Postcards From the Edge Page 5

  Carol’s okay, though. I think she likes me, which couldn’t hurt because her husband is a big agent or something. I hope she doesn’t get a crush on me. I don’t want to have to go to her husband on business and wind up explaining why I’m fucking his wife. That could be rough. She’s okay, though. Redhead, but not a real redhead. I remember when I came in last week seeing her and thinking, “Not a real redhead.”

  It wouldn’t be bad to do a little business in here. It is a part of life. I haven’t been writing lately, but I’m gonna have to start working on something. If I’m gonna be with Suzanne, I’m gonna have to be able to keep up with her financially. I don’t expect her to support me.

  Shit, there’s Sam. Don’t come near me, man, don’t even think about coming over here. That’s right, go look out the window. A scalper, for Christ’s sake. What am I supposed to have in common with him? He didn’t even scalp tickets for concerts I would have gone to.

  I wish I played an instrument . . .

  DAY TWENTY

  Carl told the greatest story in the park today about how he ended up in prison. He had gone to rob a movie theater, and he went to the office and pulled a gun on the secretary, who said that only the manager knew the combination to the safe, and he’d gone out for a while. Carl told her he’d wait. Pretty soon an usher came in to see the secretary, and Carl made him wait with them. Soon after, two kids from the concession stand came looking for the usher, whose mother was waiting outside to drive him home, and they became part of the group. Then the mother came up. Before long there were about fifteen people staring at Carl and his gun in this tiny office. Carl said it got pretty awkward and very hot.

  When the manager finally did come, the alarm went off. The police came, but Carl sneaked out and started to drive off. The police shot at him, a bullet went straight through his Afro, and Carl shit in his pants. He had to sit in the back of the police car while they wrote up the report, with his pants full of shit. I said, “You’re kidding,” and Carl said, “Shoot, you have a bullet go through your hair, you’d crap yourself, too, I don’t care who you are.” Carl is a wonder.

  I talked to my agent today. He thinks maybe I should do a television series. I would like to do something where I have to work all the time. Keep my mind off my mind, as it were. Get up real early in the morning, act like someone else all day, and fall asleep at night. A perfect job for me.

  The fix that doesn’t.

  . . . So I go in to watch The Outer Limits and maybe see some Star Trek before bullshit group therapy—I know we’re supposed to be writing our drug inventory, but they can just hold their breath before I’m gonna write that—and all the guys are sitting watching basketball. I loathe basketball. And they’re all doing that macho yelling shit. I don’t care if it is the play-offs. We always watch The Outer Limits. As far as this place can go, it’s a tradition. I’ve gotta get out of here.

  Suzanne is in Carol’s room. Why are they always together? I’m starting to think Suzanne may be a little bit of a snob. What does she think, that she’s too great to talk to me? I mean, all right, sure, maybe I haven’t talked to her, but I’ve seen her talking to a lot of other people on the unit. I don’t think I’m so unavailable and unappealing.

  Julie sort of cornered me when she said I was isolating myself from the group. I’m not isolating myself, they’re all ignoring me. I’m not saying it’s deliberate, but it’s not going completely unnoticed, let’s put it that way.

  What do I care? I have plenty of friends out of here. But why won’t she just come up and talk to me? I heard her on the phone yesterday talking to her agent. I wish I could make a business call so she could overhear how fabulous I was and how together my life was, and then she’d come up and ask me something about business.

  That’s it! That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call . . . No, I won’t call anybody. I’ll pretend I’m calling my literary agent. Suzanne’s in Carol’s room right next to the phone so she’ll be sure to overhear this. All right, I’m gonna do it. It’s a great idea. So what do I say? I’ll say I’ve got the idea for this drug rehab thing and I’m . . . Wait, I don’t want to give away the whole plot. I’ll just casually say I have a great idea. Be very vague. Don’t give anything specific away. All right. All right, here I go.

  Oh, fucking Christ! Carl is on the phone. This is unbelievable, this is truly, truly unbelievable. Jesus, I hate this place. He’s probably talking to his dumb wife. He’s always fighting with his wife. Why do I have to know all this stuff about his life?

