#11 Foxy Blonde
Real name: Matt King.
A.k.a. “The Stoner Who
Couldn’t Keep a Boner.”
*Beep*
It’s Daisy. Thanks for telling Mom someone can sing the “Ave Maria” at the wedding, now Edward’s mom is insisting we do that whole Jewish breaking of the glass thing—whatever it’s called.
*Heavy Sigh*
I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you, it’s just that everyone’s driving me crazy. You have no idea how lucky you are to be single!
*Beep*
Del—it’s Michelle. I just got off the phone with Dustin Hoffman. You’re such an idiot! I told you not to go! Call me. Bye.
foxy blonde
I met #11 on my list, Matt King, also known as Foxy Blonde, the summer after I graduated from college, when I was living in Chicago. After two years of majoring in Liberal Arts (the “I have no idea what I want to do with my life” major) at Miami University, I realized I wanted to work in the design field. Even though it would have made more sense for me to attend a design school in New York, I transferred to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Two years after doing so, I ended up graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fiber and Material Studies. It might sound like a funny major, but knowing all about fibers and fabrics was extremely beneficial to my job at ESD.
The summer after I graduated, I worked as an intern in the marketing department of the Merchandise Mart, an enormous building that houses furniture showrooms for design professionals. Although I didn’t get any hands-on design experience there, I was able to see how the industry worked, as well as network at design events they held that professionals from all over the world came to attend. In fact, I met the woman who later helped me get my job at Elisabeth Sterling Design at one of these events.
Although I met Matt while working at the Mart, he didn’t exactly work in the building—he worked on the street in front of one of the entrances. He was a twenty-one-year-old construction worker. His dad made him get the job since he decided not to go to college. In the looks department, Matt was tall and lean with a surfer-boy look. Working all day in the sun dropped beautiful honey highlights in his dirty blonde hair and gave his skin a delicious golden glow. Oh, and his smile . . . Matt had a sexy smile that put Matthew McConaughey’s to shame.
I noticed Matt’s good looks right away, as did many of my female (and some male) coworkers. Since none of us knew his name, we referred to him as Foxy Blonde. Everyone was gaga over him; he was the talk of the office.
After admiring Foxy from afar for a couple of weeks, I decided to take action one hot summer day when I was feeling sexy. Not only was I dressed sparingly in a tight black tank top, an even tighter black miniskirt, and huge black platform sandals, I was also covered in glitter.1 (It was the summer of the Spice Girls and I had christened myself Glitter Spice.)2 There was no way he could deny me.
During an iced-coffee run to a White Hen Pantry across the street, I decided to get Foxy a bottle of water and some ice. After all, he was working hard to make the street in front of my workplace a more enjoyable throughway, it was the least I could do. After paying, I embraced my inner Spice Girl and approached him.
“Hi,” I said, nervously. Foxy stopped digging and looked up. A blue bandanna was tied around his head—I assume to keep the sweat out of his eyes, which were a beautiful icy blue. I had never been this close to him before and never realized how good looking he really was. “You look hot, you know, with the heat and all.” Unsure of what else I should say, I stopped talking.
“And?” Foxy asked, after a bit.
“And well,” I continued, “I thought you might need to cool down, so I bought these for you.” I held out the water and ice.
“For me?” Foxy asked, smiling. He took them from me. “Wow, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After taking a swig of the water, Foxy took a piece of ice from the cup and ran it across his brow. As he did, it melted, sending little water droplets through the stubble on his face. Gosh, he was sexy! “I’m Matt King,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but mine’s dirty and now wet too.”
Dirty and wet. How exciting!
“I’m Delilah Darling,” I said, extending my hand anyway. “And I don’t mind dirty and wet.”
Bad, Delilah! Bad, bad!
Smirking, Foxy took my hand and lightly shook it until I pulled away.3 “I have to get going,” I said. “But I’ll see ya around.”
“I’m sure you will, Delilah Darling,” Foxy said, smiling. “The girl who doesn’t mind dirty and wet.” Laughing, I turned and walked away.
As I headed toward the entrance of the building, I could feel Foxy’s eyes on me so I swung my hips something fierce. “Foxy’s gonna be my luvah!” I sang out to the tune of the Spice Girls’ “If you wanna be my lover!” Glitter Spice had arrived.
The very next day Foxy asked me out, and within a week, we were in the throes of a full-blown love affair. I was in love—in love! Connecticut didn’t breed guys like Foxy (at least New Canaan didn’t), and I had never met anyone like him before in my life. He was rough, rugged, and cool. Everyone wanted to be his friend.
