Writer’s Rehab
The first day of the rest of a writer’s life
Owen walked into the Serenity Hills Re-hab Facility. He had never been in such a facility before. Looking around, he saw that it looked like any other medical facility.
He approached the front desk and smiled at the receptionist, “Hi, I’m here to pick up Luke Philips.”
“Ah yes. Just a moment…” The young, short-haired Hispanic woman picked up a phone and began mumbling into it.
Owen once again looked around the facility. He noticed a large man in a hospital robe sitting on a bench slowing swaying back and forth as he stared at the wall in front of him.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Owen turned back to the receptionist who was smiling, revealing perfect teeth.
“Mr. Philips should be out shortly. Did you receive the Helpful Guidelines booklet we mailed to you?”
“Yes, we did. The wife and I spent several hours yesterday going through the entire house making sure there was nothing left out that might induce Luke to return to his… uh… his addiction.”
“Good. Despite all the counseling and medical help they receive here, patients can still easily fall back into their addictions — especially in the first month after being released. You have our phone number? You can always call one of our psychologists any time if you need help.”
“Yeah… uh… I think so. The number is in the booklet, right? The wife’s got that somewhere.”
“Here’s another booklet just to be sure you have the number.”
Owen took the booklet and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Just then Owen heard the opening and closing of a door. Turning to his right he saw Luke Philips walking towards him carrying a suitcase. Owen quickly walked towards Luke who quickly put down the suitcase. The two men hugged.
“Luke, old friend, I’m here to spring you from this joint. Let’s blow this pop stand.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how good it is to see you, Owen. What’s it been? Fifteen, twenty years?”
“I think it’s more like twenty-five years. And look at us now. We’re a couple of old men.”
The receptionist spoke up, “Mr. Philips, here is a copy of your release papers and some other documents as well as your prescriptions.”
Luke picked up his suitcase and walked over to the counter, setting his suitcase down again, “Thank you so much, Ceci. You know, it was a real pleasure getting to know you. Your smile kept me going. Here’s hoping that we never meet again.”
Ceci laughed, “Okey-dokey.”
Luke shook Ceci’s hand then put the papers in the inside pocket of his blazer. Picking up the suitcase he walked towards the front doors with Owen at his side.
Chuckling, he turned to Owen, “That Ceci is so darn cute. She’s just about the most chipper person I’ve ever met in my life. And she says okey-dokey an awful lot. She’d make a great character in a book.”
Luke abruptly stopped walking. He shook his head back and forth vigorously as he waved his free hand in the air, “Scratch that. Forget I ever said that. It’s just a little relapse.” He stopped shaking his head and took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Once out the door Owen spoke up, “Serenity Hills. I get the serenity part but where the fuck are the hills? This place is built on totally flat land.”
“Yeah, there’s a cemetery back in the town where I was living called, Riverview Cemetery. There isn’t a river anywhere near that cemetery. The closest river is like fifteen miles away. And besides, all the residents of Riverview Cemetery are dead and in the ground. How are they going to view anything?”
“Maybe that’s why they can get away with calling it Riverview Cemetery. Here, let me take your suitcase and I’ll throw it in the trunk.”
“Wait a minute. You’re picking me up in a car? Where’s your truck? I don’t think I’ve ever ridden in a car with you before. It’s always been a truck.”
“My pickup is at home. This is Barb’s car. We thought it would be more comfortable for you in a car on the way to our house.”
“Well, it certainly looks comfortable. It’ll be weird, though.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Luke took off his blazer and threw it in the back seat of the car. He then got in the front passenger seat and buckled up. Closing the trunk, Owen got in the driver’s seat and it was not long before they were on the Interstate heading south.
Owen and Luke rode in silence for a while. They kept looking at each other like people will do when they haven’t seen each other in twenty-five years.
Finally, Owen spoke up, “So how do you feel, man?”
“I actually feel pretty damn good… for the most part. Really I do. I think I finally kicked my addiction. I was in rehab for six weeks and I did not write one single solitary word for the entire six weeks. That’s the longest I’ve gone without writing since I was a baby.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Hell yes, that’s a good thing. Owen, you have no idea how bad my writing addiction got. It completely took over my life. I had been wanting to quit for a few years now but I was completely powerless to do so. Back when I quit smoking… uh, like over eight years ago… well, that was easy as pie compared to trying to quit writing. I just couldn’t do it on my own. That’s why I checked in to writer-holics rehab. I needed professional help. I desperately needed help overcoming my addiction.”
“But… but Luke! You’re such a good writer!”
