My Funny Rehab Valentine
2.14.23
I’m grateful for a bright sunny morning. I’m grateful it’s Valentine’s Day. I’m grateful they are stocking the Vienna Roast at A&V again! I’m grateful for the Macgyver fix on my keyboard. I’m grateful for seeing what needs to happen. I’m grateful for the right people showing up. I’m grateful to be sober today.
“I had the weirdest dream last night,” I said shakily to A. as she brushed her teeth. She shot an expectant glance at me, “it was pretty bad. I dreamed that I was walking in Georgetown in the afternoon and saw you and N (her pesty ex-boyfriend) having lunch, there were shopping bags everywhere.” I paused for effect. “It was really horrible.”
She spat out toothpaste and coldly said, “oh, that is horrible, why are you always thinking about stuff like that?”
The reason at this moment was the email I had read as I snooped her phone while she was in the shower, an email setting a shopping and lunch date, not with me, for this Saturday. The dream was the smoke I was blowing into the beehive, to see what the Queen was really up to.
Here’s what happened: We drove the most awkward drive to our respective offices. She knew that I knew and I knew that she knew. We had talked about getting married, once I had managed to put some sobriety together. We talked about a lot of things, now we talked about the weather and what was playing on the radio. I peppered her with ideas of things we could do this weekend—but she was evasive, like a water bug, and always managed to steer the horrible ominous conversation to slightly safer shores. We got to her office and I dropped her off, a quick peck on the check and she cheerfully said, “I’ll talk to you later, have a good morning!”
I watched her walk away and saw her pull her phone out and begin furiously texting as she walked in the front door. An hour or so later, unable to contain my mounting fury, and needing some kind of response, I sent her a text:
I know about you and N.
About 20 minutes later, my phone buzzed:
You’ve invaded my privacy for the last time, you’ve never respected my boundaries and I just won’t tolerate it anymore. It’s time for me to move on with my life—it’s too short to not be happy. Goodbye. Please don’t contact me. I hope you will get the help you need.
I knew exactly how to handle this. I left the office, got a cab and was on a barstool at the Logan Tavern in about 15 minutes. The next week was pretty much a blur as I was again able to drink as much as I wanted—there was no one left to stop for. I finally responded to a friend’s repeated, very concerned, texts. He called, I answered. I told him, yes, I had been drinking, for a while, and yes, it had gotten kind of bad. I told him A. had left. He said he knew and was very sorry. He said, “what about you? What are you going to do?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
He said, “maybe back to rehab?”
A long pause, “Fuck, yeah, probably.”
He asked where I was, “Logan Tavern,” I told him.
He laughed, “I would never think to look for you there.”
Actual dark, sardonic laugh, “Yeah, I know.”
He told me to stay put and keep drinking. So I did. He arrived about an hour later, sat down on the stool next to me and looked meaningfully at me, “How are you, buddy?”
I tossed off a scornful laugh, “how the fuck do you think?” Then the lament of all alcoholics, “why do I do this, why can’t I stop, why do I fuck everything up over and over, why won’t anyone stay, why can’t I stop, what the fuck is wrong with me, why can’t I stop, why do I do this?”
My friend nodded sagely, “I’ll tell you why.”
“You’re a fucking alcoholic. That’s why.”
I finished my drink, we went to my house and he helped me pack and then drove me back to rehab. I know we stopped at a convenience store on the way and I downed a couple of those horrible miniature sized bottles of warmish pinot grigio. My friend laughed, “Drink up, buddy, the end is near!” ha ha ha. I don’t remember anything else about my triumphant return to rehab. It was night and I was pretty drunk, but I don’t think anyone spread cloaks or palm fronds in my path to the medical facility to detox.
It was February and I was in fucking rehab again.
It was very early on a very cold Thursday morning. It was the second morning of my triumphant return to Harmony House—I had cleared detox in only one night. Rob was standing in the laundry room just off our common living room, conducting an urgently-whispered conversation. The phone was precariously tucked between jowl and hunched-up left shoulder, while he simultaneously trying to tip ashes from a highly-against-house-rules indoor cigarette out the tiny, hinged window with his right hand.
“Babe, listen, wait, I need you to listen, it’s all there, yeah, in the office, the ledger books are stacked up, yes, in there, wait, listen, I just need you to get them to the accountants.” He paused, shook his head and accidentally shook ashes off his cigarette onto the laundry room floor. “Yes, those are the ledger books, “ he sighed, “Ok, thanks, Babe.”
