Night Navigation Page 14

  "Ten minutes. Meanwhile give your fried body some prone, man. Stretch out in the luxury of the Lazarus Hilton."

  Jesús zings right through the clicks, looks at him across the aisle. "How many days?"

  He eases down flat, watches a spider in the corner above his bed. She's rolling her latest up nice and tight. "Twenty-one," he says. "Twenty-one."

  The overhead speaker in the hall booms, "Good night, Family. Sleep tight."

  His body's clean, the fear-smell gone. Mattress not too bad, no sag in the middle. He loosens the tight blankets, so he can move, and pulls the sheet up so the scratchy wool doesn't touch his skin. Carlton, William, Jesús all switch off their lights. He follows their cue. Every time William moves the whole bunk shakes and creaks. The window and door are both open, the smell of rain drifts through. Now and then a thud or a voice from out in the hall. Men on this floor, women downstairs.

  "Remember about the snoring," William whispers. "This ain't no wolf ticket."

  "Wolf ticket?" he asks into the dark. So quiet. Static-interference, zero.

  "Threatening violence," someone whispers back. "Get you a Haircut or a Learning Experience for sure."

  "A Haircut?"

  Jesús raises himself up on his elbow, leans across to keep his voice low. "Say you're late getting to a meeting, somebody on staff calls out real loud, 'This is a Haircut.' You got to assume the Haircut position. They give you a public reprimand. When it's over you got to say thank you."

  And before he even asks, Carlton says, "Learning Experience, the most pain-in-the-ass of all. I'm doing one of those myself right now. Got to stand up in the meeting and recite."

  "Lay it on him," William says. "You need the practice, Bro." Laughter. Him too.

  "Good evening, Family." Carlton's voice is ghost-story quiet. "My name is Carlton. On March 24th I received a Learning Experience for washing my face beyond personal hygiene time." Creepy steady. "I understand that the rules help reinforce the norm within the community. For four nights in a row, my Learning Experience consists of making this announcement." Suppressed snorts from Jesús. "Due date, March 28th. Thank you, Family."

  "You're welcome, Brother Carlton," William says. Okay, so ask them. "All this … all this, hup, hup, hup … you think it works?"

  Jesús leans over again, sings softly, "Ours not to reason why"—again that voice that's happy about something—"sixty-five days since I been high."

  "Ninety-one," William adds.

  "One hundred and six," Carlton says. "And still counting."

  Then the room is quiet. The only sound, his heart. Every now and then a click, click, click. Cubes going twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six.

  Hard rain. Dark, deep dark, every now and then a flash. Where is he? He can hear breathing. Through the rain he hears him calling, calling, not too far away, the voice watery and getting closer.

  Mark … Mark … This building is all stone. Stone is dangerous.

  Aaron?

  Flash. Flash. Boom like the world's blowing up.

  Aaron … remember the lightning that summer. How it would bolt and I'd be whimpering, afraid it would come right down through the plastic roof of the fort. Fiery light and everything would go white. And Mom would yell did we want her to come down and sleep with us, did we want to go up to their tent and sleep with them. And that's what I'd want, but you would holler back, No, we aren't scared. Mark, it's only lightning, you'd say. Chances one in a thousand it would hit here. You were eight. I was ten. But you were wrong. Lightning struck three times. Hit us all.

  Hardened egg yolk streaks most of the greasy plates, slicks of yellow tinged with green. But the plates aren't as bad as the bowls gunked with gluey oatmeal. He leans into the rim of the sink to shift his back to a less torturous position, bangs the scrubber against the edge to sling off some of the goo. His first day on the job and the fucking dishwasher is out of order. He is out of order: the clicking is clacking louder than ever. Maybe he should get back on the Zyprexa.

  "Better hustle it up there," Watson tells him. Watson, the Kitchen Ramrod. Watson, who must have been absent for the personal space curriculum because he always moves in about three inches too many. "You want your cigarette break before Caseload, you're going to have to pick it up considerable."

  He loosens the muscles of his throat, dialing for a reasonable range. "Any chance of getting some hot water?"

  Watson reaches over and runs his hand under the lukewarm stream. "Going to have to make it do for these lunch dishes. Manage for now. Cope practice."

