Gratitude. The more I think on this, the more I am convinced  that gratitude is the hub on which everything else turns. It is the key to everything. It comes down to seeing the goodness in everything around me. To feeling the beauty inherent in everything, and all too often ignored. When I’m not in my right mind I feel sorry for myself. I see myself as susceptible to goings on around me. I see injustice… lack of appreciation… lack of me ‘getting my due’. To walk through this World governed by this set of beliefs is to step on a spiral staircase. And it’s descending. I instead choose to wake every morning thankful, appreciative of the beauty in and around me. This puts me on a course to receive more beauty. Simply by being receptive of the goodness already surrounding me is to invite more of the same. Life is beautiful. By seeing and constantly acknowledging this is to open up the outside World to the beauty that is in me. It sets the planets in motion to accept what I have to offer. To appreciate me in return. This way of living, in fact blurs the lines between what is outside and the World within. It puts me in harmony. What is outside is appreciated within and what is within is appreciated by the World outside. Harmony. It is my natural state. It is what I strive for, and it starts with Gratitude. I am thankful for this discovery. And here I go…

November 15th, 1993 — Thanksgiving in Sodom and Gomorrah. I’m looking out a second floor window and down at the corner of Polk and O’Farrell Sts., San Francisco. This has got to be the most perverse few blocks in the country, maybe the World. The window belongs to my buddy, Al. Or at least he rents it. I work with his brother. Mitchell Brothers is directly across the street. It’s the most famous strip club on the west coast. Live sex shows along with the run of the mill girl twirling on a pole. World famous… As stated on the marquee and evidenced by the constant stream of stretch limos pulling up to the entrance. Roving frat boy bachelor parties passing under the marquee, in white baseball caps that read ‘COCKS’ and ‘BEAVERS’. Assholes. Shady dudes with their heads down,blonde bombshells (or another dude in a wig) on their arm. I don’t know if that place is the whole reason this area is so nasty, but it sure isn’t helping anything.

Al’s place is just far enough above it all to feel deceptively insulated. He lives in a high-rise apartment building complete with a rooftop pool and bar. Al’s folks have money. It’s a nicer place than any of the rest of us live in. That’s why four of us, including myself, are crashing here. I sleep here three or four nights a week. Though sleep doesn’t come often. I crash here, smoking tons of weed, drinking whatever is available and making regular trips to the outside world to buy more of both. Occasionally someone will show up with some coke, but that’s a little bit above our pay grade.

They have room service in the building. Al has left instructions with the kitchen that no (and I mean no) orders are to be delivered and put on the tab. I’m starving and thinking about giving it another shot anyway. This really is a sweet place. All the modern technologies. New appliances, though the fridge is the only one that gets any work. It is a haven from the madness outside. Getting to the sanctuary is the tough part. If you successfully run the gauntlet of crack dealers and transvestite hookers, you still have the overzealous doorman to contend with. He’s quite necessary; to keep out the aforementioned riff raff. It’s not smart to feel to superior to the street urchins, however. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been here a hundred times… when Al forgets to tell the doorman you’re coming, you’re counted in their ranks and physically deposited out among them.

Once you make it in the elevator though, it’s smooth sailing. Microbrews and Playstation on the big screen. This window itself provides endless hours of entertainment. The scene below made surreal. That’s important; surreality. Without it I’d be forced to confront the fact that I have $15.00 to my name.  

In order to fully appreciate where we are we’ve got to take a look at where we’ve been. And I’ve been all over the place. I left Syracuse early on the morning after my 21^st Birthday. I enrolled in a small college in Oregon.

But I left there. To come here. To move couches all day and crash on Al’s couch. Well, not exactly. The road has been winding. I was doing just fine, plugging away at school when I happened to touch base with an old high school friend. He was living in San Fran with another guy I know. “You’ve gotta’ come visit. …Shit, come live here! We’re looking for a roommate.” Sounded good to me. My only serious flaw was that I accepted the invitation with $120.00 to my name. I figured it would just work out. And to be honest, it had taken me awhile to piece together that measly treasure chest. I underestimated what it takes to relocate to a major city. By thousands.

I currently make my living (such as it is) by moving furniture around Presidio National Park. It’s a beautiful place to spend your days. Or it would be, were most of mine not spent in the various basements and elevators. It used to be an Army barracks. This was the first line of defense, should the Japs come by sea. On lunch breaks we smoke weed in fortified foxholes and blow the smoke through the gun turrets. I work with mainly immigrants. Mexican mostly, along with a handful of Irish guys. It is the latter bunch that I have aligned myself with. Not only do they speak the language, they sprinkle in words like ‘dodgy’ and ‘brilliant’. I’m dating a girl from Dublin. She’s beautiful. She’s not very nice to me most of the time. I think I’m in love with her.       

