BLACK CLOUDS OF BUS exhaust and the usual destitute, sagging on the benches, smoking, waiting. A New Paltz police car with a fat cop is trolling, surveying the motley. Mark resists the urge to fold in, poked-worm reflex. He's back in a world where being Caucasian's worth Bonus Points. Middle class: his clothes clean, new Pumas, his bass—decked in a shiny gig bag. Gotcha, Fuzz, you don't know I'm a junkie-psycho just escaped over the accordion wire. The slinky guy with the chin whiskers, leaning against the wall, he knows. 'Bout two more minutes, he's going to give a subtle signal: You want; I got.
His exit not dramatic really. He's glad of that. He followed the protocol. Gave the thirty-six hours' notice. Let them lay the whole nine on him. He sat in the reflection chair, read the writing on the wall. Just stayed with the main theme: TC, clearly right for many, but not the appropriate therapy for him at this juncture on his recovery-road. Over and over, minor variations. No way he was going to be up under the lights, do the theater-of-the-absurd thing. Watson story? He didn't get into any of that. The second the thirty-six-hour dong donged, he called the taxi, bye-bye, Brothers and Sisters. Fucking blast of luck, the UPS truck arrives two minutes before take-off: the bass and his Pumas. Split, but he left his mark. Mark M. Up there on the big blackboard. But not in a box, not in a box.
He inventories his status: sixty-five dollars, ATM and phone cards. Five packs of Camels, eleven Zyprexa—what was left of his New Vistas medication. Enough trappings of civilized society to keep him from being among the homeless for a day or two. What day is it? He bends to check the date on the newspaper behind the yellowed plastic window: Wave of pedophile cases casts a dark shadow over all the clergy. Back in civilized society. March 30. Twenty-five days clean. So—four days until his money shows up in the rep-payee account. Figure access to that later. The trembles are back to moderate and transmissions from outer space reduced to occasional.
The weary are lining up, digging for their tickets. Heads, New York; tails, Marwick. Down to fucking And Then What? time. The pay phone is right next to all the Trailways' roar. He parks his stuff between his legs and leans the bass so it settles against the call box. If he gets Rozmer, some glimmer of understanding for why he had to bail, well, then he'll take the bus for Marwick. If not, well, he'll head for the city, play his bass in the subway, put together enough to get a bike and do the messenger thing. Certainly not going to call his mother until he has to negotiate his money, hear her crash and burn. Ring, ring, ring. Rozmer's machine answers, and even though he may miss the fucking bus to wherever he finds himself going, he's got to catch one last Word for the Day, "'Man, you aren't going crazy. You're trying to get well. Don't run from these experiences, they could save your life.'" He lets go of the phone. "One way to Marwick," he tells the woman through the glass.
The bus is filling up. He goes all the way to the back—right next to the john, how he likes to do these buscapades. What the fuck, put it out there. See what Rozmer has to say. He'll call him when the bus gets to Delhi, see if Rozmer'll pick him up in Marwick.
***
Rozmer's truck vroom-vrooms into the Marwick station just as his bus comes to a complete stop—Gabe's face, Rozmer's eight-year-old son, pressed to the glass. Twice-a-month visitation time. Well, that's cool. He likes Gabe. Gabe reminds him of Aaron. Gabe is into the world, the galaxy, where everything is. He needs a cigarette. No smoking in Rozmer's truck or house. Rozmer gives him the I Love You, Man hug. Gabe gives him a high five. He skims his hand over Gabe's blond bristles. "Got a haircut, buddy."
Gabe touches the top of his head and points to his father. "Rozmer," he says, rolling his eyes to the sky. Rozmer's head is likewise buzzed. The two of them have identical bumps in back of their ears.
Rozmer motions for him to throw his backpack into the truck bed. "Got a new guitar. Well, well, still got your scamming charm."
Gabe sits between them, a stack of National Geographics in his lap.
Rozmer stops before turning out of the parking lot. "Want to catch a meeting?"
"Sure," he says. Ramrod Game running and he's ready. 'Course Rozmer knows.
Rozmer taps Gabe's knee. "You feel up for hanging out at the library for an hour while Mark and I go to a meeting?"
