Chapter 1

1

PORTER

I woke up with a headache and thought, never again . It seemed like the thousandth time I had said “Never again” since I had fallen off the wagon years ago. Too many nights partying by myself had driven me closer to rock bottom than I had ever been before. I was sure my story wasn’t unique, but that didn’t make it any easier to tell.

I started experimenting with intoxication when I was in high school. Back then, I had a crowd of other addicts that I ran with, so my behavior didn’t seem that bad. We would joke about waking up in the bushes or peeing ourselves in class. It wasn’t weird or disturbing when all your friends were right there with you, so I just kept on going. Peer pressure made you do crazy things, hiding behind a sneaky disguise that the life-damaging activities were all perfectly normal.

My friend Mike, who had been my best friend since elementary school, was the only one who cared. He tried to get me out of it, encouraging me to step out on my own. I didn’t listen to him. Getting high was just too much fun, and the kids I was getting high with, I thought they knew the “real me.”

The deeper I got, the more I realized I couldn’t control my addiction. After high school, when everyone left for the big city to go to college or get real jobs, I hung around. I had an on-again, off-again thing with a local girl. I thought I meant something to her, but she was just interested in getting high.

I ran out of money and did what every druggie does to support their habit: I started selling. Soon it was cocaine and methamphetamines, and I was in way over my head. I got into extremely deep shit with extremely bad people who weren’t afraid to punish if necessary. Mike showed up and bailed me out, taking the fall for me and serving six months in prison. That only made me feel worse, knowing he was doing my time and keeping his mouth shut out of some twisted loyalty to our friendship.

The hole I dug grew deeper. I kicked the uppers when Mike went away, but I couldn’t let go of the drink and the pills. I drank so much I could have put myself in an early grave. Somehow, sanity broke through, and I was able to get sober. It must have been running into Mike at the bar that one night, after he finished his sentence. All he asked of me was a simple “Thank you.”

“Thank you” for taking the fall and serving time for me. It was more than I could say at the time, and that disgusted me. Everything my buddy had done for me, and I couldn’t even summon two simple words. Right then, I found my motivation and went cold turkey. I signed myself up for a twelve-step program and went to meetings. I was ready to turn my life around, no matter what steps I needed to take.

It gave me the boost I needed to get a real job, even if it was just stocking groceries. I scored a sweet garage apartment with a fellow former alcoholic, and I was living the life of an ordinary citizen. When Mike came to me in trouble and I was able to help him out, I felt relieved. I had redeemed myself in his eyes, and he started inviting me around again.

He had a new wife, and they were happy together. All of his other friends were hitched up, each with a beautiful lady on their arm. They had kids and cookouts after work, all the things that normal couples did here in Singer’s Ridge. I hung out with them sometimes but always felt like a fifth wheel. I was the only single guy, the only one who didn’t have my life together.

One night I ran into one of my old using buddies. He was back from prison, but unlike Mike, he was actually guilty. He talked me into getting high again, for old times’ sake. I thought, what could one time hurt? A lot, it turned out. I never managed to regain my sobriety after that.

My friend from the sober network kicked me out of his garage when he found me unconscious on the ground. I flaked on the grocery store job and got fired. I moved in with my druggie friend again, but we had a lot of fights. I finally scored a place of my own in what had once been an old plantation house. It had been carved into so many rooms, it was like a high-rise, cheap as hell and full of people. Everybody had one bedroom; each floor shared a bathroom and a kitchen. I mostly didn’t eat, and when I did, it was takeout or ramen.

The cost was $300 per month because there was nothing more I could afford. In my lucid moments, I was thankful for the roof over my head. I drifted around for a few months, spending on the one credit card stupid enough to give me an account. I got high every day. There didn’t seem to be any reason to remain sober. I changed my phone number, got one of those burner phones with prepaid minutes because I couldn’t afford a bill.

I stopped hanging out with Mike and his friends. They were too good for me anyway. I didn’t want any of their little children to see me in the state I was in. As luck would have it, I ran into Mike and his wife at the diner when I was picking up takeout. They spotted me from their table and waved me over.

“Hey,” I said, slurring the word just a little bit.

“Hi, Porter,” Tammy said cheerfully.

Mike narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Are you using again?”

“No,” I lied.

“Sit down,” Mike said.

“I gotta go.” I pointed to the door. “I gotta go.”

“Have a seat,” Tammy insisted. “It’s been forever since we’ve seen you.”

I slumped down next to her with a plop, unsteady on my feet. “How’s you?”

Tammy and Mike shot each other a meaningful glance. “Fine.”

“Are you working?” Mike asked.

I shook my head.

He sighed. “Come by the lumberyard at ten tomorrow. Do you think you can manage that?”