 August 24th, 1992– 

I left Syracuse painfully early on the morning of my 21^st Birthday. Also the morning after my oldest sister’s wedding. I remember sitting in a lounge chair staring out at Skaneateles Lake. …Someone had said something about jumping in about 3 hours ago. It was still bouncing around inside my head. “I’ll go swimmin!!!!” If i didn’t say it, I meant to. One good push from the feet and I’d have the momentum to carry me laughing off the end of the dock. Who’s in? Is anybody else even out here? I was finishing off a joint that I swear started with a bunch of other people. I settled back and tried to wrap my head around the magnitude of the change I was about to make. I’m out of here. Change of scenery. Change of scene. An adventure like… well, I had nothing to compare it to. Minutes later I was violently awakened at the hands of my brother, Jeff. Once upon a time he’d been asleep in the chair next to me. I loved him but very much wanted him to stop talking. I remember thinking that as I watched him fade to black. “—–GET. UP. YOU’LL. MISS. THE. PLANE.” Seperate sounds coming from all directions … somehow they formed to make a sentence.  The lake came into focus.

My father, though not technically on the guest list for the occasion, was kind enough to drive in from Ithaca to take me to the airport. He was feeling pretty good about things in general, and he wanted to give me a send off. He was paying for this little adventure, after all. He was already in the driveway and he wasn’t happy. I don’t blame him for being pissed. My mother wouldn’t even let them stand inside.  A 20 minute scramble to assemble my ill-prepared suitcases was enough to earn me a ride in complete silence. Not a word. In his defense, it was my step mother that set the tone. God, she was awful. Total silence, all the way to the airport. That worked just fine for me. I was looking out the window at a grey, rainy Syracuse morning. It was a world I was leaving behind. All of it. And the deafening silence was the perfect accompaniment.

As the plane positioned itself on the runway, I tried to get past the incessant pounding in my head. Penance for the debauchery of the night before. Adrenaline too. Like an annoying roommate turning on the blender after a morning run, determined to seize the day. Destination Oregon. I had no idea what to expect, but that it is where I will continue my illustrious college career. Oregon. Ashland, to be exact. The name of the town mattered little. I’d already created in it a magical place. As unhere as a place could be. A place where elves danced in the streets, sprinkling fairy dust. This turned out to be very close to the truth.

Ashland is about 25 minutes north of California nestled between the Cascade and Siskiyou mountain ranges. Respectfully. It is home to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival  (Yes… that Oregon Shakespeare Festival) as well as Southern Oregon State College. (Yes, that Southern Oregon State College). I was drawn here by both. I quickly discovered that said festival employs a flock of people dressed as Shakespearean types. Not just the actors, but a bunch of other people too. Probably people that auditioned and got a, “You’re not right for the lead… but we’ve got something tht’s perfect for you….” These people set up shop on street corners or just generally hang around. Juggling, playing mandolins, even the occasional duel. It’s really cool. Like a Renaissance Fair, but somehow done tastefully.

I went to the Renaissance Fair in Sterling, NY a few years ago. Some guy was sitting on a stump in full costume. A chain link armor sleeve over his head. Knight helmet sitting next to him. He seemed surprised, even put out when I asked him if he could point me towards the bathrooms. The outhouse… the lew or whatever. He stood up, planted his swod in the ground, gave me his best bad-guy villian look and said, “Siiir…. IIYYYEEEEeee DoOOOOOOO NOOOTTT  Weeeeeeehhk heeEEEEAAAAAaaahhh!!!!!! And he stormed off. Umm, okay. I just threw the guy the greatest compliment he’s ever going to hear in his life and he didn’t even break character. I saw him in the grog tent later and he still looked pissed.

These people have been classically trained. Not like that guy. The part timers that have to reach in past their USS Enterprise one-piece to get to their leather tunics. There are no people like him in Ashland. Well, there are… but they all do work there. They’re professionals.

This is the most amazing place I’ve ever been to in my life. And I’m not visiting… I live here. The locals are mostly slow moving and tie-dyed. The students, like me, are from all over the place. Take my roommate Shinichi, for example. He’s from a town 50 miles outside of Tokyo. How he ended up here is well documented. How I ended up living with a guy that doesn’t speak a lick of English is a mystery. We’ll talk about him tomorrow.

Man, it’s been a long time. So much has happened in my life… where to begin? My dog. Buddy. That’s as good a place as any. Buddy’s a big 3 year old black Lab.  I have had a canine companion all of my adult life. It’s impossible to separate the experiences I’ve had from the best friend I’ve had them with.

Sadie and I traveled the country. Chicago… all over Oregon… both Dakotas… She was a good traveling dog. She grew restless inside the tent, but could be trusted to sleep just outside the zipped up doorway. She didn’t really get too excited about anything. She sort of seemed like she’d been there before. Sadie, I suppose, was an old soul. Buddy… not so much.