I think part of the reason I was so head-over-heels for Foxy had to do with my age. I was twenty-one years old and had just graduated from college when I met him—the world was at my fingertips. I was hungry for life, for experiences. An optimistic “I can do anything” feeling was running through my mind and gave me confidence, a confidence which translated in the bedroom. Even though Foxy was #11 on my list, I felt like sex was new with him. For the first time I started taking ownership over it. I was a girl on the brink of womanhood. It was playful and thrilling. Every night after having it, we’d wrap our arms and legs around each other, talk, laugh and eventually fall asleep. The next morning we’d wake up still intertwined.
Since my summer internship didn’t pay, I took a job as a cocktail waitress on the weekends to pay my rent. In addition to his construction job, Foxy played drums in a band. Because of these two things, our weekend nights out didn’t begin until two o’clock in the morning when we were both done working and didn’t end until the sun came up. We lived a fun, fast lifestyle, Foxy and I. I loved that summer. I loved, loved, loved that summer.
Then came fall.
It’s funny how quickly things can change. Feelings, no matter how intense they are, can be fleeting. With the snap of a finger, happiness can turn to sadness, hope can turn to despair, and one day your past can catch up with you and make you realize you need to hit the brakes.
The moment I knew things were going to change was when Foxy lost his job. It caused a domino effect. Not only did he lose his income, he lost his tan, he lost his six-pack—basically, he lost his foxy. In the blink of an eye, Foxy Blonde turned into Matt King, my unemployed boyfriend with a beer gut.
This alone didn’t bother me—I’m not that shallow. I can deal with someone losing a job and gaining weight. (I mean, hello?) What bothered me was that he lost his zest for life; he lost his free-spirited personality. Since he was unemployed, Matt’s harmless weekend partying started to spiral out of control and turned into daily occurrences. He was always either drunk or high and would frequently start arguments with me over stupid stuff. Initially these arguments led to some good “love at first fight” makeup sex, but eventually his chronic pot smoking negatively affected that area of our relationship as well. Yes, leaves weren’t the only things falling in Chicago that autumn.
Matt didn’t just lose a little wind in his sail—the thing couldn’t even fly at half-mast. He couldn’t get it up ever. Initially when it started happening, he would ask me to turn on Guns N’ Roses music—I swear—as if listening to Axl Rose was the cure-all for drug-induced impotence. I did it though, of course I did. I was willing to try anything. Before every attempt at sex, I’d jump out of bed naked to throw on the CD, then I’d jump back in, lay there and wait while . . .
“Take me down to the paradise city . . .”
. . . blared through the speakers and my boyfriend tried to psych himself into getting it up. I wish I could say it worked, but the best it ever did was get Matt’s penis to the point of resembling an al dente noodle—mostly soft with a hint of firmness.
Things only got worse. Because of his healthy party habits, Matt fell two months behind in paying his rent, so I lent him eight hundred dollars. Stupid, I know. In order to pay me back, he started selling pot. When I asked him to stop, he refused saying he was doing it for me. What was I supposed to say to that? “How romantic?” What kind of bad music video was I living in?
Any idiot would’ve broken up with him; however, I wasn’t just any idiot—I was an optimistic idiot. I thought I could help him. But his behavior soon became erratic. He was up and down, happy and sad—he was manic. In a matter of a few weeks, a glassy haze slowly replaced the sparkle in beautiful, icy blue eyes. Likewise, dirt replaced the highlights in his dirty blonde hair. Matt’s instability soon made me feel out of control as well, and I realized that for my own sanity, I had to get out of there. The wild, carefree days of summer had finally caught up with me. The world was still out there and I was still hungry, so I decided to go back to the East Coast.
I didn’t tell any of my friends that I was leaving, not even Matt. I just planned one last night out to say good-bye without really saying good-bye. The night, about halfway through the evening, I looked around the bar and didn’t see Matt anywhere. He didn’t say he was leaving or going home, so I called his cell phone to see where he was. After two rings, he picked up. “I’ll be right in,” he said shortly, then hung up.
Thinking it was rude that he ended the call so abruptly, I went outside where it was quieter to call him back. After dialing his number, I held my ringing cell phone to my ear and the strangest thing happened: I heard the ringing in stereo. I heard it through the phone in one ear and from across the street in the other. When I looked up to where the live ring was coming from, I saw Matt standing on the corner, kissing another girl. With their arms wrapped around each other, the two of them talked and laughed just like we had done so many nights in bed. Since I hadn’t hung up my phone, Matt’s was still ringing. I watched him pick it up and answer. “I said I’ll be right in!”
“Don’t bother,” I said aloud. When he looked up and saw me, the smile disappeared from his face. He didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? He cheated on me while he was out with me. What kind of person does that?
Deciding to leave, I turned around and went back inside the bar. As I gathered my belongings, my friends sensed something was wrong, but before anyone had a chance to ask what it was, Matt walked inside. “You’re leaving?” he asked.
“Yes,” I huffed, frantically grabbing my things.
“Oh come on,” he sighed. “Don’t be so crazy.”
Don’t be so crazy? Hearing those words come from his mouth filled me with anger. I couldn’t believe that he of all people had the nerve to call me crazy. Unable to control my feelings, I began yelling at him, telling him what a loser he was. The entire time I did so, he stood in silence, staring at me. When I was finished, when I didn’t have anything left to say, I waited for a response, waited for a reply, waited for an apology, but I didn’t get one. Instead of telling me he was sorry, Matt simply looked at me . . . and laughed. He laughed the biggest, loudest laugh I’d ever heard in my life. He laughed and laughed and laughed. To have someone laugh at you when you’re angry is infuriating. After telling him that I never wanted to see him again, I walked out the door.
Eventually I got over Matt, but I never got over being angry at Matt because I never got an apology. Through the years, I always thought that maybe one day my phone would ring, and it would be him calling to say he’s sorry, but that didn’t happen. To be honest, when I made my list, just writing his name made me so upset that I thought about taking him out of the running. However, remembering the bad times soon got me thinking about the good. I remembered the day we met and the nights we wrapped our bodies around each other. The more I remembered Foxy Blonde, the more I forgot Matt King and decided he was worth another shot.
mmmail!
monday, april 25
Despite the fact that I left New Orleans with a negative attitude, the drive to Illinois was rather enjoyable because, after I hung up from my mom, I called Colin back to tell him about Yoshi and the two of us laughed and laughed and ended up talking for an hour. You’ll never believe it, but I think talking on the phone actually helps me drive better. I’m still overly cautious, but since I’m gabbing I don’t obsess as much over the clicks, hums, and rattles and therefore drive a little bit faster. Don’t get too excited, I didn’t quite break fifty miles per hour, but I got close. Yes, my cell phone is a rock star, if that’s possible.
Although Foxy lived in Chicago when I met him, he now lives with his parents in Rockford, a city about ninety miles west of Chicago. Okay, fine—WITH HIS PARENTS—are you happy? Yes, I know this is a possible sign that he’s a loser (he is almost thirty years old by now, after all), but I have to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Rockford is located in Winnebago County, a county people claim is named after the Winnebago Indian tribe. I say claim because since I’ve been here, I’ve counted twenty-two recreational vehicles and zero Indians. My hotel, the Clock Tower Resort, even has a special RV parking lot. I’m not calling anyone a liar, but I think the possibility of the county being named after the motor vehicle is worth looking into.
Don’t let the name of my hotel fool you into thinking I splurged—the place is less a resort and more a theme park. Truth be told, it’s a Best Western hotel located right off the expressway whose main selling point is an indoor family water playland, complete with a corkscrew slide. Yesterday, while walking through the lobby, Eva and I had a run-in with a twenty-one-foot floating snake. When Eva saw it, she snarled and tried to jump out of her bag and attack, much like she did with Wade’s puppet—I mean Muppet—but I stopped her. I’m a little worried and have started to feel badly for raising her in a car. I feel like one of those women you see on Lifetime, Television for Women, one of those women played by Swoozie Kurtz or Meredith Baxter Birney who raises her children on the street. I know Eva’s just a dog, but she still needs stability in her life, especially after everything she’s been through.
But back to the hotel.
It’s not too expensive, only eighty dollars a night. However, when you multiply this times three nights, it can get a little pricey. I got in late Thursday night and have been sitting outside Foxy’s parents’ house ever since. It’s Monday now and still no Foxy. The only life inside are his mom and dad, or two old people who look an awful lot like him. I’m beginning to go stir-crazy and don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve listened to my 1997 playlist—songs that remind me of Foxy—more times than I can count. Believe me, despite how much I used to love them, one can take only so much Spice Girls. “So tell me what you want, what you really, really want!”
I don’t ever want them to get back together, that’s what I want. And then I want someone to tell me what happened to Chumbawamba.
After waiting a bit longer, I decide to call Colin to make sure he gave me the right address. When he answers, I greet him with song.
“MMMBop! Bop, bop, MMMBop! Yada ya-daaa! Bomb pops! Rock, rock, yeah-eah . . .” I don’t really know the words.
“You really should stick with Lionel Richie,” he says. I laugh.
“Yes, maybe so. Hey, I have a question. The address you gave me for Matt King—are you positive it’s the right one?”
“Yep,” Colin answers quickly and confidently. “One hundred percent.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. Where could Foxy be? Could he be in a boat? Could he be with a goat? Could he be on a plane? Could he be on a train? Could he be in a car? Could he be in a bar?
Oh . . . that hits a little too close to home. Actually . . .
