Last Night I Sang to the Monster (18 page)

Yeah. Morning.

At the smoking pit, I kept expecting to see Sharkey.

But he was gone.

I keep thinking about the song I was writing when I used to get wasted with my friends. What’s wrong with me? Why would I want to write a song? I don’t even know how to sing. I don’t even believe that I have a song inside me. But there has to be something else inside me besides really bad dreams.

Cabin 9 was a lot quieter with Sharkey gone. So was the smoking pit. Sharkey took up a lot of space. I guess I liked that about him. Now there was just more empty space in the world I lived in. Two days after Sharkey left, I was lying in bed. Thinking about my dream. All I could remember was my brother’s face. He must have been in my dream. I don’t know why but I spelled his name in the air.

The air can hold a lot of things. But it couldn’t hold my brother’s name.

I sat up on my bed and studied the familiar room. Rafael had put up one of Sharkey’s drawings on the wall. It was a drawing of a boy on fire playing a piano. Rafael had told him it was a beautiful drawing. “Imagine a young man who could draw such a beautiful thing.” I don’t think Sharkey heard what Rafael was trying to tell him.

I walked over to Rafael’s desk and stared at the painting he was working on. It was a self-portrait in different shades of blue. His hair was a little wild and he was crying. It was the saddest painting I’d ever seen. I just stared at it for a long time. I think I was looking for all of the things that were making Rafael sad. But there were so many things in the world that could make a guy sad. The list was like this winter—it just went on forever.

Then my eyes fell on Rafael’s journal.
It was right there.
I’d seen him writing in it the night before. He always wrote something in it—even if it was just a few lines.

Then I found it in my trembling hands. It was like I just found it
there. I read the words he’d written on the cover:
And here I am the center of all beauty! Writing these poems.
It was from a poem. He’d read the poem to me. He told me the poet’s name but I didn’t remember the name of the poet. He’d laughed when he read the poem. “He’s being ironic and sincere all at the same time.” I got that. Rafael would have gotten along with Mr. Garcia. They would have understood each other perfectly.

Rafael had so many words living inside him. I guess he just had to empty them out sometimes. At first I thought I was just going to stare at the words, you know, like they were paintings on the walls of a museum. I wasn’t actually going to read the words. I was just going to look at them. But that’s not what happened. I knew it was wrong. My heart was beating faster, but I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t. I turned to the last entry:

I just finished painting my first self-portrait. I don’t think I intended to paint myself. It just happened. Not that anything just happens. Adam believes that everything happens for a reason. I think he may be right about that. The problem is that most of us are too lazy or too scared to think about all of the reasons for the things that “just happen.”

I don’t really know what I was thinking when I started painting. But then I realized I’d painted a face. And it was me. At fifty-three maybe it was time to paint myself. I didn’t even have to look in the mirror. Now that I think about it, I’ve never really enjoyed looking at myself in the mirror. Sometimes it just hurts too damned much to look at yourself, to see what you’ve become. To look at me. To see what I’ve become.

I just sat here and painted myself from memory, trying to remember what I looked like. It’s strange, how the hands and fingers remember. They take a brush and paint and remember and your face appears on the blank sheet of watercolor paper.

Maybe I’m just trying to re-invent myself or re-create myself. Maybe I’m just working on another piece of fiction. I’m good at fiction.

This is what I’m telling myself right now: This is you. Rafael, this is you. I’m trying to tell myself who I am. I lost myself somewhere. And that’s a very sad thing. Losing yourself is sad and heartbreaking. Fucking sad and fucking heartbreaking. Losing yourself isn’t like losing
a key to your house. It isn’t like losing an expensive pair of sunglasses or even the only copy of the greatest screenplay you’ve ever written.

I’ve been talking to myself a lot lately. That doesn’t bother me much. I have a feeling I’m trying to talk myself into existence. I’m trying to listen.

It’s time I start listening to my own voice.

Sometimes I find myself laughing.

Sometimes I find myself crying.

Friday night, I was at an AA meeting and I was in the back of the room and I started crying. I didn’t bother to think about why. But I just let it happen. The great thing about a room full of alcoholics is that people emote all over the place. Crying is the least of it.

So my first self-portrait is of me crying. Maybe that’s not a bad place to begin.

I wanted to sit there and get drunk on Rafael’s writing. That’s what I really wanted to do. I looked around the room, you know, like guilty people do when they’re stealing something. I put the journal back.
I have to stop doing this I have to stop doing this.

I was beginning to understand what Adam meant by addict behavior.

I took a quick shower. I kept thinking about that idea of talking yourself into existence. I wondered if that was possible. I didn’t know how to do that. Maybe Rafael didn’t either. He seemed sadder than ever and I wondered if he was really going to get better. But, at least, he was trying to get at what he felt. Maybe he could do that because he was so at home with words. I mean, he worked with them. They were the tools of his trade. Mr. Garcia had always told me I was good with words too. But I felt inarticulate—and reading Rafael’s journal, I don’t know, it made me feel even more inarticulate.

But it wasn’t as if words healed us. What good were Rafael’s words? What good were Adam’s words? What good were anybody’s words? I kept thinking about what Jodie said.
None of us are ever going to get better.
The thought entered into my head that maybe Sharkey had lost his faith in words. Who could blame him?

On my way to the smoking pit, I walked by the labyrinth. I saw Rafael walking it. His steps were slow and deliberate and I wondered what was in his head. I watched him for a little while. I was hiding behind some trees. I guess I just didn’t want anyone to see that I was watching him. I felt stupid. Why was I hiding? Who was I hiding from? I hated myself sometimes.