 To Buddy, it’s all brand new. Even if it’s something he’s experiencing for the thousandth time. If I were to say the word ‘treat’ right now, he would stop what he’s doing, look at me and twist his head. …Puzzled. If I said it a second time, he’d chase his tail until he knocked something over. If he could speak, he’d be screaming, “TREATS?!? OHMYGOD! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU HAD TREATS!!! I FUCKING LOOOOOOVE TREATS!!!!” Sadie would take the same treat, but she might set it down for awhile and come back for it. That’s just the sort of thing that would drive Buddy nuts.

Buddy is strong and healthy and beautiful. Running around in the woods with him makes me feel that way, too. I have never known a more loving animal. He’s a glutton to anyone that pats him on the head. Sadie was a one man dog. She followed me everywhere, but didn’t pay much attention to anyone else. You could pet her if you’d like.

I think the reason I’m feeling nostalgic about Sadie is because in many ways, her demise shadowed my own. Or foreshadowed it, maybe. She went downhill slowly. I refused to agnowledge it. The day I had to say goodbye to her was the single most difficult thing I’ve ever been through. I was shouldered with the decision to end the life of the very being that meant more to me than anyone else in the world. The Vet said there were other things I could try.  That day wasn’t responsible for the 6 Month bender that followed it. And it didn’t explain the years of excess that led up to it.  But it wasn’t helping anything either and somehow it was a turning point. Change.

One day I found Buddy.  4 months old, sitting in a cage at the pound. He represented a new start and has proven to be just that. This dog constantly reminds me to pay attention to the excitement of what’s happening right in front of me. If you ask Buddy what time it is… it’s now. It’s now. Now. It’s always Now.

Since I’ve written last, many changes have taken place. I live with my girlfriend now (and of course, Buddy). I spend my time differently than I did a year ago. I don’t spend much time or devote much thought to any 12 step group. I even enjoy the occasional Happy Hour again.  I hope this won’t upset anybody and I sincerely hope nobody feels as if I’ve abandoned them. I was in a dark place and took the steps needed to get out of it. I’m extremely glad I did so. I am also relieved to find that is not something that will define the rest of my days. I never wanted booze and drugs to dominate my world. Not in excess or in absence. I am happy and proud to say that today it doesn’t. I’ll keep you posted.

Well… that wasn’t funny at all. Or entertaining, I imagine. I guess I felt the need to post a final chapter before I close the book on the subject. I’ve thrown a lot out there, and I didn’t want to leave you hanging. Buddy’s looking at me with half a kong in his mouth. Time to head out to the park, where everything is brand new. Every time.

Wednesday, February 11th.

3:00pm. We’re forbidden from having contact, of any kind, with the women here. No talking, no laughing, no looking, even. Maybe you’re thinking a little hug might feel nice, outside of Group…? Try it and they’ll throw you out on your ear. Fraternizing, they call it. Which is a word I’ve always associated  with ”the enemy”. Strange… they don’t seem so menacing. Well, okay a few of them do. But from way over here, most of them seem pretty harmless. Until you look a little closer. Then you see that they really are temptation incarnate. Earlier today, we were all gathered in the Great Room.  We were in there to hear a few people tell their Life Stories. One of today’s Storytellers was Diane. Diane is a Fashion Rep from Oswego. You read that correctly. I’ve been aware of Diane since she got here, in a casual sort of way. She’s good looking, I guess. Cute. Then she stepped up to that podium and… I dunno. I wanted nothing more than to be sipping a glass of wine with that beautiful woman on the French Riviera. It was all I could think about… I was captivated. And as I stared at her face, in a breathy voice she whe was saying… I don’t really remember what she was saying, but it’s unimportant… because in my mind she was reciting the ticker that scrolls across the bottom of the screen during Sportscenter. And it never sounded so sweet. I tried to shake the image, but it was too late. Before long she had traded in her sweatshirt and comfy pants for the outfit that matched the 12 beer steins she was effortlessly carrying. She looked just like the St. Pauli Girl. (Except, I think she turned into a cigarrette-girl at one point, or maybe she made out of cigarettes. I don’t really remember. It was all happening so fast.) All I know is that for a brief moment, I would’ve followed that girl anywhere. I’ve come so far in the last three and a half weeks. Or have I? I was going to throw it away without a second thought. All for some beer-wench in a lace-up corset that talks like Chris Berman. And is made of tobacco. And smells like my dog after he’s had a bath. Yeah, whatever. It’s my daydream and I miss my dog.    