I tried to focus on his face and what he was saying. Was he offering me a job? I would be a fool not to take it. I had no way of earning an income at the time, and my credit card balance was approaching maximum. I couldn’t go back to selling drugs—that had ended disastrously the last time. Here was someone who still cared about me, who was willing to extend an olive branch when I was clearly beyond help.

I cleaned myself up that night, taking a shower in the communal bathroom. I took a little hit of dope, just enough to get me through the meeting with the owner of the lumberyard. Mike’s family had owned the place all through high school and up until almost two years ago before his parents retired and bought a new house outside of town. They sold the place to Brian Matthews, a longtime employee and site manager. He brought in some new people and took the place into the twenty-first century. The last time I was there, Mike and I had been kids. Now, there were machines that did a lot of the heavy lifting, and all you had to do was fit a plank into its slot, press a button, and the thing would come out the other end perfectly cut.

Matthews took me around the place, explaining all of what the job would entail. It was starting at minimum wage, the lowest man on the totem pole. I would be hauling lumber and sweeping floors, but it would be a job. I got my very own apron and two green T-shirts to wear to work.

Mike had moved on from his longtime position as a salesman at the lumberyard to selling cars in the next town. I remembered him saying something about how he liked talking to people, and that was the best part of the job. He seemed to be doing fine, supporting his family. I didn’t care. His spot opened up at the lumberyard, and I took it.

It was a struggle to get there most days, but if I was going to give myself any credit, I was just barely keeping my head above water.

Surviving got old after a while, and I wondered what the hell I was doing. Last night, I had hit the Lucky Lady, the local watering hole, and had been able to score a few drinks before being kicked out. After, I went to the convenience store and grabbed a couple of bottles of cheap wine. I sat on the curb and drank by myself, until a group of teenagers started throwing sticks at me. Stumbling away toward my apartment, I blacked out. Somehow, I had managed to get home, and into the bed no less.

I woke with a massive headache and the taste of vomit in my mouth. Around me, a sea of detritus collected: old beer cans, empty takeout containers, dirty socks. I groaned, falling back into bed as the world spun.

It was too much. I was driving myself into the ground. Kids were making fun of me. I was a slob and a loser. I had ghosted the only people who cared about me, Mike and his friends. So what, I wasn’t dealing anymore—was that really something to be proud of when I couldn’t even make it through one day sober?

Never again , I thought. But how many times had I said that to myself. It didn’t seem to help. My willpower disintegrated an hour into the day, and I would shoot up just to make it through work. My boss knew. Everyone I worked with knew. They had all urged me to go to rehab, but I had shrugged it off, making promises that I never intended to keep.

Maybe today was the day. How much longer was I going to continue scraping by? Where was the joy in life? It seemed everything was so much harder than it should be. Just getting out of bed seemed like a monstrous chore; getting to work required chemical assistance. I was tired of life, tired of myself, tired of waking up in the morning to another day.

I lay there feeling sorry for myself for a long time. When my body started to crave the high, I fought back. I didn’t want to continue on this way. Everyone at work kept pushing me to go into rehab. Maybe that was the answer. Lord knew I couldn’t come clean on my own. Maybe it really was time to seek professional help.

I changed out of my stained clothes, choosing the cleanest outfit I could find. My room smelled horrible. I needed to clean it, to pick up all the trash and scrub the floors. But I couldn’t find the energy or the focus to begin the task. Instead, I set my sights on something that was even more important: researching rehab programs.

I hadn’t paid my cell phone bill in a couple of months, so all I could do with the burner phone was play a couple of downloaded games. I stuck it in my pocket anyway. It served to mask the severity of my problem. If people saw me on a phone, they would automatically assume I was normal.

The library had free internet—I could just check in there and look up recovery programs. I got in my truck, an old pickup I had bought off a friend in recovery almost five years ago. For some reason, even though I had made millions of mistakes, I had never been caught. I flew in under the radar where the law was concerned. I should have gone to jail a million times, but luck was always on my side.

I was actually sober this time, if you didn’t count the leftover fuzziness from last night. I drove carefully, forcing myself to pay attention. The library was on Main Street, and there was plenty of traffic on a Saturday afternoon. I eased into a parking spot, turning the engine off. Inside, the library was quiet, with the exception of a read-aloud program for preschoolers.

I slid into one of the cubbies for internet browsing and logged on using my library card. It was funny—no matter how far down in life I fell, I still managed to keep that library card. It was one of the few things in life that were really free and helpful. I typed in “rehab” and the name of my town and got a few hits.

The closest ones were in Nashville. One I had heard of in my brief flirtation with sobriety. One was a religious place. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. There was a third attached to a hospital, and that one seemed to be the best bet. At least there, if I had any troubles, there would be doctors available. I took a picture of the address and stuck the phone back in my pocket. If I could only find the courage to drive myself there, maybe things would turn around. But first, I had to talk to my boss.