Fake Plastic Fingers

"Mr. Hobobob?"

I awake to the smiling face of my therapist, her body bent over, hands clasped below her face, staring at me in the seated position on one of her waiting chairs. Wha? "Mr. Hobobob, it's time for your session," Dr. L says, standing straight up now that she has my attention. Yeah, that's it, I say, standing, working the kinks out of my limbs. We enter her office and I take a seat near her. She sits down, crosses her legs, smiles: "How was your week?" Well Doc, I took some 'portables' with me to the movie theater to see Batman, and after the SHOUT OUT with my brother. "Did you need to take portables with you?" I nod. She knows my terminology for carrying a pint of alcohol in your back pocket. Yeah, both times. "Let me ask you. They say that Batman is a good movie. Do you really think that you needed a portable with you to enjoy it?" I hunch my shoulders. It was a good movie. I just need to have a drink with me when I watch movies. "Could movies be a 'trigger' for you? Have you thought of that?" Yeah, of course I thought about that.

I look around her small, windowless office. I liked being here, talking about drinking. But I know now, in my heart, that we will soon, no longer have these sessions. I have fallen from her radar. Her job is to keep me from drinking, not listen to me talk about drinking. Her job is to help me hold onto sobriety. I'm letting it go by the day. There is no need for the life preserver if you have drowned already.

We go back and forth, her questions making me think about sobriety. But only think. It has become an academic exercise for me. Something to consider, while I'm thinking about the liquor store around the corner. Oh yes, I'm thinking about scoring even there with her. Liquor as enticement.

We finish. She stands and clasps her hands before her. "Do you mind if we have a urine sample from you today?" She asks. Nah, Doc. I don't give a shit. I go and take the little cup followed by my little dick, and a little tinkle. In no time I'm leaving behind a sample and heading for the elevator door. I go and make an appointment with my psychologist in the coming week, all to kill time. The killing of time is vitally important. I really want to change my mind about the liquor store. I stroll outside of the building and head up and past the store, looking at it as I cross by and head uptown to the library. It's hold broken after a few blocks. I was victorious again! OR was it that I just didn't want to drink today. I'm thinking to myself that Mr. Franklin will appear and ask for a breathalyzer at any moment when I return home. Who needs that shit.

I need to dry out. To get clean as a whistle dick and as sober as a judge. To foil the next breathalyzer waiting in the wings for me. THAT's why I didn't stop to take that drink. And I stay dry all that day.

Immediately upon entering the Box, I find Mike Murder sitting on the intake seats, into the Detox ward. I call them the Bozo seats. Three simple chairs before the doors where they make you sit in pajamas, your clothes in your arms, paper slippers for shoes. You sit there looking like a dunce in a corner while they file paperwork and have you do an intake cup piss. He's sitting there looking long faced. His eyes are surprisingly clear. Most of the time the people in the bozo seats are inebriated.

Did they get you last night, I ask. Mike Murder shakes his head. "This evening. I did some H and it's still in my blood- stream." Who did it? Mr. Franklin? Mike nods, "Yeah, it was him." I shake his hand and walk off. Just then an orderly comes up and takes him into the nethers of the detox floor. So, the motherfucker is upstairs on the rampage, I think to myself. Boy do I have nothing for him. A big, fat, fucking zero.

That night Mr. Franklin gives me evil looks. No I'm not imagining that at all. He gives me the stink eye, but I just dare him to pull my urine, to ask for me to breathe into a tube. I just wait, but the waiting never produces anything. The tests never come. I'm really tired this evening and hop into bed for some serious sleep.

And that I do get. I drop off like a stone and sleep like a statue.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/08/fake-plastic-fingers.html
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