9:00pm. So, I’m actually getting out of here in a few days. Man, I was beginning to think I was a lifer. In some respects it feels like I got here yesterday. In others, it’s like I’ve been here a million years. I feel like I’ve been reminded of what life can be like. Or maybe what it is like… and I’m discovering it for the first time. At least as an adult. I don’t really know what happened with me. It’s like my friends all graduated and left school to have families… start careers. I was left looking around to see who was having the next kegger. And wondering where the hell everybody was going. This is the first time since I was 17, that I’ve had a Month (…almost) that wasn’t dominated with Booze, Weed and Cigarettes. I don’t know that dominated is the right word, but the capital letters are certainly warranted. That’s the thing about acknowledging this sort of thing. It’s like you finally realize you’ve been traveling at 150 miles an hour. With the tunes cranked and your head out the window. Except you’re the only one in your tighty whities. And you’re the only one laughing. It can be a little jarring. I’ve learned a few things since I’ve been here. And some of it aint pretty. Anyways, a couple more days and I’m done. They’re turning me loose. Returning me to the General Populace. Cured. Well… Not by a longshot, from what they’re telling me, but equipped with more tools than I had a month ago, anyway. I really don’t want to go back to living the way I was. I wasn’t happy. (I don’t suppose too many people come in here because they’re on a roll.) But I’ve changed. Jesus, I hope I can keep this going. It’s worth taking a serious look at what things were like 26 days ago, when I walked into this place. It scares the shit out of me to think of how easily I could go back to the same routine. (Because… here goes, to tell you the truth things weren’t really going that badly for me. I’ve said that a hundred times since I got here and everytime it gets called out for the bullshit it is. Like I said, people don’t come here to celebrate how wonderful their lives are.) I’ll put it this way. I was at a crossroads. And the road I was about to choose was the one I was already on, and it was heading South. Fast. It wasn’t the first time things had gotten a little out of control with the booze. In fact, my life was, for quite some time, coming in waves. I would have stretches of Greatness. (Okay, here maybe the capital G is a little much, but I sure have had my moments.) I’d have weeks, even months, of forward progress. And I dare say… I’ve had some sizeable accomplishments along the way. Except that as soon as I’d get a little momentum, those times were stopped cold by stretches of drunken isolation. There’s no other way to put it. I had gotten to the point where I was mostly drinking alone. It wasn’t always that way. I used to go out all the time. I’m a social being. Shit, if anything I love people too much. I just put myself in a position where I could rarely go out and actually see any. I’d get home and down 7 or 8 beers before the 12-pack even got in the fridge. Add a few shots of Jack and by the time the phone rang… if it rang… I was climbing in the bag if I wasn’t in there already. “Sure, I’d love to go. Think you could pick me up?” Yeah, that’s a friend everybody wants to have. Good times. Well, the ride offers lessened until I did most of my drinking as a Party of One. Plus dog. All this sacrifice… just to adhere to the strict No Drinking and Driving rule I’ve imposed on myself. Man’s gotta have principles. Amazing how a person’s convictions grow stronger after they get a 2nd DWI in the process of rolling their truck and almost killing themselves. 

10:00pm. Ron G. is a toolbag. I really can’t say that about too many people I’ve met here, but this guy is driving me nuts. I think it’s because I’ve known people like him before. I used to work with a guy just like him. Didn’t like that guy either. Whatever. He’s just a negative dude, and he lives two doors down, so he comes by here all the time. And he’s always got something shitty to say about someone. What do I care, really? I’m out of here in on Friday. I don’t want him signing my book though. When you leave here, all the other people sign your Big Blue Book Gives you their number, etc. so you can keep in touch. I don’t want that guy signing my book. I know he’s going to ask, too. Forget it. …And okay I am five years old. 

Tuesday, February 10th

10:30am. Amazing the stuff these people are able to drag out of you. It really is a learned art. At least in my case. And I don’t think I’m an easy shell to crack. We all get a Councilor upon arrival. Or maybe they get us. Anyway… I’m not sure if we’re matched up in some way, or if it’s just luck of the draw. Did they choose me or did I get thrown in their lap? This is information that I, for one, would find helpful. (I wondered this same thing about my ‘Buddy’ when I first got here. Was I just next on the list, or did somebody honestly think me and Gene might hit it off? Because… I’m not trying to be a dick here, but seriously? That guy needed more help than he was going to find in this place.) Anyway, when it came to handing out Councilors, I got Rich. Rich worked in Radio for a lot of years. This makes me think he was given my case by design. I envision a conference room where someone’s waving my file around and slamming it on the table saying, “Sure, Eischen’s a tough case… He’s not stupid. That much we know. But if anyone can get through to him.. Rich, you can. You speak his language, Rich. Do it, Rich! The World needs him.” But I’m not sure that actually happens. Maybe they just shuffle our files around on the table and eenie meenie minnie mow it. I don’t know. I keep talking about files. I’d like to see mine. In fact I’d like to take it with me when I leave. I mean… I came in here of my own volition. Why shouldn’t I have full access to everything? I’m going to insist on seeing my file tomorrow. Maybe it’s a small decree of Independence, but I’m exercising my right. There is a file to. It’s behind the Nurse’s Station. I’ve seen it referred to often, but almost always from an angle where I can’t see what’s in there. Why is that? Tomorrow I’m going to demand full access. I can’t depend on these people to get it exactly right. Look at the Buddy they stuck me with. 

