Ever try to quit something and find you can't, it's too difficult? Join the group and see if they can help. Personally, I doubt they can. But I do guarantee you soon won't worry about why you came in the first place!
Big House
Addicts are us, messed up losers—you know
the kind: coke heads, overeaters, serious self harmers/suicide groupies, sex
addicts—each of them so completely fucked up they finally end up in a kind of
terminal rehab center which is what this place was.
Yes, the Big House gave such
places free reign to run themselves as they saw fit. They were after all
evaluation centers to review the clients’ varying addictions and to best access
what the next step was, that was what Executive Management said, what they did however was another matter.
Joe knew. He had taken the job
happily ages ago but now he found his second thoughts had third, fourth and
fifth thoughts.
But there was worse, there always
is.
Joe sighed. He was Director,
Houseman, whatever anyone wanted to call it—that was okay with him.
In truth, he ran the place—this
weigh station, recovery home, haven—care facility.
Actually, he thought of it as
‘losers are us.’ The place where the lost, the hopeless, the monumentally
fucked up finally end up—in short it was the repository for addicts. He ran the
men’s section.
He saw the new batch arrive in
the van nicknamed Pegasus. Someone
with a misplaced sense of humor named it that because if that horse flew, these
poor bastards were now to be grounded for an indeterminate time (to say the
least).
As always, Joe welcomed them: “We
are going to sort you out-to evaluate you and send you on your way. It’s not so
bad you’ll see.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’? I just
see you, man.”
Ah trouble, right away and in the
shape of a skinny little kid with attitude.
Scott, recent jailbird and
dull-eyed wonder at 19 was not impressed. “This place sucks!”
“But you just got here! Give us
time!”
Scott lets loose a stream of
abuse but Joe wasn’t bothered. “Your nose is bleeding Scott.”
“How do you know my name?”
“We get briefed.”
“Yeah, so what does that make
me?”
It was always the same. “It makes
you putty in the system’s hands kid, better get used to it.”
“Look, the judge told me he was
sending me here and that was it.” “Which judge was that, Scott?”
“I don’t know—the one I just saw.
What’s it to you anyway?”
A murmur of laughter from the
other losers and Scott looks proud of himself.
No one says anything. The only
reaction is from Albert who deliberately lets one monumental fart rip as a kind
of comment.
“That’s disgusting!” This they
nearly all respond to—waving their hands in front of their faces. “Christ
almighty!”
Albert didn’t laugh—he was the
most seriously disturbed. He wore bracelets on both his wrists these were the
white dressings that covered his most recent suicide attempt, even his scars
had scars. Poor Al.
Joe knew. He had the notes.
Predestination came into it. In Al’s case he had a crazy mother who tried to
drown him when he was ten.
“Why did you do that Mrs. Fugle?”
“The voices told me, your honor.
Blame them!”
Mom went to the state hospital
and little Al got shuffled around in a succession of foster homes where he was
beaten or abused in some way.
By the time he went to high
school he was fitted out with a nice green and white Viking football helmet
because he liked to run down the halls crashing head first into the walls.
The other kids (those deemed
normal) laughed—because they weren’t crazy, not like Al anyway.
Al used to laugh too, not
understanding the joke was on him.
Eventually he left school and
found himself working with some charitable concern that had him making ash
trays but their supplier died and his son didn’t want to bother with that
charity ‘crap’ as he called it so the charitable concern looked elsewhere but
their days were numbered anyway because their funds were cut off when the new
governor was elected.
Go fight City Hall, yeah and if
you think that’s bad try the State Capitol sometime.
So what was Scott’s story? Ah
Scott. Both parents were addicts, Mom sold herself for nickel bags on the
street until she OD’d in an alley with a furious pimp pissed off because she
hadn’t turned any tricks that night. Meanwhile Scott’s dad was run over on the
way to the VA hospital where he was being treated for various medical
conditions he had sustained as a result of exposure to Agent Orange. He also
had an addiction to morphine all this from having served in a war he no longer
recalled having been in.
With both parents gone, Scott
found himself in and out of teen homes and what they call social care centers.
Not the kind of places a kid should be in because some of the staff liked to
molest young boys.
Ever resourceful, Scott learned
to use a switchblade. “I’m going to cut it off Mack so you ain’t never going to
be able to use it again.”
Slice, slice only he missed and
the perv tried to kill him by pushing him out of a 3 story window but Scott
didn’t die. His legs got mangled but they fixed him up real good in St. Clare’s
Hospital where an old lady felt so sorry for him she gave him 10 dollars to buy
a robe, but he bought crack with it instead.
“What do I need a robe for?”
He gets sent up to Rikers when he
pulls a heist in Washington Heights that’s supposed to be a sure thing—some
liquor store. His partner gets shot through the right eye and is dead at the
scene and Scott is caught.
The detective who collars him
comes from the 34th precinct. He’s just come back on duty after bereavement
leave. His daughter was run over and killed by joy riders, high on crack.
This cop has no time for
druggies. “Here’s one Sarge.”
The desk sergeant takes a look at
the kid and actually feels sorry for him but Scott who is his own worst enemy
spits on him and gets cracked in the head for it.
Night court hours later and a
nice bus ride to Rikers where he meets a few queens and gets initiated.
