Group

Prologue

In my estimation drug rehabilitation was an unnecessarily tedious endeavor. Consequently I experienced five failed attempts before I tasted any semblance of success. The first time I went in I tried to pass off my Chihuahua’s urine for my own. The second time they caught me shagging a therapist named Chastity. The third time, my now ex-wife, walked into the director’s office to find the two of us sans wardrobe. Most recently at a communal establishment west of upper nowhere Wyoming, I lit up a fatty during family sessions. To be utterly candid I was prepared to give the whole bloody thing up. Quitting was for wankers anyway. Then one day on a whim, I stumbled across the Family Center for the Dependent in Delray Beach Florida. Well whim, might not be the best explanation, I should give credit where credit is due. The Palm Beach County Sheriff who dropped me off was instrumental in my arrival at a final destination.

One moment I’m draining the weasel on the fifteenth green at Delray Beach Country Club, the next I’m handcuffed to a large copper named Bubba. It happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance explain my condition. You see I was sober, and had been for nearly sixteen straight hours. Most likely this morsel of information wouldn’t have helped my cause, but then it again you never know. Apparently, Bubba didn’t feel my proclamation was relevant to the situation at hand. Without so much as how do you do, he runs my prints, and my name through an electronic gadget and wham, I’m sleeping at a halfway house off Atlantic Ave.

Whatever strange twist of fate led me there; it turned out to be luckiest spot of misfortune I ever fell upon. You see the summer of 2008 was dreadful season. My sixth band in six years had just broken up, and my agent Philip took more than his ten percent with my wife. My lawyer Manny was boinking my mum and my mistress left me to munch carpet with an overly zealous game show host. Talk about relationship issues huh? To say I’d been battling through a rough patch was a wee bit of an understatement?

However, unlike most of my friends, dire circumstances did not propel me towards oblivion. Whilst things were at their worse, I was at my cleanest. The instances which lead me nearer the infinite abyss called inebriation were those of accomplishment. The better I did the more I used. I blame this on the fact that my addiction was a societal base. I didn’t drink alone. I didn’t smoke alone. Other than utilizing the lavatory I did nothing alone and every so often not even this. By my very nature, I was a social creature.

The majority of the people I’m acquainted with blame their afflictions on their upbringing. They say you can trace your drug of choice to your parents through a kind of whacked narcotic family tree. The truth is I don’t feel as if I had choice. My mum injected morphine while I was still in womb. My pops fed us children whiskey instead of breast milk. He said it helped the kids sleep better. It has recently occurred to me that perhaps inducing our comatose state helped him to sleep better. Whatever the reason I was this way; addictions were innately a part of my persona. I liked to drink too much when I was thirsty. I liked smoke too much when I was busy. I liked to snort too much when I was tired, and I liked to fuck too much when I was horny. I didn’t see the concern.

Regrettably, the state of Florida disagreed. They placed me in a thirteen week program. If I could keep clean, no charges would be filed, and my numerous past indiscretions would be forgiven. Considering an alternative of imprisonment, I thought that was pretty fair deal, so I signed up. Additionally I was ordered to complete a couple hundred hours of community service, and pay a few quid out pocket, but I didn’t mind it. The last part of my avoidance of incarceration was that I convey the ramblings about my gluttonous jaunt through this thing we call life. I picked up the keyboard, and began to type.

If you haven’t heard of Jeffersonville Australia, don’t worry I’m not offended. Most people weren’t able to find it on a county map. We have two stop signs, one pub, a paved road, and an adult book store. I was the high school graduating class of 1990. On the outskirts of Queensland province, old J’ville had a population of three thousand during the semi-annual porn convention, and thirty nine the rest of the year long. Nine of those residents were provided by the Thorpe family; of which I was the youngest of their seven children. My pops couldn’t keep his zipper closed, and mum didn’t hear of a blow job until after the divorce.

Providing for nine people while living in the outback can stretch the purse strings a tad. Given that the old man was the only financial provider it was doubly hard. His daily commute to the booming Metropolis of Pipersville consisted of six hours round trip on the train. He worked at a gristmill seven days a week, leaving prior to sunrise, and returning after it had set. You can imagine the old man didn’t have much of a tan.

