"WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR FATHER?"
VILE SELF PORTRAITS, CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"There’s not a cloud in the sky. My brother’s laughing. We’re on the front lawn playing a game—who can hold down Dad’s arm the longest? Rob’s on his right, I’m on his left. The slanting sun rays graze each blade of grass and cast stick figures in slow motion. I can smell my mother cooking dinner through the open window. Chicken parmesan. I’m pushing my father’s arm as hard as I can, but Rob keeps saying he’s winning. We need each other. We loved each other.”
◆◆◆
"You’re gunna die if you leave, Joseph. Mr. Dean, he’s gunna use again. One hundred percent. This program is the only way he’ll get sober. There is no better treatment available, I can assure you of that. These are just excuses—"
"Dad—"
"Joseph, don’t fuckin’ interrupt ‘em, cut the fuckin’ bullshit out right now! He’s sayin’ that you’re gunna die if ya leave, I believe ‘em!"
"I just wanna go to a different place, Dad. I’ve been to Naukeag before and it helped me—"
"So he’s been there before, he probably knows how to manipulate the staff and get what he wants—"
"Are you fuckin’ listenin’ ta this guy, Joe? If you leave, I’m takin’ ya offa the insurance fa good! I’m fuckin’ sicka the drama and ya mutha is, too!"
"Dad, please, I can’t be here. I’ve never been so depressed, it’s never been this bad—"
"Depressed? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Joseph? Is thissa fuckin’ joke?"
"There’s no need for him to be depressed, Mr. Dean. He’s met with a psychiatrist and been prescribed medications to help him acclim—"
"I met with that woman for less than five minutes!"
"Interrupt him one more time and I hang the fuck up and take you offa the insurance! You don’t need any goddamn medications! I’m so fuckin’ sicka the drama! You get clean and do well for a few months and then everything falls the fuck apaht!"
"Mr. Dean, I hear this quite often. I know exactly how you must feel. I’m right there with you. Our program is the best that money can buy… the best treatment currently available—"
"Dad, I—"
"Give us a minute, Mike."
"It’s Mark…"
"He didn’t have to slam the door like that…"
"What do you want, Joe?"
"Dad, please, I need to get out of here. This place isn’t for me. It isn’t helping. I don’t wanna leave just to use, I want to get better, I just can’t stand it here. We sit in a circle for six hours a day and talk about God and surrendering to a higher power. They told me if I don’t find God they’ll kick me out… and half of these guys just left jail… they’re repressed—"
"Repressed?"
"Like they’re trying to be masculine and hide their feelings and… I just can’t stay here. All we do is smoke cigarettes and go to AA meetings full of miserable people, they’re losers and—"
"Like you."
"I’m not a loser, Dad. I’m trying to get better. I can get better at Naukeag. I did last time."
"Nah, you wah just chasin’ some broad, you nevah wanted ta get bettah. It didn’t even take ya a fuckin’ week ta relapse, right? You don’t care about anyone but yahself, nobody but Joey, right?"
"No, Dad. That’s not true. I’m just trying to get through this, I’m going through a lot right now—"
"You’re going through a lot? What about me? What about ya mutha?"
"I’m not saying this hasn’t been—"
"Joseph, I’m done. If you leave, you’re offa the insurance and no longa welcome in our family."
"Are you serious? Dad, come on, I’m trying to—"
"I’m done. Goodbye."
Dial tone.
"What’s it gunna be, Joe? Ya gunna go out there and die with the rest of the losers or stay here and man the fuck up? This decision’s gunna impact the restaya life. Whadaya gunna do?"
"I just need a minute to—"
"Nah, dude. You don’t getta minute. Ya lost that privilege when ya stahted doubtin’ our program. You don’t believe in somethin’ greatah than yahself. Sooner or layta, you’ll learn the truth. It might kill ya, but you’ll learn. So what’s it gunna be?"
"I wanna go to a different program. Can you help me set that up?"
"Dude, you heard ya Dad. He’s fuckin’ done with ya. Don’t you get it yet?"
"Please help me get back to Naukeag."
"Nope. We will not help ya get backta Naukeag. We will take ya ta the bus station and leave ya there. That’s what we’re doin’… Gary, get the fuckin’ van and bring Joey here ta the house ta pack his shit."
"Okay. C’mon, Joey. Let’s go."
"Move, kid. It’s time ta go meet ya fuckin’ future."
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THE BARMAN© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO WET BRAIN
VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO TRIGGER WARNINGS
They told you
you weren’t welcome
unless you wore your guilt like a tie
and called it healing.
They made God
sound like another man
who'd leave when you didn't say yes
fast enough.
But I heard the shake
in your voice
when you still tried
to call it hope.
You, with your cracked voice
and calloused heart,
were already a goddamn miracle
for surviving love that conditional.
Joey—
you didn’t fail.
You didn’t ruin anything.
You just wanted
a place to sleep
where the smoke wasn’t suffocating,
where a silence didn’t mean
someone loading a gun with your name.
If I had known you then,
I wouldn’t have asked for God.
I would’ve asked if you ate.
I would’ve sat in the fucking circle
with you
and told you
you didn’t need to confess your scars
to be held.
So here’s my voice,
not a dial tone.
Here’s my "stay,"
not an ultimatum.
You are not hard to love.
You just kept trying
to be small enough
for people who only loved
what they could control.
But you—
you’re not small.
You’re tidal.
You’re too much for cages
and that is holy.
Been there. My father has a southern drawl that comes out, only when he's pissed though.