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.

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