  “Hey, man, you gonna be long? I gotta make a business call.”

  That sounded real cool. I bet she overheard that.

  “Thanks, man.”

  I’ll just dial a fake number and I’ll say . . . What name should I use? Jeff. Jeff . . . Markoff.

  “Jeff Markoff, please. Alex Daniels. I’ll hold . . . Jeff? Hi, it’s Alex. Sorry I took so long to get back to you.”

  That sounded so great. Oh, here she comes, she’s coming out of the room. Okay, okay, casually turn your back to her and throw your voice over your shoulder.

  “So, Jeff, about the idea we pitched to Fox. I think I’m ready to do a first draft and . . . Oh, great, great. The deal went through? Great. Yeah, great. You tried to call here? Yeah, it’s always busy. There’s always, you know, people on the phone. Well, I’ll be waiting for you to send over the contracts. Oh, sure, well, I’ll sign them when I get out of here, then. That’ll be cool. All right, and how’s everything? Great. I’ll talk to you soon then. Bye-bye.”

  That’s perfect, that was perfect. She looked at me. I know she’s impressed. Well, maybe I’ll go in and watch some basketball. I feel a little calmer now, I feel like I made a little headway here. Certainly she knows a little more about who I am, and that I’m not just some asshole in a drug unit. I’ve got a job. A deal, I’ve got a deal. I’ve got a job, a deal, and a future.

  Is that her laughing? She’s always laughing, always having a good time. Well, soon she’ll be having a good time with me . . .

  DAY TWENTY-ONE

  Alex did the most amazing thing today. Carol and I were coming out of her room and he was on the pay phone talking real loud and weird, like a white version of Carl. He was saying something about Fox and first drafts, and as I passed him I could hear a busy signal through the receiver. I barely made it around the corner before I burst out laughing. He must have been trying to impress us. Carol thinks he has a crush on me. He probably does. He’s exactly the type I would attract.

  Carol and I have started exercising every afternoon. She tells me how perfect her husband is, how adorable he is and how happy they are. Finally I said, “But Carol, there must be something wrong with him.” She sort of shrugged and said, “He works sixteen hours a day. I only see him late at night, and on Sundays he stays home with me and reads scripts.”

  Oh.

  . . . This is an absurd film. Hooked on a Line, what a title. Jesus, that dancer being snorted up into someone’s nose under the opening credits, and these people in half-shadow talking about their cocaine problems—I could write better shit than this. Maybe I will when I get out of here. I’ll write a really good drug movie. I’ll help a lot of people. I’ll become known for helping people.

  Christ! Who cares about this girl with her family and their floral sofa? That sofa is enough to drive you crazy, watching people sitting on that floral sofa talking about cocaine. I never had these problems with cocaine. I never ran into people with guns. Well, that one time in Vegas there were some guns in the room, but nobody was chasing me with them.

  I’ve never met anybody like the people in this movie. These are all older people, except for that really young girl. How am I supposed to relate to any of this? I mean, there’s nobody my age. Maybe these are real people, but they’re horrible real people. At least get interesting real people if you’re gonna use real people.

  Take me, for example. I have a better story than this. Not that I have an addiction problem like them, but some of my d
rug experiences are interesting enough to tell in front of groups. Sometimes I think maybe I should lead kind of a splinter group of Cocaine Anonymous. Make my own cocaine meetings, with really hip people at them. Where the hip people just naturally come, like Suzanne and maybe Carol and her husband.

  Suzanne keeps talking to Carol. I should be sitting next to her. We could talk about how much we hate this film, and how much better ours is going to be. I wonder how much money there is in this . . .

  DAY TWENTY-TWO

  Sam and Julie got into a big fight tonight and Sam stormed off the unit. Julie said something typically condescending to Sam, whose face got all red and puffed up, like he was blowing up an invisible balloon. The gist of what he said was, “How dare you talk to me like that? Don’t you know who I am?” And Julie said, “Who are you? You’re in a drug clinic. Who could you be?”