Rob hung up, rolled his eyes and nodded at me, I had just manufactured my coffee and was re-securing the highly-valued box of pods I had ordered from Amazon so that I’d be able to avoid the inevitable-hazelnut coffee at the bottom of the Keurig barrel. Rob eyed my coffee and glanced semi-criminally over at the cabinet where I had just stashed my pods; hidden behind the Dunkin’ Donut vanilla latte-flavored ones. I made a mental note to count the pods when I had a moment.
Rob sat down with a big, sigh, like the yoga breaths from Wednesday Yoga and smiled grimly, “morning, another glorious sunrise here at Shaky-town.”
I laughed, “how are you?”
“Trying not to go fucking crazy. My ex-wife thinks I’m trying to fucking hide all of the money from her and fucking Amber can’t manage to get the ledgers to the accountant. What the fuck!” Rob was agitated enough that he forgot he was indoors and threw the contraband Winston butt towards the table with the jigsaw puzzles.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he went to retrieve it.
“That sounds complicated,” Rob straightened up a little creakily, less like Wednesday Yoga, carefully examining the butt, “You think?,” he said. “My ex-wife is a fucking bitch and Amber is hot as fuck but also dumb as fuck. And I’m fucking marooned here in Shaky-Town.”
I laughed again and took another sip of coffee, “not a bad place to hide out.”
Rob shook another cigarette out, then resignedly tucked the cigarette behind his ear for later as he realized he was still inside, “yeah, something to that.”
“Hey,” a deep voice boomed, we turned to see Beef come in the front door, fresh from his morning cigarette. “Fuck, it’s cold,” he stamped his feet, drawing our attention to the hairy toes poking out of his Tevas. Rob laughed really derisively, “of course you’re cold, you stupid Florida piece-of-shit, we wear socks in the fucking winter.” Rob was the Tire King of Buffalo, not an actual title, but an accurate description of his status relative to other people in the tire business in Buffalo.
Beef ignored Rob, his eyes fixed on his phone. He said in a low voice, “did you guys hear about Murph?”
“No, what?”
“They have him back in detox, he blew a .28, can you believe that shit?”
Rob whistled, “whoa, that’s some shit.”
“No kidding, man and he seemed really good when he left and shit.”
“Wait,” I said, “Murph, the guy who just left here?”
“Yeah,” Beef said, “they let him out on Tuesday morning and he came back in an ambulance that night, a fucking .28” and shook his head.
Rob, touched the cigarette behind his ear, “that sucks, so what’s he going to do, is he coming back?
“nah, Man,” Beef drawled, “they’re sending him down to Ocean Drive and for like 90 days or some shit.”
Rob exclaimed, “wow, That’s a shit-ton of money, another 90 down there, that’s rough.”
“But they have yoga on the beach and shit and like personal chefs,” Beef pointed out.
“But it still sucks,” Rob said and turned to me, “You guys ready for breakfast?”
We bundled up and hiked the steep, grassy hill to the cafeteria. Beef talked on the phone and smoked two more cigarettes as he huffed his way up. The cafeteria was a standard-issue, low-slung 1980’s-type building. If you were asked to guess which building on campus was the cafeteria, you would definitely guess this building. Rob strode to the buffet and looked back to deliver his usual morning line, “ah, what a pleasant surprise, they have scrambled eggs, and just the way I like them.” I laughed as we took plates, “I guess it could be worse.”
“Really,” Rob snorted, “tell me fucking how.”
We found a table and sat down, we were wordlessly sipping weak institutional coffee cooling way too quickly in ceramic mugs when a tall angular man with short-cut red hair, semi-martial bearing and a thin moustache appeared and drawled in his courtly southern accent, “Gentlemen, may I join you,”
Rob smiled, “Red, take a seat.”
Red was wearing pressed denim jeans, a blue polo shirt, thick gold wire-framed glasses with a slight rose tint to the lenses and a gold cross dangling from a thin chain around his nect. He was tall, at least 6’2” and very thin. He sat down, “So what is the news of the world?”
“Well,” Rob said,”did you hear about Murph?”
“No, what?”
“He’s back in detox, came in an ambulance and blew a .28.”
“Jesus,” Red drawled, “that’s a real shame. Is he ok?”
“I don’t know,” Rob said, “ I hear he’s headed to Ocean Drive for like 90 days or some shit.”
Red nodded solemnly and started buttering his toast.
Two women, both in their 60’s walked by carrying cafeteria trays, “Hi Red,” the taller woman lilted.
“Morning,” Red monotoned, not shifting his eyes from his toast.
Rob’s eyes twinkled as he looked at me, then over at Beef, who was ignoring all of us as he stared at the phone we were allowed to have but were supposed to keep on the down low in the common areas. When the women were far enough way, Rob leaned into the center of the table conspiratorially, “That’s Sally,” he paused dramatically and stared at Red, “rumor has it, she’s Red’s girlfriend.”