I saw Adam walking toward me. I pretended to act normal—though I wouldn’t know normal if it bit off my private parts.

I waved
hi
.

He waved back
hi
.

As he passed me, he stopped and said, “New guy today. He just came in early this morning. So you and Rafael will be getting a new roommate.”

“Great,” I said. But there must have been something in my voice because Adam didn’t keep on walking.

“You want to tell me what that
great
meant?”

I shrugged.

“Not having a good day, huh?”

“I don’t want a new roommate. That’s all.”

“Where do you suggest we put the new guy?”

“I don’t really care.”

“What’s this about, Zach?”

Adam, he loved to ask that. I hated all the questions he had inside him. “It’s not right,” I said.

“What’s not right?”

“What if Sharkey comes back?”

Adam didn’t say anything. He just, well, he was just thinking. “Can you come in to see me today?”

“Like I have some place to go.”

“After group. Let’s have a session. Me and you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Still mad at me?”

“Like it matters.”

“It might.”

I think I gave him a snarky smile. “See you in group,” I said.

I headed for the smoking pit. Jodie was there smoking up a storm. I liked the way she held her cigarette. She was really into smoking. She smoked like maybe her life depended on it. Well, hell, she was a
for real
addict. Jodie, she had a couple of other people living inside her. Sometimes, those other people showed up. When one of those other people showed up, I made like a scared rabbit who’d just heard a rifle go off. I just couldn’t deal with that. Adam said it was good to know our limitations. Embrace them. Sure, embrace, embrace, embrace. I wish Adam would get out of my head.

I smiled at Jodie. I knew by the look on her face that the two other people living inside her were gone today.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi back,” she said. “I’m giving you a big hug right now.”

“No touch,” I said.

She laughed. “I can hug beautiful boys with my eyes. You know that, don’t you?”

“There’s a lot of things you can do with your eyes,” I said.

“Except have sex.”

“No talking about sex,” I said. “We’re all on contract.”

“Who needs sex?” she said. “All I need is coffee and cigarettes—and a new therapist.” She hated her therapist. She’d gone through two of them. She said she’d love to have Adam. She said Adam was “easy on the eyes.” I knew what she meant. But I got the feeling she wouldn’t have liked Adam as a therapist either. She was too rebellious. That’s what I liked about her.

We both laughed.

“You been to breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

“Gotta eat, sweetie.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Finish that thing.”

I took a drag off my cigarette. “You’re acting like a mother,” I said, “making me eat breakfast.”

“I’m not making you do anything. Besides, you could use some mothering.”

“Think so?”

“Yeah, I
do
think so.”

“So now you’re a part of my therapy?”

“Of course I am, sugar. Didn’t anybody tell you we’re all part of each other’s therapy?”

“Maybe that’s why we’re all screwed.”

“You may be right about that, sugar.”

Sugar. Sugar. I liked that Jodie called me
sugar.

“Nice smile,” she said, “very sweet. C’mon, put that thing out and let’s go see if there’s anything exciting happening at breakfast.” There was always someone acting up or acting out or having a breakdown or crying or emoting or yelling or something. Breakfast seemed to be a good time for throwing your emotions around. Jodie said that at this place emotions were like Frisbees—people just tossed them around all day long like they were at a park.

My theory was that conflicts at this place were unavoidable. When you get a lot of people with issues in one big group, well, there were going to be serious explosions. Jodie loved to watch the explosions. Me, I don’t know. It sort of embarrassed me to see people engage in unhealthy behaviors in such a public way. I liked to keep my unhealthy behaviors to myself. You know, like secretly reading Rafael’s journal. Or like drinking bourbon all by myself.

When Jodie and I walked into the dining room, Rafael was sitting there reading the newspaper. He had a way of ignoring all the commotion. Not that he wasn’t social, but sometimes, well, he just wanted to read his newspaper. Jodie and I sat next to him. “What’s new?”

Rafael looked up and smiled at Jodie. “The world’s falling apart. It says so right here.” He pointed at the headline.

That made us all laugh.

Jodie looked up, her eyes surveying the room. I mean, she loved studying all the other clients. That’s what we were—
clients.
I wondered why we weren’t patients. Sharkey said we were clients because we could leave
anytime we wanted. “Patients can’t leave. Clients can.” Sharkey had an answer for everything.

Jodie nudged me and pointed her chin at Hannah and called her over. “Where’s the bus?”

“What bus?”

“The one that ran over your ass. You look like crap.”

That made me laugh. Hannah sat next to me and gave me the eye.

Rafael just kept on reading.

Hannah reached over and tugged at the newspaper. “What is it about newspapers that you like so much?”

“There’s a world out there, Hannah. Anybody ever tell you that?” Rafael smiled at her.

“That world almost killed me.”

“Oh, so it’s the world that’s doing you in?”

Hannah shot Rafael a fake smile. “You should smile more.”

“I’m working on it.”

“What was your favorite drink?”

Hannah was sort of flirting with Rafael. I could tell. But, well, in a good way. I mean, I could tell she liked him. “You planning to take me out to some bar?”

She tapped her temple. “In my dreams, sweetie.”

“Red wine,” Rafael said.

“What kind of red wine?”

“Always liked a good cabernet.”

“Ever hit the hard stuff?”

“An occasional Manhattan. What about you?”

“Very dry Martinis. About ten a night.”

“How could you tell how dry they were?”