Powerless

Doorbell

Hangovers usually came with accessories, like Jehovah’s Witness doorbell rings or lost car keys or naked women in bed next to him.

There was definitely a doorbell ring and a pitcher of water next to the bed with fruit flies in it that led him to believe it wasn’t just water.

There were eggs and toast next to him, and a fully clothed woman he didn’t remember walked into the room.

“Did you cook this?” he asked.

She smiled at him, the way someone would smile at a third grader at the beach who asked if they were pregnant, and said “no, I ordered it from the place my sister works at” and he grabbed the foam container, stuck the plastic fork in it and set it back on the nightstand.

“Eat,” she said.

He took two bites, set the container on the floor, let his head fall back on the pillow.

There was red liquid in a glass on the dresser. Vodka and cranberry, he hoped. Anything and cranberry, he hoped.

He was too embarrassed to ask her name, because the sunlight between the curtains told him she had obviously spent the night.

“C’mon, let’s go,” she said.

He crawled from bed and drank the red liquid. It was something and cranberry, probably vodka, the pleasant burn that let him know there was booze in it.

He was fully clothed, except for shoes.

She had keys in her hand.

He stood. There was a shoe on the floor and one on the chair.

He put them on and followed her down the hall.

She led him outside to a blue car. He didn’t see his, though his keys were in his pocket and he had locked his apartment door.

In the car, he looked for any evidence of her name. An employee badge hanging from a rearview, mail, anything.

Nothing.

He felt his pocket.

There were a few crumpled bills.

She turned on Sheldon driving away from town.

“Where we going?”

She patted his hand, like she was about to tell a third grader something they didn’t want to hear.

“I’m taking you to rehab, just like you asked me to last night.”

He kicked his head back against the headrest, slowly beating his head against it.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“It will be okay. It’s for the best. They saved my sister’s life.”

“Fuck.”

She drove, occasionally reaching to pat his hand, and smiled at him like a child going to get a booster shot.

He trembled, wanted to cry.

“I need a drink.”

She laughed, through her nose, shaking her head.

“Just like Rose,” the woman said. “There are warm seltzers in the bag behind your seat, with the cat litter. If you must, better slam one, we’re almost there.”

He hesitated, then curled around the seat like he was looking for a fire extinguisher in a busy kitchen, clawing at the bag.

He cracked a seltzer-Mango- slammed some and it threatened to come back up all over this nameless woman’s car.

They pulled into a circular driveway.

The name of the rehab could have been the name of a golf club.

Everything shook. The world was off its axis.

He knew this day was coming for years, but not today, not today.

She unbuckled her seat belt, got out and opened his door.

She helped him out of the car like they were at a prom.

“Did I really ask to go to rehab last night?”

Her grip on his hand tightened. It wasn’t reassuring, it was just tight, and suffocating.

“No. You didn’t. But goddamn dude. Goddamn. Seriously. Goddamn.”

With her free hand, she grabbed his belt and guided him toward the door.

***

Addiction. Discuss anything you want.

I quit drinking 69 months ago today. Dude.

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