CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
2004- Minutiae
There were many parallels between the months I spent in a luxury addiction recovery center and the months I spent in Rikers.
Both had:
People who lived for gossip and drama
People who tried to make the best of a bad situation by taking advantage of every single program and class offered
People who just wanted to do their time and get the fuck out
Rikers didn’t have hot stone massages and a plunge pool, so I guess rehab was the better option. The food alone was enough to make it the clear winner.
For some reason, my mom thought it would be fine to send me to a co-ed facility. During my stay, most of the men were either old, wrinkly country club drunks or cross-addicted South American fuckboys.
One of the fuckboys took a fancy to me. He told me I reminded him of his sister (hello…creepy!) and invited me to go sailing with him in Bal Harbour when we were both “free to accept social invitations.” After that little interaction, I tried my best to stick to my Women’s Group and exercise regimen. I’d had enough agents of chaos barrel through my life, and homie tried to kick it to me while wearing washed pink sailcloth clam diggers.
At a little past the halfway mark, I was given phone and email privileges. The first person I reached out to was Simone. She was as happy to hear my voice as I was to hear hers.
“How’s fancy pants rehab going?” she asked.
“Never mind that,” I said. “How is Operation Skim & Dip going? You ready to break free from the King of Cons yet?”
Simone laughed and said she’d accumulated more than enough to pay for two years’ worth of rent on something cute in one of the outer boroughs. “Plus, some decent furniture!” she added.
“Oh my god, Simone,” I said, dialing up the drama, “Do not tell me you’re moving to Staten Island.”
“Not quite that bad, but almost. I have a lead on a very small 2-bedroom unit in a private house in Dyker Heights. The second bedroom is more like a walk-in closet, but you know…” she trailed off.
I told her we’d keep in touch as my discharge date got closer. She told me she loved me and we hung up.
A week or so later, I dropped June an email.
Subject: I’m Alive
Hey Juney June,
How’s my favorite HVAC apprentice doing this fine day?
I’m still in rehab and it’s going surprisingly well. I’m actually learning about myself and shit.
I should be discharged in a little over a month. I’m planning to head back to New York, but this time I think I’ll be able to stay out of trouble.
I have one last favor to ask you, and I promise this is the last time I will ever ask you to bail me out.
Could you lend me money for a bus ticket from Miami? I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job. I promise!
Anyway, write me back and let me know how you’re doing.
Eula
June wrote me back two days later.
His apprenticeship was going well- he’d switched paths from HVAC to electrician, because the work was more interesting and it paid better.
And he wanted to send me a plane ticket, not a bus ticket.
I thanked him for the offer, but told him all I needed was a bus ticket.
Now I had a way back to New York and a potential place to land. But where the hell was Dyker Heights?
It wasn’t like all my problems were solved, but I definitely felt better.
