California Dreaming
Chapter 02
George's skin was crawling, his face covered in a sheen of sweat as he sat quietly in the therapy circle. Today marked sixteen days since he'd overdosed in a back alley off of Vine Street in Hollywood. Today was his first full day in therapy, and he hated it already.
This wasn't his first time in rehab, and he was sure some of the counselors and nurses here recognized him from other facilities across southern California and western Nevada. His band and manager had shipped him off to rehab a couple of different times over the years, but this was the first time everyone had been on board with the idea.
This time, it had been the record label that had told him flat out - either get in rehab, or get out of the band. He'd expected the guys to back him up - after all, he wasn't the only one of the lot of them that was snorting and swallowing behind the scenes. But they hadn't, and neither had their manager and so here he was, in a facility just outside of San Diego that looked more like a psych ward than the luxury sort of rehab facility that he'd been to in the past.
He listened to one story after the next - a mother of four who'd lost custody of her children after accidentally smothering one in her sleep, a pastor who'd taken to the bottle after his wife of forty years had died of breast cancer. A teen mother who'd survived an abusive relationship only to lose her child to stillbirth, a former soldier who'd lost an arm in Iraq. On and on they went, each one following the same basic formula - life dealt them a shitty hand so they found a toxic coping mechanism, be it alcohol, needles, sex or pills.
George wasn't like the rest of them. His drug abuse wasn't even abuse in his eyes. So he liked to party a bit too much a bit too often...who wouldn't if they were in his shoes? His ex-fiancee had taken off with their daughter. After he'd broken into a fist fight with his brother at Christmas dinner last year, his parents hadn't spoken to him. Talking to the bandmates who'd put him here in the first place wasn't an option. All in all, thirty-six years of life had taught George that if there was one thing he could count on, it was drugs. Drugs were all he had left in his shitty life and if he couldn't die, then dammit, he'd have his opiates.
"Okay, guys. I think that's it for this session. I'll be hosting another therapy group tonight if any of you would like to attend," the group counselor, Jeff spoke, pulling George out of his thoughts. He didn't say a word as he got up and left the meeting hall, heading towards the yard - or what they called a yard, anyway.
It was really just a concrete slab with two small patches of artificial grass on either side of it. An obnoxiously bright streetlight stood in the center, backdropped by a beautiful blue sky. He shook his head, looking back down at the concrete as he searched his pocket for his lighter.
He only had to stay for a total of eight weeks for the label to let him start going back to the studio. It was a drag, but it was nothing he hadn't survived before. Eight weeks and he could go back to the days where day blurred into night, his mind blissfully numb, stomach sour and body tingling.
He couldn't fucking wait.
He stood outside until he could feel the heat of the lit end of his cigarette against his fingertips, and he snubbed it out on the faded stucco of the wall before tossing it into the ashtray. A few people were sitting in the common area, playing chess and reading books. Jeff was standing at the nurse's station, talking with one of the head nurses. None of them stood out to him; none of them were interesting.
He ignored them all and walked down the corridor towards the room he'd been shown to late the night before, room B24. It was the last room in the hallway and bragged two windows, neither of which had much to look at in the way of scenery. He had yet to meet his roommate, though he doubted he'd spend much time around whoever that was.
The room was empty when he got there, the curtains drawn. His bed, still messy from when he'd woken up, sat against the far wall, a thin blue partition separating his area from the other's. It reminded him of a hospital room with its pale taupe walls and bright lighting. It felt clinical to him, almost to a sterile degree.
A TV sat on the wall opposite his bed, muted. Some infomercial was advertising on the screen and he clicked a red button on the remote to turn it off. He could hear talking in the hallways, the shuffle of dragging feet on carpet. He wanted to tune it all out; get away from here and go home.
Eight weeks of this was going to be hell.
This wasn't his first time in rehab, and he was sure some of the counselors and nurses here recognized him from other facilities across southern California and western Nevada. His band and manager had shipped him off to rehab a couple of different times over the years, but this was the first time everyone had been on board with the idea.
This time, it had been the record label that had told him flat out - either get in rehab, or get out of the band. He'd expected the guys to back him up - after all, he wasn't the only one of the lot of them that was snorting and swallowing behind the scenes. But they hadn't, and neither had their manager and so here he was, in a facility just outside of San Diego that looked more like a psych ward than the luxury sort of rehab facility that he'd been to in the past.
He listened to one story after the next - a mother of four who'd lost custody of her children after accidentally smothering one in her sleep, a pastor who'd taken to the bottle after his wife of forty years had died of breast cancer. A teen mother who'd survived an abusive relationship only to lose her child to stillbirth, a former soldier who'd lost an arm in Iraq. On and on they went, each one following the same basic formula - life dealt them a shitty hand so they found a toxic coping mechanism, be it alcohol, needles, sex or pills.
George wasn't like the rest of them. His drug abuse wasn't even abuse in his eyes. So he liked to party a bit too much a bit too often...who wouldn't if they were in his shoes? His ex-fiancee had taken off with their daughter. After he'd broken into a fist fight with his brother at Christmas dinner last year, his parents hadn't spoken to him. Talking to the bandmates who'd put him here in the first place wasn't an option. All in all, thirty-six years of life had taught George that if there was one thing he could count on, it was drugs. Drugs were all he had left in his shitty life and if he couldn't die, then dammit, he'd have his opiates.
"Okay, guys. I think that's it for this session. I'll be hosting another therapy group tonight if any of you would like to attend," the group counselor, Jeff spoke, pulling George out of his thoughts. He didn't say a word as he got up and left the meeting hall, heading towards the yard - or what they called a yard, anyway.
It was really just a concrete slab with two small patches of artificial grass on either side of it. An obnoxiously bright streetlight stood in the center, backdropped by a beautiful blue sky. He shook his head, looking back down at the concrete as he searched his pocket for his lighter.
He only had to stay for a total of eight weeks for the label to let him start going back to the studio. It was a drag, but it was nothing he hadn't survived before. Eight weeks and he could go back to the days where day blurred into night, his mind blissfully numb, stomach sour and body tingling.
He couldn't fucking wait.
He stood outside until he could feel the heat of the lit end of his cigarette against his fingertips, and he snubbed it out on the faded stucco of the wall before tossing it into the ashtray. A few people were sitting in the common area, playing chess and reading books. Jeff was standing at the nurse's station, talking with one of the head nurses. None of them stood out to him; none of them were interesting.
He ignored them all and walked down the corridor towards the room he'd been shown to late the night before, room B24. It was the last room in the hallway and bragged two windows, neither of which had much to look at in the way of scenery. He had yet to meet his roommate, though he doubted he'd spend much time around whoever that was.
The room was empty when he got there, the curtains drawn. His bed, still messy from when he'd woken up, sat against the far wall, a thin blue partition separating his area from the other's. It reminded him of a hospital room with its pale taupe walls and bright lighting. It felt clinical to him, almost to a sterile degree.
A TV sat on the wall opposite his bed, muted. Some infomercial was advertising on the screen and he clicked a red button on the remote to turn it off. He could hear talking in the hallways, the shuffle of dragging feet on carpet. He wanted to tune it all out; get away from here and go home.
Eight weeks of this was going to be hell.