"So whereya been?" I asked, trying to divert my mind from the demon ghost I had just seen AND BEEN SEEN BY."Oh," Bobby sighed in resignation and began telling me in a tone of voice as if he had told this story a hundred times before and was tired of telling it: "Oh, I got a motel room and a hooker, a cute 22 year-old. She was really cute, and I've been crackin', WE were crackin' all day, all night, all weekend. Same old crackhead story," he added apologetically.
"Whatcha gonna do now?" I asked.
"Crack," he quipped.
Two of his RTC buddies came running into the quad and called him out there (we're none of us allowed to go into rooms we don't live in here at the dorm).
"Robert," I heard one of them say, "Let's get you into another recovery program, buddy!"
Robert said something I couldn't make out from my bed.
"Oh look. He's still spinning, man! You want help or not?" another voice said.
Robert said something I couldn't make out.
"Don't waste my time, Robert," one of them said loudly, "SHIT! You want help, you know where it is!" The RTC guys left.
One of the RAs came in. "We can get you in to a program, man, Allya gotta do is ask. You wanna do that? Just ask?"
Robert said something I couldn't make out. Then he came back in the room and resumed packing.
"Maybe I'll go to Mexico," he said. I was still thinking about that thing on him that had looked at me.
"How could I live in Mexico, James?"
I told Bobby I could hook him up with a guy who knew how to buy Chinese shoes, put 'Made In America' labels on and sell them to the Mexican tourists for a 500% markup. You have to know the right Mexican Customs guy to bribe, though.
"I probably don't have enough money to stay down there," Bobby said, "I'll probably smoke it up in crack the next coupla days. Then what?"
"The Haven," I said, "Then you gotta go to The Haven. Why don't you go now and save yourself a coupla days of spinning?"
Bobby was down on his hands and knees looking under my bed.
"Hey! Are you CRUMBING!" I joked.
Bobby laughed. "No, just checking to make sure I didn't leave anything under your bed, bro."
Bobby got most of his stuff packed quickly and neatly. When he picked up his organizer, the fancy multipocketed calendar minder he'd gotten only a week before, the one he'd happily bought to organize his recovery from drug addiction, he said, "My organizer. What am I going to need this for now? What am I going to do? Open it up to Wednesday to see what I have scheduled for that day? What's it going to say for Wednesday? "Do Crack!" ?"
I laughed, "Thursday: do more crack!"
Bobby laughed, "Friday: don't forget to do crack!"
We both rolled with laughter, "The Crack Organizer," we both said at the same time.
Desperate, dark humor. That's what straight and sober vets have in common with thinking crackheads.
"If I knew I was going out like this, I'd a bought a cheaper crack organizer," Bobby said, "Instead of 365 pages, all I needed is the one (which reads) . . ."
"Do crack!" we both said again.
END PART TWO OF THREE
No comments:
Post a Comment