Gabe considers. Raises the magazines up and sets them down. "Yeah, that'll be okay."
Rozmer pulls up by the library drop box. He thumbs through his wallet. "Here's your card. We'll be back about five. I'll come in and find you."
Gabe hands Mark his magazines and gets out Rozmer's side. "Maybe I'll be in the African drum section," he says. "And then are we going to eat?"
"We are," Rozmer tells him, "and you can pick the spot. Any place but fast food."
Rozmer backs all the way to the street, his thick neck straining to stay turned for such a maneuver. No fast food must be Rozmer-in-reform because usually his truck's loaded with Whopper wrappers.
As though Rozmer's been tuned into Mark's head, he says, "Doctor tells me I have to take off seventy-five pounds before I can have this hernia operation." He turns the truck to swing in behind St. Theresa's.
Good it's not a home-group meeting. But there's Charlie's station wagon—the DON'T CROWD ME sticker peeling off its bumper. He's going to have to see people who know he went for treatment. And here he is in two blinks and one nod back at the scene of the crime. My name is Mark and I'm an addict. He is not going to talk, he's only going to listen.
Rozmer turns the truck off, but he doesn't get out. "So what's up?"
"Place was a cult. Made me do what they call a Monad."
"Put you in the ring for the old one-two with God, ehh."
"I don't know about that, but whatever—I started getting crazy: the hums, voices. Too much pressure. Brainwashing."
"Well, you know what Dederich said, the drunk who started the whole therapeutic community movement."
"What?"
"Maybe your brain needs washing."
He places the bass carefully on the seat and throws his jacket over it. "You can lock up, right?"
"That side won't lock," Rozmer says. "It'll be okay."
He pulls his jacket and the bass off the seat and closes the door. Have to carry it into the meeting like he thinks he's Mr. Cool. They start in. He's a little ahead, can't really see Rozmer's face when he says, "You pressing me is not what I'm needing right now. It's your Word for the Day, like some just-for-me message, that brought me to your door."
"Hey," Rozmer says, coming up beside him, throwing his arm around his neck. "That message was for me, too. Getting so I have to call myself up to know what's going on. Pressing you? I'm just wanting not to waste time wading through any cockand- bull. You clean?"
"Twenty-five days." Just as they get to the side door, he sees a cement basin full of sand and butts. "Go ahead," he tells Rozmer, "I'm going to catch a quick smoke." The door shooshes shut. He swallows a Zyprexa and pulls the smoke down, holds it there before letting it go. He hears a blast of laughter down the hall: AA. The cocoon-comfort of staying off the street one more day.
The AA room's fluorescent bright, charged by the smell of strong coffee. Things are just starting, the laughter dying. Must be a men's meeting. Only a dozen or so sitting around a couple of tables. Charlie nods. Rozmer's next to him. A lot of recovery as they say in the AA biz—people who've been sober for a long time. Jerry, Andrew. A couple of young guys looking pale and shaky. He pours himself a cup of coffee, sludge-thick, loads in the sugar and sits beside someone he doesn't know. An old-timer named Kent is reading the opening: "'Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope…'"
He has heard these words so often that it's hard to hear meaning. Plus there's a group of redneck purists who think only an alcoholic should enter these hallowed halls. Places where saying, I am an addict, causes the temperature to drop. He settles deeper into the chair and tries not to think Camel.
Kent looks around the table. "Charlie, why don't you start off the Twelve Steps."
Charlie opens his Daily Reflections book that he's already got marked with a bright blue ribbon. No question, got to hand it to Charlie: five years clean and sober on top of trying to deal with being schizophrenic. When he asked Charlie once how he did it, Charlie said, When the sign says Stop, I do. "'One. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol…'" Charlie's voice is always tight like each word's bound to the next one with wire.
Rozmer's next. "'Two. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.'"
Coming around his way. Rozmer looks over. He's going to be number eight. Eight is one of the Steps that make him want to stick his fingers in his ears and start yelling. The man, seeing that he doesn't have a book, passes him the paper. "'Made a list of all persons we had harmed…'" He can't hear the remaining Steps. Just the humming and the deep longing to be standing somewhere alone, smoking.
