Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

October 2006
 


        Now, I had been out of Arcadia Recovery Center for two months when I had become the poster child for Arcadia, an ideal patient who showed the program of Alcoholics Anonymous really worked. 
        The success rate was only five to ten percent, so they couldn’t get enough of me. 
        Donnie came with me to do my ninth step, making amends to friends and family back in Austin. I did my family first, then friend by friend, I made amends to everyone I could think of, sometimes with Donnie and sometimes without.  I was only 19-years old so my amends list wasn't very long. But he did make me pay fifty dollars to a grocery store I used to steal from. After that, I purposely neglected telling him of how much I had stolen from stores at the mall. 
        It wasn't long after that I finished the steps, then I'd be working steps 10 through 12 as a daily reprieve. 
        This meant being a slave to these steps for the rest of my life: Doing inventory daily, making amends daily, and not having an option to help whenever somebody needed it with whatever task, if they asked. It was always helping people move, too, which I couldn't figure out why. 


        The Director of Admissions of Arcadia had me come back to the treatment center to do other men’s fifth steps. They would confess all of their secrets and things they had done, and were ashamed of, due to drugs and alcohol. It fulfilled my need of being wanted that had haunted me since middle school. 
       I had a job, a place to live, great friends, and any insecurities that used to control me were dead and gone. 
       Since I was a former patient there and had done them many favors, the staff let me do what I wanted, walking up and down the hallways. I had even brought them business, bringing in two people I knew who were struggling with drugs. 
       Dylan was a friend I had met in Kerrville. When I had first met her, I didn’t know she was a heroin addict. Being tall and thin, she was a few years older than I, with curly blonde hair. One morning, she had called me asking for help so Donnie and I picked her up and brought her to treatment. We had done the same thing with my friend from back home, Owen. Except, he hadn’t asked for help. 
        Concerned friends of ours had told me he was getting out of control with pills—particularly, Xanax. We ended up having an intervention with him and his parents. Owen, being reluctant at first, had finally went to treatment. 
        I had loaned him my iPod, something prohibited in rehab, but I wouldn’t have survived my stay without it. 
        When I’d come up to do fifth steps, I’d find Owen and ask how he was doing to get caught up on his experience in recovery. I’d always ask how my iPod was doing. Whenever I asked, it was okay, until —  
      
        “I don’t have it,” he said with a hint of anger in his voice while also seeming nervous. “The girls took it!”
        I already knew it was Dylan he was talking about. I told him to show me which room she was in, as we walked down the pale, fluorescent-lit hallways. I came up to the room. It was the one women’s room that only had one bed. It was for patients who had annoyed others or who had severe mental issues, so they have the room to themselves. She must have requested to have it. This stay wasn't her first.
       I knocked three times, hearing my music being played. Inside, the bathroom was next to the door. I knew what was playing—The Killers’ vocalist has a distinct voice.
       “Come in!” 
       I opened the door to find two girls giggling like six-years olds, doing their hair and makeup together. Why anyone would do her makeup and hair that fancy, night-on-the-town sort of way in rehab, still perplexes me today.
      “Excuse me, ladies, I don’t mean to stall you from your hot dates, but… is that my iPod playing?” I ask.
       “Yep.”           “Uh, huh.”
       Just like young sisters playing with their mommy’s things. It looked like the Revlon factory had puked up hundreds of little cases of makeup onto the counter. They had filled even the sink with hair curlers and junk.
       Gross. 
       I’m not a huge fan of women wearing a lot of makeup. 
       “Too caked up,” is what I’d call it.
       They saw it was me in the doorway. “Hey! Oh my God, we love your music! But there’s no country!”
       You’re damn right. “Oh my, I’m so… sorry.”
       “We were just borrowing it to do our hair ‘n’ shit,” said the one I didn’t yet know, “We’ll give it back.”
       Dylan nodded and agreed. The two little devils they were, disguised as beautiful angels. I knew they were lying. However, I would not be the asshole that cried over an iPod. Besides, these girls were looking damn right, despite all the makeup and track marks that littered up and down both their arms.
       The one I hadn’t known, was named Scarlett, Owen had told me later. She had my serious attention. Dressed indie, punk, and rock ‘n’ roll. I loved it. I also knew I didn’t have a chance in hell. Besides, Owen probably had been crushing on her already. She was beautiful.
       “Alright, alright. Just please let my buddy have it back tonight, okay?.”
       They both agreed.
       “Thank you. Y’all have fun.”
       “Thanks, we love you!” Dylan yelled back.
       Was it Dylan who yelled back? I pretended it had been Scarlett. My eyes took one more glance at her while I closed the door. Her hypnotic eyes caught mine looking back. Caught in the abashed act of checking her out.
       Maybe there’s promise there, I hoped.


       I should have been an asshole and taken my iPod back, but I wanted Scarlett to think I was cool. She had already liked my music, which on my scale, was a big plus. My crush for her had started here even though I knew Owen had a thing for her. I was an ass for crushing on her when he already had, but I would do it again if it meant keeping him from what I was about to go through. 


       That night, I couldn't wait until I saw her again. With that look she had given me, she had me. That one look impregnated my brain with images and fantasies of her, while the song “Crimson and Clover” played as the soundtrack in the background. 


       “Ahh, Now I don't hardly know her
       But I think I can love her
       Crimson and Clover…”