“What difference does that make? For the last five years I’ve been living month-to-month never knowing if I would be homeless the following month. Instead of taking a sensible job I got a stupid part-time minimum wage job that allowed me plenty of time to write. But the pay barely paid the rent and utilities. If it wasn’t for food stamps I would have starved to death by now. Any unexpected expense that could possibly come up could have sent me homeless into the gutter. And it was all because of my writing addiction.”
“So your books haven’t been selling?”
“Oh hell no. And they never will unless I put a ton of money and a ton of time into marketing the hell out of them. I don’t have the money and I don’t have the time nor the inclination to do that. That would take time away from my writing and my writing addiction would not allow that. I would have to spend countless hours every day on social media building up a fan base and I would rather poke hot needles into my eyes than do that. Besides, that would leave me no time for writing. And I’d have to do book-signings and interviews and shit. Fuck that! I’m a writer dammit, not a marketer… uh… actually… uh, actually I WAS a writer! But not anymore! According to the psychologists I need to use the proper tense when I talk about my writing.”
“Man, that is really sad. As you know, I’m not much of a reader but I do read five or six books a year. Out of all the books I’ve read in my life there was only one book that ever made me cry. I don’t cry; not even watching movies. I’m a macho guy. The only time I cry is when I eat a really, really hot chile pepper. But when I read that blue heron novel of yours and the main character raised her hand to touch the bricks of that building… man, I put the book down and I balled liked a baby. God, that was one of the most powerful scenes I have ever read.”
“Yeah, quite a few readers have told me the very same thing.”
“Man, that book should have been on top of the New York Times Bestseller list. They should have made a movie of it.”
Luke snorted, “Yeah, right. I am probably proudest of that book out of all of them. I spent a year and a half working on that novel. Yeah, that was the last book I ever promoted. I spent over two grand marketing the hell out of that book. I pushed it like crazy. But I only ended up selling a few hundred copies. I didn’t even make back the money I spent marketing it. It was actually a financial loss. I haven’t spent a dime marketing any of the novels I’ve written since then. And they haven’t sold hardly at all.”
“Man, that really sucks. My son went through the same thing with his music and he finally quit his music completely and now works for some tech firm. It was so sad. He was such a great singer and songwriter.”
“Yes, that is indeed sad. I loved his music — I still do. But he’s probably a lot happier now.”
“Yeah, actually he is. He’s making good money at his job. He got married and has a kid now. And the last time I talked to him on the phone he told me that he was buying a house. He’s about to turn fifty and he’s finally buying his first house.”
“Well, I’m way older than that and I’ve never owned a house in my life. Owen, the sad truth is that only one out of every million writers ever makes enough money from their writing to actually live on it. The odds are staggering. And nowadays it’s so easy to publish that everyone and their mother is writing and publishing books. I think now there are actually more writers than readers. The odds now are probably more like one in two million.”
“Yikes.”
“But you see, that’s not the point. My writing addiction got so bad that I no longer cared if any of it brought me money. I no longer cared if my books sold or if they were ever even read. The only thing that mattered was that I could keep writing. Once I finished a writing project I was completely finished with it and I had to immediately start my next project. Because of my addiction I simply could not stop for so much as day. I simply had to keep writing non-stop. Writing was my heroin, man. I couldn’t go a single day without it; heck, I couldn’t go more than a few hours without it. It was destroying me. It was ruining my life.”
A silence fell over the car as Luke stared out the window at the monotonously flat landscape whizzing by.
Owen looked over at Luke and then down to his lap. Resting in his lap, Luke’s fingers were twitching and moving furiously as though Luke were playing some invisible piano. “Dude, what’s with the fingers?”
Luke looked down at his hands and abruptly put his hands together to stop the twitching, “You know how alcoholics and drug addicts will sometimes get the shakes? Well, as a recovering writer-holic my hands sometime involuntarily start typing. For my whole life my hands have spent so much time typing away; for years on a typewriter and for the last quarter century on a computer keyboard. Since I’ve quit writing my hands will sometimes just start typing without me even being aware of it. It’s kind of annoying. The doctors say that it might go away with time but I’m just not so sure of that.”
“Man, you really did have an addiction.”
“Yeah, I did have an addiction and to be honest I have to say that I am still an addict. But now my addiction no longer has control over me. I’m in charge now. I might still be an addict but goddamit I am no longer a writer! Ah, it feels so good to say that. It really does.”
