CH. 6

6.

Rehab was a lot of fun, to be bluntly honest, it was a blast. I’m hi when I’m sober and I’m sober when I’m hi. Inflight they played the Baraka film, I still had Valium; it was pleasing.

Checking in they took my pills and my harmonica, my books and my discs, and pretty much everything but some clothes and my toothbrush; I wish I could do that again.

Adam had been through eleven rehabilitation processes of all sorts, been diagnosed with dissociative schizophrenia, and was a man of the rock. He knew many Pink Floyd tunes, even if he didn’t know any English. I translated for him; don’t know if that messed him up further or healed a little something, to me it was the later. He had a story to tell, and was always willing to tell everybody all about it, I guess he was trying to make it all sound just like a story. His older brother had been buried in the sand, up to his neck, by some kids, as a prank, and they only laughed even harder as he yelled for help because little crabs were biting his skin. Years later, that same boy, was doing mushrooms and smoking crack in his room, when he saw a menacing giant crab charging towards him. He took a baseball bat and hit the beast as hard as he could, over and over again. Adam was only nine when he walked into his house and saw his brother still striking at their mother’s red corpse. If that don’t make you smoke dope, I don’t know what does.

Droopey went through eleven grams of blow a day, for eleven years, before getting dropped in. He needed all kinds of reconstructive stuff done all over his façade since the cocaine agglutinants had corroded most of the bone; there were three or four teeth left in that face, and that is, if you were to call that a face. His mother was a man looking dealer that stroke with coat hangers every time she caught him with the hands in the cookie jar, and then did lines together, not before though, she raped him with bottles.

Stella married eleven years before, as a teenager, to a grown up prick that pulled the pipe out on their wedding night, and apparently didn’t let go of it until only recently when he overdosed and died, convulsing and spitting foam on her arms. She hung out with some other chick that was a psytrance deejay, had aids, bad hair, and had been gangbanged several times. Stella had big tits; I grabbed them a couple of times.

-“Hello, my name is Ralph, I’m an addict.”- He was the first one to eruct that phrase in the dodgy little ritual that I was in. -“There are two errors clearly visible in what I just heard.”- I thought. –“For starters, Ralph is not your name, it was appointed to you, you may very well own it, or not, and you say you’re an addict huh? Well, elementally my dear Watson, you’re a human being; it comes inherent. I would like to see you try and overcome your addiction to water, see how it goes. Feces can be utterly addictive to some too, so think about it, it’s all relative really. Rather tell me what you’ve done of yourself.”- Then he started to go on about his story, it was funny and we were allowed to laugh; amusing. He moaned about how all he could remember about his son’s baptism was his father in law striking him on the shoulder. –“Jesus Christ Ralph, can’t you even stay awake for a goddam picture? What are you stoned? Wake up Ralph! Who did my daughter marry? Who the fuck are you Ralph?”-

Ralph used to do more benzodiazepines than morning corn flakes in a bowl, all the time. Lilac was into those little fuckers too, big time. I have to say, that at least to this obsessive observer, I could perceive much more hope coming out of Adam’s eyes, easily; they were the worst cases around. I mean, a quick stare at any of them pair of lost souls and anyone would go: -“Fuck, that mate is fucked, I mean, really fucked, properly fucked, for real.”- Perceivable scalpel sharp anxiety coming out of every shaky pore of an itchy skin covering a body, with an earthquake inside, taking languishingly long pauses in between all of that, to try and communicate pathetically. Disgustingly ironic how, even in the dream team of consumers that I was in, the ones that seemed to be more affected by their consumption, bought their fix on a pharmacy, and not, from a gun handling criminal.

The most ghastly kind of a wool vest smuck was assigned to me as my personal counselor in individual therapy.

-“Are you gay?”-

-“No mate, I’m not.”-

-“Are you sure?”-

-“Yes”-

-“Have you ever wanted to?”-

-“No, have you?”-

-“This isn’t about me, it’s about you.”-

-“Okay, no.”-

-“Have you ever fantasized of a penis?”-

-“For fuck’s sake’s mate are you for real? No, but I can tell from a mile away that you have.”-

-“This isn’t how this session is supposed to go; I just needed to clear the air on that one.”-

-“Clear the air? I still control my gas you know. You’re dam right this isn’t how it is supposed to go; I want another counselor.”-

The other bloke had lost his ranch to liquor, didn’t wear a vest, wasn’t some kind of pervert, and was moderately articulate; we were able to talk. He told me about a time that he’d been smoking from the can for weeks and his dealer felt sorry for him and took him out to get something to eat. They went to a seafood joint where he thought it would be a very good idea to take a bite out of a jalapeño with the inside of his mouth all splintered up by heavy smoke, that was a laugh. He then told me that I was going to fail, almost everybody in there told me that I was going to fail, even the ones that didn’t say so.     

