Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [37]
“How’d you lose your apartment? What happened?”
He takes a sip of coffee, sighs. “To be honest, I lost it because of crack cocaine. I was seven months behind in my rent, spending every penny I had on the crack, and I was evicted. Just before coming here, I was staying at a friend’s house, under the condition that I stop smoking immediately. And, well . . . I didn’t—couldn’t stop. So my friend I was staying with, he and a couple of other friends basically forced me into rehab.”
“They forced you?” I ask.
“Yes, they threatened to report me to immigration. See, I’ve been here in the states for seven years, illegally. They said that if I didn’t check into a rehab hospital at once, they would have me deported.”
Me too, sort of, I think. Rehab or expulsion from my cushy job. “So it’s crack, not alcohol?”
“Well, no, that too.” He looks like a guilty child. A guilty child in his early thirties.
“So in a nutshell, you’re a British illegal alien crack addict alcoholic, recently evicted from his New York City apartment,” I say.
He smiles mischievously. “Yes, that just about sums me up at the moment.”
From my vantage point at the picnic table, I can see people inside filing up the stairs. I catch a glimpse of a floppy blue ear. “Oh, it’s time for Affirmations. Prepare yourself for the unimaginable.”
He looks at me warily.
We head upstairs to join the others. Hayden sits across the room from me. Affirmations are as lame as always:
“I’d like to thank Sarah for giving me a hug at group today.”
“I’d like to thank the group for accepting me.”
“I’d like to thank Paul for brewing a fresh pot of coffee.”
Pregnant Paul just gazes at the reflection in the window, like always. I get the feeling he’s here, but not really here. Like he’s pregnant with himself and hasn’t given birth yet.
When it’s time to sing the song about the codependent plush toys, I repress an evil smile and just watch.
The instant after the stuffed animals are dropped onto his lap, Hayden stands up and storms out of the room and down the stairs. We all gawk at his empty chair.
The counselor says, “Okay everybody, let’s continue, let’s just finish our affirmations.”
After Group, I walk extra slowly past the nurses’ station on the way to my room. The door is closed and Hayden is standing there talking to two of the counselors, making exaggerated hand gestures. He looks furious. Both of the stuffed animals are sitting on top of one of the desks, like confiscated evidence.
Dr. Valium walks into our room, flops on his bed. “It looks like our new friend isn’t pleased with his first hour in rehab.” He smiles wickedly.
“I can’t imagine why not,” I say.
“It really is an embarrassment,” he adds and picks up his copy of Psychology Today.
I want to say something to him, but am not sure quite how. “Do you really think you’ll lose your license?”
He looks up from the magazine. He takes a breath, then lets it out slowly. “I think it’s really possible.”
And then I get an anxious feeling. What if I make it through rehab, and they still fire me? They could easily say they got along just fine without me. Word would spread quickly. No other ad agency would touch me.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and consider this. Until now, it hadn’t really seemed like something that could actually happen. But if it can happen to a doctor? And to a WASP? And to a flight attendant . . . ?
After a while, Big Bobby comes in, sits on his bed. “Gosh, you guys, what do you think is happening in the nurses’ station with the new guy?”
I answer without looking up from my notebook (in which I am writing feverishly), “The fucking stuffed animal thing. He’s probably freaked out by it.” I have always kept a journal. Before I could write, I had a blue tape recorder that I came to see as a friend whom I could tell anything.
“Gee, that sure is too bad. I hope he gives us a chance.” His stomach makes a loud rumble. “Anybody want anything from the kitchen?” he asks.