  Sam charged back to his room and smashed some pictures against the wall. He got his wallet and a sack of Chee-tos and left the hospital. Julie called Sam’s wife Amy and told her to expect him. I wonder if he’ll get loaded.

  Carol, Ted, and I watched The Incredible Mr. Limpet on the four-thirty movie. We all agreed that Knotts’s work was superb, and were perplexed at the absence of a sequel. We decided to inquire about the availability of the rights when we get out of here.

  Maybe I should have a baby.

  What if I got into this? I doubt I would, but I know I’d be a better therapist than Stan. He’s so unpleasant to everyone. I think he has something in particular against me, which isn’t fair. They should get someone unbiased.

  They should have a real doctor or something. I would like to be treated by someone in the medical profession rather than by these amateurs whose only qualification is that they took a lot of drugs eight years ago, and now they haven’t taken drugs for eight years. I think they should be more qualified than that.

  They keep telling me this is a serious situation. Well, if it’s so fucking serious, there should be doctors here. We should be on medicine. I don’t think I’m getting properly attended to. I don’t know that any of this is that good for me. I keep hearing about all these other drugs I didn’t even know about. It’s like putting thieves in with murderers—they learn how to be murderers. Well, I’m learning how to be a drug addict. What if I wanted to walk right out of here and go find some lodes like that guy Sid took? I’d never even heard of lodes before I got here.

  Fuck them! Telling me I’ll never stay sober, I can’t beat the odds. I’ll show them! I’ll do it. I’ll do it without them. I can’t do it without going to meetings? Fuck them. I’d rather go to a doctor than be judged by people who took a lot of dope. I mean, what is that? What is that? I have no intention of sitting in a room with a bunch of alcoholic personality types drinking caffeine and smoking cigarettes. That’s not how I envision my life.

  I know Stan has something personal against me. I think he’s keeping Suzanne away from me. I think they’ve said something to her about me. Fucking Stan. And Julie, with that string of pearls. I just want to rip it off her neck and watch them go bouncing down the hallway. She wears enough perfume to knock out a horse. I just don’t see the point of talking to these people, and watching these stupid films with the floral couch and these understanding parents and their whacked-out daughter and the group therapy . . .

  Group therapy with my parents. I would sooner die. I would sooner swallow a handful of lodes and die than sit in a room with my father and mother and talk about my “drug problem.” I just want them to keep paying the bills and stay away from me. Well, not paying the bills, but paying the bills until I can get back on my feet again. I think I’m owed that. They fucked up somewhere along the line and I ended up taking chemicals.

  If they actually expect to get Stan and my parents and me in the same room, they’ve got another think coming . . .

  DAY TWENTY-THREE

  My inner world seems largely to consist of three rotating emotions: embarrassment, rage, and tension. Sometimes I feel excited, but I think that’s just positive tension. Stan gave us a list of emotions today and told us to circle the ones we’ve felt recently. I lied and circled seven.

  Mark refused to come to group today—he stayed in his room and listened to the Doors. He had his Walkman on so loud at breakfast we could hear the music through his nose.

  Marvin announced at lunch that he thought he might be an alcoholic. We all sang “God Bless America.”

  Amy brought Sam back today. He seemed a little chagrined. I was embarrassed for him, and subsequently tense. Two out of a possible three.

  . . . This is what I get for coming to her rescue. This is my reward. Everyone goes off to a shopping mall and I wind up stuck here alone in this stupid room. I hate Stan, I hate him.

  I can’t believe Suzanne went without me. How could she? I defended her. He was attacking her and I stuck up for her, and I wound up getting nailed to the wall. That’s my thanks. Fucking Stan. Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn’t he know who I’ll be? I’ve got to get out of here.

  I’ll just leave, right? What are they gonna do? Call the police? I’m not breaking the law. I’ll just leave. I’m not . . . What am I doing here anyway? I hate it here. I hate these nurses with their little name tags, and they won’t give you any aspirin. They’ll give you Tylenol. I’ve got a flaming headache. I’ve got a flaming headache and all I get is two little Tylenol. Well, that’s not enough.