-“You’ve got the face of a brat that just don’t give a fuck about nothing.”- One said.

-“You have no respect for the treatment; actually, you have no respect whatsoever.”- Another.

-“As soon as they open that door for you, drugs.”- A few.

 -“I just don’t like you.”-

That last one would’ve been the elephant bloke. Teb was born the primogenitor of some rich folks. Power fingers were pointed so that he could have all kinds of diplomatic duties around the world, banqueting and getting to know very interesting people. The two most fascinating persons he ever met where in Colombia; cocaine and a prostitute, in plural. –“As cheap as peanuts”- He would’ve recalled melancholically. After doing enough of both to completely shit kick his thyroid, started growing bigger and bigger by the second, no regression foreseeable. He had a room, with a pair of coupled beds, all to himself, since the sound of his snorting could make a plastic cup shake, and that’s no exaggeration.

I shagged a girl while I was in there. She had eyes of honey, nose and mouth like a hoover, and used to give me blowjobs, right after chewing mints, whenever we were allowed to watch The Simpsons in the dark. She got kicked out because of it. I didn’t. –“You’ve been kicked out of every place you’ve ever stepped foot in. You won’t have it your way this time; instead, you’re staying here for a couple more weeks.”- Headmaster told me, he also said my dad argued he wasn’t ready to receive me at home just yet. What a repulsive person I must’ve been.

I almost had it with another girl, a therapist with mushroom tattoos, a horny voice, and in charge of the so called meditations. She was heartbroken when she heard that I’d done the honey; consequentially also told me that I was going to fail. Her mother gave some piercing massages that made me yell my freaking lungs out and were relieving. She was also in charge of The Chair; the juror of the junkie court room. An exercise we were though to fear since the very beginning of treatment. A session when only one sits on the solo chair in front of the whole congregation, a large piece of paper is laid out so that everybody can come and write on it the culprit’s worst defects, the most awful but truthful thing they could think of him after days and days of listening to every detail of his life.

-“Fearful”- -“Liar”- -“Fake Casanova”- -“Ungrateful”- -“Traitor”- -“Macho”- -“Life Spender”- -“Dependent”- -“Useless”-

-“You’ve said you want to be a writer, and I’ve never seen you write a single letter.”- A singer that never sang told me.

Audience was also allowed to stick post-it’s of whatever words they felt identified with the accused. Droopey went ahead and posted Obsessive-Compulsive on my chest. Coming from a man whose face had been blown away by himself, it made me come to a realization, everybody is a junkie; everybody should go to rehab.

After all those hours of listening to all talking about themselves, including myself, I’d finally learned a little bit about me, therefore others.

They opened the door and I didn’t go straight for drugs, I went straight to the airport while taxi driver told me about a lady that paid him to hear her drinking. I told the air hostess, that wasn’t fit, that I wanted to be a pilot, tell the pilots. I sat on a third folding seat in the cockpit. We talked about the impossibility of having a plane of their own, on their salary, right after I asked if they had. -“This is my bitch right here, I don’t need nothing else.”- Pilot said tapping on the controls as copilot smiled. –“You must make a great husband.”- I replied and the three of us laughed.

–“Three hundred meters”- The plane literally told us as we were coming closer to landing. –“Two hundred meters”- -“One hundred meters”- -“Contact”-

-“Pretty smooth, I could be I pilot.”- I thought.

-“I want to be a pilot.”- Not even a twitch from dad; and that’s no exaggeration.

I got myself an AA group, as soon as I got home, as instructed. –“Today I would like to thank God again.”- Said the so called leader of the joint. –“It’s only because of my superior power that I can breathe. Twenty five years ago I had my last drink, since then I live in a back room of my mother’s house and eat with whatever money she can spare me. Every day I thank the lord for giving me the strength to go through it without a drink, so here I am, just for today, thank you god.”- The inactive drunkards applauded.

–“Jesus mate, have a pint if you must, get off your lazy cunt though, and leave your poor old mother alone, you bastard.”- I thought, but did go back the next day, and the one after that, on Christmas day and New Year’s Eve, and the following six months or so. My days were all about nicotine, caffeine, infomercials, and waking up, barely and only, to go to group. That drove my mother mad; so far that one day she told me how much she wished that I was never born, since I’m a demon.

I remember that only now, eight years later, while pushing these keys. What does a man have to do to be said something like that? Or is it that time simply turns life bonkers horrible? I’m guessing that I wasn’t ready for those questions then, so my mind, self defensively, blocked. But why of all times now, when I was starting to feel that I could close all of this shit up, all engines forward. I don’t think I’ve ever said anything so potentially harmful to anyone I care for, or to anyone for that matter and I wish I never will. I love her profoundly and forever and I know she does too. Is it irony or logic?