Red rolled his eyes, shook his head slightly, exhaled audibly and completely ignored Rob, “That’s a shame about Murph, he’s a good guy, thought he was ready to go.”
Rob shook his head, “Apparently not.”
Red chewed a bite of toast for a moment, “I remember one time I left here, it was a Saturday I think, I ended up in a motel in Lancaster with two hookers and a shit-ton of cocaine.” He shook his head, “I don’t think we left that room for two fucking days. I think they came and got me or something, I don’t remember.”
Red turned to address me, quietly eating my eggs, “I don’t remember shit, you see, I’ve drunk so much that they say I’ve lost like 25% of my cognitive capacity or some shit like that, wet brain they call it, can you believe that?” And took another bite of toast.
“But he’s still sharp enough to be banging Sally,” Rob twinkled again. “Another thing you should know about Red, he’s an authentic Kentucky Colonel.”
“Really, “ I asked.
“That is a true fact,” Red said as he took another bite of toast. “I have an official certificate and everything.”
“I don’t think, I’ve every met an actual Kentucky Colonel before.”
“Well, now you have,” Red said flatly.
“Red, does Sally call you Colonel or… ?” Red cut Rob off, with a somewhat regal head tilt,
“I’ll thank you to speak of her more respectfully,” Red said and took the last bite of toast.
Rob laughed again, “You guys ready to go to Spirituality? I wanna get a cigarette before we go in.” We took our trays to the conveyer belt and walked over to the auditorium, which was two buildings away. Rob and Red stopped at the Gazebo across from the auditorium entrance and lit cigarettes, I waved, “I’m going in, I’ll save you seats,” Rob lifted his cigarette-laden arm in a silent salute and Red cupped his bony fingers around his lighter and nodded.
I had been trying to spend as little time alone as possible during this second stint, because every time I was alone the slideshow of regret began playing in my head. All of the beautiful times with A, that luminous smile, the soft touch of her fingers on the back of my neck. The plans, the future we had, all of that stuff was gone, gone, gone. Something else that I had managed to drink away. It was her ultimatum that got me to rehab the first time. When even that wasn’t enough to quell my drinking, well, she threw her hands up and now she was back with the future ambassador winging their way to Munich for the fancy security conference and a Valentine’s Day getaway. And I was back in rehab.
Since my visit was somewhat unplanned, and the packing had been a bit haphazard, I needed to buy a variety of staples like shampoo and shaving cream and what-not. Fortunately, there was a pretty large store on campus and they carried not only a wide array of recovery-related literature and decorating accents, but also sundries. I walked up the hill during a break and into the store and I was completely beset by perhaps the largest display of Valentine’s Day-related paraphernalia ever in the entire history of mankind.
There were tons of cards, candy, small plants and flowers, stuffed animals, mugs; every fucking thing that could be re-packaged to help send a message of romantic love to someone special had been and was on sale in the fucking rehab store. I pushed my way through the brambles of all of that cupid-inspired stuff and was treated to a new outrage: They sold only travel sizes of things like shampoo and soap and non-alcoholic mouthwash and toothpaste.
what.the.actual.fuck.
That night, at dinner, in our glass-enclosed, “private” dining area in the Sodexho-run cafeteria, I was on fire. Number one, who the fuck here in rehab even has a valentine left? I pantomimed the obvious charm of receiving a thoughtful Valentine’s Day teddy bear from your ex-boyfriend in rehab. Hmmm, what’s the right card to send with that?
Roses are red, Violets are blue, I'm back in rehab again, Yeah, I know.
We spent the next hour collectively grousing about our ex-girlfriends and wives as we ate through the Henry the Eighth sized portions of Sodexho specialty-food. There was a guest lecture that night, a fellow known as “The Architect,” he had helped design some of the buildings on campus and came back every few weeks to tell his story. I had heard him speak the last time I was here and wasn’t sure I needed to hear the story of him drunk peeing on the Christmas Tree in front of his family on Christmas morning again and I definitely didn’t want to hear the part where he said, “I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve used my sofa as a toilet, “in every sense of the word.” I told my housemates they were in for a treat, the Architect was a really good speaker, they would definitely want to pay attention, especially when he got to the parts about the Christmas Tree and the sofa. I walked home in the dark thinking romantic thoughts for other people.