3:45pm. Earlier, I was talking about my meetings with Rich. That guy’s either my best friend or the worst thing that ever happened to me. I see him every couple of days. It’s not always a planned thing. Sometimes I round a corner, and there he is. Most days we’re all good. A quick hello and we go our separate ways. Other times I must look like I need a good soul wrenching. I can’t give it to you verbatim, and I don’t mean to cheapen the exchange by attempting to do so, but I just ran into him and it went something like this, “I’m good, Rich. Really. I just finally got to use the phone, and I couldn’t get through, so…” His hand is somehow on my shoulder and I don’t even realize we’re walking, until I’m seated in the chair in his office. ”Do you feel like you’ve been trying to get through for a long time now… and nobody’s on the other end…” Shit. I dunno, Rich. Yeah, now I guess I do. He’s good at what he does, and I’m sure he put it much more eliquently than I did. I sure as hell hope so. Otherwise I can hardly justify spending my subsequent lunch hour crying into my chocolate mousse. The food is really good here. Did I already mention that?   

6:00pm. Are you fucking kidding me? I saw my file. There wasn’t much in there that was very interesting. Except maybe THAT RICH WROTE IN THERE THAT I HAVE B.O.!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah. As in B. O. .  I swear to God. And I don’t. Have it. I really don’t. I am hereby giving anyone that knows me, permission to tell the truth if you if you ask them . I don’t. I actually smell pretty good. That’s why it’s ridiculous. And why it sucks so bad.  I know why he wrote it. Oh, I know when he wrote it. I am seriously beside myself right now. (And no, I don’t smell me.) He wrote it after, possibly during the first conversation I had with him. This particular little back and forth, I can repeat exactly as it went down. Because I remember it. Vividly. As if it was not over two weeks ago. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Toward the end of our chat, Rich asked me how things were going, in general. You know… Was I having any problems? Did I have any complaints about the facility, anything I’d like to change, etc.? I told him I was Golden. I told him that I was having trouble falling asleep at 10 o’ clock everynight… Other than that feelin groovy. And I tossed in (as an afterthought), “I wish I’d brought more than two pairs of shoes. I’m not used to having to wear them for such long days and they’re starting to get stinky.” That’s what I said. ‘…shoes are starting to get stinky.’ Rich wrote down that I have Insomnia and B. O. I swear to God. At first it took me a minute as I pondered what B. O. could stand for. It seriously didn’t even occur to me at first. I was like Buh… Bree… Beehaaavyio… Omygod. Be. Oh. Honestly, I don’t even know what to say right now. I’m numb. Because my file says I’ve got B. O.      

9:15pm. I’m not so much mad that he chose to use it. So he chose to use that little phrase as a reminder from our talk. He could’ve put F. O. He definitely could’ve put F.O. …but whatever. I don’t think he even meant for it to get in there. Rich is my Boy. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me on purpose. It was a handwritten… scribbled on a post it note. The kind of thing you’d barely pay attention to. If, you know… it didn’t tell the World that when they meet you they are going to smell you first. No, I’m mad because he was so careless with it. How do you write that about a person and leave it lying around? And the post it has Complaints scribbled across the top if you were just a person looking through files mine would say, “You haven’t had the pleasure yet, but Mark has B.O. to the point where he actually complains about it, himself.” Nice. It also says I’ve got Insomnia, so apparently it’s bad enough to keep me up at night.  Let me tell you something before I force Rich to write it in there in the morning. On the front. With a Red Sharpie. NO B.O. Not even on my worst day. That file’s going with me, when I leave here, I’ll tell you that much.  don’t care if my Permanent Record shows that I spent a little time in here. I’m not ashamed… But BO?! That’s not happening. That’s the kind of stuff that can keep you from getting a job. Or even an interview.

Tuesday, February 3rd

7:15am. I’m the wake-up guy. Every week we each get a job assigned to us. This week this is mine. It’s an important job. That probably goes without saying. If I am delinquent in my duties, the whole operation comes to a standstill. Correction; If I slack off, the day never even gets started. It’s worth noting that had they given us a personality profile, or even administered the old Junior High “Things you might be good at” test, I would not have been considered a viable candidate for this position. I have trouble coaxing myself out of the rack, let alone anyone else. Yet there I was at 6:05am, a little ray of sunshine, going door to door. Actually, I’ll bet I was a welcome change for most of my peers. The last wake-up guy threw the door open and turned on the light. (He was very lucky that by the time I went to bed every night, I had forgotten my elaborate plans to boobie-trap my door with yarn and a swinging pair of scissors.) Anyway, I take a softer gentler approach; I give a little tap-tappy on the door, open it, and say “Good Morning!” Then I ask if they want the light on. I think it’s appreciated. Granted only half of the guys made it to breakfast yesterday, and about a third missed the first lecture, but I can’t be responsible for what happens after I leave. I’ve got lots of people to get to. Last week I was flag-guy. I loved that job, and I was good at it. Mostly because, due to the three feet of snow around the base of it, the flag stays up all the time. I was pretty much responsible for looking out the window and making sure the flag was still there. It always was. Unfortunately, my watch came and went with no cause to mourn, but had one presented itself, I was ready to take ‘er down to half mast at a moment’s notice. Man, I was a good flag-guy.