  Cope practice. Put that sign up by his bed. Something dark is seeping under the doors. Bad news. Buzz, buzz, something's going down. Through the clacking and the banging dishes he listens, but all he hears are bits. Last night … a roomie found him … at least two days. Stiff. People going and coming look stunned. The Giant's job is to transfer the racks of drying dishes over to the counters. The Giant's name tag is covered by his I AM A BABY sign, a sign that flaps up with his every huffing maneuver. Another man's busy dealing with the trash, bagging and hauling it out to the Dumpsters. Woman with the birthmark, Roxanne, her job is to pull the dishes from the racks and stack them on the shelves. But he's got to stay focused on the oatmeal or he won't have time for a cigarette. Nicotine to get him ready for Sydney. Maybe he'll run into Ricardo or one of his bunkies. Get the story. Somebody's dead.

  The hall's a rush of people shifting. Caseload in three minutes. No time for a cigarette. Fucking Watson not willing to cut any slack. He pulls a Camel from his pack just to roll in his fingers while he makes his way against the flow. The hexagon tiles are a problem. Fuck with his brain like some Escher illusion. A lot of people sitting on the benches. Heads down, feet flat. A big blackboard across from the pews lists the current splittees. Six names. Down at the bottom, a name in a neat white box somebody's measured with a ruler: Henry Johnson. The man whose bed he just got out of a few hours ago. Henry Johnson is the bad news. Henry Johnson: anonymous no more.

  His Caseload room is just beyond the lounge. He sucks in on his way by—catch a little secondhand smoke. As he steps in, Sydney flicks him a look he can't read. He slides into the next-to-last seat. Two beats later and Watson settles into the last place. He surveys the group. Glad to see Roxanne. She gives him a sad smile. Twelve of them in the circle. Young to old, but most of them probably around his age: bottom-out time. Watson, sitting like a rock, his shirt buttoned right up to his neck, spit-and-polish. Six other men. Four women besides Roxanne. All of them look beat: beat-up, beat-down. Most everybody has something missing or scarred. Sydney is right across from him. The woman beside him, Leora R., December 25, 2001, hands him a piece of paper: The Lazarus House Philosophy.

  Sydney says, "We'll begin by reading the philosophy out loud together." This is directed toward him, the newcomer. "Leora, how about starting us off."

  "'We arrived here to share in the understanding that there are no gains without pains, that to manage our lives we must struggle against our worst enemy—that which keeps us closed, alone, and angry.'"

  No gain without pain: another Rozmer favorite. Leora turns his way a little, encourages him to catch up, but he's lost the beat. Finally Leora collects his paper, a paper now damp along the edges. Maybe he'll just keep melting until when you look out the window only the two bits of his coal-eyes will be left.

  Everybody shifts in their chairs, sits up straighter. He does too. Sydney has a way of leading with his scarred ear. "Mark's first day with us," Sydney says.

  "Welcome, Mark," they call out. "How many days?" they say.

  "Twenty-two." There it is right in the front part of his brain. Twenty-two. They clap. Then they go around the circle. Each one says how many days they've been clean: ninety-two, fifty-six, one hundred and fifty. Prick Watson, right up there with one hundred and five. After each person, everybody claps. Now Sydney swings his eyes around the circle again. He's a big man, not fat, just broad-chested. His shaved head gleams. He even has a gold tooth that co
mpletes the stereotype. Bigger than anyone else in the room.

  Sydney says, "You're clean and sober." Everybody cheers. He comes in with a little yeah at the end. "At least for today," Sydney adds. "So here's the story, the Lazarus Way. You aren't the kind who follow the rules. That's what got you here." Sydney stops to see if they're with him. Some are nodding and leaning his way. "So at Lazarus House, you can't act like no junkies no more. 'Cause you don't act like a junkie, you won't use dope. Right?"

  He gets the feeling this is a sermon they've all heard many times. Sydney looks at him like he's waiting. The man next to him, Leroy, gives him a little jab. "Right," he tells Sydney. It goes around the circle, each one of them saying, Right.

  "You got structure here and rules. Some of you, maybe all of you, are going to bluff your way through." Zap, zap right at him. Then Sydney grins. "I'm an ex-con, an ex-junkie, I know what you're up to." Again Sydney comes to a dead stop, what feels like a full minute. "But listen," he says, "if you follow Lazarus House rules for six months, eight months, most of you will leave knowing how to keep it together."