The actual Valentine’s Day dawned like a lot of other days in February, kind of cold and gray, it looked like someone had applied the Belvedere filter to the treatment center. Rob was already in the smoking gazebo, Winston hanging out of the corner of his mouth and texting furiously, when I arrived. I got a nod of recognition. I was trying to find the exact spot where the wind was coming from, so I could block it with my back and get my cigarette lit, suddenly Rob was in my face, cupping his lighter around my cigarette, “Jesus, you’re a bad smoker, it’s hard to watch sometimes.”
“Well, morning, fuck you and happy Valentine’s Day!”
Rob laughed and looked at his phone, “funny, my ex-wife pretty much just said the exact same thing.”
I let out a sigh as I exhaled, Rob nodded in silent agreement, “Christmas would definitely be worse, I mean being here on Valentine’s Day sucks, but Christmas would definitely be worse.” He was right, I could only imagine the Sodexho Christmas Bounty in the cafeteria, and they would probably still have a small bowl of jello with cottage cheese available as a dessert. “Gentlemen, Happy Valentine’s Day,” Red cheerily announced as he walked into the gazebo, lighting his cigarette on the way in. A big exhale, “What’s the news of the world, gentlemen?”
I was staring into the woods, thinking about how certain other people would be celebrating Valentine’s Day, wondering if she knew I was back in rehab. Rob exhaled, “The news is that my ex-wife still hates me, I’m stuck here in this clown show with all of you, my fucking roommate snores all night every night and the fucking Chantix just makes me homicidal.” Red laughed slightly, “I see you’ve stopped smoking. Congratulations.” Rob laughed, exhaled and said “fuck you” all at the same time. He stuffed his dead cigarette into the overloaded dead cigarette holder thing, looked up the hill and said, “I don’t know about you guys, but I sure hope they have scrambled eggs for breakfast today.”
I was sitting in the living area of the house, writing in my journal and Red came in. He greeted me, went over and got a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge and then asked nervously, ”Do you think I could ask you a favor?“ “Sure,” I said. Red looked around the room and took a long look at the front door, wanting to make sure we were alone, “I wondered if you could come to the store with me. I need to get a Valentine’s card.” In my mind’s eye, Red had just shed about 60 years, a nervous boy who needed to get a Valentine’s card for a girl he liked. I smiled, probably the first real smile since my arrival, “Of course, when?”
“Are you free now?”
I did the exaggerated look around the room, “yes, I’m free, let’s go.”
We trudged up the hill and went into the store. There were a couple of women looking at pillows with inspirational sayings embroidered on them, Red made a beeline for the display of cards and I joined him, “What can you tell me about the intended recipient?”
“I think you know,” Red drawled and pulled out a card with picture of flowers in front of a window, it said “Happy Valentine’s Day to my Beloved.” I pulled it out of his hands—that’s not the right one. I examined a succession of cards, too sweet, too goofy, just too dumb sometimes. We finally found one, an abstract picture of some flowers on the front with a very simple “Happy Valentine’s Day” message, instead of the Hallmark-written expressions of undying love and unquenchable passion. Red seemed pleased and grabbed a heart shaped box of candy as he headed to the register. We walked out and Red tucked the bag with his purchases inside his coat, so as to avoid prying eyes back at the house. Red put his hand on my shoulder, “Thank you, you’re a scholar and a gentleman.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon smoking cigarettes in the cold windy gazebo, trying to do some reading and trying not to think about Valentine’s Day in Munich. I wondered what the room was like at the Bayerischer Hof. Most of my thoughts were punctuated with a “fuck.” At some point, I decided to take a walk around campus. I took a long meandering path over towards the fitness center, the house where the medical professionals stayed and the long-term housing, where people who were staying way longer than 90 days lived. I suddenly spied Red and Sally, just up ahead and off to the side of the Long-Term dorm, sitting on a bench smoking cigarettes together in the wind. Red was talking and you could see how broadly Sally was smiling as she attentively listened to the story Red was telling. I could see the box of chocolates and the card on top, already opened, in Sally’s lap.
I turned around and slowly sidled away, I didn’t want Red or Sally to see me, really didn’t want to mar the moment for them. Also, I had tears streaming down my face and felt the inexorable need to just start moving, just go somewhere and hopefully everything spinning in my brain wouldn’t be able to keep up and I’d have a little peace.
I got back to the house and Beef was sitting out in an Adirondack chair in the middle of our parking area in 40 degree weather in shorts and Tevas, cheerfully smoking and staring at his phone, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Beef,” I called out. Beef didn’t look up from his phone, “happy motherfucking valentine’s day.” I thought about Red and Sally sitting on that bench by the Long-Term Residential Dorm, thought about Sally’s smile and Red’s nervousness at the store, “You’re right, Beef, I said it wrong, let me try again:”
“Happy Motherfucking Valentine’s Day.”
Happy motherfucking valentines 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