After two weeks, he’s tried to
hang himself and cut his throat with a broken plastic fork after which he
somehow gets up to the roof threatening to jump.
They talked him down.
He gets expressed over to
Bellevue where he gets shot full of Thorazine—winds up being assessed for two
months and finally (somehow) winds up with a habit far worse than the one he
ever had.
He gets released and is sent to a
hostel that is run by a church. Things are looking up but some pusher he owes
money to, spots him and instead of beating him up, shoots him up with enough
drugs to kill him.
He doesn’t die, but switches back
to crack. This he manages to get in the next treatment center, after which he
escapes and gets shot by a cop.
“But you recovered, Scott so when
did you see the judge who sent you here?”
Scott doesn’t know his brain is
fried.
“Okay, it doesn’t matter.” Joe
tries to smile but it is so not easy, might as well carry on: “Okay, let me
tell you all what we’re going to do today. Today’s introduction day. We’re
going to sit around in a circle and…”
Scot raises his hand. “Why a
circle, teach?”
“Because I fucking say so, okay?”
Joe felt that cleared the air and turned toward a weasly looking little guy.
“They call you Spider, right?”
Red gums and rotten teeth get
flashed big time and Spider nods.
And then before Spider can say
one thing a big black man shouts: “Yeah but they should call you child molester
man. You like little girls, don’t ya?”
“That’ll be quite enough, Denby.
You’re no Boy Scout either!” Said Denby is hurt and furious at the same time
but Joe doesn’t care: “You gambled away your home; you’ve robbed and mugged
people in order to gamble. Your wife became depressed and your children went
into care. That’s nothing to be proud of.”
“But I ain’t no deviant at least!
Like him!”
Spider was trembling. “Look, I
always get this. I’ll be God damned if I know why they didn’t separate me…I
never get put in with the…”
“Normal ones?”
“Normal? You think you’re all normal.
You’re all here because of how loused up you are! What are ya nuts?!”
Joe nearly had to call security.
“Shut up all of you. Otherwise I can send you to the quiet room.”
He got waved off for that.
“That’s cool, dude. I just go to sleep in them places.”
“Not in
our quiet room”, Joe smiled. “It gets awfully hot in there.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“It’s part of the treatment
program.”
For some reason, they looked
startled by that. Joe was pleased. It would make things easier. But then he
notices Scott is busy sniffing the air in between wiping his bloody nostrils.
“Stop that and sit down, Scott.”
Scott stuck his tongue out at him
and Joe shook his head. It was like a kindergarten in here sometimes.
“Okay look, let’s move this thing
along.” Joe turned toward Spider. “Now your real name is George Hughes…”
Spider looked pleased to talk
about himself. “Yes it is. My father’s name was George, Sr., he was a bus
conductor…”
A ripple of laughter then as
Albert started singing to himself.
“Hey what’s that you’re singing
Al? Do you take requests?” Scott called out.
Then because Joe told him to shut
up Scott shouted back: “who wants to send fruit cake here and the perv away?
Look dude, we don’t want these guys here. They don’t belong here. We’re in for
addiction and these guys--!”
Joe cut him off. “They are both
suffering from addictive disorders the same as you. Mr. Fugle here—Albert?
Albert has been diagnosed as suffering from OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
which is directly related to his addictive personality. In his case he has
attempted suicide on numerous occasions—often injuring people who tried to help
him. And George over here--(another gummy grin) Mr. Hughes has also been
diagnosed as having OCD and declared also to have an addictive personality. In
his case it’s sexual addiction.”
Spider bestowed what can only be
described as a princely nod toward Joe.
Joe figured he might as well lay
all the cards out for them. It was only fair really. He was just about to start
when Scott who was still sniffling and wiping his bloody nostrils, stood up
again. “There’s a gas leak here, man. I knew I smelled it when I came in!”
This started a wave of panic as
each of them (not including Albert who was now singing Amazing Grace) started to scream.
Joe felt sorry for them. “Really
fellas it would have been better if I had taken you through everything.”
But they weren’t listening. They
had converged on the door and were trying to open it. “There’s a fucking fire
here man, you better let us out!”
Joe realized he wasn’t going to
be listened to for quite some time so like always he decided he’d wait it out.
Finally they got it. That is the
kid got it first. Scott started to cry, saying how he understood everything.
“There is no quiet room is there? It’s just a back door right?”
“No Joe,” replied. “It’s a kind
of vestibule to your final destination.”
Denby was next. “Oh man! I
understand! I really do!”
Spider cottoned on last and when
he did he just wept, saying how sorry he was, pleading for another chance, swearing
to be good.
It was pitiful. Joe had seen it
all before, sure there were certain differences throughout the ages, but this
was how it was now—now being
relative.
You see there was no fighting it,
it was orders from the Big House and orders are orders.
Sure, it was the lake of fire for
each of them with a nice view of the steaming mountains of hell to complete the
scene. After all, damned is damned, baby.
© COPYRIGHT 2011 Carole Gill
“House of Horrors is a fine addition to my Kindle, and
I’m sure I’ll be going to read this again and again…”
“A veritable blood feast for vampire fans everywhere!”
“If you are a fan of horror, you won't want to miss this one!! High marks to Ms. Gill.”
“There are so many different monsters in this book the no matter what your biggest fear is or your favorite one to read about you are gonna find it without fail.”
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