A Long Way Home

CW: addiction and recovery

The First Ordeal:

David rose from his bed like an animated corpse, barely propping himself on his arms. After either a deep breath or a groan, he couldn't decide what it was, he flopped one leg off the side of the bed, foot barely touching the floor. He didn’t even bother to pull the sheets off him, they just sort of languidly slipped from his body as he crept to the bathroom. Nights of restless sleep had become one of the many gifts he now had to endure. People told him they had all sorts of medications that could help with sleep, but he knew that no amount of science or snake oil could treat regret. Treating his pain is what got him here in the first place. Right now the pain was the only path back to anything real.

He hit the light switch and watched the shitty motel light barely flick on through half open eyes. He gave himself a once over in the mirror. He reminded himself of an old tree that had lived outside his home growing up, all knots, and bark, and twisted angles. The way his blood vessels bulged from his aged skin even reminded him of vines climbing the barely alive branches. He looked… What the hell did he look like? He looked like something that refused to die.

He’d been handsome once, not even that long ago. He’d been an active man in his mid-60s full of piss and vinegar and bullshit. Bile rose in his throat and he spat in the sink. More bullshit bubbling out, he supposed. He got wrung out like a dishrag when he gave up bullshit. Apparently, it had been his sustaining life force. Everything changed after he quit drinking. He thought he was just quitting alcohol. What a fucking joke. Over the years he came to realize quitting alcohol was quitting himself. Or a version of himself. A version that maybe deserved to die. Was that what he was? The corpse of a man who deserved death. Brought back to life to feel all the pain he caused others.

He held his hand in front of him. It was almost see-through. Maybe he wasn’t even a corpse. Just a ghost. Just some old cigar smoke that hadn’t been cleared out of the old piss scented motel room because no one who came here gave a damn about anything being any fucking better than dog shit. He wanted to hit something. His hand clenched. Nothing happened.

He watched his knuckles go white as his fists trembled under the strain. Age seemed to punish his violent outbursts. He always ended up getting hurt in new and unexpected ways. He took a deep breath in, then let it out. Opening his hands, almost against his will, he rested them on the countertop. He sagged. His head hung from his neck, shoulders arched high. Looking at his feet he let out a ragged sigh and felt his body collapse a little. He stood back up and started to breathe, watching all the bones in his chest move as he did. He wasn’t ready. He spat in the sink again. He was never fucking ready for any of this, yet here he was. A few more breaths. They came more deeply this time.

He brushed his teeth and put on his jeans that used to fit and used to be clean. He wished that he had better clothes for today. He’d had to create a new hole in his belt. His shirt had holes in it but only in the armpits so anyone who noticed or cared could go eat dirt. He was ready to go.... It was time to go... He didn’t move. He sat heavily on the bed, causing the box spring to squeak a bit. The door in front of him… fucking portal to hell. He clenched the edges of the bed against a wave of dizziness. The door warped and spun in his eyes. It was as far away as shanghai, and so close he should be able to smell the oil in its peeling paint. He drifted through space for a moment before his hands reminded him that he was on a bed with rough sheets in a motel room in Bloomington, Indiana.

He knew where Juniper would be. That is what his son called himself these days. Before they had stopped talking, Juniper had said he’d gotten a job at a local coffee shop. David hadn’t thought Juniper was being ambitious enough, and what kind of man calls himself Juniper? While on the phone, he had said as much, and more. David expected a fight, but something had shifted. Juniper didn't snap back. The silence drew out and the hair on the back of David's neck began to prickle. He felt himself pulled into the phone and through all 1000 miles of air and loathing that separated them. He felt the distance the same way a man might feel a boulder crush him. Then he felt the distance become solid. Permanent. Too real. He felt it because Juniper hung up without saying a word. Juniper had never called back.

