Page 3 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

I had a car, but I didn’t use it often. It lived in the basement of the apartment building, in its designated spot. I occasionally took it out to drive into the country to sightsee with friends or to haul a particularly large grocery order back home. Most of the time, I walked everywhere. I could walk to work and back, and there were plenty of shops to keep me occupied within walking distance.

The sun was shining on what promised to be a beautiful day as I put on my little white sneakers, grabbed my brown-bag lunch, and started out. It only took me ten minutes to cross the five blocks to the treatment center. We were affiliated with Westview Hospital, but we weren’t in the same building. The hospital stretched over several blocks, with different departments in different locations. The cancer ward was right across the street, and general admissions was next to that. We were part psych ward, part drug and alcohol treatment center.

I was hired on the night shift but worked my way up to days. Since my specialty in college had been substance abuse counseling, I only saw the detoxing patients. The two populations were kept separate, had separate entrances and separate staffs. All the nurses shared a cafeteria, though, so I heard plenty of gossip about who was acting up and why. Of course, it was illegal to share patient information, but that didn’t stop people from complaining in general terms about the craziness of our shared jobs.

When I arrived at the center, I nodded to the person manning the intake desk and headed straight for the locker room. I dropped my messenger bag and slipped from my sneakers to the soft white Crocs all staff members wore. With that done, I clipped on my badge and went to start my day.

There was a large whiteboard in the main office that had all the nurses’ assignments for the day. Attached to it were clipboards for each nurse to grab, updated with information about each patient. I selected my clipboard and flipped through the pages, paying close attention to the notes.

Two of my patients were being released today. Both of them had arrived in horrible shape and were now ready to begin their lives again. I was particularly proud of one young woman, a daycare worker who had fallen on hard times and been picked up for prostitution. One of the conditions for her release from jail was to check herself into a treatment center. She had been here for three weeks and had completed the state-mandated inpatient course.

She would be moving to a halfway house where she would get additional support. I usually reserved my friendship for other nurses, but in this case, I had made an exception. She was clearly working hard, and even though she had been forced to take advantage of our program, I could see it was working for her. When she first came in, she didn’t eat, and she didn’t sleep. Now she was getting a full seven hours a day at a regular time and eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She had learned to cook for herself and was on medication that would help her control her depression. I was sure she was going to be fine, and I looked forward to having that final “You can do it” conversation.

The other person getting out that day was a teenager who had been checked in by worried parents. He was going right back into the same situation that had brought him to crisis in the first place. I wasn’t so sure he was going to make it. Sometimes it took people multiple tries before sobriety became a way of life. I had a suspicion we would see this particular kid a few more times before he was done with us.

The majority of my patients were staying on for the foreseeable future, and I would just be doing bed checks and handing out medicine. There were a few new arrivals as well, and that was always tough. I got to see people at their very worst. No one wants to check into a rehab clinic. There is never a good way to end up in one of our beds.

New arrivals often took a good deal of work. Not only did they need to be cleaned up and processed into the facility, but they needed a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on. I spent many hours comforting grieving people who had lost friends, loved ones, and children because of actions they had taken while under the influence. They were broken and scared, and this place was their last hope. I liked to spend extra time with each of my new arrivals, and I made some quick mental notes to juggle my schedule.

“Are you up for Alien Crypt 5 tonight?” My best friend, Cindy, stepped up to the board to retrieve her own assignments.

“Is that the one with the guy with no hair?” I asked.

“Vin Diesel?” she guessed.

“No.”

“The Rock?”

“No.” I couldn’t think of the actor. “It’ll come to me.”

“I’m not going to hold my breath, but no, Ryan Reynolds has hair.”

“Oh,” I laughed.

“Ted and I are going, and maybe Sharon’s going to be there.”

“Count me in,” I said.

“When’s your lunch?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I’ve got a couple new intakes, so it might take me a while.”

“Okay.” Cindy shrugged. “The movie’s at seven tonight at the Cinemaplex.”

“Cool.” I nodded, pushing through the swinging gate that surrounded the main office to start my day.

3

PORTER

Iwas going to check myself into a recovery center; there was no use pretending I wasn’t an addict anymore. I went to work, but instead of clocking in, I went straight to my boss’s office.

“Excuse me, Mr. Matthews?” I knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he called.

I snuck into the office, feeling awkward and ashamed. “I’d like some time off.”

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