“Sorry, kid, but these places? They’re scams.”
The man on the bleached white couch looked like burnt chicken, and all the brochures on the coffee table in front of us said, Welcome to New Bloom Recovery.
“I can’t even count on two hands what number this is for me,” he said. “If they knew what they were doin’, you think I’d be clean by now, right?”
I nodded along, pretending to be distracted by all the motivational posters hanging around us.
Once the drugs stop, the real party can begin.
It’s okay to not be okay.
There were several other people in the living room with us, zoned out on bean bag chairs and banana seats. Some reporter with golden eyes spoke to us all from a giant flat screen.
Police have named a Mr. James Cooper as the individual responsible for the murder of Nathan Torres last fall. However, in a strange turn of events, Mr. Cooper was himself found dead earlier this week. Police located the body buried in the yard of this newly built home you see behind me.
The TV cut to a helicopter’s eye view of the torn up driveway surrounded by yellow tape, and above the television were even more signs.
The wise man builds his house at rock bottom.
If you lose the drugs, you can find yourself.
“So what brings you here?” The chicken man’s skin was almost leather—sun soaked to the point of bursting. “I saw them dragging you off in a suit the other day. DUI? Robbery? No one wears a suit unless they’re seein’ the judge.”
It all came to light after a car accident at a downtown hotel, which left two dead. The Bighorn had been hosting a memorial show for the late Verona Miller when the vehicle crashed into the side of the building. The driver and one of the passengers died at the scene.
The TV flashed a picture of some guy with clear skin, and styled hair. He looked like a young model. Open smile. Jeweled eyes. His face was so round that there was hardly a single edge to it, like he had never done anything hard in his life.
The third passenger was identified as Kurt Baker. Mr. Baker was known to be in a relationship with the late Ms. Miller, and there has been a lot of speculation regarding his part in her death. He was transported from the scene by police.
“Hey,” the chicken man said. “That guy kinda looks like you.”
The screen cut to black, and everyone in the living room groaned.
“Evening meditation time,” the person who had turned off the TV said.
He wore a simple white polo shirt with the words New Bloom Recovery printed across the chest and walked further into the room. “Come on everyone,” he said. “You know the drill, the faster we do this the faster I get to go home.”
People sighed, getting to their feet and making a bent circle around the couch. The burnt chicken looking man put his hand in mine, and the cracks in his fingers were fault lines that wouldn’t stop shaking.
“I’ll go first,” the staff member said before clearing his throat. “We didn’t come this far, to only come this far.”
Someone chuckled and the staff member said, “Go, Rick.”
The guy who was laughing looked up like the staff member had tossed him a frozen turkey. “Uhh, fuck. I dunno man. Choose Phil.”
The person next to him didn’t miss a beat. He kept his chin down and his eyes closed as he said, “I don’t look forward. I don’t look backward. I only look upward. Go, Kurt.”
Above our prayer circle, above the TV and all the motivational posters, the ceiling was smooth white. No patterns, no chips in the paint. A blank slate that loomed over us all.
The man named Phil coughed. “Kurt,” he repeated, louder.
In the corner of the ceiling, a red dot flashed, and my palms started to sweat. The thing pivoted on its axis until it was pointed at me. A camera.
Why won’t you fucking die?
The camera twisted its lens back and forth as if it were trying to focus until it could see straight through me. I shut my eyes, but in the dark all I could see was the birdwatcher. All I could see was his swiss-cheesed face melting red in the back seat of his dark sedan.
“Kurt?” someone said, squeezing my hand.
I opened my eyes, and the camera on the ceiling swiveled back around. Everyone was staring.
“Oh, sorry,” I said.
I quickly looked over all the motivational pictures on the wall for something to say. Sweat leaked from my hand, and I just wanted everyone’s eyes off of me.
“I…uhh…I can be the person other’s see in me?” I said.
I wasn’t sure where it came from, none of the posters on the wall said anything close to that.
Everyone continued to stare, and the red dot continued to blink. Except it wasn’t a camera up there in the corner of the ceiling. It was just a smoke detector.
My heart slowed down a notch, and the staff member said, “So are you going to choose someone else, or are you going to keep me standing here all night?”
“Oh, right,” I said, turning to the man that looked like burnt chicken. “Shit. What was your name again? I forgot.”
“Karl?” Someone yelled from some other part of the rehab center.
Spring had given up to summer, and its afternoon light stretched over me in the living room. A group of people sat outside in a prayer circle, their voices trailing through the open window.
My name’s Albert, and I’m an alcoholic.
I’m Greg, and I love heroin.
Burnt chicken was gone. Gone gone. That’s what the kid who took his place told me.
“You ever eat one of those frozen blueberry waffles?“ he asked from the bleached couch. “That’s what he looked like when I found him.”
The kid’s face was whiter than the furniture, and he looked like every other person here.
People call me Wrench, I’m a sex addict.
Barry here, coke’s my mistress.
“Phil was with him too.” The kid stretched until his feet dangled over the side of the couch. “You remember Phil. I brought him back myself. Did CPR till his ribs broke. You ever snap a glow stick in half?”
I didn’t remember Phil.
“Karl?” The voice yelled louder from down the hall.
And I’m your humble leader, Joey. Binge eater. It doesn’t matter who you are, if you’re in this circle with us, then you’re heading in the right direction.
“Eh, Phil will be back here soon enough,” the kid in the living room said. “Then he’ll go back out. Then in. Then out.” He twirled a muddy shoe over himself and the couch. Round and round. “Say, you ever been rimmed before?”
The voice yelling from the hall came into the living room. “Karl Baker?”
I looked up at the staff member standing in the entryway.
“There you are,” he said. “Let’s go. They want you in the office.”
As I got up, a chunk of mud fell from the kid’s shoe and plopped against the couch.
We walked down the main hall, me and the staff member. “Is it my lawyer?” I asked. “I thought he said I don’t have to go to court anymore.”
“I don’t know, man,” the staff member sighed. “They just told me to come get you.”
All that was left was paperwork. That’s what my lawyer had said. He said I acted in self-defense, that I couldn’t be made responsible for anyone’s death. He told me that I was a good person in a bad situation. I’m not sure I believed him, but I guess the judge did.
In the office, some other employee was piling up mail. A large brown rectangle leaned against the wall.
“You got a package.” The man organizing the envelopes slapped the brown rectangle. “You’re going to have to open it in front of us. We don’t want anyone smuggling anything in.”
I walked over to inspect it. A letter hanged, tapped to the front. No return address. I pulled it free and slipped my finger under the flap to tear it open.
You’re really hard to find, Kurt. it started. Fortunately, that police chief’s daughter has a big mouth.
I unfolded it and kept reading.
There was a time, it feels like so long ago now, when you told me that you and your girlfriend were going to get sober. In response, I told you to get hell out of my house.
Yes, you were a flaky, pain in the ass friend. But you were still a friend, and I should have treated you better in that moment. And even more so now, after the gift you left for us.
So let me make it up to you.
There’s a painting in the package. It was broken when we found it, but Spit managed to make it look somewhat decent. He thinks it’s a portrait of you and was adamant that we hold on to it. I don’t know, I think it just looks like some kind of animal. Regardless, we hope you appreciate it.
Good luck. I hope we never have to cross paths again.
Clair.
I flipped the note around. That was it.
“Alright, let’s not drag things out here,” one of the workers said. “My shift is almost over.”
I carefully folded up the letter and placed it in my back pocket, before heading over to the brown rectangle. It was tapped along the top, but my fingernail was long enough to slide into the crack and slice it open. The top of a canvas peeked out and I pinched my fingers around it to pull it free.
“What the hell’s that supposed to be?” the staff member asked, looking over the painting. “A coyote?”
I rested the canvas against the wall, and the three of us loomed over to study it. A bleached white silhouette starred up at us from a streaky black background. The only notable color came from a series of bright pink strings tied around it.
“No,” I told the staff member. “It’s me.”
The walls in my shared room were covered. I had to take down three different motivational posters just to make Verona’s painting fit. Voices carried in from out in the living room.
It’s the circle of life. We get high. We get sober. We get high. We get sober. We get high. We die. There’s nothing more to it.
I leaned back in my bed. Eyes closed, trying to tune them out. But more voices filtered through. This time through the open window.
I’m Zack, and I’m a speed freak.
I’m Wrench, and I’m a sex addict.
My portrait looked down at me from the wall, and the bedroom door creaked open wider.
“Ah, there you are.” A staff member stood in the doorway. “Just doing a headcount.” He checked something on the clipboard he was holding.
“Hey,” I said as he went to leave the room. “That prayer circle thing out there.” I pointed at the window. “How do I get in on that?”
“You can just…go to it,” he said like he was talking to a child. “Is that it?”
The springs creaked beneath me, and I wondered how many different people had slept on this mattress throughout its life. How many of those people were dead now? How many weren’t?
“Yeah,” I told him, sitting up. “That’s it.”
The staff member turned and left, and I got up to slip on my shoes.
I’m Ben, a recovering drug addict.
I’m Austin, I have two lifetimes worth of gambling debt.
It doesn’t matter who you are, if you’re in this circle with us, then you’re heading in the right direction.
I followed the voices outside.