“Jesus, Luke, I remember back so many years ago when we worked together. We spent so much time driving to work sites and driving home. Coming home from a job after a long day of working in the hot desert sun we’d have a few beers and we’d talk. I remember you always talked about how you dreamed of being able to write full-time. All you ever wanted to do was write, write, write. I love you, man. We’re like brothers. All I ever wanted for you was for you to realize your dream. And you did but now you’re telling me you quit writing and are trying to never write again. Man, it’s all just really hard for me to wrap my brain around.”
“I know. I know. Hey, I don’t expect you to understand or anything.”
“Just know that I want the best for you and I want you to be happy. I’m always here for ya, man.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it. And you really don’t have to go out of your way for me. Seriously, I’m going to be okay… I’m pretty sure I’m going to be okay. I mean, right now I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
“So what about alcohol?”
“Alcohol? What do you mean?”
“You know, like if you were to drink alcohol would it make you want to start writing or something?”
“Oh hell no. I went to rehab to quit writing, not quit drinking. But the truth is that I hardly ever drink anymore. In my old age my body has radically changed and it doesn’t respond to alcohol the same anymore. All alcohol does to me now is it puts me to sleep.”
“What the fuck? It puts you to sleep?”
“Yeah. It seriously does. Before I can catch a decent buzz I’m nodding out.”
“Oh man, that must really suck. So… uh… how would it affect you in your current state if I were to be drinking?”
“Huh? It wouldn’t affect me at all. Hey, remember I didn’t just come out of alcohol rehab. You don’t have to be afraid to have a beer in front of me.”
“Well… uh… in that case would you mind reaching into the back seat? There’s a cooler on the floorboard just behind my seat. Could you reach in there and grab me a beer?”
Luke laughed uproariously, “Owen, you son of a bitch!”
“You can grab one for yourself.”
Luke pulled out a bottle of beer and handed it to Owen, “Well, I’ll pass but you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t have a bottle of beer in your hand. Here. Boy, I remember way, way back then when we worked together there was absolutely nothing more refreshing after a long brutal day of work out in the 115 degree heat than an ice cold bottle of beer. I mean we drank one hell of a lot of beer back then.”
Owen unscrewed the top to the beer and took a healthy swig, “Enough to fill Lake Michigan.”
Luke laughed, “Maybe Lake Superior. But you know what? Like I said, my body has really changed in old age. Over the last eight or ten years I have averaged just one beer per year.”
“What the fucking hell? One beer a year? I can’t even drink just one beer. With me, it’s always three or four or ten.”
“Yeah, I remember. There were times when I came close to that. Hey, I love beer. And every year — usually in summertime — I get a real hankering for a beer so I go buy me one single bottle of beer. And I open it up and take a sip and it’s the most wonderful tasting liquid in the entire world. It is so fucking good! Then I take another sip and another and with each new sip it becomes less wonderful. Hey, my body has totally changed. By the time I’m halfway through the beer it no longer tastes good and I’m suddenly feeling very bloated and a little queasy and I’m about ready to vomit. No matter how good beer tastes, halfway through my first bottle I can’t take any more. I have one beer a year — and the first sip is always utterly spectacular — but I have never been able to finish any of those solitary beers. Seriously, I haven’t been able to finish one full beer in like a decade.”
“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever fucking heard! Jesus H. Vasquez! Wow! But you know what? I kind of wish that had happened to me. If I’m going to be totally honest I have to admit that I’m a bit of an alcoholic. I mean I drink beer every single fucking day! Every fucking day! But I’m not a drunk. I don’t drink beer until I’m totally shit-faced. I just have a few beers every day. Like you said, it tastes so goddam good! And I don’t drink the hard stuff — well, except for on the weekends. I might be a mild alcoholic but it seriously has not been a problem for me. I just like to relax with a few beers. There comes a time each day when… well… when it’s beer-thirty. It’s that time when you put behind you all the intense work you’ve done that day and relax with a beer.”
“Owen, I completely and thoroughly understand.”
“Good. Thank you. So… uh… I know you quit smoking some years ago but how would feel about me having a smoke?”
Luke laughed again. “Hey, it won’t bother me one bit. You can smoke all you want and it won’t affect me one iota.”
“Really? Okay, well you surely remember how well beer and cigarettes go together.” Owen reached over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out a pack of Camel Filters and promptly lit one up. He pushed the button to lower the driver’s side window, “I don’t mean to smoke you out. You can roll down your window if you want.”
“Really? How the fuck do I roll the window down? I see there’s a little button here I can push to lower the window but how do I roll it down?”
Owen laughed, “You remember that old blue Ford pickup we used to ride in for like five fucking years? We had to use our hands and arms to roll the fucking window down. That was a man’s truck. Nowadays everything is done by pushing buttons. What the hell has happened to the world?”
