked look at Jones.

The counselor was giving Drew the side-eye. “Do you want to elaborate on your comment?”

Carina looked horrified by the idea.

Drew looked down his nose at her and leaned forward. He balanced precariously on the edge of his seat with his legs still crossed. “Look, weed is not even a real drug. That’s all I’m saying. You look like a nice, young blonde thing, but I’m going to tell you right now—it gets way harder than that. Smoking bud was the
least
of my worries when I was your age.”

“First of all, you don’t know how old I am. And you don’t know about my worries, so you have no way to judge them,” Carina replied.

“So enlighten us,” Drew said in a challenging tone. “What brought you here?”

“Like I’m going to say anything now that you’re putting me on the spot?”

“This place is all about being put on the spot, sweetheart,” Tracy threw in. “There isn’t a comfort zone here.”

“Maybe not,” Jones interrupted. “But the most important part of these sessions is to respect each other. We’re all here—myself included—for different reasons, but we all have something in common.”

It was hard not to roll my eyes. The kumbaya, we’re-all-in-it-together attitude was starting to get on my nerves. Nothing was more absurd than expecting a bunch of cranky-ass drunks or addicts to become best friends because we were all drying out together. Trying to teach Marxism to my most difficult cohort of students was preferable to this.

Right on cue, Jones spewed the same tired line he repeated at nearly every meeting. “We all have substance abuse problems, even if the substances are different, and even if some people consider their addictions to be more extreme, others have still not accepted that they have a problem at all.”

The guy was definitely throwing subs.

“So why don’t we continue going around the circle, and then
everyone
will have the opportunity to share. But keep in mind, there’s no opting out of the conversation.”

He turned to Tracy. She raised her hand in a limp wave.

“I’m Tracy. I’m an alcoholic, and I used to do meth.”

Everyone looked at me.

“Michael.” When they kept looking, I added, “Alcohol. And benzos.”

“Thank you, Michael.”

Jones always thanked me and not anyone else. I was starting to think it was counselor-style passive aggression. Once we went through the entire absurd ritual, he held up a sheaf of papers.

“Drew, you actually started us off on the right path with your earlier comments,” Jones said. “Today we’re going to focus on defense mechanisms.”

A couple of people laughed, and Drew made a face, although a smile tugged at his lips. “Super funny, Jonesie.”

Jones passed the papers around, and I skimmed my copy.

Below the title was a list of ten words and descriptions.

“We all have them,” Jones said. “Even people who don’t abuse illegal or harmful substances have them. If you’ve ever heard someone claim that being on social media nonstop throughout the day is okay because everyone does it, that’s a defense mechanism.”

“It’s also true. Times have changed, Jonesie. It’s not 1976 anymore. iPhones are the thing.”

“As an Android user,” Jones replied, smiling at Drew. “I beg to differ.”

A collective chuckle went around the circle as I read each description on the sheet. For all that the actual people in the group annoyed me, some of the paperwork they handed out at each session tended to hit close to home. When Jones gave out golf pencils and told us to check off the mechanisms we could identify as using, it was yet another case in point. Out of the ten, I checked off five. All they needed to add was
be a total douche bag to friends and family
, and I would be set.

“I don’t get why this is specific to us,” Tracy said. She held up the paper, indicating that she, too, had checked off nearly half the options. “Everyone does this shit. The world does this shit. It has nothing to do with being addicted to meth or an iPhone. It’s normal.”

“I kind of agree,” Kenan, a guy with a foot-long beard, said. He braced one colorfully tattooed forearm against his knees. “It’s human nature.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.”

Everyone looked at me, and I cursed myself for speaking aloud. Jones practically jumped on the opportunity to press me further.

“Why not, Michael?”

I hesitated but didn’t stand a chance with Jones and Drew now fixated and clearly intending to hang on every word. Jones was probably thinking he was getting through to me, and Drew would undoubtedly find a way to twist or pick at whatever I said. And if I refused, the commentary and jeering would be even more of a headache.

“It’s a problem for everyone,” I said at last. “Even kids and their addiction to social media and smartphones. They use it so much to communicate, their verbal skills suffer, and it’s a constant distraction, but they rationalize it by saying it’s a cultural thing. Everyone does it.”

When the rest of the group remained silent, I shifted on the chair, uncomfortable due to their expectant stares. Were they waiting for an entire lecture or what?

“But people with substance abuse problems rationalize that everyone gets high or drinks three or four beers a day, and they will end up falling into a more serious hole while the kid with the iPhone may just end up failing history.”

“Well said.” I’d expected an approving grin, but Jones kept giving me his usual intense stare. “Does any of it resonate with you?”

“Look, maybe someone else wants to talk now.”

“I’m curious too,” Kenan said. He twirled his beard. “What did you identify with?”

I glanced at Drew, hoping he would want to steal the spotlight. He winked, thrilled by my discomfort.

“Fine.” I looked at the paper again. “I do a lot of blaming and minimizing.”

“Can you give everyone an example?”

I shot Jones a dirty look and rested my ankle on the opposite knee, bouncing it slightly.

“I blame other things for my behavior, even when I know my behavior is wrong. I don’t necessarily blame people, but I blame circumstances. I get wasted because I’m depressed and stressed out. I pop pills because the alcohol just makes me more depressed. I do both because without it, I have to deal with the rest of the world. And then I tell myself that it’s not a serious situation because I’m aware of it, and I can stop when I want.”

“And now you know that’s not true.”

“I have no idea if it’s true or not because I came here before giving it a shot.”

“If you think you can handle it on your own, why did you come?”

The question came from Carina, so I softened the defensive edge that had started to sharpen in my tone. “My brother wanted me to.”

“That’s the only reason?” Drew didn’t look convinced. “It’s not gonna work if you don’t want it, sweetie.”

I wanted to throat punch people who called me
sweetie
. Maybe I would inform Drew of that later.

“Half of you are here because it’s court ordered. Not everyone runs to rehab with stars in their eyes, believing this is going to fix everything. Could I benefit from a month to dry out? Yeah. Things were getting critical. But that doesn’t mean I’m thrilled to be here.”

“So you think it won’t help at all?”

Carina was digging in good.

I shrugged. “At the very least, it will give me time to figure things out.”

I could see it in their faces—they wanted me to go deeper, show all my cards, and turn myself inside out for full disclosure. But it wasn’t going to happen. I set my jaw and stared down at the handout again. A moment passed, then two, and Kenan broke the awkward silence.

“I can relate to that.”

Most of the group turned to him and his beard, but Jones was still eyeballing me. The guy was seriously deluded if he thought I was going to be his project of the month. Removing myself from the toxic situation that had caused me to spin out of control was one thing. Buying into this sharing-is-caring propaganda was another story entirely.

T
HE
B
ORGATA
Hotel looked different in my dream.

The glass elevator reflected the flashing lights of Atlantic City down below. I leaned on the cool surface of the wall and stared down at the stretch of ocean and nightclubs. Nunzio’s weight against my back felt secure. Comforting. I shuddered at the feel of his lips ghosting along my skin.