I'm Glad You're Here

Friday, December 17th, 1993 - 4AM

The speedball had been too much. He had gone too far. The room had stopped spinning, and was now just fading in and out from existence. A lump caught in his throat, and he began to cough into a clammy, clenched fist. When he pulled his hand away from his face, it was stained a deep red.

Panic began to set in, and he reached for his phone on the small stand next to him and immediately realized that he wasn’t on the couch, but on the floor. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been on the floor, or when he had pulled three heavy blankets over him. Foul-smelling sweat oozed from every pore on his body, yet he was still chilled to the bone.

For the past few years, breathing had become difficult, but that was nothing compared to the heavy labor his lungs were pulling now. Every breath was more of a gasp, a desperate struggle for oxygen. His heart was behaving erratically, unable to maintain a steady beat. He dragged his three-hundred and eighty pound body across the rough carpet so that he was positioned just next to the couch. He reached up for…

All of a sudden, he couldn’t remember. He could feel the thought there, underneath the thick fog that had overtaken his brain. The room kept flickering and fading in and out around him, or maybe it was him who was fading. No, there was no maybe about it. He was on his way out.

Another coughing fit took over, and his mouth filled with froth. His arms were useless, pinned to the floor by an unseen force. He couldn’t even feel if he had legs. Perhaps they had walked away. They had finally given up on carrying around his fat ass, that was for damn sure.

In his final moments, utterly terrified and alone, Matt used what little brain function he had left to pray.

Monday, December 13th, 1993 - 7PM

Matt felt as though someone had dropped a bowling ball into his gut as he entered the church basement. Why did churches never seem fully lit? He heard the distant murmuring of a gathering, and followed the noise to a small room where a group of people chatted. Some jovially, like old friends, and some in a more somber tone.

Matt found a chair that was slightly off from everyone and sat down. The chair groaned under his weight; his face, already pink from the walk down the stairs, grew red. He stared down at his feet, not making eye contact with anyone. He reminded himself why he had come down here in the first place.

It was weird, feeling everything. The pain in his lower back, the embarrassment of the chair’s noise, his social anxiety. Today was the first day he’d felt it in weeks. And he was really feeling it.

Someone gently placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder, and he looked up. A middle-aged gentleman was staring down at him with a kind smile. “Good evening, son. First day?”

Matt wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and brushed back his greasy bangs. “Yes, sir.”

The older man chuckled. “Call me Chris.”

“Yes, Chris. I’m Matt.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Matt.”

“Me too.”

Tuesday, December 14th, 1993 - 9AM

The AA meeting had put Matt in a good mood for the rest of the night, and he had actually gone to bed at a decent time. This morning, he felt like hell, but he was sure that was just the withdrawal. He was no stranger to withdrawal symptoms, but each time they seemed to get much worse.

Despite that, he was going to have a good day. He had made the first step toward recovery last night, and he was determined to actually recover this time. Breakfast was on the stove, and music was on the stereo. He danced a little, when his lungs would allow him, stopping when he began to cough.

The phone rang from the living room. He shuffled over to it and answered.

“Hello?” Matt was surprised to hear how scratchy and weak his voice sounded.

“Matt, Christ, is that you? You sound terrible!” It was Marv, his manager.

Marv had sent him to rehab more times than he could count. He hadn’t told Matt to go to that AA meeting last night. That’s what made that step particularly meaningful to Matt. He had gone to that meeting of his own volition.

“No, Marv, I’m good,” Matt assured him. “I just went to an AA meeting last night!”

Silence fell on the other end of the line. After what seemed like eternity, Marv spoke.

“Matt, I’m proud of you. Good for you, buddy.” His tone was sincere, and Matt’s chest swelled with pride. Marv was more than just his manager; had been one of his closest friends for years. “We do need to talk, though.”

Matt’s pride deflated in an instant. Marv paused again before speaking.

“Matt, I just wanted to let you know that the tabloids are on you again. I’m sorry, pal, we’re looking at taking legal action, but these sleazeballs speak in legal loopholes,” Marv told him. “Just...stay away from the newsstands this month. It’ll blow over again.”