Then Kent's voice again, "Now's the time to share your experience, strength, and hope on a topic of concern. Anyone have an issue they're particularly struggling with?"
Nobody offers anything. Then Rozmer nods. Kent motions Rozmer that he should go on. Shit, Rozmer, don't let this be some grenade you lob across the table at me.
"Would the group be up for the topic of honesty? I'm thinking of it as getting back to being honest with myself. Who I am and who I am not, but you could take it anywhere you want."
The two young guys sit up a little closer to the table. Rozmer doesn't seem to be directly beaming any energy his way. He feels the relief of dropping off the hook.
Kent says, "Go ahead, Rozmer, why don't you start it off."
"Okay. I'm Rozmer and I'm an addict. What's going on is that in the last year I've put on one hundred pounds. What is this about? It's gotten to the place where I have to phone my sponsor every time I pass a Burger King." Rozmer's not using his Rozmer-voice, everything about him set on Low. "Some of you believe what I've been putting out there: Rozmer, the Genius, the guy who can always roll. Well … a lot is coming at me right now: my eight-year-old son and his mother are coming back to live with me, I have just started a new job working with troubled adolescents, and I'm moving to a new place tomorrow so Gabe can go to the alternative school here in Marwick. Shaking in my veritable boots—that's me. There, there it is. I appreciate the chance to put this out in the light. Thank you."
Rozmer scared? People's mouths are moving, but he doesn't really hear what they're saying. No time to be asking Rozmer if he can offer him shelter until he gets it together. Then what? Hitch to the city? Tonight, probably he can stay at Rozmer's. Or Charlie's. But tomorrow, tomorrow, he's got to head out for somewhere else. Not treatment. Not his mother's.
The man beside him moves his hand to indicate he's next. People's faces turn his way. "I'm Mark and I'm an addict. Good to be here," the voice says, "but I'm going to pass and just listen. Thanks." Soon after, the standing up, making a ring around the tables. He joins the circle. "'God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…'"
Take-out Chinese is what Gabe opts for. Have to get going on The Empire Strikes Back before it's too late, he tells them. Right now his shaved head is bent over a book full of drum pictures and masks.
He can help Rozmer move tomorrow. Some amends. Except for the few last things necessary, everything in the house is packed. Boxes stacked halfway to the ceiling in most of the rooms. No question, Rozmer's got a lot of shit and he's taking it all with him.
Mark dumps the rice in a bowl, the only one not packed apparently. No plastic wrap, so he spreads a paper towel over it and sets the bowl in the middle of the glass tray. He divides the chicken and broccoli up into three coffee cups and arranges these around the rice so they can revolve without banging into the sides. Rozmer will want Gabe to help. "Okay, buddy, how 'bout setting the table." Gabe is gone in the book. He gives Gabe's neck a little wake-up squeeze, his perfect reed of a neck with two elfin ears sticking out. "Earth to Gabe," he says. Gabe looks up and smiles. "How about setting the table?"
Gabe finds a scrap of paper to mark his place and sets the book up on an empty shelf. "Well, we don't need knives," Gabe says. "We don't need spoons." He gets up and starts looking through open boxes. "Dun-ta-dun-ta: forks," he says, and dances three forks over a dozen boxes ready to leap onto the table. "Right or left?" Again his open eyes, all light and good cheer. Gabe's not afraid. "Left or right?" he says again.
"You know what, Gabe, I actually don't know." He closes his eyes and tries to see a table. When he looks, he sees Gabe's got his eyes closed too. "What do you think?" he says.
"You go first," Gabe tells him, holding the forks up above the table, ready to helicopter down on the correct pad.
"All right, in unison, ready, one, two, three…" And together they both shout, "Left." Laughing, laughing loud. Rozmer steps into the kitchen with the phone at his ear, gives them a just-checking look. Mark closes the microwave door and presses the Start button.
For a second Gabe rotates his head and whirs like he's in synch with the broccoli. Then he steps up a little closer and gives him a long, serious look. "Mark." His blue eyes home right in. "Mark, now that you're big, what are you going to be?"