  "What about Henry?" Just a whisper—an older woman sitting right by Sydney.

  A man with a big bush of gray hair says, "Yeah, we all thought he was doing so well. Eight months clean. Out in a Lazarus apartment."

  Leora's voice tight, low. "Still, there he is, dead. Dead two days before anyone finds him. A needle sticking out of his arm."

  Sydney looks around at each of them. "Henry's an exception." Shotgun energy gone. "He was in this Caseload, so we all know partly what went wrong." Taking his time. "Henry was never willing to dump all his garbage here. Shame got him."

  People around the circle nod. Some tears. Him too and he didn't even know the guy.

  Sydney leans back, his voice is even quieter now. "Henry was too perfect. Laying low. Old days I could've provoked him. We could've run the Game on him. Provoked until he opened up." Sydney looks down. "But the old days are over. Now we got to treat you nice. Don't want to damage your already low self-esteem." Again he looks at each of them. "But I tell you, like Henry, if you don't get it out here, you're going to use again next black time hits you. You hear me?" He looks at Leora.

  "I hear you," she says. And again it goes around.

  He says, "I hear you," right on the dot.

  "There'll be a memorial for Henry next week. Anybody who wants to can be part of that." Sydney settles in, sinks his size down a notch. "All right, who wants to start it off today?"

  There's a long silence.

  "Remember, if you keep stuffing it, you are going to end picking up. Especially if you're angry. Anger stuffed is the first cause of relapse." Sydney goes quiet then, sits there looking at them one by one.

  Finally Roxanne raises her hand a few inches. Roxanne's birthmark stretches all the way down one side of her face, even onto her neck. Could be any age gone wrong. The front of her T-shirt says BELIEVE in letters so faded they almost aren't there. Sydney nods to Roxanne. Her hands tremble so, they won't stay in her lap. "It's because of me … my boy's gone." Her voice, the tight of a sob choked back. "James." Just a whisper now. "Me on the street…" She sits on those hands to keep them still. "Doing crack." She looks at Sydney. "Dead." Blue-and-red tears. "Nothing's going to change that."

  He pushes back in his chair. Sydney flicks him a look. No way. No way is he going to split himself open and bleed out all over this room.

  Still no hot water. Grease from the hamburgers gunks the dishwater no matter how many times he changes it, how much detergent he adds. Back and forth, behind him, Watson, checking the dishes in the racks. Roxanne's looking nervous. Even the Giant's making anxious moves, rearranging the racks so they're perfect.

  "See this glass," Watson says, pushing it up to his face. "All these glasses … they're greasy, spots all over them."

  He breathes. "Best I can do with no hot water."

  Watson tests the water again. "Well, why didn't you say something? I reported the problem to maintenance this morning. I assumed it was fixed." Watson's voice is heating up. "Why didn't you tell me you still didn't have hot water?" He doesn't say anything, just turns back to scrubbing the plates. "This is a Pull-Up for not communicating." Watson's voice is cool again, businesslike. "Next time you tell me right out what's going on."

  "Thank you … for the Pull-Up." Voice neutral. Clickety-click. There. There. What are you going to do now, you prick bastard?

  Finally Watson turns away. Watson is all part of the dark that's gathering. Watson's breath is still on the back of his neck—watching him wash the pots. The heat is rising in his chest and the hum humming up. Like to spin and wrap Watson's head up tight in the dishrag. Just breathe and scrape. Scrape, scrape. Twenty-eight, twenty-seven…

  "How about this pot?" He doesn't look at the pot. This Watson is a full-court-press man. "Still got sauce under here." The pot almost in his face. "No reason you can't get the food off even if you don't have hot water." Better back off, Watson. "Got to do it over. Speed it up or you won't be done in time for your break."

  Before he knows it, his body's spun out, pot banging down in the sink. Watson doesn't back off an inch. A woman's voice says, "Mark…" He looks at Watson. Watson looks at him.

  "Here's another Pull-Up for selling wolf tickets. Next time I'm going to support you to staff. Bring you up before a meeting."

  His voice just a strangle in his chest. "Thank you for the Pull-Up," he says.

