Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [18]
My room, like the others, has three beds, each a single.
“Here you go, sweetie,” Sue says as she hands me a folded white terry cloth towel. On top is a thick blue bible-ish looking book called, cleverly, Alcoholics Anonymous. She also hands me a pair of paper slippers. “I’ll give you five minutes to freshen up and then we’ll get started,” she says as she leaves. “Oh, by the way, this door is never to be closed, never.” There is threat in her voice. But then she adds happily, “See ya in a few.”
I take off my leather jacket, hang it on the hook next to the mirror above the sink and sit on the bed. The sheets are paperthin, smell of bleach. Not Rain Fresh bleach, or Lemon Summer bleach—these sheets smell like Acme Institution Supply bleach.
There is one flat foam pillow. A framed print of a single footstep in the sand with a rainbow emanating from the sole hangs at the head of my bed, crooked. Printed below the footstep is the phrase, A JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND MILES BEGINS WITH A SINGLE STEP.
I stand up, look out the window. It’s a ground-level view of the backyard of the institute; dirt with a picnic table, cigarette butts scattered all about. In the distance, I can see a small creek and beyond that, more industrial park.
Liz Taylor wouldn’t be caught dead here.
I notice that one of the other two beds is unmade, luggage haphazardly stuffed beneath it. How perfect. One roommate, with the threat of a third.
“Knock, knock,” Sue says at my door.
I spin around, alarmed.
“All set?”
I nod, since I am now a mute.
Sue leads me into the conversion pit, which is empty. She explains that the other patients are upstairs in “group” and that they should be down in about ten minutes and then there will be lunch in the cafeteria.
She points to a folding chair next to what appears to be a substandard airport bar, like what one might encounter at the Kitty Hawk Lounge in the Fresno airport. But it’s actually a freestanding nurses’ station.
Nurse Peggy appears from nowhere, her great whiteness causing me to squint. She is unnaturally happy as she tells me to roll up my sleeve so she can take my blood pressure. As I roll, she slides an electronic thermometer into my mouth and looks down at me. She smiles. The thermometer beeps and she withdraws it. Next, she wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm and pumps. She releases the valve with a hiss. She frowns.
“Hmmm, that reading was a little high, so I’m going to take it again, okay? This time I’d like you to do a little something for me. Just sit back, close your eyes and relax. Try to think of something calming.”
I think of an icy martini, single olive dead center at the bottom. There’s a gentle quiver of the surface tension as the liquid threatens to—but doesn’t—spill over the edges.
She takes my blood pressure again.
As she folds the blood pressure apparatus into the pocket of her uniform she explains that my pressure is very high. “I’d like to give you a Librium to calm you down. What we don’t want is for you to go into physical shock from the alcohol withdrawal, as that would be a dangerous situation and we’d have to send you to the emergency room at St. Jude’s by ambulance.”
My blood pressure skyrockets as she leaves to retrieve the pill.
And then I think, Wait a minute here: Librium? The pill commonly known as Mother’s Little Helper? I feel certain that had I chosen to go to a normal, straight rehab I would not be given Mother’s Little Helper to lower my