Silence fell as Matt struggled to respond. It never failed. Every time he started to feel good about himself, the tabloids came for him. It was always the same thing. He was “gaining weight, back in rehab, a menace to himself.” Everywhere he went, the tabloid covers followed him. He immediately wanted a drink. He wanted a pill. He wanted some coke.

He finished up his conversation with Marv while he searched for his television remote. As he hung up, he found it and turned the television on. The photos, taken at the most unflattering angles, were airing on three different channels. There would be more airing them tonight. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Tuesday, December 14th, 1993 - 3PM

He had tried to follow Marv’s advice and ignore the tabloids, but that was difficult to do downtown. Every other corner had a news stand, and every news stand had those unflattering pictures on full display. Even now, this dressing room wasn’t helping matters. Matt had already tried on two pairs of pants that wouldn’t even button, and the third pair was looking the same.

When he finally gave up trying to button them, he looked at himself in the mirror. Pants halfway down his pasty white tree trunk legs, stomach hanging down over his boxers. His double chin underlined his disgusted face. He stared at the fourth pair hanging on the wall next to him and decided to not even bother. He just pulled his own pants on and walked straight out of the store.

The cold air stung his eyes, and he had to squint as he stepped into the street. He felt an urge, something utterly pavlovian, as his eyes adjusted to the light outside. Right across from the clothing store was a bar.

Wednesday, December 15th, 1993 - 3AM

The music drowned out everything the pretty blonde on his arm was saying, but Matt pretended to hear everything with a series of nods and “uh-huhs,” which he was pretty sure she wasn’t hearing either. Neither one of them was completely grounded in reality right now.

The blonde stopped speaking, laughed under the pounding bass of the music, and grabbed a tissue out of her handbag, and wiped the blood from his nose. He hadn’t even noticed it was bleeding.

For a moment, a bit of guilt sank in. Marv had been so proud of him, and here he was, breaking sobriety already. But that guilt was ugly, and Matt didn’t want it in him. So he ordered another shot and it burned that guilt away as he slid it back.

Wednesday, December 15th, 1993 - 2PM

He woke up on the floor of his bedroom feeling like someone had cracked him over the head with a baseball bat. He staggered to his feet, grabbed a bottle that still had a little beer in it, and downed it. He walked out into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Nothing alcoholic. The table, however, had a little cocaine left over, which he snorted. That would be enough to get him to the liquor store.

As Matt opened the front door, he was greeted by a delivery person preparing to knock.

“Oh, uh, hello,” greeted Matt.

“Are you Matt?” the delivery boy held up a cake box with a note attached to it.

“Yeah, I am,” Matt affirmed, taking the box. The label was from a fancy bakery. Who would have sent him a cake?

Matt walked over to his table and sat the cake box down. Attached to the top was a little card. He opened it.

Matt, I’m so proud of you. You’re going to turn it around this time. I know you will. Sincerely, Marv

Tears welled up in Matt’s eyes as he read the card, and the guilt overwhelmed him. Little did Marv know, he had already let him down. He’d fucked up. And he felt terrible about it.

Opening the cake box revealed a rich, velvety chocolate cake. He fished a fork out of his dishwasher and plunged it into the cake, shoveling a large chunk of the pastry out of the box. This would help. This would ease the guilt.

Friday, December 17th, 1993 - 2AM

Matt knew it wasn’t right that he hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. He couldn’t go on much longer like this, anyway. He had, at one point, been in someone’s house, where he was able to score more coke. And at another time, he had run into a friend, who told him he’d better “slow down, big guy.” Matt didn’t want to slow down. Matt wanted to keep going.

But his head was swimming. He needed to go home and sleep this one off. He was having a hard time telling the difference between up and down at the moment. It was going to kill him to keep going. He needed to get a cab ride home.

And then, somewhere in the swirls of music and conversation filling the bar, one word came through clear as day.

“Speedball?”

Maybe one little speedball wouldn’t hurt. Matt would go home right after, wind down, sleep it off. When he woke up, he would come clean to Marv and maybe hit up a different rehab facility. Yeah, he’d get clean after just one more hit...