That moment had never left him. In his reflections on those moments, he had learned what it meant to be sober. Sober didn’t have anything to do with blood alcohol content. Sober was the spine-straightening electric shock of unwanted clarity. Sober was realizing you had fucked up so bad you didn’t want to be forgiven. Sober was feeling every fucking mistake you had ever made and realizing you had no idea how to say sorry. Sober was realizing why it mattered that he save himself, even if he never got to see his boy again. “Fucking Christ”. The words floated in the air. His head collapsed into his hands. He sagged just a little bit more.

At some point he had curled himself into a ball, wrapped in sheets. He wiped away the tears, and squinted. Here was the door. A portal to hell. He had lived through hell. He had crossed all 1000 miles of stone-thick air to get this far. Here he was. At war with himself. He stood up and checked his phone. His men's group all knew what he was doing today… not all of them thought it was a good idea, but they all knew he was trying his best. You got it. Remember, this isn’t about you anymore. Just listen, maybe you don’t even talk. After six years, David still could hardly believe these men cared about him. He took some more deep breaths.

“FUCK” he shouted. He slammed his hands on the bed and beat it the way an emaciated gorilla might. Arms flung high, then sent crashing down. The springs in the mattress helping to rebound the arms back up so they could descend once again. Eventually, the rage and helplessness faded. He just stood there, panting and sweating. He was sure he pulled a muscle in his calf. He couldn’t help but laugh. Yup. new and unexpected. How the fuck did he pull a calf muscle in all that? A breath in, a breath out. That's what you fucking get for acting like a 3 year old throwing a goddam tantrum. Damn. It felt good, though. Except for his calf. Be a man and stop being afraid of your fucking son. It was time to start the journey home.

The Second Ordeal:

David opened the door, cringing at the sunlight. Ghosts didn’t do well in the light. He turned back into smoke and let himself be blown down the sidewalk to his Big Black Truck. He couldn’t have said what transpired between leaving the hotel room and him driving down the road. He didn’t know how he got to the coffee shop. Time seemed to be skipping. You got this. This isn’t about you anymore. His hands peeled off the steering wheel, leaving misty outlines of sweat. His hands were numb. He’d grabbed the wheel so hard he’d squeezed all the blood out of them.

David’s eyes stared forward through drooping eye lids. He couldn’t tell what he was looking at. He could see things as clear as day, but nothing registered. All he could see and feel were the crashing waves of guilt that crushed him into his seat. They came from the coffee shop. The waves synchronized with his breath, and with every impact he sunk deeper into his seat. He knew what the coffee shop looked like. It looked like the fucking end of the fucking world. He sat there in the parking lot at the end of the world.

The shadows had grown longer… how much longer? Get out of the fucking truck. He got out. He limped, favoring his calf, a ways down the sidewalk, kicking rocks and studying the pavement. Juniper could have walked within a hair’s breadth, and David wouldn’t have known. David wouldn’t have wanted to know. Right now, he wanted to know what half-drunk idiot bureaucrat had thought that stamping concrete to look like paving stones was a good idea. They looked fake. Like a veneer. There was no hiding that all this was just shitty concrete.

David continued to walk and stare at the road until the color washed out of the world. He knew he had turned back but was still surprised to find himself in front of the coffee shop. Open 7 am-3 pm. What kind of coffee shop opened at 7 am, people had places to be. He and everyone he knew started work at 7 am. Fucking lazy ass… This isn’t about you anymore. “Fuck”. He took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. He loved his son. He opened the door and walked in. Juniper wasn’t there.

The Third Ordeal:

He wanted to fall on the floor and cry. He could say he tried and go home. Something took hold of him and pushed him forward. The small, growing part of him that believed he could still live forced one gnarled foot in front of the other until he was firmly rooted in front of the cash register.

“Good afternoon, sir, can I help you?” the cashier looked young and happy. He wanted to hate her. She smiled. Christ. He smiled.

“Yah, can I just get a small black coffee?” he didn’t know his voice anymore, his bullshit had lent it gusto and power, now it was dried up and real.