3:00pm. So, I guess things are going pretty well. I really feel like I’m ready to get out of here. I’ve been so disconnected from the rest of the World for three weeks, now. I’ve learned a lot… and I’m ready to put those things into practice. I know what I need to do. I’ll never go back to the life I was leading, that much I’m pretty sure of.        

9pm. I’m going to climb out the window. No, I’m not. Yes. I am. Just for a couple of minutes and then I’ll climb right back in. Nobody’s going to be any the wiser. Dammit. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it. This would be a dangerous mission. The reasons for my insanity… the reasons I’m even considering such a thing, are spread out on the red particleboard desk in front of me. A metal window crank, (also red, but worn almost to a chrome) capable of opening and closing the two long windows in the room. All the windows in this place are of the crank variety. But someone went around and removed all the cranks. To prevent escape, I guess. Seems like such a trivial thing until it’s taken away from you. Have you ever been in someone’s car and they can’t, or won’t, dislodge the kiddie control on your window? Same feeling of frustration, times ten. The window crank, or simply the Crank as it’s known in local lore, has been passed on for generations. It is now in my care. Next we have a half empty box of dryer sheets and one cardboard roll from the toilet paper in the bathroom. Item number four… I’m looking at it right now. Half of a Marlboro Light. A little less, maybe. It’s a Menthol and it’s all bent at the end. I don’t even smoke Menthols, but I’ve had it for three days. 

Monday, January 26th.

6:45am. Boy I woke up in a shitty mood.  Some nights I’ve been sleeping really well here. Last night wasn’t one of them. I’ve been here for 10 days, and sometimes I don’t know if I can make it much longer. It’s not just the no sugar, no caffiene, no salt, no tv, no radio, no freaking newspapers, rules. I got used to those a long time ago. I no longer waste my time on childish pursuits. I’m over things the old me used to enjoy… like talking to girls, or going outside. Things of the past. Okay. I’ll stop there or it’s going to be a long day. Besides, it’s not like I won’t get two dozen other opportunities to share my feelings today. They’re not big on you keeping your feelings to yourself around here. Just try it… see what happens.

9:15am. Western omelette, hash browns and toast for breakfast. Lunch is roast pork, mashed potatoes and stuffing. Man, I’m going to gain a hundred pounds. I had been planning on walking out of here looking fit. A picture of health. Now people are going to wonder if I went to a fat farm. Or when I’m leaving. What can I tell you? When you’re robbed completely of all other vices and food’s all you’ve got… You make the most of it. Did I eat the extra pudding? …DID I EAT THE EXTRA PUDDING?! YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I DID!!!! God, I think I’m finally losing my mind. The food really is excellent and we have a lot of laughs during meals. It’s one of the few times we get to cut loose a little bit. 

Most of the guys have nicknames. There are currently four Dave’s residing here, so it makes it easier. There’s Mexican Dave, who is actually Peurto Rican. His nickname is Pedro. Preppy Dave used to play on the PGA Tour, and dresses like he’s still out there. Chainsaw Dave was travelling for work once, and got so fed up with a loud neighbor that he got the chainsaw out of his truck and cut a hole in the hotel room wall. Big enough to walk through. I swear to God. And there’s Asshole Dave, because well… he’s an asshole. The other day I mentioned Donnie Osmond and Johnny Guns. Two more nicknames I handed out personally. Donnie’s one of my better friends here. I tried to label him Osmond right off the bat, but he got wind of it and lobbied hard for Donnie Brasco. Can’t blame him, I guess. I still call him Osmond, though. Or just Marie. Johnny Guns got his nickname because, despite being a really good guy, walks around with the sleeves rolled up on his tee shirts. Started out as ‘Gun Show’, turned into Johnny Guns.