  I’m just gonna check out of here and then she’ll feel bad. She’ll be sorry she didn’t talk to me, even after I took her side. Stan was attacking her for being too nice or something—what is his point? I don’t understand his point. He should have a problem like being too nice. It’s like he thinks he’s God, but God never took drugs.

  How dare he come after me? He thinks I’m “nervous,” does he? Well, I’m not nervous! I’m tense. I’m not nervous. “Nervous” is a ditsy kind of a . . . I’m . . . Sometimes I’m tense. I think to live in this world, everybody’s tense. I’m not the only tense person. Stan is tense, with his jaw clenched so tight it twitches.

  Fuck it, I don’t care. I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about how Wanda’s father doesn’t like her. I don’t care about Carl and his scrawny legs. I don’t care about Sam and his homemade tattoos. And Mark. Mark! Manson’s buddy. These are my peers?

  And this fancy fuckin’ jargon. It’s like being in est. Well, I didn’t want to do est and I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to sit around and swap war stories about drugs and alcohol. I’m sick of it. It’s bullshit.

  And Suzanne! At least Carol came in and said, “Come to the mall with us.” But Suzanne, who I defended and got slapped down for my trouble, did she come in? No. I might have gone if she’d asked me.

  I’m sick of this place. I don’t like the blanket on my bed, I don’t like the noise of the toilet, I don’t like the homo pubic hair in the Jacuzzi, I don’t like Ping-Pong. I don’t like the food at all. I can’t stand the cute little desserts, those squares of pink and white cake, and I loathe Jell-O. And I don’t want to watch The Outer Limits anymore. I’ve seen all the episodes. I have them on tape at home. I can watch The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits anytime I want. I don’t have to sit and do it in a drug clinic, and I don’t have to have them ramming themselves up my nose about how nervous I am. I’m not nervous, I’m pissed. It’s a waste of time to sit in this place. I’ll just sneak past the nurses’ station and . . .

  Fuck it! Then Suzanne will think I’m a wimp and I can’t take it. Well, I can. I can take anything they can dish out. I’ll stay. But I’m not gonna like it. I have my own opinions, I have my own tastes, and they can’t take that away from me. They’re not gonna turn me out like something on a conveyor belt.

  God, I want out of here . . .

  DAY TWENTY-FOUR

  Alex walked out of group today. Stan had been on my back about my “wonderful girl act.” He said I didn’t just want people to like me, but that I wanted to make an impact on their live
s they’d never quite recover from. It wasn’t a startling revelation. I’ve been in therapy since I was nineteen, so Stan is not likely to be giving me stunning insights into my being that I’ve never considered before, but he was trying. He said something about how I probably hoped people would mistake my nervousness for vivacity. I was about to make some glib comeback when Alex suddenly leapt to my defense.

  Stan slapped him down by saying, “Oh, and I guess you’re hoping people will confuse your nervousness with aloof cool.” Stan can really be a bastard. An addict made good—now he’s a marathon runner. The junkie of the seventies is the athlete of the eighties. Anyway, Alex bolted to his room and refused to come out for our excursion to the mall. Carol tried to persuade him, but Stan told us to leave him alone. I feel bad for him.

  Shopping was hilarious. We went as a group of ten and crawled all over the mall like a giant junkie spider. We bought popcorn, cotton candy, cola, and chocolate. Stan said I eat just like a heroin addict (but I break just like a little girl). It was hard to keep the group together. Sam wanted sunglasses, Wanda needed styling gel, and Carl ate three hot dogs. I’m so glad I overdosed now. If I hadn’t, I never would have been in a rehab and shopped with junkies.

  I wish Alex had come shopping instead of hiding in his room. I’ve never really talked to him, and he’s been here for over a week. He just seems so tense. He doesn’t seem to get that this is a serious thing. I do think I’m lucky in a way. I had a frightening thing happen: I had my stomach pumped. It was a fairly graphic illustration that my way wasn’t working. If I had to have my stomach pumped the last time I took drugs, why should I think the next time I could take a normal amount? And just what is a “normal amount” of Percodan? Alex probably still thinks he can take normal amounts of cocaine. There but for the grace of overdose go I.