“I don’t know. It’s a whole different world now.” Luke lowered the passenger side window a couple of inches. He then looked at Owen who was quickly alternating between sips of beer and draws on his cigarette. After watching Owen for a few minutes he finally said, “Oh, fuck it!” He then reached into the back seat area and pulled out a beer for himself. Unscrewing it, he took a healthy swig, “Oh my god, that is so damn good! Oh, it’s utterly delicious!”
Owen looked over at Luke and smiled. He then raised his beer bottle in the air and the two of them clinked their beer bottles together.
They drove in silence together for a while. Eventually, Owen was halfway through his second beer while Luke was still not quite halfway through his first beer. They kept looking at each other but they said nothing.
Finally, Owen spoke up, “Okay, so you gave up smoking, you pretty much gave up drinking, and now you’ve given up writing. Jesus, is there anything else you’ve given up? And why have you felt the need to give everything up? Did you decide to just quit living or something?”
Luke was silent as he took another swig of his beer. It was not tasting so good anymore, “Well… uh… actually there is something else I gave up.”
“Seriously? What the hell could that be?”
Luke turned to look out the side window of the car. After a long quiet moment he turned back to Owen and quietly said, “Sex.”
At first Owen did not react. But then his forehead furrowed and he turned to Luke, “Did you say sex? You gave up sex?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you out of your ever-loving, mother-fucking mind?! Why, why, why the hell would you give up sex?”
“Because of my writing addiction. Sex can be very distracting and would take time away from my writing. And I don’t mean just the actual humping time but the time required for any relationship that went along with the humping. That’s the last thing I wanted. That would have drastically cut into my writing.”
“Holy shit. I hate to say it, Luke, but you are one sick puppy.”
“I’m sayin’! Now are you getting a sense of the extent of my writing addiction, how it has totally fucked up my life?”
“Yeah, I think I’m getting a better picture of how fucked up you are. So how long has this been going on?”
“A long time.”
“Wait a minute. When was it that Sandy left you and you got divorced?”
“That was… uh, around fourteen years ago.”
“Oh man, don’t tell me you haven’t had sex in fourteen years.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“Jesus H. Jones, so you’re like a… a born-again virgin.”
Luke laughed, “Yeah, that’s kind of how it feels. I’m not sure my body remembers how to do it. But you know what? I’m not a writer anymore. I have given it up. Maybe now I might open up to the possibility of having sex again. After all, now that I’m not a writer anymore — and boy does that feel good — I can start doing some of the things I gave up because of my writing addiction. I’d be as nervous as a teenage virgin but, hell, I just might have me some sex. Of course now I’m old and decrepit and I don’t think any woman would touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
Owen finished his beer, “Yeah well, thank God I’m married. Hey, could you get me another beer?”
“Sure.”
Luke then took a sip of his beer and made a face, “Yuck, I can’t take any more of that.” He put the beer down into the drink holder between the two seats.
Owen rolled his eyes, “Listen, the rehab facility mailed us a brochure with tips to help you out. We got rid of all the pens and pencils in the house and any blank paper. You won’t find any spiral notebooks or legal pads or anything to write on. They suggested to lock away any typewriters but I’ve never owned a typewriter in my life. And Barb has a lock on her laptop so there is no way you can accidentally start writing. They also suggested that we don’t talk about writing or even reading, although I think I’ve already blown that one here in the car. And they said to keep you busy; to help keep your mind off writing. So tomorrow I though you and I could go on a hike up in the hills.”
“Hills?”
Owen pointed, “Actually, you can almost see them. See those little hills just starting to poke over the horizon? That’s where we’re headed. We should be there in about forty-five minutes. My house is surrounded by some delightful hills. It’s so peaceful. Ha! They should be called Serenity Hills.”
“Oh, that would be awesome. I am so, so, so sick of flat land. I really miss living in the mountains. The town where I was living was totally flat and it drove me crazy. After six weeks in writer’s rehab a hike in some hills would be the most absolutely perfect thing for me. And listen, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me but don’t worry, I won’t relapse. I swore to God above that I would never write again and I fully intend to live the rest of my life without writing. It’s time now for me to start living again.”
“Right on, bro. It may be a little cliche to say, but today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
“Right, fucking, on! Thanks Owen. You know I really am happy right now.”
Owen took a sip of beer then lit another cigarette. After driving in silence for a while, he looked over at Luke to see that he was sound asleep.
Jesus, thought Owen, alcohol really does put him to sleep. What a fucking weirdo! What did I get myself into here?
And then Owen looked down at Luke’s hands in his lap. They were furiously air typing.
Copyright by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction.