Fuji tells me the sickness is normal and everything will be okay. It’s the third time she’s told me this, which is usually a telltale sign that someone thinks something is most definitely not normal and everything is very much not going to be okay. She has dipped into a supply of blankets, the likes of which only old ladies who crochet have on hand, and has laid what feels like ten pounds of fuzzy yarn upon me—nothing but granny afghans with bright green, orange, and blue knitted squares or circles.
“This is here for you,” she says, holding up a plastic bucket. “Do not feel ashamed if you need to use it.”
Time is getting harder to discern, but Fuji tells me it’s two in the morning, early Saturday. I’ve been here all night, and now an anvil is forming in my upper abdomen, alternating between nausea and wretched stomach pains—the kind that bubbles down your digestive tract, burning the floor of your bowels. It didn’t take long for the demons within me to return—the ones asking for constant payment in the coinage of amphetamines. Instead, with Fuji standing witness, I only offer penance in the form of withdrawals.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Save your breath, young man.”
The room’s clock, mounted above the fish tank, becomes a buoy bouncing atop the surface of the black-and-blue ocean named fever, only serving as an estimate for how far I’ve ventured into the charted and uncharted. I open and close my eyes, and moonlight still enters through the nearby blinds. My body shivers. Sweats. I roll onto my left shoulder, pulling the blankets to my chin. Grab hold of my legs and bring my knees to my chest. Why is it only in times of isolation and loneliness and despair and when the galactic cavern of uncertainty is the only path forward do I find myself worthy of embracing? I squeeze tighter. Crack my eyes open again, and daytime has somehow arrived.
Saturday morning now?
Maybe afternoon?
The affliction in my stomach persists, the severity increasing for long periods of time before dissipating. The pains repeat. Over and over. The acidic bile moves up my esophagus, only to change its mind and retreat down my system. The pressure builds in the other direction, knocking on my bowel’s door before surging back up. And in between, the sickness lingers at the center of my gut, buzzing like a tuning fork long after first being struck.
“My dog,” I mutter. “I need my dog.”
“He’s right there,” Fuji explains. I open my eyes and find Glitch curled up on the twin mattress by my feet, his head resting between his paws, ears perking up when I look his way, affection and concern beaming from canine eyes. “He’s been there since last night.”
I cradle the bucket like a football against my sides. Try to deny what’s coming, but it’s clear—it’s finally time. I drop my face into the bucket and retch. My guts and throat strain as the rest of my body heaves nothing but air. A little spittle off my bottom lip. Heave after heave. All dry. No vomit. I let my head fall back to the pillow.
“Rest,” Fuji whispers.
I open my eyes and the sun is gone. Fuji is asleep on the couch, and the only thing separating the room from the grasp of pitch black is the light from the fish tank. With fog enveloping the full expanse of my mind, I take inventory of my body and pains. What was once concentrated in my stomach has moved to my upper back. Muscles in my shoulders and neck contract—a current of electricity pulses through me. My body seizes, my brain unable to communicate with the central nervous system. With every spasm my pores dispose of more sweat and my body’s hydration diminishes further.
I grunt.
I scream.
This wakes Fuji.
“Hold on, young fellow.” She slides off the couch, smoothing her evening gown over her legs. She grabs her walker for support and heads to the kitchen. Brings back a glass of water. Holds it to my lips. The room-temperature liquid dribbles down my chin, some making it into my dry mouth. My throat cavity feels as though it’s plugged. I gargle and finally swallow.
“Good,” Fuji whispers.
But the spasms and dehydration give way to the next stop on the journey.
To the open-eyed nightmares.
My head rests on its side, facing the room. I watch as Fuji’s fish tank grows bigger and bigger across the back wall. The blue betta fish inside—now the size of a tuna—smiles at me with malicious intent. Tries to reach me where I rest. It rams its head against the tank’s glass pane over and over. Its macaroni mohawk and side fins more tense and vascular with each attempt. The salon chairs sprout eyes. Then mouths. They start spinning like the girl’s head in The Exorcist. Round and round while taunting me with chants: “You unleashed the killer. You unleashed the killer.” They cackle each time, eyes rolling back and mouths full of spiderweb streams of rabid saliva. Soon, they are quiet again. Angry eyes narrowing and holding me in a state of contempt. The dryer bowls above the chairs sprout pixie cuts. The eyes and mouths and hair on all three swivel chairs now pay homage.
To Laura Poole.
The chants begin once more in unison, singsongy and grating, like witches around a cauldron. “You’re gonna die soon because you unleased the killer. People are gonna die soon because you unleashed the killer. You deserve to die soon because you’re the same as the killer.”
“Shut up!”
Fuji holds her finger to her lips. “Focus on your breathing.”
Take a deep breath in. Let it out.
Did you unleash the killer?
Glitch gets up at the foot of the bed. Stretches in a downward-facing dog before hovering above me. A dog’s face is never more doglike than when it looks down over your own. I close my eyes and ignore the chanting chorus. Try and forget about the psycho fish.
“Slow inhale. Long exhale,” Fuji instructs.
Breathe.
Until your problems wither away.
Breathe.
Until you’re sure you can live again.
My head lolls around on the pillow, and in between inhales, I catch flashes of the clock, praying enough time has passed and this will soon be over. Instead, Father Time has decided to torture me with agonizingly slow movements, elongating the depths of this experience.
“You look so much like him,” Fuji whispers.
“Who?” I mumble.
“Richard.”
“Who?”
“Hush, young man. Close your eyes.”
I wake up, and the sun has infiltrated the room once more. Fuji dabs my forehead with a wet cloth. Her breathing tubes remain fastened to her nose and hang off her chest. “Almost over,” she says.
I think she’s right. The spasms have ceased. The chairs are no longer demonic. The betta fish, now bite-sized, innocently blows bubbles to the surface of its tank.
“Day?”
“Sunday,” she says.
“Today is Sunday,” I say to myself, feeling for the faint traces of my weekend to-do list.
I repeat it in my mind.
Sunday.
Something vitally important was attached to Sunday.
And then I remember.
“Rocket.”
“What?”
Last Sunday I swallowed the second Lobotomy Pill out of four. Pill number three is waiting for me at the warehouse.
“I can’t stay here.”
“You can’t leave.”
“I have to be somewhere.”
“You have no choice. We discussed this.”
“I feel better, I swear.”
I never thought this far ahead. Wondered what it would feel like taking the exit ramp off amphetamines—assuming it was the amphetamines and not the other prescriptions torturing me with detoxing withdrawals. The second you’re over the hump, the moment the pixelated world comes back into focus, you feel grateful. You wonder how it ever got so bad. But then you think about the drug and the reasons why you were taking it to begin with and know how impossible each hour, minute, and second feels without your vice.
So you make a goal. Three months clean, and then I’ll just dabble. No more benders.
Then you negotiate. One month sober, and then I’ll be good.
You give in. Give it a couple of days, and then I’ll pop those pills and ride those highs.
But today, provided I can get out from underneath Fuji’s surveillance, I should receive the third Lobotomy Pill. And one week from now I will be swallowing the fourth and final one. My full memory will be wiped, addictions included. So, the negotiation has nothing to do with sobriety for the sake of sobriety. No one- or three-month timelines. This is a bargaining session concerning one week.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Fuji says in a flat tone. She begins to cough—deep and howling. “We agreed to do it my way.” She reminds me of the agreement’s specifics. No more Adderall. No more Vyvanse. No more Dr. Pill and all the other stuff he gives me. Explains that detoxing was just the first step of our verbal contract. That her guided therapy is next. “Without thorough dialogue, you cannot explore your own subconscious, and you will never find the kind of peace you need. There will always be a drug or pill you crave.”
Yeah, that’s the point.
“Remind me what happens if I don’t comply?”
“I call the cops. Tell them about what you and your friend stole from me.”
“And why do you want to help me?”
“Who said I’m doing this to help you?” She sits down on the nearest swivel chair. Unwinds a thin string holding a spiral notebook closed. Dabs the tip of a ballpoint pen to her tongue, and tests it on a new page in the book. “I just want to talk. You can start anywhere. You can tell me about the first time you tried drugs. You can tell me about your childhood. Whatever you’d like. Maybe your mom or dad.”
The hum, so distinct, has returned.
“How long do we have to do this until you’re satisfied?”
“Until you return to normal,” she says, bursting back into a coughing fit. She folds over in the chair, holding her mouth. Between coughs, she gasps for air. Wheezes.
I sit up in bed, fully in control of my body for the first time all weekend. A residual headache, no doubt, but I’m no longer at the mercy of my withdrawals. Fuji continues to gasp for air. “Hold on, Fuji.” It’s my turn to play caretaker to the patient. My legs are jelly on the first few steps toward the old Japanese woman. My thighs begin to harden. My calves grow stable. I check the connection with her breathing tubes and tanks. And at that moment, I recognize an opportunity.
It’s the new goal.
The beginning of the latest negotiation.
A negotiation where deception is leverage, and I’m about to use it on a helpless old lady.
“The air funnel on this tank is blocked,” I tell her, looking down at the pressure gauge. “Let me grab a replacement out of my truck.” Fuji starts to gather her breath, the gasping and wheezing diminishing. The coughs are smaller in scope. She holds her throat and stares at her feet. She nods with permission. This is nothing serious but she doesn’t realize that yet. Probably a drink of water is all she needs. But I need something else.
“I’ll be right back.” Glitch bounds off the mattress and out of the nook, following me out the door.
To the truck.
And the negotiation is over.
I open the door, and Glitch jumps onto the front seat.
And the bargain is reached.
The truck’s engine roars.
One more week.
On to the next pill.
The Next Chapter Begins in 3, 2, 1 . . .