CHAPTER TWELVE

The following is an excerpt from the book Stream of Unconsciousness available on the Amazon and Barnes and Noble websites.

The drive to rehab was a blur. I couldn’t tell if we had driven for ten minutes or ten days. I hadn’t kept track of where we were going or the route we had taken, but I do recall noticing the Pacific Ocean on our left as we drove along the Pacific Coast Highway, as well as a slightly queasy, carsick feeling after driving up a winding mountain road.

Eventually, Dallas’ car stopped in the driveway of a house located somewhere in the hills of Malibu. I was just sitting in the front seat of his car looking out the window like a zombie, thinking of nothing. Just staring. Even though I had spent most of my life living only twenty minutes from Malibu and had been by and through the area hundreds of times over the last twenty-five years, I had no idea where we were. We had just come to an abrupt stop somewhere in the hills and were now facing tall, black wrought iron gates that protected a rehab facility beyond the fence off in the distance. Dallas rolled down his window and pressed the intercom button.

“Promises Malibu,” came the friendly, disembodied voice over the speaker. “Can I help you?”

“Hi. This is Dallas Taylor. I have a new resident, Steven George.”

“Come in Dallas. We’ve been expecting you.”

Slowly, the tall black gates opened up, and we proceeded into the compound. The gates closed quickly behind us, as if to thwart the attempts of some deranged addict waiting for his chance to escape. We drove about fifty yards into the property and parked the car next to a large, beautiful, hacienda-style two-story house. It was pitch black up here in the wilds of Malibu, but, with the help of artfully-placed landscaping lights, I could make out a swimming pool with a large pool house next to it. A large, beautifully manicured lawn surrounded the main house, pool and pool house.

A man walked up to our car, abruptly interrupting my observation of the exterior facilities. He was wearing very white pants and a polo shirt with a nametag that read Promises – Nate.

“Dallas, I’ll take Steven to Intake. Thank you for bringing him here.”

They walked away from me and proceeded to have a conversation. I’m sure they were discussing my cocaine and alcohol abuse and, generally, how much of a jerk I had been to my family and whether or not I would be a high maintenance inmate. They broke their huddle and Dallas approached me.

“Steven I’m going to take off now. You’ll be in good hands. Here’s my card. If you need anything just call me.”

I’ll save you the call. I understand everything. I’m an alcoholic and an addict. I get it. I’m sorry. Can I get back in your car and go home now? I miss my family.

“Okay,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thanks.”

He gave me a hug and said he was proud of me, and that if I stuck with the program everything would be okay. And then he drove away.

My last connection to the outside world was gone. I felt completely alone, standing in the driveway in near total darkness with some guy named Nate. All my worldly possessions — socks, underwear, jeans, t-shirts and a few shorts — were stuffed in a duffel bag by my side. I felt like a lost dog. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I just stood there waiting for the Promises representative to direct me.

“Steven,” Nate said gently, as if reading my mind, “we’re going to the office to fill out some paperwork and take your vitals. Follow me.”

I couldn’t quite figure out what the deal was with the beautiful house. It was too pretty. It looked like it was built for some corporate executive or political dignitary. Something was fishy. Where was the real facility? I had imagined rehab would be a three- or four-story white building with barbed wire, security cameras and Doberman Pincers roaming the grounds. Where were the ambulances and security personnel?

Perhaps the house was just a façade used to lure victims into the trap! I mean, this place looked like a Club Med, for God’s sake. Had I arrived during the day I might have seen bikini-clad co-eds sipping drinks by the pool. Unsuspecting new arrivals would walk over to investigate, only to have a net thrown over them and taken to the real facility somewhere behind the façade. Nazi nurses would inject them with a sedative and then strap them to a gurney where they rehabbed for thirty days.

Nervously, I followed Nate into the “office.” To my surprise, the beautiful house wasn’t a façade. It really was a beautiful house. The office looked as though at one time it was a large bedroom. The room had a small reception area, several desks, computers, filing cabinets and several chairs. A woman walked up to me and extended her hand.

“Steven, hi. My name is Donna. Welcome. How are you?”

I felt like a second-grader who had just gotten into trouble in class and had been escorted to the principal’s office.

“I’ve been better.”

The truth of the matter was I felt like shit. I had just admitted to my wife that I lied, stole, drank and used. I was ripped away from my family, and I wouldn’t be able to do drugs for at least thirty days. To make matters worse, I still had about two or three lines worth of coke in the Baggie still in my pocket. I was really having the urge to do a line but I couldn’t imagine how I was going to pull it off in rehab…..