“Why do you call her the Duchess?” asked the Glandular Case.
“Well, it’s a long story,” I said, “but I can’t actually take credit for the name, as much as I’d like to. It came from this guy Brian, who owns one of the brokerage firms I do a lot of business with. Anyway, we were on a private jet, flying home from St. Bart’s a bunch of Christmases ago, and we were all really hung over. Brian was sitting across from Nadine in the cabin, and he laid a humongous fart and said, ‘Oh, shit, Nae, I think I just left a few skid marks with that one!’ Nadine started getting pissed at him, telling him how uncouth and disgusting he was, so Brian said, ‘Oh, excuse me; I guess the Duchess of Bay Ridge never laid a fart in her silk panties and left a few skid marks there!’”
“That’s funny,” said fat-Brad. “The Duchess of Bay Ridge. I like that.”
“No, that’s not the funny part. It’s what happened next that was really funny. Brian thought his joke was so hysterical that he was doubled over laughing so he didn’t see the Duchess rolling up the Christmas edition of Town and Countrymagazine. Just as he was lifting his head up, she popped out of her seat, took the most enormous swat at his head you could possibly imagine, and knocked him unconscious right on the plane. I’m talking out—fucking—cold! Then she sat back down and started reading her magazine again. Brian came to a couple of minutes later, after his wife threw a glass of water in his face. Anyway, ever since then the name stuck.”
“That’s incredible!” said the Glandular Case. “Your wife looks like an angel. I wouldn’t think her the type to do something like that.” Fat-Brad nodded in agreement.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you have no idea what she’s capable of. She might not look tough, but she’s strong as an ox. You know how many times she’s beaten me up? She’s especially good with water.” I smiled and let out a chuckle. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: I deserved most of the beatings. As much as I love the girl I haven’t exactly been a model husband. But I still think she should’ve visited me. If she did, I’d already be in rehab, but now I don’t wanna do it because I don’t like being held hostage like this.”
“I think she wanted to come,” said fat-Brad, “but Dennis Maynard advised her against it.”
“It figures,” I sputtered. “He’s a real piece a shit, that guy. As soon as all this is resolved I’m gonna have someone pay him a little visit.”
The comedy team refused to engage with me. “Can I make a suggestion to you?” asked the Glandular Case.
I nodded. “Sure, why not? I like you guys. It’s the other prick I hated.”
He smiled and looked around conspiratorially. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Why don’t you let us sign you out of here and take you to Atlanta and then just bolt out of the rehab after you check in? There’re no walls or bars or barbed wire or anything like that. You’ll be staying in a luxury condo with a bunch of wacky doctors.”
“Yeah,” said fat-Brad, “once we drop you in Atlanta, the Baker Act is nullified and you’ll be free to go. Just tell your pilot not to leave the airport. If you don’t like the rehab, just walk away.”
I started laughing. “You two guys are unbelievable! You’re trying to appeal to my larcenous heart, aren’t you?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to rehab,” fat-Brad said. “You’re a nice guy and you deserve to live, not die at the end of a crack pipe, which is what’s gonna happen if you don’t get sober. Trust me—I speak from experience.”
“You’re a recovering addict too?” I asked.
“We both are,” said the Glandular Case. “I’m sober eleven years. Brad is sober thirteen years.”
“How is that even possible? The truth is I’d like to stop but I just can’t. I wouldn’t make it more than a few days, never mind thirteen years.”
“You can do it,” said fat-Brad. “Not for thirteen years, but I bet you make it through today.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I can make it through today, but that’s about it.”
“And that’s enough,” said the Glandular Case. “Today is all that matters. Who knows what tomorrow brings? Just take it one day at a time and you’ll be fine. That’s how I do it. I didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Gee, Mike, it’s important to control your urge to drink for the rest of your life!’ I said, ‘Gee, Mike, just make it for the next twenty-four hours and the rest of your life will take care of itself.’”
Fat-Brad nodded. “He’s right, Jordan. And I know what you’re probably thinking right now—that it’s just a stupid mind-dodge, like pulling the wool over your own eyes.” He shrugged. “And it probably is, but I personally couldn’t give a shit. It works, and that’s all I care about. It gave me my life back, and it’ll give you your life back too.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I liked these guys; I really did. And I truly wanted to get sober. So much that I could tasteit. But my compulsion was too strong. All my friends did drugs; all my pastimes included drugs. And my wife…well, the Duchess hadn’t come to see me. With every terrible thing I’d done to her, I knew in my heart that I would never forget how she hadn’t come to see me after I’d tried to commit suicide.
And, of course, there was the Duchess’s side of things. Perhaps she would choose not to forgive me. I couldn’t blame her for that. She had been a good wife to me, and I had paid her back by becoming a drug addict. I had had my reasons, I figured, but that didn’t change things. If she wanted a divorce, then she was justified. I would always take care of her, I would always love her, and I would always make sure she had a good life. After all, she’d given me two gorgeous children, and she was the one who’d organized all this.
I looked fat-Brad straight in the eye and started nodding slowly. “Let’s get the fuck outta this hellhole.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Indeed.”
CHAPTER 38
MARTIANS OF THE THIRD REICH
The place seemed normal enough, at first glance.
The Talbot Marsh Recovery Campus sits on a half dozen immaculately landscaped acres in Atlanta, Georgia. It was only a ten-minute limo ride from the private airport, and I’d spent all six hundred seconds plotting my escape. In fact, before I’d deplaned, I gave the pilots strict instructions not to take off under any circumstances. It was me, after all, not the Duchess, I’d explained, who was paying the bill. Besides, there was a little something extra for them if they stayed awhile. They assured me they would.
So as the limo pulled into the driveway, I scoped out the terrain through the eyes of a prisoner. Meanwhile, fat-Brad and Mike the Glandular Case were sitting across from me, and true to their word there wasn’t a cement wall, a metal bar, a gun tower, or a strand of barbed wire anywhere in sight.
The property gleamed brilliantly in the Georgia sunshine, all these purple and yellow flowers and manicured rosebushes and towering oaks and elms. It was a far cry from the urine-infested corridors of the Delray Medical Center. Yet something seemed a bit off. Perhaps the place was too nice? Was there really that much money in drug rehabs?
There was a circular drop-off area in front of the building. As the limo inched toward it, fat-Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out three twenties. “Here,” he said. “I know you don’t have any money on you, so consider this a gift. It’s cab fare back to the airport. I don’t want you to have to hitchhike. You never know what kind of drug-addicted maniac you’ll run into.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked innocently.
“I saw you whispering in the pilot’s ear,” said fat-Brad. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that if someone’s not ready to get sober, there’s nothing I can do to force him. I won’t insult you with the analogy of leading a horse to water and all that crap. But, either way, I figure I owe you the sixty bucks for making me laugh so hard on the way here.” He shook his head. “You really are one twisted bastard.”