We All Fall Down

  Goddamn, I still want her so much.

  She can’t be the one to leave me.

  She just can’t.

  So I will leave her.

  I won’t call her—not ever again.

  It’s over.

  I’m gonna start telling people today.

  I mean, I’m gonna go do it right now.

  So I walk up to the smoke pit.

  It’s been over a month of this shit already.

  It’s time to end it.

  Ch.2

  The Safe Passage Center in Arizona is basically just made up of a bunch of cheaply constructed little boxes on the top of a barren, dry, dust-blown hilltop about an hour and a half away from Phoenix. All the groups and weird, New Age-y therapies are held in these sort of converted trailers at the base of the property. The clients, or patients, or whatever we’re called, all stay in a bunch of shoddily built imitation log cabins—usually three people per room. The only privacy comes from a cheap wooden screen set up between the beds. I actually try to spend as little time in my room as possible. It’s pretty depressing in there. Plus, whenever either of my roommates comes in, I get stuck talking to him forever. Mostly, I just hang out in the main lodge—playing board games—trying to teach myself guitar on this acoustic six-string someone left behind. One of the rooms has a fireplace and, for some reason, my friend David has taken it on himself to make sure the thing is blazing constantly. Hell, I’m fucking grateful. Being by the fire’s about the only way I can get warm ’round here ever. The unrelenting December wind tears through my skin and bleeds out my veins. The parched, frozen earth drains the last embers of heat from inside me.

  But the fire heals. And around the fire my new friends and I spend hours laughing and messing around like little kids again—everything pure—unrestrained—stripped wide open. David, the fire builder, does a rockin’ Johnny Cash imitation, so I’ve taught myself to play a few songs—“Boy Named Sue,” “Folsom Prison,” “Ring of Fire”—and we have us some good old-fashioned sing-alongs. Another friend of mine, Jason, has been teachin’ me how to get better at Scrabble. But most of the time, well, we just talk is all. We sit around, tell stories, try ’n’ figure out what the hell we’re doing in this goddamn place, how we got here. And then, of course, we do spend a good bit of time talkin’ shit about other patients and staff members. I mean, we gossip a fair amount—maybe more’n we should. But, fuck, you know, what the hell else is there to do trapped up here on this goddamn compound? Besides, we gotta keep from getting too indoctrinated with all their cult bullshit. Hell, they even have their own way of speaking here—little catchphrases—ways of expressing themselves that everyone ends up adopting before they leave.

  Like, check it out, instead of saying “I think,” we say “I make up.” As in, “I make up that Richard is avoiding talking about the real issue.” But, actually, we’re only supposed to use “I” statements. So what we really say is, “What I make up is that, for me, I always want to avoid talking about the real issues, so maybe that’s what’s going on with Richard.”

  It’s all pretty annoying, but somehow we all end up buying into it.

  ’Cause see, the thing is, the people who come here aren’t just addicted to drugs, like in most rehabs. I mean, there’re some people who aren’t even addicts at all—they just have, like, mental problems—bipolar disorder, depression. When I first got here, there was this one woman who’d been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder. Some of ’em are recovering from serious sexual trauma and molestation. Some of ’em self-harm, or have eating disorders or sex and love addictions. Some of ’em think about killing themselves every single day. This one woman, Carol, is fifty and a virgin except for the three times she’s been raped. My friend Marc had been having sex with his older brother starting at, like, ten years old.

  Basically, it’s a lot of really delicate people. So the rehab has, like, five million rules designed to keep everyone safe. First of all, we’re not allowed to touch anyone—not even a handshake. If we wanna give someone a hug ’cause they’re leaving or something, we have to get a counselor’s assistant to come witness the, uh, transaction. We’re not allowed to keep any sharp objects in our rooms. We’re not allowed to watch R-rated movies. We’re not allowed cookies or ice cream or sugar cereal at all, ’cause of all the people with food issues. Exercise is allowed only with prior counselor approval for basically the same reason.

  Everything has to be supervised.