The day after my graduation, I hopped that very same train and headed east for the coast. I didn’t stop until the Sydney Opera House came into view. There was something about the purity of that architectural gem which screamed fresh start. It was as if I were standing at the edge of a brand new world an explorer from another planet. Life began anew as I stepped off that train. This was a far cry from old J’ville.

Hey you have a light? A young man who had more piercings than brain cells reached out his fag to me.

Here you go. I could not break my stare away from the magnetic attraction of the city. In all my eighteen years, I’d never seen anything similar except of course on the tele. We had one, got it that same year in fact. To see it in person though was awe inspiring.

Cheers mate! You look sort of lost. The scruffy teenager mumbled.

No for once I think I found my way.

Two hours later we were in his garage smoking out of a hookah longer than I was tall. Mind you this wasn’t saying a lot, I was barely five nine in a pair of boots, but it was never the less a massive bong. After several drawn out hours of trips and trails, he picked up his guitar and strummed a chord or two. I provided the words for his spontaneity. This kind of behavior was not the least bit uncommon in my own household. I’d always been able to throw out a lyric, even if the song was unfamiliar. It was gift of mine. Before long his roommates had returned. One of them grabbed a bass and the other banged wildly on a set of drums. A band was born that day and my future path had been forged. I’ve been chasing down that uneven road ever since.

We called ourselves The Stoners. I’m sure you can’t imagine why. The Stoners became the first of many garage bands I’d play in over the years. We jammed at birthday parties and a couple of hole in the wall clubs with little success, and then one day fate intervened in the form of a lost record producer. I ran over the chubby little American in a grocery store parking lot. One of my self-made business cards fell at his feet. That evening at the Goldstein wedding, he happened to be sitting in the front row.

They suck. You on the other hand…you don’t suck.

Two months later he hauled me off to Los Angeles and paired me with a punk band called Jack Off. Our opening gig earned a whopping eight thousand American dollars. It was the most money I’d ever seen before in my life. Eighteen years have passed since those crazy days in Sydney, and not much has changed for me. I’m a touch older and slower, but I can still smoke, and I can still rock and roll.

My achievements in the music industry can be characterized thus, I didn’t starve, and I never wanted for drugs or women. Most musicians would consider me to be pretty successful, because they were not nearly as fortunate. Drugs and money in my profession tend to be the greatest distractions to consistent performance. Yet, for a rock musician I was quite thrifty with my finances. From savings accounts, to CD’s, to money markets, to IRA’s I had set aside what little money I had when I had it. Drugs on the other hand… I think you can figure that one out on your own.

South Florida was meant to be the last step in my quest for musical immortality. The Dirty Rotten Apples imported me in from NYC, to make an album and then follow up with a worldwide tour. Our first two singles cracked the top 100, and it finally appeared I was on my way to stardom. Only two obstacles stood between myself and destiny; the drummer and my addictions. In point of fact, they were both part for the same crisis. You see the drummer and I had a torrid affair that ended in the breakup of the band, and me pissing on a golf course.

Some might call this a journal, but I’ll agree to disagree. Journals were diaries for grownups, and I didn’t much fancy diaries or grownups. I’d rather think of it as a mind purge. It was kind of like an enema for the soul. Eliminate the shit out of you in a great big hurry without reading a newspaper or smoking a fag on the john. Having written my fair share of poetry and lyrics, I kind of knew my way around a keyboard. In no time, I was exhibiting excellent secretarial skills. One the girls in group clocked me typing eighty words a minute. Not bad for a tosser from down under.

All the names you will find in the following pages are absolutely and utterly …fictional. One of these piss pots would have slit my throat and turned me into a eunuch if I’d used their real names. I changed them for their safety and my own. Take a deep breath, pour a tall glass, and light them if you got them, for this is a roller coaster ride you’re not soon to forget. By the by I’m not responsible for you hurling or having some myocardial thingy, this is just my life.