Where Is Foxy?
A poem by Delilah Darling
Could he be in a tree?
Tripping out or taking E?
Could he be drinking wine?
Shooting up? Doing a line?
Could be smoking grass?
Eating shrooms or sniffing gas?
I will not leave, I’ll find this man.
I will not leave, the tramp I am.
Damn, I’m talented.
I suddenly hear a grunt and a click come from the phone. “What are you doing?”
“Sit-ups,” Colin says. His voice cuts out at the end. I think I’ve been put on speakerphone.
“Sit-ups? You don’t need to do sit-ups; your abs look fine.”
“So you were looking at my abs that one day!”
“I might’ve caught a glimpse, but they were right in front of my face. I couldn’t help it.”
“Uh huh . . . right.” Colin clearly doesn’t believe my excuse. “And how about my legs?”
“I plead the fifth on that one,” I giggle. “So are you like a big workout fiend?”
“Not at all, but I gotta get serious about it because, well, I don’t want to jinx it but I got an audition for One Life to Live later in the week.”
I gasp with excitement. “One Life to Live the soap opera?”
“Yes, One Life to Live the soap opera. Do you watch?”
“No, it’s just that . . . well, I knew you were an actor, but I wasn’t sure if you were any good.”
“Gee thanks.”
“I’m only teasing. Well, you sound busy, so I’ll let you go.”
“Okay, I have to start doing lunges now anyway.”
“Well, good luck.” I almost hang up, but then . . . “Oh wait—Colin?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t need to do lunges. Your legs look just fine.”
I can practically hear him smile through the phone. “I knew you were lookin’!”
I hang up with a smile on my face. A little harmless flirting after so many strike-outs is just what the doctor ordered. Feeling reenergized, I put my thinking cap on and look out the window at Foxy’s parents’ house. The mailman is parked out front. A few seconds later when he pulls away, I see a package sitting next to their mailbox. A package. I suddenly get an idea.
Now, I know it’s wrong to steal someone’s mail—it’s a federal offense, an invasion of privacy—and I’d be pissed off if someone stole mine, but I need leads. I need that package.
Within seconds I’m running like a bat out of hell from the scene of the crime, holding not only the stolen package, but also a stack of mail. When I arrive back at my car, I jump in and lock the doors. After looking around to make sure no one saw me, I put on a pair of rubber gloves (in case the feds dust for fingerprints) and start with the package. Addressed to Foxy’s mom, it’s from the Home Shopping Network. After tearing it open, I look inside and find six terrycloth hair turbans—Turbie Twists—that the enclosed pamphlet says are “not as bulky as normal towels.” Holding one up, I cringe. It might not be as bulky, but it sure is ugly. I toss it aside and move on to the mail.
Bills, bills, more bills, and then . . . a small envelope from a place called Lily Pond. I tear it open. Inside is a note:
Dear John & Sylvia,
We had a nice breakthrough the other day. You did the right thing. Matt’s in good hands. Keep your spirits up.
Dr. Trudy Jacobs
98543 LILY STREET—ROCKFORD, IL 61101
Matt’s in good hands? Hmm. Since I have my laptop with me, I begin driving around the neighborhood until I’m able to pick up a wireless Internet signal from someone’s house. Parked out front, I Google Lily Pond. After 0.29 seconds, the results appear before me:
Lily Pond Substance Abuse Treatment Center
Alcohol and drug treatment center located in Rockford, Illinois.
www.lilypondtreatment.org/—10k—Cached—Similar pages
Alcohol and drug treatment center? My heart sinks. Foxy’s in rehab? Oh my God! An overwhelming feeling of guilt engulfs me. I feel partly responsible. Not only did his drug problem start when we were dating, but when things got bad I left him. I should’ve stayed and helped him get straight. I should’ve stayed!
After getting directions from MapQuest, I drive to Lily Pond as quickly as I can. When I arrive, I feel slightly relieved as I head down the long driveway. It’s is a beautiful place, not at all what I expected. It looks like a resort—a real resort, not a Clock Tower Resort. Located on what appears to be dozens of acres, the heavily wooded grounds are filled with gardens and ponds. It’s calming; it’s serene.
After parking my car, I head inside and see a skinny, balding man standing behind the front desk. I walk up to him. He’s wearing a name tag that reads Carl.
“Hi, Carl,” I say. “I’m wondering if you can help me with something.” Carl gives me a fake smile and nods. “I’m here to visit someone. Matt King.”
Hearing Foxy’s name makes Carl purse his lips together. “Mr. King’s not allowed to have visitors,” he says in a whiny, high-pitched voice.
“Am I here on the wrong day? Is there a special ‘visitor’s day’ or something when I can come back?”