  Every move he makes he feels the ridge of irritation around the top of his long johns. Insides of his thighs too. Raw. That's him: in a constant sweat. Only one man on the benches now. Head almost to his knees. The guy's been there all day, every time he's passed through the big hall. No new splittee names on the board. Henry Johnson still tucked up tight in the neat box. He turns into the smoking lounge. Empty except for Ricardo. Ricardo has got the bouncety-bounce of a man who knows how to take in the air and hold it. Time for two or three cigarettes.

  Ricardo pushes a chair out for him. "Going to be a heavy-duty meeting," he tells him. "Decide if somebody who split and got high is going to be back in or out." Ricardo's looking him over. "You got about-to-detonate written all over you." He's looking real close now. "What's up?"

  "Watson," he says.

  "Watson—very military. Nam. You got to follow the protocol," Ricardo tells him. "Lucky he's in Sydney's Caseload. Got to confront him right there. Sydney will know how to make it work for both of you."

  He doesn't say anything. The thought of bringing it up in group makes his stomach seize.

  Ricardo leans back like he's considering his next point. "Mark, you're angry. Deep-down angry. Coming off of you like steam. And it's not just about Watson. You got to bring it all out, man."

  He fists his hands so tight his nails bite into his palms. "I can't," he says.

  "Look, all you have to do is write your name and Watson's name on a piece of paper and drop it in Sydney's Encounter Box. Sydney will check it out before your next group and he'll know just how to set it up so you can unload." Unload right out of here. "So Watson unloads too. Group will help out. Good for all of you."

  He wants to get Ricardo off this. "Maybe," he tells him.

  Ricardo shakes his head. "I can smell Go on you from a mile. You just biding your time until you've figured a way, right?"

  His shaking knee starts the table wobbling. "I don't know."

  "That's horseshit and you know it," Ricardo says. He reaches down and stuffs a wad of paper under the table leg. "Look, I came here totally on the con. They wanted to give me five years. Whole list of felony counts: auto theft, reckless endangerment, assault." The more of Ricardo's story in prime time, the less of his own necessary. "My parole officer recommended a year's time served in Lazarus House. Lazarus House backed me too."

  "You're different," he says, partly just to keep the focus on Ricardo and because it's true. Every now and then Ricardo's face becomes Dad. Only happened once before—these face-changes. Time he got
committed to Langston Psych. Pepper spray. Stripped his clothes off. Straitjacket. Thorazine. Lock-up ward. Sixty days. Whatever he's going to do, he's got to do it soon before it's too late.

  "Different? You know every junkie's the same." Ricardo believes, no question about that. "I used Lazarus to get out of jail. My plan was to run. Drug treatment, the last thing on my mind. But you know what changed all that?" He widens his eyes to keep Ricardo talking. "What changed it was fishing."

  Always a warm halo glow around Ricardo's head. But the face blurring in and out.

  Ricardo's off on his own now, into his song. "Bunch of us got to go out fishing. Beat-up motorboat down on the river with a Coordinator. Har-har, at first we're doing scenes from the Cuckoo Nest cruise, but once we got out on the river, everybody calms down. Turned the motor off. Quiet. Sun and a little wind coming across the water. Everybody's line out with bait on it."

  Ricardo lays his hands out open on the table: nothing to hide. "I mean, for so long I'd gotten my kicks scamming people so I could get high. But here we were out there on that river. Listening to the frogs. And it wasn't hurting anyone."

  Ricardo gets up, starts to roam like he understands about giving people plenty of oxygen. "You know I never would have made it out there. I have to stay right here until I get it straight. You hearing me?"

  Right now funny business going on up in my attic. "I'm hearing you."

  "Mark, roll with it for a while. Put your name and Watson's in the box. Just living here with all these junkies who are working on self-control is powerful." Ricardo stops, puts his arms down like he rests his case. "What's your alternative?"

  Got to give Ricardo something. Putting out the good energy. Orange glow now. "Thanks, Ricardo. I appreciate it. It's true—I'm struggling."

  Ricardo nods, touches his shoulder. "Got to go into the fear, go through it," Ricardo says. Ricardo and Rozmer making the same U-turns, reading the same program-approved literature. "Otherwise you know, you know this: you'll be back on the spoon."