Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
The cost was $300 per month because there was nothing more I could afford. In my lucid moments, I was thankful for the roof over my head. I drifted around for a few months, spending on the one credit card stupid enough to give me an account. I got high every day. There didn’t seem to be any reason to remain sober. I changed my phone number, got one of those burner phones with prepaid minutes because I couldn’t afford a bill.
I stopped hanging out with Mike and his friends. They were too good for me anyway. I didn’t want any of their little children to see me in the state I was in. As luck would have it, I ran into Mike and his wife at the diner when I was picking up takeout. They spotted me from their table and waved me over.
“Hey,” I said, slurring the word just a little bit.
“Hi, Porter,” Tammy said cheerfully.
Mike narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Are you using again?”
“No,” I lied.
“Sit down,” Mike said.
“I gotta go.” I pointed to the door. “I gotta go.”
“Have a seat,” Tammy insisted. “It’s been forever since we’ve seen you.”
I slumped down next to her with a plop, unsteady on my feet. “How’s you?”
Tammy and Mike shot each other a meaningful glance. “Fine.”
“Are you working?” Mike asked.
I shook my head.
He sighed. “Come by the lumberyard at ten tomorrow. Do you think you can manage that?”
I tried to focus on his face and what he was saying. Was he offering me a job? I would be a fool not to take it. I had no way of earning an income at the time, and my credit card balance was approaching maximum. I couldn’t go back to selling drugs—that had ended disastrously the last time. Here was someone who still cared about me, who was willing to extend an olive branch when I was clearly beyond help.
I cleaned myself up that night, taking a shower in the communal bathroom. I took a little hit of dope, just enough to get me through the meeting with the owner of the lumberyard. Mike’s family had owned the place all through high school and up until almost two years ago before his parents retired and bought a new house outside of town. They sold the place to Brian Matthews, a longtime employee and site manager. He brought in some new people and took the place into the twenty-first century. The last time I was there, Mike and I had been kids. Now, there were machines that did a lot of the heavy lifting, and all you had to do was fit a plank into its slot, press a button, and the thing would come out the other end perfectly cut.
Matthews took me around the place, explaining all of what the job would entail. It was starting at minimum wage, the lowest man on the totem pole. I would be hauling lumber and sweeping floors, but it would be a job. I got my very own apron and two green T-shirts to wear to work.
Mike had moved on from his longtime position as a salesman at the lumberyard to selling cars in the next town. I remembered him saying something about how he liked talking to people, and that was the best part of the job. He seemed to be doing fine, supporting his family. I didn’t care. His spot opened up at the lumberyard, and I took it.
It was a struggle to get there most days, but if I was going to give myself any credit, I was just barely keeping my head above water.
Surviving got old after a while, and I wondered what the hell I was doing. Last night, I had hit the Lucky Lady, the local watering hole, and had been able to score a few drinks before being kicked out. After, I went to the convenience store and grabbed a couple of bottles of cheap wine. I sat on the curb and drank by myself, until a group of teenagers started throwing sticks at me. Stumbling away toward my apartment, I blacked out. Somehow, I had managed to get home, and into the bed no less.
I woke with a massive headache and the taste of vomit in my mouth. Around me, a sea of detritus collected: old beer cans, empty takeout containers, dirty socks. I groaned, falling back into bed as the world spun.
It was too much. I was driving myself into the ground. Kids were making fun of me. I was a slob and a loser. I had ghosted the only people who cared about me, Mike and his friends. So what, I wasn’t dealing anymore—was that really something to be proud of when I couldn’t even make it through one day sober?
Never again, I thought. But how many times had I said that to myself. It didn’t seem to help. My willpower disintegrated an hour into the day, and I would shoot up just to make it through work. My boss knew. Everyone I worked with knew. They had all urged me to go to rehab, but I had shrugged it off, making promises that I never intended to keep.