Carl shakes his head. “No, Mr. King’s never allowed to have visitors, not unless they’re doctor-approved.”
Oh dear . . . this doesn’t sound good. Foxy must be in bad shape. I need to get in there and see him. I might be able to save him! I take a moment to study Carl. Although he appears to be a tough cookie, I think I can break him.
“Listen, Carl,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “I’ve come a looooong way to see him. Can’t you bend the rules just a little bit? Just for me? Pretty please?”
Bat, bat, bat.
Maybe it’s the “pretty please” that pisses Carl off, I’m not sure. All I’m sure of is that he’s angry.
“Listen here, young lady,” he says quietly, leaning over the counter. He glares at me with his beady little eyes. “I don’t bend the rules for no one. So why don’t you turn around, walk your pretty little ass right out that front door, and go home. Got it?”
Got it? Oh, I got it all right. I got myself another good idea. When I was a little girl, I watched a lot of Charlie’s Angels, and because of that, I know how to get what I want. Without giving Carl the pleasure of a reply, I turn around and leave, but I’m not going home—I’m going undercover. I’m going . . . to rehab.
undercover angel
That evening I devise my plan. I have to flesh out three things for my idea to work. For one, I can’t just check into rehab with a dog, so I need to find a place for Eva to go. Two, I’d hate to be turned down for admission simply because I’m not addicted to drugs, so I need to get some drugs in my system in case they give me a blood test or something. And three, I need to find a hard-luck addict story, a story I can call my own. The experts that run that joint are going to ask questions when I get there, and I’m going to need to know how to answer. Yes, I’m aware of the fact that I’m beginning to lose it, but I’m running out of men, I’m running out of options. I need this thing to work with Foxy, I do!
With regard to Eva, after doing a bit of research, I find a well-respected neighborhood veterinarian and make an appointment for her to get spayed. The kid at the pet store in Philly recommended that I do so before she turned seven months old; otherwise, she’ll go into heat and get dog boobies, like five of them or something. The receptionist at the office tells me they keep dogs for two nights following a spay which should give me enough time to get in and out of rehab—all I need to do while I’m in there is make contact.
Now, on to the drugs. While the idea of numbing the pain of rejection with a handful of dolls is somewhat appealing, I need to be of sound mind to pull this thing off.4 I once watched a special on MTV that said if you eat a lot of poppy seeds before taking a drug test, the results will come back positive for opiates. With that said, I reluctantly scarf down not one but six poppy seed bagels. I say reluctantly because I don’t eat bagels, not since my gynecologist told me that my cervix looked like one.
Finally, on to the hard luck story. What are opiates? How does one feel when one takes opiates? Truth be told, I had no idea . . . that is until I read a special edition of Star magazine devoted to celebrities and their addictions. Yes, if the E! True Hollywood Story came in print form, it would be Star. After reading through the issue at least twelve times, I’m pretty confident I know my drugs, so I slam it shut and get a good night’s sleep.
The next morning, after tearfully dropping off Eva at the vet (I felt so bad leaving her), I drive down Lily Pond’s long driveway once again. Since it’s so much nicer than any of the hotels I’ve stayed at so far (the Ritz doesn’t count because I didn’t stay the night), I’m somewhat excited to be here. After parking my car, I walk to the front door and do a quick check to see if Carl is on duty. If he is, my plan is to wait to check in when he goes to lunch. Seeing neither hide nor hair of him, I walk inside and up to the counter. Standing in his place is a large black woman. Her name tag says Lucille. Looking up, she smiles when she sees me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, Lucille. I’d like to check myself in today.”
“Did you come all by yourself?” Lucille asks, glancing behind me. She looks concerned.
I nod pathetically. “Yes.”
“You got an appointment?”
Oops. I didn’t know I needed one. I nod pathetically again. “Yes.”
After giving Lucille my name, I wait patiently as she begins flipping through pages of an appointment book. After searching and coming up empty, she looks up. “I don’t have anything here.”
Not wanting to be turned away, I lean my body against the counter for support and begin to do my best Anna Nicole Smith impression. “Thaaaaatttttzzzz tooooo baddddd,” I say, slurring my words together.
“Oh dear,” Lucille says in a concerned tone. She can tell I need help. “Why don’t you go have a seat over there,” she says, motioning to a fluffy white sofa in the corner.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
After a few minutes of waiting a woman named Jan comes to get me and takes me to her office. She has chipmunk cheeks—jowls—and crazy curly hair that somewhat resembles Michelle’s, except it’s black not red. The only piece of flair she’s wearing to jazz up her all-black suit is a hot pink leopard-print scarf. After apologizing for not having my appointment in the book, Jan asks if I remember who it was I spoke to when I called.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “But I think his name was Carl.”
I hope that asshole gets in trouble.
For the next two hours I’m assessed by Jan, a doctor, and a psychiatrist. I know what they want to hear because, in addition to watching a lot of Charlie’s Angels as a kid, I also watched a lot of after-school specials, particularly the ones on addictions (those were always the best.)
“I’m here because I want to be here, not because anyone’s making me,” I tell them. “Not only do I want to stop hurting others,” I then add, “I want to stop hurting myself as well.”
“At a girl,” Jan says. “Admitting you need help is the first step to recovery.”
Needless to say, I pass my assessment test with flying colors and am admitted to Lily Pond. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel oddly accomplished when I’m accepted—I never test well on things. Since my insurance from Elisabeth Sterling Design is still good for a couple more weeks, I pass my card over to take care of the $1,000-a-day cost of Lily Pond and quickly sign the papers they give me. I don’t have time to read them—I need to get to get inside now; I need to help Foxy!
My room is a special room, they tell me, one for detox. Located right off the nurse’s station, it’s not very private but it does have its own bathroom. Even though there are two twin beds inside, I’m the only new recruit right now so it’s all mine. While I unpack a nurse stands with me, taking my cell phone (I should be focusing on getting better and nothing else) and anything else she deems harmful to my recovery.
Around noon someone rings a loud cowbell signaling it’s time to eat, so I head toward the cafeteria. Unlike the beautiful grounds, the food at Lily Pond is exactly what I would expect to be served in rehab: overprocessed, overcooked, oversaturated. Soft vegetables, tough meat—it’s disgusting. After taking the one apple I see, I take a seat alone and begin to look around for Foxy. Not seeing him anywhere, I check out everyone else. I’m not sure what I expected, but most of the people here look normal. Some of the guys are even hot, which is somewhat exciting. I mean, it’s a whole room of emotionally unstable men, looking to for fulfillment, looking for a strong woman. I might be able to help not only Foxy but all of them.
Someone suddenly sits next to me, interrupting my people-watching. It’s a man, but not one of the cute ones. He’s shorter, fatter, and balder than most of the others. “What are you in for?” he asks. A pair of Playboy sunglasses hang from his shirt pocket.
“Three to five,” I say, pretending I’m in the slammer. He smiles.
For the next few minutes, the Playboy tells me all about his Oxycontin addiction. He tells me that rehab is working for him so far, but he’s worried about getting out. You see, he’s a thrill-seeker who is always looking for a rush. After telling the Playboy that he needs to find a hobby, something that can give him the same rush as Oxycontin, I tell him about a TV special I watched recently about roller-coaster enthusiasts, people who drove all over the country to ride on different coasters. The Playboy likes my idea and says he’ll look into it when he leaves. Gosh, I haven’t even been here for one day yet and I’m already helping people. Where is Foxy?
Therapy doesn’t start until I’m done with detox, so for the remainder of the day I take a nap and then go to dinner. It’s “build your own potato” night, complete with bacon bits and nacho cheese. Barf. After grabbing another apple, I find a seat and once again look around for Foxy. Like this morning, I don’t see him anywhere. After eating and people-watching, the Playboy stops by to talk to me once again about being a thrill-seeker.
The next day the same thing happens—sleep, eat, no Foxy, the Playboy is a thrill-seeker. The only change is that a new woman has moved into the detox room with me. Although she seems nice enough, she’s covered her bed with Beanie Babies which frightens me.
On my third day in rehab, I wake up and realize that I have to leave in the afternoon to pick up Eva. The vet said she’d be ready to go around three o’clock so my plan is to leave right after lunch. Even though I miss her, I’m not happy about leaving. In addition to being upset about not connecting with Foxy, I’m peeved that I haven’t gotten any therapy. I mean, I was looking forward to being analyzed by a real doctor, by someone other than an audiobook. (No offense, Tony Robbins, I still love you and your white teeth.) I know I’m not paying for any of this, but for what exactly have they been charging me a thousand dollars a day? It surely isn’t the gourmet food. Nor is it the activities. Last evening I took an art therapy class hoping I’d get to throw down a slab of clay and make a pot like Demi Moore did in Ghost (because there’s this one table in my apartment that just needs something), but all I got was some paper and pastels. Bottom line—rehab’s a rip-off.
When I hear the cowbell ring, I head to the cafeteria one last time, praying I’ll see Foxy; it’s my last chance. While waiting in line to see what I’m once again not going to eat, I look up and gasp when I see Foxy sitting in the corner eating alone. I can’t believe it—I can’t believe it’s really him. He looks older and puffier. His strong jaw line isn’t as chiseled as it once was. After staring at him for a minute, I snap out of it and realize this is my one and only chance to talk to him. I take a deep breath and then once again embrace my inner Spice Girl and go for it.
“Matt,” I say, when I arrive to where he’s sitting. “Hi.”
Foxy looks up. His icy blue eyes are still hazy. He doesn’t say anything. By the look in his eyes I can tell my face isn’t registering, but I’m not offended, not like I was with Rod. Instead, I’m saddened. Foxy seems cloudy. He’s either on some heavy meds or his brain is fried—maybe both.
“It’s me, Delilah,” I explain. “Delilah, from Chicago.”
After a few seconds of silence, Foxy’s mouth slowly widens revealing the beautiful smile he’s always had. I melt—it’s still blinding. “Delilah Darling,” he says slowly, “how in the hell are ya?”
“I’m good,” I say in a shaky voice as tears fill my eyes. Even though he remembers me, he seems so lost. “How are you?”
He shrugs. “Been better.” He pats the seat next to him. “Here, have a seat.”
For the next ten minutes or so Foxy and I talk about what we’ve been doing since the last time we saw each other without going into too much detail. Oddly, he never asks why I’m in rehab, which makes me feel uncomfortable asking him. The whole conversation is very surface-level. Hoping to get him to open up more, I ask what he thinks of Lily Pond.
“Not a fan,” Foxy says, making a face. “I hate how the sun pours into my room early in the morning. I hate how my bed is lumpy.” He looks down at his plate. “I also hate the food.”
“No kidding,” I say, reaching over to pick up a piece of orange-tinged lettuce. “I can’t remember the last time I ate iceberg lettuce.”
Matt’s face suddenly turns white. Was it something I said? He begins staring off into space. I become worried.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
Matt doesn’t answer. In fact, it’s like he can’t even hear me. I wave my hands in front of his face. “Helllllo? Anyone home?”
Suddenly Matt bolts from his seat and jumps on top of the cafeteria table. As he begins pointing at nothing in the distance, people around us begin to whisper.
“Uh . . . are you okay?” I ask again.
He still doesn’t answer.
Oh no . . . what have I done?
As Matt’s breathing becomes heavier, the whispers become louder. Just as I’m about to stand up and try to convince him to come down, he suddenly screams at the top of his lungs. “Iceberg, right ahead!”
Iceberg? What in the hell?
Before I have a chance to ask him what he means (or even get the hell out of here, for that matter), Matt turns to face me and backs up. Getting a running start, he then leaps off the table in my direction. As his body flies through the air above me in what seems like slow motion, I begin to panic. He’s going to land on me, there’s no doubt about it. I duck for cover.
Just as I anticipated, two seconds later, Matt’s body slams into mine bringing us both to the floor. As food and drinks go flying, people begin screaming and complete chaos erupts. Lying on the floor, I try to get out from underneath him but I’m unable to do so. Likewise, I try to scream for help but I can’t speak. Matt’s body is completely covering mine; it’s like he’s trying to protect me from something.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
Suddenly everything goes black.
A little while later I wake up. After focusing my eyes, I realize I’m lying on a bed in an examination room. Jan is standing over me wearing the same black suit she wore when I met her, except that her piece of flair has changed to a rhinestone bird pin. Her arms are folded; she looks angry. Quickly sitting up, I look down and realize that I’m covered in food and soda.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could ya?” Jan asks in a hard voice. “You couldn’t let your boyfriend get better by himself but had to come in here and mess with his emotions.”
Boyfriend? Mess with his emotions? Oh, no. Jan has it all wrong.
“Matt’s not my boyfriend,” I say quickly. “Really, he’s not.”
Jan rolls her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Delilah. Carl told me you came here a few days ago looking for him.”
Looking up, I see Carl’s beady little eyes peering at me through a window in the door. Tattletale. Glaring at him, I give him the finger when Jan’s not looking.
“Were you with him in Mexico when he ate the peyote?” Jan asks. I look back at her. I’m confused.
“Who? Carl?”
Jan gives me a look. “No. Matt. Were you with Matt in Mexico when he ate the bad peyote?”
“Uh . . . no.”
Jan studies me for a moment. I think she can tell that I have no idea what she’s talking about. She sits down next to me.
“Listen, Delilah, Matt’s a very special patient here,” she says. Her voice is softer.
“Special how?”
“He has peyote-induced psychosis. The symptoms are similar to schizophrenia. He suffers from paranoid delusions, personality shifts, and hallucinations, the most common being that he’s on the Titanic when it’s sinking. We think he was watching the movie when he was tripping.”
“Peyote-induced psychosis?” Oh no. “You mean like . . . he’s crazy?”