“Gotcha! What is the name for the order?” She was so harmless. He froze. What if Juniper heard 'David' and ran again? Panic took over his mouth and said something stupid. It was the only name that had been on his mind this whole week. It was all he could think of.

“Juniper”, his eyes that had been glued to the ground flitted to hers, just for a moment. A desperate, momentary plea for humanity in the face of one of the dumbest mistakes he'd ever made.

What the fuck? “Juniper"? What the hell was Juniper going to think? Before the cashier could say anything, he turned to walk away.

“Sir… you forgot to pay…” She still didn’t seem upset, she just seemed sweet.

His eye flitted up again and he gave an apologetic grunt before offering her some cash. She paused for a moment. It took her a second to accept that he really was that kind of old person. She kept smiling and opened the cash drawer and counted out change in a way that said she was used to people paying with cards.

Desperate to look occupied, he picked up a pamphlet from a stack at the counter and sat down at a small coffee table with a seat facing the register. Then he got up and sat on the other side of the table facing the wall. He got up again, muttering something about being a fucking idiot, and thumped down again facing the register. Maybe facing the wall would seem less attention seeking. He went to get up again but his knees hurt and told him to stay the fuck where he was.

He looked back to the counter and saw the cashier staring at him before popping on a smile and making herself busy. He picked up the pamphlet, pretending to read, but really just stared at the pages and at the people in the shop. He noticed a younger man across the shop wearing the same pair of jeans as David, except the man's jeans had been washed recently. No Juniper.

He saw the cashier eyeing him, kinda like a side eye. Not trying to be obvious. There were no customers at the register, so she slipped into the back. Damn. David had a way of making everyone uncomfortable. Maybe she was off to warn the manager of the crazy old man with sad eyes and armpit holes in his shirt. He looked harder at the pamphlet. How to unlock your guilt chakra and become the real you. Fuck off. He flicked the pamphlet onto the table and stared out the window next to him.

His hand crept up to grab and comb his hair. Why was he doing this? Did Juniper even care about him anymore? It wasn't hard to imagine a world where he didn't. David had always loved Juniper, but he had never known how to love Juniper. David had never known how to love himself… There had never been any oxygen in the room when the two of them were together. There had been nothing to say. Every "How are you?" was met with a "Fine." Every "Do you even care?" was met with an argument. Would it be any different now? Could it be different now? David grimaced, resting his head against the window. He felt the boulder crush him. Sometimes it seemed to David that Juniper had known who his father was long before his father had. A deep breath in, a deep breath out.

David tried not to jump as someone set a coffee on his table. He hadn’t seen them come over. David's eyes hadn't left the table when the person pulled out the other chair and took a seat. Blood pounded in his ears. David was Sober. David was fucking dead. No... this is what being alive felt like. That damn smiley, nicey cashier had ratted him out.

"Jesus... It is you... I saw the name on the cup. I was,” there was a humorless chuckle, “Well, let’s say I’m surprised. What the hell are you doing here?" The voice wasn't friendly. That cut David. But there also seemed to be an inkling of hope. That tore at his soul. God Dammit. David wanted this more than anything. He wanted to pounce on that hope. Coddle it and strangle it at the same time. He stared at the table. He gripped his seat so hard his knuckles cracked. David wanted to melt. He wasn't ready for this. What if he fucked this up again? His knees still told him to stay the fuck where he was.

Eyes now locked on the coffee, he took one more deep breath and let go of the chair, placing his hands gently on the edge of the table. Last time he talked to Juniper, he'd learned what it meant to be sober. This time, in the silence, he thought maybe he learned something about what it meant to love. You had to show up, even if it meant feeling like the smallest person in the world.

Something Unknown:

He looked up into familiar eyes.

“ I,” David swallowed. “ I’m uh,” he cleared his throat. “I’m here to listen.” He looked back down at the table and drummed his fingers. “For once.”