11/26/23
Newsletter #518
The Crack of Dawn
The first rehab I went to, in 2015, was Sacred Heart in Memphis, Michigan (I went all the way to Memphis). It was the only rehab in Michigan that took Medicaid (which is absurd), and therefore had the lowest-budget clientele (including me). Subsequently, I would go to four more rehabs, including Eric Clapton’s rehab, Crossroads, in Antigua, which didn’t get me sober, but was truly lovely, with a constant warm ocean breeze. There were about 12 patients there. Patients, however, are no longer called patients; patients are now “clients.” In rehab you’re no longer being aided and administered to; you’re performing a business transaction.
My former neighbor, Jerry, who was (and probably still is) a drunk agreed to drive me to the rehab. When Jerry arrived in the morning, I told him flatly, “I’m not going.” Jerry called my former girlfriend, Lisa, and said, “Josh says he’s not going.” He listened for a second, then handed me the phone. Lisa stated in no uncertain terms, “You’re going.” So I went. Without a word, Jerry drove straight to the gas station on the corner, went in, then came out a minute later with a brown paper bag. He handed it to me, and we drove away. In the bag was a Budweiser tall-boy – exactly what I needed.
All of the other rehabs had between 12 and 20 clients. Sacred Heart had 150. I would estimate that 130 of them were under 35 years old, and were all junkies, or “dope fiends,” as they said. Clearly, none of them was picky; they all did every goddamn drug that they could get their grubby little hands on — heroin (now pronounced “hair-on”), cocaine, meth, crack, oxy-this and oxy-that, they didn’t give a shit. These assholes used borrowed syringes and toilet water to run up the smack. Then there were the 20 other clients, including me, who were 45 and older and were there specifically for alcohol. If there was any sincerity there among the clients in Sacred Heart (a former monastery) about getting sober, it was completely located among us 20 drunks (although I wasn’t one of them at that time). None of those dope fiend kids, all of them covered with tattoos, more than a few being both bright and attractive, had the tiniest scintilla of interest in cleaning up.
I came to understand this because at the center of the facility was the “smoking porch.” This being a mostly state-financed facility (although independently run), with 150 clients at one time, they had to let us smoke. Not only that, but they also allowed anyone who needed to stay out all night and smoke to do just that. I was one of those folks. At that time, I was convinced that without alcohol I couldn’t sleep, as do many drunks. It’s not true, but as long as you believe it, and certainly while you’re detoxing, it’s simply a fact, at least for me. And since they’ve prohibited rehabs from being able to dispense the proper medication – which is Xanax – I was up all night, every night. So were about 10-20 other people, and among them was a fellow named Dave. With his smart-ass attitude, Dave reminded me of Bazooka Joe. He had a flat-top haircut, and was a goofy, funny, not completely stupid, young man of perhaps 30. Dave was thin, tall, and completely covered with poorly applied, amateurishly drawn, black tattoos – several were clearly prison tats, probably done with a paperclip and ink from a pen or something – and a number of these tattoos were symbols of white supremacists, first and foremost among them being the use of the ancient Hindu symbol for peace, the swastika, which was certainly not Dave’s intention in getting them, and he sported several in obvious places.
On the Ganges River in India.
I roll my own cigarettes. I buy cans of American Spirit tobacco and filter tips, and I roll them by hand. I’m extremely good at it, and it should say on my tombstone, “He rolled great cigarettes and joints,” in Hebrew. Anyway, all of these nitwit young dope fiends failed to bring enough cigarettes with them. The “Cigarette Man” showed up once a week, doing business only in cash, and there was very little of that around. He sold some funky brand of tobacco, which a few people with cigarette-making machines purchased. I actually had enough American Spirit tobacco for myself, but since people constantly hit on me for smokes, I bought a big bag of tobacco, several packages of papers, and let anyone who wanted to go ahead and roll one. Often, I would have to intervene and roll it for them.
Dave could roll his own cigarettes. He and I stayed up all night smoking for many nights during that long month. It was June and warm and Dave would take off his shirt, revealing all of his lousy, ugly tats, with even more swastikas. Here’s an interesting point, I think: most of these kids – Dave in particular – thought that they were thrill-seeking adventurers, like Henry Stanley in the African jungle searching for Dr. Livingston, or Dora the Explorer. No shit. Since dope deals go down in the funkiest places, with fucked up, untrustworthy people, occasionally accompanied by violence, these youngsters had all toured the ghettoes of every city within 100 miles of the rehab and knew many of the same dealers. Anyway, Dave had 17 felonies, including driving completely fucked up on heroin the wrong way on the I-75 freeway in Detroit. He had been busted for every stupid, knuckleheaded crime imaginable, and was exceptionally adept and funny at recounting them all.
Every day in rehab concluded with a big AA meeting in the auditorium. It was hot and the back doors were open to let in some air. I was sitting in the back row of folding chairs. Dave and his similarly tattooed buddy, both shirtless, were outside the back door and whispered to me, “Have you got any tobacco?” I nodded yes, then happily escaped the hot, oppressive meeting. I took out my bag of tobacco and papers and we all rolled ourselves a cigarette. It was bright and hot, with the sun just beginning to set. As we happily puffed on our smokes, I pointed at their tats and asked, “Are you guys’ white supremacists?” They both appeared stunned, simultaneously saying, “No.” I said, “That’s good because I’m Jewish. Do you hate me?” They were both halfway offended, saying, “No. Why would you ask that?” I pointed out, “You are both covered with white supremacist tattoos.” They both had the audacity to act surprised, looking down at their bare chests and arms with expressions saying, “How did these get here?” or maybe, “Do these things have meaning?” They both haltingly tried to explain it away as a club they were in when they were young. I offered more tobacco, like they were Indians, and I was a Pilgrim, and asked, “Have you ever met a Jew before?” They said they did, but I don’t think they had. They had gotten these idiotic, irremovable tattoos because their friends were all getting them. It was the fashion of the moment.
And that’s my story, not of Antisemitism, but of the idiocy of following fashion or trends. It has been said, “Fashion is the worst tyrant of all.”
Have a lovely day.
As you know, "You can't Outsource Your Sobriety" - or our mental health for that Matter.
Change Starts from without, and happens from within.