  We are like little children.

  And if I don’t comply, I’ll be told I have to stay longer—or, worse, I’ll be transferred to some even more militant institution.

  Because, like I said, I don’t have a penny to my name; I’m completely dependent financially on my family in terms of helping me start some sort of life after treatment. Problem is, my dad buys into this rehab shit so much that he’d do literally anything my counselor tells him. He’d leave me rotting here for the next ten years if she told him to.

  So I’ve gotta be good.

  I’ve gotta comply with all the goddamn rules—or, at least, not get caught breaking ’em.

  I’ve gotta tell ’em exactly what they want to hear so they can report back just how goddamn “well” I’ve gotten at their bullshit center.

  I mean, hell, I’ve been in and out of rehab so many times, it’s practically ingrained in me to lie about having “found my higher power” or about how much I’m getting out of working the twelve steps. They want me to say I’ve had a spiritual awakening, so I say I’ve had a spiritual awakening. They want me to say that making a “searching and fearless moral inventory” of myself—as we’re directed to do in Step 4—is some life-changing experience for me. So, yeah, I go on and tell ’em all about how powerful the whole thing was for me—even if, in truth, I didn’t feel anything at all and I never have. They don’t have any other solution they can suggest. If the twelve-step thing doesn’t work, well, they just won’t accept that.

  So I’ll tell ’em I’ve found God.

  I’ll tell ’em the steps are working for me.

  And I’ll tell them I’ve decided to leave Zelda.

  They’re gonna eat that shit up—the counselors—my friends here—everyone.

  Even if, like I said, she’s the one who hasn’t called me.

  I’m gonna make it so they all think it’s my decision.

  I’m going to show them how much I’ve changed—how healthy I’m becoming.

  So I walk up to the smoke pit—layered with a borrowed sweatshirt and jacket against the bitter desert winds. The only pants I have are my soon-to-be-ex’s tight-ass bell-bottoms. It wasn’t till I was already in Arizona that I realized my bag was filled with basically nothing but her clothing. I guess that’s what I get for letting her pack for me.

  Anyway, when I make it to the little smoking hut, Jonathan’s the only one who’s still there.

  I forgot we have our community meeting in, like, two minutes.

  Jonathan’s become a pretty good friend of mine. He’s a musician in his mid-forties with an odd-looking face—mostly because he was in a car accident as a teenager, and his parents forced him to undergo countless reconstruction surgeries, telling him they were necessary when they really just didn’t like the way he looked.

  Jonathan turned to alcohol and cocaine pretty hard-core once he came of age.

  But now he’s sober.

  Hell, he’s crafted himself as the goddamn poster boy for this rehab.

  And, for some reason, he seems to have adopted me as his little pet project—convinced he can save me, whatever that means.

  But, anyway, Jonathan is there, in the smoke pit, sitting cross-legged on one of the stained, dirty, what once must’ve been white plastic chairs.

  He smiles real big up at me—his wraparound dark glasses reflecting the faraway sun like spilled ink bleeding out in every direction.

  “Hey, little brother,” he says, his West Texas accent sounding almost like an imitation of itself. “Y
er goin’ to group, ain’t ya?”

  I nod. “For sure.”

  He hands me a cigarette before I can even ask for one—which I was about to.

  My broke-ass status is known to pretty much everyone.

  “Thanks, man,” I say, lighting the unfiltered Camel that’s strong as hell.

  I take a couple of drags, looking up at the clear, cold sky.

  “Jonathan.” I clear some shit outta my throat. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking a whole lot about what you’ve been saying. I mean, about the whole girlfriend situation and all.”

  He cuts me off before I can finish, holding up a hand like I’m some dog he’s commanding to “stay.”

  “Hey, come on, now,” he says, each word painfully drawn out. “That’s yer decision to make, and yers alone. I ain’t gonna think any less of you either way. That’s a promise.”

  I dig my beat-up old Jack Purcell sneaker into the dry, red earth—kicking up a thick smudge of dust—watching it drift slowly upward—suspended for a moment while the wind lies idle.