It did get me off my feet, out of my lock up, and on an electronic dance floor; a place were very few judgments seemed to apply. I went to my first proper deejay gigs without doing the fun drugs but still being accepted basically because I danced with the rest. Appreciation was back after months of apathy.

I started training, again, and I went to the real Vegas once, not before though, I sent emails to some promoters. A guy called Butch picked me up on a dark green Crown Victoria and took me to a place that used to be a hangar but had been modified to accommodate the largest boxing gym these eyes have ever seen; magnificent. Eddie “The Flame” Mustafa Muhammad, ex-heavyweight champion of the world, was waiting for me on a ring. –“Are you sure you want to do this?”- He asked as I was climbing in. –“Fuck yeah I’m sure I want do this.”- He studied my stand, told me that I had to lose some weight, also that everything is about balance, and then gave Butch the nod that meant that I was good enough to be offered a contract. The following day we went to the Klitschko-Brewster press conference. I heard the Don speak endlessly about pretty much nothing while I munched salad from the buffet. Then it was Brewster’s time to talk. –“I don’t care if this guy has a PHD, I’m going be knocking on the head that learned it anyway.”-

We walked the huge halls of the Mandalay Bay up to the arena; what a striking view, empty, ring in the middle. Equipment had been laid out for public training sessions; I went for the speed bag for a minute.

I pumped fists with Spinks on our way out. Butch introduced me as a prospect fighter; that felt amazing.

-“I’ve got it all figured out by now.”- Butch said to me as he was giving me a t-shirt, a cap, and a training contract, outside the MGM. –“We’ve arranged for a place where you can live, train, and follow the diet. Think about it and let us know.”-

I felt like going out that night, after all, I was a superstar in the making. They wouldn’t let me in the club since I wasn’t twenty one so I went to the rollercoaster and then to a Texas table. Before I even got any cards a pair of titties placed a vodka tonic in front of me. –“There you go honey.”- Menacing vibrations all around me indeed; what happens in Vegas don´t stay in Vegas; that was my first drink in a while. I never saw Butch again or even read the contract for that matter, and Brewster did get Klitschko, right in the PHD, at least that time.

Back home, one day, I went to some place with turntables. Once I laid my hands on that perfect duality of an instrument, I knew that was it.

Oliver is my mate; we were close since the times of The ETS and up to this day. He and I found a scent of freedom in electronic music that we followed passionately. His dad had some sort of a real estate business, so we had access to all kinds of properties were we threw some amazing parties. Places with no law and raving vibrations where people went and tried to feel happy for a beat. We’d created some kind of movement and we were living all for it. Music united all kinds of people with the same simple purpose of loving something and we were all surrounded by those hopeful entities, and we were them too; we were never lonely.

The day came when my mother found a roach, or something, and told me to get out of her house. I sold a gold coin that my dad gave me for my mid school graduation when I was fourteen, that’s as far as I’ve gone with graduations, went to say my goodbyes to the ravers that united and conspired with me, and a Rasta mate, whose name I don’t know, drove me to the bus station. I got to Mexico City, crossed it, took another bus to the Pacific, the back of a little truck, and finally hung my hammock in the middle of a bay with a turtle name, and laid there for three months.

The revolution of the hammock, I named, that supertramp time of my life. I met a gorgeous girl called Becky; she used to sunbath on my view, gold, white foam and bikini. I wrote her a poem and gave it to her with a ring that I’d found buried underneath me and it’s design reminded me of Da Vinci’s drawing of impossible continuous movement. I didn’t tap her though. Sitting while should’ve been dancing kind of situation. One day, probably when she reads this; narcissistic fuck that I’m.

I also met an old alcoholic, Darío, waiting to die, waiting happily though, because he had mescal. We used to sip on it together, staring at the line, and he would tell me things of wisdom, like the fact that a coconut’s shell, takes a long time to dry, but only when it is, it’s hard enough to work on it, and make something out of it, like the bowl that I wanted to carve and use to clean her before I rolled her.

A Spaniard gave me acid that I took with the dark side of the moon on the ear pieces and an ocean that suddenly backed away until it showed me all of its sharp rocks covered with life and then slowly came back to touch my feet and told me: -“Wake up”-

A triad of Manchester girls, a funny Australian, and one hell of a dreamer of an Englishman, hung their hammocks close to mine. They listened to something I wrote as I translated, Impulse Therefore Death, they seemed to like it, I finished it later; they all made part of it.   

I met Annchu at night, on the beach, with the drums, the fire, the stars, and our hands making figures with the sand. She was so exquisite, remembrance still makes me rev. A face so neat; could’ve been used by a master painter to measure the basis of symmetrical beauty. She left the next morning before I woke up, all I knew was that she was going south through Chiapas, so I hitchhiked my way down. I found her in Palenque the night of the day that I was reborn.