A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [178]
For the first time since I have been here, and it feels as if I have been here forever forever for fifty fucking years forever, everyone on the Unit is smiling and everyone seems happy. Men are talking and laughing and interacting with each other. Not one word of what they are talking about and laughing about has anything to do with addiction or Alcoholism or the loss of Job and Family. Men are moving around, breaking down the barriers of the small groups we congregate in, the small cliques that exist within the Unit, and the movement has nothing to do with anything other than having a good time. Our pasts are nonexistent, our futures but a distant fear. Our anger and our hatred, our failure and our shame, our regret and our horror and the humiliation we all live with has been forgotten. The fact that not a single one of us is healthy in mind or in body or in any identifiable way is completely ignored. Right now we are like men all over the Country all over the World eating and having fun getting ready to watch the fight. We are not in a Treatment Center and we are not fucked up. We are men eating and having fun and getting ready to watch the fight. I want food myself, but watching this is beautiful. Beautiful.
I hear someone call my name once twice. I look over at one of the couches Leonard is calling my name. He motions to an empty place next to him and tells me he’s been saving it for me, I should get some food and enjoy the night. I smile and I start walking toward the banquet tables. As I pass a table just before the stairs I see the Man with No Arms. There is no one near him. He is sitting alone.
Hey.
He looks up at me. His eyes are dead.
You want me to get you some food?
He stares at me.
I’ll bring you a plate of whatever you want. Help you with it if you need the help.
He laughs.
Fuck you, man.
What?
This is all bullshit, man. This whole fucking thing.
What’s that supposed to mean?
This is all pretend. Most of these fuckers are going to be dead or using within the next six months. This all a fucking joke.
You want some food or not?
I want some fucking smack. You get me that?
Sorry.
I start to walk away.
I want some fucking smack, Motherfucker. You get me that?
I walk down the stairs. I ignore him. As I get in line to get some food, I hear him push his chair away and say fuck you, fuck all of you. I get a plate and a huge porterhouse and a bright red lobster and a baked potato. I cut the potato open and I cover it with slices of butter and a spoonful of sour cream. I don’t bother with the salad. At the end of the table there is a cooler filled with soda and I take a can of root beer. Root beer will be fine.
I sit down next to Leonard and I start eating. As I do, I listen to him and Matty and a Pediatrician who is Addicted to Xanax and a Corporate Lawyer who is a Crackhead talk about the fight. Matty is still rooting for the smaller of the men, Leonard for the bigger. The Doctor talks about the blows to the head that both men have taken and the seriousness of the blows relative to their size. He predicts the larger man will win. The Lawyer says the smaller. He feels it in his gut.
I eat slowly. I start with the steak, cut it into pieces, cut those pieces into smaller pieces. I eat the pieces one at time, occasionally putting some potato on top, occasionally dipping my fork into the butter and sour cream. I hold each bite and I let it dissolve. I let the flavor of the rare red meat sink into my tongue, I let the juices fill my mouth. It is a fight not to eat more, to eat three or four pieces at a time, to eat five steaks or maybe ten or as many as I can get, but it is not