Rehab

“Nigga, you just pissed yourself” she said looking at me. I looked down at my pants in panic but they were dry. I turned around and noticed the man in the wheel chair. I wondered how I didn’t notice him before. I guess I got caught up deciding which gallon of poison I wanted for the weekend from Crazy Chicken liquor store. The guy in the wheel chair, I thought he was just retarded but turned out he was very drunk. Ironically next door were they the AA meetings. I wonder if he had wondered off. I looked down at his crotch, indeed he had pissed himself but that wasn’t his major concern. His mission was more liquor. He was tattered like an overdue heating bill that fell on a muddy ground and decides it doesn’t need to be paid. He looked like there was no recovery for his suffering. I laughed. It was so sad watching him struggling to count the change in his hand and gather the strength to place it on the counter. He was in a damn wheel chair. At least it was electronic. I couldn’t figure how he even managed to get himself into the store or how he will manage to get himself wherever-- if he succeeded getting more liquor. So I laughed. I watched in awe for ten minutes. I was actually rooting for him. I also wanted to see if the liquor store clerk would take his money. Then I got bored. He passed out in his chair. I decided I would drink rum that weekend. It was an oldie but goodie.
I finally reached home from another day “it pays the bills” work to find two pieces of philosophically related mail in the mailbox. I had been looking for a refund check for weeks, instead I found a jury duty notice and a large envelope with the big letters “ADDICTION.” I immediately started thinking of ways of how to get out of my social responsibility. I figured I’d keep postponing it until they arrest me or dismiss me. The envelope titled “ADDICTION” intrigued me. I looked at the other mailboxes and it wasn’t just me. Everybody got the mysterious “ADDICTION” envelope. I suspected from the strange smell that my downstairs neighbor liked the green boogey man. From the trash, I knew the guy next door really liked wine but I never saw him drunk, just dozen of bottles when he recycled. Drunks don’t recycle. I took the mail and quickly got into my apartment. My neighbors’ schedules are annoying close to mine and I do everything in my power to avoid them. I hate the friendly chatter. I rather pretend they didn’t exist.

Inside my apartment, I first make myself a cocktail. I sip it quickly, feeling as if I deserved it since it was Friday and I made it through another week without getting fired. I start removing the uniform (blazer, tie, dress shirt and pants and dress shoes.). I feel better just in my underwear and I turn on the TV to the cartoon channel and begin reading my mail. I wanted to know who was calling me an addict.
Thanks to Oprah we all now live in a rehab culture. Everybody is an addict. If you cheat on your wife you are a sex addict. If you were a child star you are an addict. If you drink too much and piss on yourself that one time at Mardi Gras you are an addict. If you have a couple of beers after work some talk show host will say you’re an addict. If you cheat on your wife, you’re an addict. Too many damn addicts and fat people in America.

I started reading the letter and it was about if I knew someone or myself that might have a problem with a bad habit. I knew plenty of people but I was no snitch. I didn’t want them straightened out. It’s like the jolly fat friend who gets skinny and suddenly becomes a mega bitch. I detest the reborn.

I attended an AA meeting for six days when my landlord and some dramatic tenants got together and scheduled a spontaneous intervention. I was told I needed document proof of “getting help” or he would have to end my lease. I felt insulted. I was never late on my rent, so what if I took it a little far some weekends. The ring leader was some old pothead lesbian. She caught me pissing in her welcoming plant in front of her door. I’d done it so many times I can’t remember but that night she caught me. Another neighbor said she was tired of my cat howling at 4 in the morning. She didn’t understand that if I was still drinking at 3 in the morning I became an alley cat. It wasn’t irrational. So to prove them wrong, I stopped drinking and went to AA.
AA was like the church of my childhood, mostly fake and a bunch of people who just like to hear themselves talk. I would listen to the stories of angry drunks who beat their wives, those who blacked out or ended up in the hospital or jail or sometimes the mental institution. They seem so far right of the spectrum. I just got caught pissing in my neighbors plants. I felt it could be worse. Feeling inadequate, I started to lie. I’d make up stories about getting so drunk and kidnapping homeless men and keeping them in my basement. I say I once drank a gallon in three hours. I just wanted to hear myself talk.

Being sober, I just needed the attention more. I guess I was addicted to irrationality.

They say people who go to jail are never rehabilitated but just learn to be better criminals and not get caught. In AA I learned how to become a better drunk. I learned we live in a rehab culture where any sign of disturbing the peace demands “get so help.” Which means, I need for you to shut the fuck up, or I need for you to stop ruining my silence. I am just trying to get out of this life