Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [20]
A welcome tumbler of Dewar’s on the rocks is substituted with a sealed pint of whole milk.
Behind the assembly line, the room is filled with round tables, all of them on wheels. I follow Bobby and Kavi and sit with them because they are familiar, and therefore less of a threat than the other patients.
I look at my tray and think, $13,000 a week for a deep-fried fish sandwich?
Then I get it.
Before they can build you up, they’ve got to break you down. Crush you into small, manageable pieces and then reassemble you as a new, better and nonalcoholic member of society. The pulverizing begins here. I eat only the red Jell-O.
Big Bobby notices. “Hey, aren’t ya hungry?” he says, real upbeat and hopeful.
“No,” I say, “not really.”
Then his large paw reaches over the McFishThing and hovers there. “You mind, then?”
I tell him to go for it.
He plucks the sandwich up and consumes it in three wide, experienced bites. “I love the food here,” he says, still chewing. He is a polite Ignatius from A Confederacy of Dunces.
“You have a sesame seed on your lip,” I tell him.
His wide, meaty tongue darts out and snatches it with expert skill.
While Big Bobby swallows, Kavi sucks on his pinkie. He watches me intently. He’s a sex addict, I remember. And suddenly, he ceases being a person and takes on the appearance of an anonymous roadside restroom stall. The kind used by passing truckers for quick sex with people like Kavi. Yellow, I believe. Kavi would be a yellow stall with no lock.
I glance at my watch; it’s just before two in the afternoon. I haven’t even been here an hour and a half and already I’m thinking it’s not going to work out. I could get sober in New York, on my own. Take the thirty days off from work. Do my own minirehab. Buy some self-help books and maybe go to AA meetings. I feel sure I could become sober on my own now, after seeing this place. I think it’s quite possible I have been “scared straight” in only a matter of hours. The only person ever to be spontaneously cured of alcoholism. I decide to be fair, I will give it one day.
That seems more than fair. That seems outlandishly generous.
After lunch, I go to “Group.” My particular group has about twenty patients in it, plus David, the chemical dependency counselor. David is almost handsome. But he also looks borderline homeless with his greasy hair and untucked shirt. I calculate that for me, he is two light beers away from being doable. And nine away from being a Baldwin brother.
We sit upstairs in a circle we have made by dragging chairs and sofas across the thick gray indoor/outdoor carpeting and forming a cozy little “safe” area. I look for Big Bobby, but he’s not here. He must be in the other group, down the hall. Or he’s crouched under one of the tables in the cafeteria licking the floor.
David says, “Okay, Augusten is new today, so let’s go over the rules of Group. Would anyone like to begin?”
An enormous woman with very sad eyes raises her plump hand.
“Great, Marion, thank you,” says David. He smiles at her with a potty-training grin.
I begin to feel a small, creepy feeling start up my legs.
Marion looks at the floor as she speaks. Each time she names something from the list, I see a finger extend from her fist, so she’s counting off the fine points like a child learning math. “There is no eating in Group. You can bring a beverage. There’s no crosstalk. When somebody’s talking, you never interrupt them. You let them finish before you speak. Also, if somebody starts