Can I Bring My Boom Box?
I envisioned rehab as a sort of vacation. It seemed like a peaceful place to be, where I would be able to sleep and eat and get away from my lying boyfriend.
I really needed a vacation from my life.
So I went into work and explained my situation, told them I would need to take time off. My boss was incredibly supportive, and gave me a whole additional week off.
This was obviously a mistake in judgment on their part, but I relished the extra time. I used that week to “prepare” by getting as drunk and high as humanly possible, assuming it would be my last-ever chance to do so.
But I never forgot my end goal. I called the rehab – drunk – nearly every night.
“Can I bring my boom box?” I slurred.
When they flatly refused to allow my giant cassette-playing radio, I slurred, “Will there be music somewhere? I can’t fuckin’ live without music!”
Another night I asked, legitimately concerned, “Will I have to get up early? I can’t even get up for work!”
I was too drunk to remember their answer in the morning. I just remember repeatedly humiliating myself on the phone, night after night, as I drank and drank and drank.
For the first time ever, though, my drinking had an end in sight. I knew I was going to stop. Finally, I was going to stop.
But I wasn’t going to stop before rehab; that would have been insane. In fact, the night before I went into rehab was one of the best nights I’d had in years.
My friend Jeremiah lived three houses down, having just moved in. Jeremiah – who I knew from a Pennysaver party – was whip-smart and funny as anyone I’d ever met, and I absolutely adored him. If he’d ever been home, I would have spent tons of time with him. But Jeremiah was always out partying.
The night before rehab, though, I begged him to go out drinking with me. Oh, and Gregg, who was still attached to my hip. We smoked a few joints on Jeremiah’s porch, then strolled to a bar for a handful of shots and beers. One of Jeremiah’s friends, a girl named Jackie who was also incredibly smart and funny, suggested we go to a bar in another city and we all piled into someone’s car.
I don’t remember going to another bar, but I remember six or seven people smashed into the car, Jackie and I smashed together on the seat laughing hysterically for hours.
Jackie was the first woman whose company I had enjoyed since … well, since being with my college friends. In three years, she was the first woman with whom I found a real, personal connection. She got me; I got her. And she was astoundingly fun.
“Where have you been all my life!” she screamed over the music in the car.
“Where have you been!” I screamed back. We laughed some more. Eventually the sun started to rise and I had to go home, so the driver – whoever it was – dropped off Jeremiah, Gregg and me on our street.
“When will I see you again?” she yelled.
“I don’t know,” I said, climbing out of the car. “I’m going to rehab tomorrow!”
“REHAB? Tomorrow?” She scrawled her phone number on my hand. “If you change your mind about going to rehab, call me!” Then the car peeled away, her laughter echoing in my soul.
The next time I saw Jeremiah was at an AA meeting. He only went to one meeting.
I never saw Jackie again.