Chapter 1:

Where were those voices coming from? Was someone speaking, or had I finally damaged too many important brain cells to fully recover sanity?

He’s kind of cute if he wasn’t so old.

Yeah but he has a great ass.

Look at the art on his back, this guy enjoys his tattoos.

The only place he has more needle marks is on his arms. Those tracks are fresh.

Waking up in the halfway house, I was inundated with the sounds of sirens from both sides of my bed. First off, I was not able to recall how I’d arrived at my present predicament. In addition I was convinced that I’d flipped my lid. Choirs of angels had come to take me away. They’d come to take me away they had. Opening my eye lids warily, I spotted the two other human beings in the room. These were not angels or sirens, they were girls.

You must be the new guy. An adorably diminutive red head, barely sixteen if she was a day, was waving at me. I focused my scattered attention on her lime green tee shirt.

I HAVE ISSUES

Can anyone tell me if I’m dead or not? Flashes of the previous evening returned in clips of horrifying reminiscences. Did I urinate on a priest?

The room I was in was hospital white from the sheets to the walls right down to tiled floors. Not a single mirror adorned the place and besides a ceiling light covered in a wire mesh there was nothing to look at. A single window was obscured by a Plexiglas shield while the military cot and dresser were both bolted to the floor. I’d seen a place similar to this. They were affectionately known as Suicide Cells. Any possible implements of self annihilation had been eliminated. Even the sheets were made of a breakaway material. If you attempted to hang yourself the linens snapped sending you crashing to the floor embarrassed but alive.

You’re not dead. This is the Delray Beach Halfway house. Hi my name is Cindy Summers. Standing on her tip toes she reached over and kissed me on the cheek. Her pencil thin lips smelled of juicy fruit gum.

This is Portia Burns. The other girl was not as friendly. However, she was drop dead gorgeous. Long blond hair ran the length of her flawless body to an ass a lesser man would pay for. The shit smelling scowl on her face led me to believe her personality was not nearly as immaculate.

You like to ride the train I see. Portia poked at the scars in the crook of my arm, and then turned her finger back towards her own. The two of us put the average diabetic to shame.

No, H is more trouble than it’s worth. I’ve kicked the habit. Shaking my head vigorously I tried to recall what led me to this dilemma. As I rolled over to face them, I suddenly became aware that I was naked. Rather than dwell on the awkwardness of the moment, I played it off as nothing

How long have you been clean? Portia inquired.

What time is it? I leaned over to read seven fifteen on my cell phone.

Nearly twenty four hours. I mumbled.

Someone’s glad to see us. Cindy stared at my crotch for a few seconds, giggled and turned her head away.

I’ve seen bigger. Portia scoffed and reached out to steal a cigarette from my pack.

I have to be dead. Does anyone want to pinch me? I did not bother to cover up. Modesty had flown right out heavily barred windows.

Portia reached over and smacked me soundly across the face.

Okay not dead that’s a good start. A loud knock at the door sent the two girls scurrying for my closet.

Good morning Mr. Thorpe. You have an orientation in twenty minutes. Get dressed and meet the shuttle at the front door in five. A heavy set and not so pleasant woman of Caribbean decent glared at me from the doorway. Wearing an outfit of wholesome white she blended into the room. The fact that I was naked did not appear to affect her one way or another.

Oh and tell the vomit twins to get back to their own rooms in five minutes otherwise they won’t be watching television tonight. If they’ve not returned in ten I’m going to book them a one way ticket to Columbia. Although Portia and Cindy were hidden from sight, this woman seemed to sense they were in the room.

I’m Gloria if you want anything don’t bother to ask for it. Cause you won’t be here long enough to get it. Her deep voice trailed off as she marched through the halls. I could still hear her thumping footsteps even as she got four or five doors down from mine.

Shit, I told you not to go in his room. I’ll never find out who wins Idol now. Portia growled as she dragged Cindy out the door.

It’s nice to meet you. Cindy waved over her shoulder.

Likewise, Cindy Summers, I hope we see each other soon.