  My free hand reaches up to scratch at my ear needlessly.

  “Well,” I say, stuttering some, “I’ve decided. I mean, I’m going to end it. There’s no way we’ll ever be able to stay sober together—I see that now. And, besides, I really think I’m starting to understand what our relationship is all about. I mean, you’re right, we were totally just using each other. I honestly don’t think she’s even capable of love. I feel like… you know… I feel like loving Zelda is like trying to love a black hole. I can’t do it anymore. I have to end it.”

  I breathe out deep and long and slow.

  Fuck.

  Fucking, fuck.

  Jonathan pushes himself up from the chair.

  He takes off his sunglasses.

  I watch his pupils suck in all at once, retreating from the dull midmorning light.

  His head nods up and down—up and down.

  “Ain’t that somethin’? Well, little brother, I gotta admit, I sure am proud of you.”

  His blue, bright, almost transparent eyes are fixed on me, so I can’t help but turn away.

  “Man,” he says, “I know how hard it can be to break out of a messed-up relationship like that. Hell, my ex-wife and I are still playin’ the same fucked-up games we’ve been playin’ for the last ten years. Yer damn lucky, my friend, to be twenty-three and already starting to face this shit.”

  Before I even know what’s happening, he gives me a hug—ignoring that whole “no touch” policy thing.

  I hug him back—overwhelmed by the smell of pomade and whatever else he uses to keep his hair pressed down so goddamn flat.

  “This is yer chance, Nic, I hope you know that. I see the way you’ve been fightin’ this place. You’ve been fightin’ everything and everyone. And, hell, I don’t blame you at all. I mean, you remind me exactly of myself when I was yer age. I don’t know, maybe that’s why I wanna look out for you. I’m nearin’ on fifty years old. I’ve spent my whole life running from myself. I’ve wasted so much time. But I’m tellin’ you—right here—in this godforsaken place—where yer standing at twenty-three and I’m standing at forty-nine—this is where the answer is. You start opening up and doing all the shit they tell you, I guarantee, not only are you gonna stay sober, yer gonna come out of here lovin’ and respectin’ yourself like you never have in yer whole life.”

  He takes drags at the butt of his cigarette, exhaling loudly and saying, “Goddamn, do I wish I’d had this opportunity at your age.” And then, stamping out the cherry and putting his sunglasses back on, “You better not fuckin’ blow it, ya hear. I swear I’ll hunt your ass down.”

  He laughs and laughs at that, and I laugh, too, just ’cause it seems polite.

  “You can relax, little brother, the sermon’s over. Let’s get on to group, huh?”

  He starts off down the hill, but before he can get too far, I stop him, saying, “Hey, Jonathan.”

  He turns back, taking off his sunglasses again, I guess to show that he’s really listening.

  “I, uh… you know… thank you. I wanna change. I really do. And… well, I believe you that this is the place where that can happen.”

  He nods his head, smiling with his mouth closed.

  “It is, little brother. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  He turns away from me again.

  “Come on,” he calls back. “I’ll even bring out the guitars after dinner if you want. This is a day to celebrate.”

  I follow on down after him, feeling safe suddenly—like being curled up small—following him down to the group room in one of the converted trailers, and he opens the door and holds it for me to go past.

  We’re late, of course, but not by that much.

  Still, I’m sure I’ll get some shit for it from someone, so I don’t look around at all till I’ve already grabbed an open seat near the back.

  This guy Richard’s on one side of me—a fat creep who always wears one of those ridiculous Greek fisherman’s hats.

  He leans over and whispers, “You’re late,” in my ear.

  He laughs moronically, putting his elbow into my side.

  “Check out the new girl,” he says, gesturing with his bulbous head. “I bet she’s your type.”

  I tell him to shut up, but I still look just the same.

  A twisted cord lying loose in my stomach is pulled tight all at once.

  The girl’s around my age, for sure.