The day he got that name, strangely enough, was the same day I found out I already had a nickname, myself. Turns out I’ve had one for some time, actually, and I’m still a little pissed off about that. I’m going to give you this little exchange verbatim, because I still find it a bit confusing. It was the second or third day, and John came walking into lecture ten minutes late. So I said, “You’re late.” And He said, “Yeah, whatever.” Then I said, “Yeah, okay Gun Show!” And everybody laughed. Then Mexican Dave said, “Good one, Shrek!” And everybody laughed again. …Then I turned around and said, “That’s awesome! …Who are we calling Shrek?” And nobody said anything.      For a long time.     Are you kidding me? Shrek?! I”M SHREK??? How do you figure? Let me tell you something, when it comes to nicknames, I’m all set. Got one. It’s Iceman. Has been for years. My last name’s Eischen, so it’s kind of a no-brainer. Eischen… Iceman.

1:45pm. I can’t belie—Are you kidding me? Shrek? I’m Iceman, for the love of… I don’t even know what they’re trying to say. I few brave and well meaning villagers tried to tell me it was meant to be a compliment. Because I’m a big guy… but I’m a sweetheart when you get to know me. Great. Awesome. This sucks. I don’t want to be Shrek. And if you people think I can’t promote my own cool nickname, maybe you’ve never seen the cover (front and back) of my parents’ 1984-1988 Yellow Pages. Yeah. One wouldn’t have to conduct much of a search to figure out whose kitchen they were standing in, I’ll tell you that much. Mine, that’s who. St. Michaels CYO Hoops. JV Red Team. #30 ICEMAN. Those books were covered. Along with the ’chore board’ on the fridge and any other flat surface left lying around. ICEMAAAAAN!   I’m so pissed.

9:30pm. Alright, to be honest with you, Iceman never really took. At any age. I think they called my brother Iceman a little bit, so I let people know they could call me that too if they were so inclined. I told them this often. I don’t know why I couldn’t get people to at least try it… Did I already mention the Eischen–Iceman connection? Seems so obvious. So, maybe I wa thinking this was my last shot. God willing, this is the closest I’m ever getting back to Summer Camp. I had no idea everybody was going to have nicknames. But since they do, I haven’t kept mine a secret either. “…lot of people call me Iceman…” I must’ve let that one slip around the water cooler or the Meds counter a dozen times. Shrek… Whatever. I’ve got to grab a Sharpie and get to work on the Phonebooks. Shrek, my ass… I’m Iceman.

Friday, January 23rd

9:30am. I feel… what? Resigned to my fate…? Cautiously optomistic…? I don’t know what I feel. Although I imagine I’ll figure it out, as my Councilor friend, Rich is determined to break me down into a sobbing mess every time I see him. Man, this guy’s ruthless. Our first few sit-downs went something like this; “Tell me, Mark… do you feel like your father paid enough attention to you, growing up?” “I dunno, Rich. Tell me… are you sure you’ve got the right folder in front of you? Because I’m here for a drinking problem.” Rich tells me we’ll come back to it. I believe him.

I haven’t had a drink in over a week. To some, this might not seem like an incredible feat. To me, it’s pretty substantial. I wasn’t a daily drinker, like so many of my peers. That’s why I’m better than them. I’m kidding, Rich. Anyway, I wasn’t drinking every day, but if you caught me on the third day… Well, you wouldn’t catch me then actually, the blinds would be pulled and I wouldn’t be answering my phone. The point is, with a lot of help, I’ve broken that cycle. I’ve seen two 3 day spans, and I’m clean. So far so good, but again my optomism is cautious. Things could revert back pretty quickly. (…And on the 9th Day, Mark pulled a fire alarm to create a diversion and ran down the hill to the mini-mart in his slippers.)

3:45pm. Something’s happening… not only to me, but to some of the people around me. I’m not sure if it’s good, but it’s tangible. We’re realizing it’s a lot easier to join ‘em. Today we had ‘Activities with Brian’. This had, up until now, been my last pocket of resistance. Together with a few other brave Outliers, I had managed to offer the bare minimum and go relatively unnoticed. ‘Activities’ is all about team-building. And should I ever need to put together a kick-ass Duck Duck Goose squad, Brian’s the guy I’d go to. Barring that, I’d pretty much decided I’m not here for fun and games and had no use for such things. In that tradition, I was sitting around a table this afternoon with a few of my Buds (Including Flo, who is my boy. I hang with all the time. Taught me how to throw bones. That’s “play dominoes”, for Gene, and the rest of you) Well, my Pals and I, we’re not happy. We’ve been tasked with making colorful pictures, depicting our sobriety. The best ones will get hung on the wall. Seriously? A bunch of grown men are supposed to cut up construction paper and glue it to still more construction paper …With the hopes that maybe, just maybe, they’ll be showcased for all the World to see…? Please. I wanted no part of it, and was making my feelings known. This lasted for about 20 minutes. Then I started feeling like mine was beginning to look pretty good. The table had grown quiet. I looked around at the other guys. Flo had his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he labored over what I guessed was an oragami snowflake. Donnie Osmond and Johnny Guns were fighting over the gluestick. Donnie: “C’mon Dude. We only got 35 minutes left and these spots are’t gonna stick themselves on the giraffe!” Johnny Guns: “Don’t know what to tell you man, I need it. Bring it up in Group.”