“Well, yes, kind of,” Jan says. “We’re hoping the delusions will go away though or at least wane as the drugs works their way out of his system, but it’s hard to say. Lately things haven’t been looking good. Certain trigger words—like in your case, iceberg—have been causing him to break into full-on reenactments from the movie. Today’s outburst wasn’t bad, but last week . . . sheesh! After one of the other patients called him a jackass he took off all his clothes and started running around naked screaming, “Put your hands on me Jack! Put your hands on me Jack!’ It wasn’t pretty.”
Jan’s words hit me like a ton of bricks.
Wow. I mean, wow. There’s no way I can spend the rest of my life with this guy. I need to get out of here. Realizing I’m in way over my head, I decide to come clean.
“Jan, I shouldn’t be here. I don’t really have a drug problem.”
Jan gives me a “That’s what they all say” look.
“Seriously,” I continue, “I lied to get in here.”
“Delilah, you failed a drug test.”
“Yeah, I know. I planned that. I ate a lot of poppy seed bagels before I got here.”
Jan looks confused, so I decide to tell her everything. I tell her how Matt and I dated eight years ago and how I was hoping to work things out with him. I tell her how I came to visit, but Carl was an asshole, so I went home and devised a plan. I tell her about the bagels again, about Star magazine and how I dropped my dog off at the vet to get spayed because I didn’t want her getting dog boobies.
“Dog boobies?” she asks.
“Yep. And I leave now to go pick her up because she’s supposed to come home today.”
“And by home you mean . . . ?”
“A blue Ford Focus out in the parking lot.”
Jan stands up. “You know I’ve heard every excuse in the book before, but never this one.” For some reason this makes me feel clever, so I smile. “If what you’re saying is true though, if you did all this just to reconnect with an old boyfriend, then you, my dear, are—”
“Smart? Loving? Dedicated?” I interject.
Jan shakes her head. “No. You, my dear, are crazier than Matt is.”
Crazier? Wait, huh?
After informing me that I signed a release form when I got here surrendering the right to check myself out (it was in the middle of all the insurance forms I didn’t read), Jan leaves the room and tells me to go back to mine. When she does, I immediately feel sorry for drug addicts—even when you tell the truth, no one believes you.
As I pass by a room on my way out of the examination wing, I glance inside and see Matt sitting on a bed alone. He looks confused; a pang of sadness shoots through my heart. What a waste of a life. I open the door and walk inside. When he looks up and sees that it’s me, he looks back down, embarrassed. I walk over and sit down next to him.
“I hope you still don’t mind dirty and wet,” he says, seeing my clothes covered in food. I let out a little laugh.
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I can’t believe you thought I’d forget that.”
Reaching over, I take his hand in mine. After the two of us sit in silence for a while, he turns to me. “I’m sorry, Delilah,” he says, apologizing.
Thinking he’s talking about my clothes, I tell him not to worry. “It’ll wash out.”
“No, not for that,” he says. “I’m sorry for everything, everything I ever did to you.”
Seeing the sad look on Matt’s face, tears once again fill my eyes.
“I’m sorry for treating you the way I did when we were together,” he continues. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of you. I’m sorry for cheating on you. I’m sorry for laughing at you. I’m sorry for . . .”
As Matt continues to say he’s sorry for everything he’s ever done to me, I’m filled with sorrow. Although I’ve waited eight years for this apology, rather than make me feel better, all it does is break my heart. It breaks my heart because it reminds me of the good person he once was, it reminds me of all that’s been lost and it makes me realize that I never would’ve been able to help him. Finally forgiving Matt, I wrap my arms around him. When I do, he wraps his around me. For the next few minutes, the two of us hold each other like we did all those nights in bed, except this time we cry.
“I’m scared,” Matt whispers in my ear, after a while. It’s not going to be easy undoing what he’s done to himself, and I think he knows it.
“I know you are,” I say. “But it’ll be okay.” I’m not sure if it will, but I don’t know what else to say and I don’t want him giving up hope.
When our eyes eventually run dry, I stand and walk to the door. Before leaving, I turn around and give Matt one last wave good-bye. When I do, for a split second, a glimmer of light replaces the haze in his icy blue eyes. I think it’s Foxy saying good-bye, so I blow him a kiss. I then turn around and walk out of the room, walk out of his life.
1 This was long before Carrie Bradshaw made the stiletto so popular; clunky shoes were in style, I swear.
2 Nowadays, I’d be Tarragon Spice. Tarragon, what I like to refer to as the Forgotten Spice, is wonderfully delicious and terribly overlooked. I highly suggest that everyone start using more of it.
3 Cosmo says it’s always best to be the one to end the first conversation with a man. You gotta leave them wanting more.
4 Dolls (n): Slang term for pills made popular by a fine piece of American literature, Valley of the Dolls. God bless you, Jacqueline Susann, for writing one hell of a book that became one hell of a movie. May you rest in peace.