  Long, straight black hair—eyes almost feline.

  Pale, pale skin.

  Thick white cutting scars up and down her forearms.

  Fuck.

  I sit back in my chair.

  I know exactly what’s gonna happen.

  I breathe out.

  She introduces herself to the group as Sue Ellen.

  Her accent is very Southern.

  I study her face—pained, shy, uneasy.

  Her dark eyes catch mine.

  Fuck.

  Ch.3

  For some goddamn reason my counselor, Melonie, scheduled to meet me at seven thirty this morning.

  I gotta say, I’m pretty well convinced it’s ’cause I’m in trouble. I mean, that’s usually what my one-on-one counselor meetings are all about. I guess the way Melonie sees it is that I’m not taking this place seriously. So her solution is to sit there in her goddamn expensive-looking office chair—fat spilling out like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—smiling—doling out each new punishment with sociopathic calm—always knowing just how to fuck me the very fucking hardest.

  For a while I couldn’t have any kind of interaction with any kind of female on or off the premises—including phone calls—even with my goddamn mom.

  I wasn’t allowed to write in my notebook, play the guitar they have in the lodge, or read in my cabin.

  Her justification was that I was using all those things as a way of not facing my real issues.

  And, of course, she didn’t stop there.

  Like I said, before I relapsed I’d been writing a memoir for this publishing company in New York, and I’d actually finished about half of it before I started using again—going completely crazy—I mean, out of control. I’d call up my agent and editor totally incoherent, asking for money, rambling on about I-can’t-even-remember-what.

  Honestly, I thought I’d blown it.

  I couldn’t imagine them stickin’ by me through all this shit.

  But they have—I mean, since I first checked into detox—they’ve been nothing but supportive—calling and e-mailing me—encouraging me to take as much time as I need to get well.

  And, fuck, man, thank God.

  Writing my book—finishing it—getting it published—that’s, like, the one thing I have to hold on to. I mean, really, since I was, like, six years old, my dream has been to get a book published. The fact that I’ve gotten this far still seems like a total miracle.

  But, according to Melonie, as long as I’m thinking about writing my book, I’ll
never get better. She says it makes me see myself as a character in a story rather than a real person. She says the only reason I even want to write a book in the first place is to impress other people. She also says I’m using this whole book thing as a way of avoiding “what’s really going on.”

  Christ.

  I almost cried when she told me.

  “Nic,” she said, smiling all big but not like she meant it. “Writing a book is a fantasy. You know how many people actually make it as book writers?”

  My shoulders rose and then fell. My eyes rolled back.

  “No, I don’t,” I told her. “And I bet you don’t, either.”

  Her pig face went all scrunched up—globular, pale, fleshy cheeks flushed red—the black center of her mud-colored eyes fluttering back and forth.

  “N-n-no, I don’t. But I can tell you one thing for sure, it’s not many. The fact that you insist on maintaining this delusion of success for yourself only further demonstrates to me how narcissistic you really are. You still think you’re special—better than the rest of us. You think you’re too good for this place—too good for the twelve steps—too good for God. Well, I’ve been doing this work a long time, and I’ve met a lot of people, and I can tell you right now, Nic, you’re just about as average as they come. So you better stop thinking about what you’re gonna do when, or if, you get out of here, and start taking the work we’re doing here very, very seriously, or you’re not going to have any future to look forward to whatsoever.”

  She took some deep breaths like she was all winded or something.

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs and then crossed them again. My voice came out trembling—my teeth bit down together.

  “Yeah, no, I understand what you’re saying… and, uh, I agree, I am average. I mean, I’m less than average. I’m a total fucking mess—and, uh, I’ve always been a failure at everything. But writing, well, writing’s always been the one thing I could actually do, you know? It’s really the only chance I’ve got. Otherwise, I’m, like, totally unemployable and, uh, hopeless. So I’ve gotta keep trying to write. Even if I don’t make it, I mean, it’s worth taking a shot—’cause I’ve really got nothing else.”