6:00pm. I have to write a poem. Yep, you guessed it. For tomorrow’s ‘Activity’. I’m going to take a little time with it this time around. My picture did not make it up on the wall. Johnny Guns’ offering got selected from our table. Go figure. He had the fucking glue stick the whole time. So, I’ve got to nail this one, and it’s not really my forte. Here’s what I’ve got so far. It’s only the first draft, so bear with me.  RECOVERY. You may have to listen. I don’t scream out loud. I’m not very boisterous, sarcastic or proud. I won’t sneak through your window. Or knock down your door. Though I’m competing with voices that did all this, and more. I won’t force myself on you. I can’t even try. I can only wait quietly, watch while you die. I beg you to look for me yet sadly I know, in order to find meyou’ll have to let go. I can’t be your lover, your husband, your wife… My hands are outstretched, come take back your life.

10:00pm. Alright, I’m turning in. I’ll work on this more tomorrow. I’m feeling pretty good, though. I just went by Johnny Guns’ room. His poem sucks. I’m pretty sure he pocketed the gluestick however, so by class time I’m sure it’ll be all covered with glitter and confetti. I wonder if they’re having pancakes again tomorrow. The food is good here. 

Friday, January 16th– 1:15pm. I’m on a semi-circle couch, sitting quietly. Except for the sound of my fingers drumming on the full-circle table in front of me. TOBACCO PRODUCTS OF ANY KIND ARE STRICTLY PROHIBITTED. This is unexpected and may just be a deal-breaker. I mean, I realize where I am. I didn’t imagine I’d have a burner dangling from my cafeteria table so I could rip a few drags before pudding. But I sure wasn’t planning on this, either. Glad I stopped at the Reservation and picked up a carton on the way here. Wonder how many of them I could pile through in the next five minutes.

1:25. There are, what I’m guessing is two sisters on the other semi-circle. They’re both sort of crying and laughing and hugging. But every couple of minutes one of them drops out of the whole routine to stare blankly at the  wall. She stares hard, like she wonders what it tastes like. I’ve gotta think she’s the one that’s going to be sticking around here for awhile.

3:30pm. Okay. They’ve relieved me of my ipod, laptop, books, WALLET, phone, mouthwash (In case I decided to drink it), Gold Bond powder (In case, I decided to snort it. No shit.)  and my Q-tips. Don’t ask me… I realized protest was futile. Up until this point, I was feeling like I could pull the plug at any time. That would now be difficult, and this is all seeming very real. Final. Sure, I could still walk out of here, but how far am I really going to get without my  mouthwash or Gold Bond? Let alone my phone, wallet and car keys. I guess it’s official. I’m in rehab. Jesus Christ. How the hell did things things get to this point…? That’s probably a subject better left for another day, but Jesus… Rehab?

6pm. My roommate thinks I’m soft. I know he does. He’s in here for pills. Maybe heroin. Used to sell em too, I’ll bet. He’s dressed in low-riding sweats, and a wife-beater. (I know, I don’t care for this term either, and wouldn’t have used it here, did it not so clearly paint the picture.) His name is Flow, or maybe he spells it Flo. I’m not sure, but If you’re thinking the waitress from Mel’s Diner, put it out of your mind. This Flo might be capable of bad bad things. And he’s sizing me up. I’ve got like six inches and a hundred pounds on him. He must see this. Still, he didn’t blink when he dropped my hand and said “Better not fuckin’ snore.” (*Note to self. 1. Don’t snore. 2. Practice detaching metal roll bar from side of bed and swinging blindly in the dark.) I’ve already seen Flo’s got some clout on the Cell Block. The other guys don’t mess with him. Unlike Gene, who gets slapped in the head and puple nurpled the moment he leaves the Nurse’s Station. Gene’s my Buddy. Everybody gets assigned a Buddy upon arrival. I got Gene. Dammit. I am still not sure if someone matched me n Gene up because they thought we were of the same mold, or if Gene picked me out, hoping it might turn into a My Bodyguard type of arraingement. Either way, it’s not working out and I plan on ditching him as soon as I can. It’s not personal, and I appreciate the effort… But I’m in an institution now. I can’t afford to have a friend like Gene. There’s a pecking Order. Yes, Flo’s cooler than me. Understood. But I’m definitely cooler than Gene. I don’t make the rules.

10pm. Almost time for lights out. First half day under my belt. 27 and a half to go. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s not really like I thought it would be. I don’t know what I’d thought it would be. I keep thinking I could have stopped boozing if I just took the AA Meetings a little more seriously. Those guys gave me their phone numbers like half a dozen times and I never used them. I guess it doesn’t matter now. Wow. Rehab… Jesus.