Dazed and confused, I slid into a pair of black jeans and matching tee shirt. Hardly able to focus through the morning after haze, I stumbled out into the hallway. It was just as antiseptic as the room. Five doorways on either end of the hall conspicuously mirrored one another. Shuffling my feet down the stairs, I scarcely made it to the first flight. The desire to wretch was rolling over me. After numerous deep breaths, I went for flight number two. The bottom floor was slightly more inviting with a meeting room and a dozen comfy couches spread equally throughout. On the other side of the hall was a huge cafeteria sporting numerous folding white plastic tables. As I entered all of the conversation stopped. Why were they staring at me?

It took me far longer than it should have to find Waldo in the picture. Of the sixty people in the room each and every one of them was female. My interest was drawn to a wooden plaque on the wall which read;

THE RETREAT: A HALFWAY HOME FOR TROUBLED TEENAGE GIRLS.

If this is a hell God I’m not sorry for any of it. As I spoke many of them giggled, and then returned to their conversations. By the time I found the front door my five minutes were up. A man, who I imagined was the driver, chucked his cigarette and peered at his watch.

If you are late again you take the bus. He hissed as I stumbled onto the converted old school bus.

My head was pounding and my mouth was so dry, it wouldn’t open wide enough to breath. A viscous material resembling elementary school paste glued my lips tightly together. Shutting my bloodshot eyes against the blinding sunlight, I must have dozed off because without warning I was being yelled at.

WAKE UP you’re here! The driver poked me.

Stepping out of the van I was all alone in the parking lot of one of the ten thousand strip malls South Florida was famous for. A gargantuan neon sign on the suite in front of me read.

The Frances McLaren Center for the Dependent

Although the driver did not bother to instruct me further, I assumed this was my final destination. A bell went off as I opened the door announcing my arrival.

It’s nice of you to join us Mr. Thorpe. Please have a seat in the waiting room. A young lady wearing a pair of jeans and a hospital scrub shirt pointed to the lobby.

My name is Penny Waters. Whenever you enter this building, you must sign into the ledger. The first group starts at 9:00 a.m. so we suggest you arrive around 8:30. We break between 11:30 to 12:30 for lunch; you are required to bring a meal every day except Wednesday. If you chose to enroll you will need to fill out these forms. In addition to the initial paperwork, at least once a week you will receive a packet with questions to answer. This is your first one. Also I have included a separate form for the insurance companies. Do you have medical insurance? Penny was thirty or thirty five with shoulder length dirty blond hair. Her voice sounded horse from too many years of cigarettes. An old tarnished ring on her left hand suggested she had been married longer than she cared to remember.

Yes, I have Cigna. Oh, where is that insurance card? Reaching into my pockets I pulled out a couple of roaches and spent cigarette butts. Penny confiscated the left over joints, and placed them in a plastic bag. Additionally I had a number of small pieces of paper contain women’s telephone numbers. I didn’t recognize a single name. Wrapped up in a roll of one dollar bills I found the card I was looking for.

Good fill this out. When you’re done you’ll have an entrance interview with Mandy Briar. Penny slipped away for about a minute. After hearing the toilet flush twice, she returned.

For the future you are not allowed to bring illicit drugs or remnants of them into this facility. Penny sniffed her fingers longingly.

I miss that smell. She grumbled underneath her breath.

The lobby was comfortable. Half a dozen chairs ringed the room and a hefty glass coffee dominated the center. Every available inch of it was covered with periodicals. They apparently catered to women sporting such monikers as Coastal Living and Good Housekeeping. As I went to pick up a three month old copy of Sports Illustrated, I heard Penny.

You have five minutes Mr. Thorpe you may want to push it along. With the hangover from hell devastating like a jackhammer to the temple, I was hardly able to concentrate on the forms they handed me. Assuming I wasn’t signing away my life’s fortune, I just filled them out the best I could.

We meet again Peter; I must say you look slightly more coherent this morning. An affable woman sporting curly brown hair bounded up, and gave me a firm handshake. In her left hand she held an all too familiar plastic cup.

"Give me a quick sample and I’ll meet you back here in