“You need more help than we can give you.”  That’s what he said.
  It was a dreary Monday afternoon when I heard those words come out of Jim’s mouth. Jim was one of the counselors for the runaway shelter I had ended up in the night before. The words I had heard before. And now heard again. “Need more help than we can give you” and “in need of psychiatric treatment” and for the first time “immediate hospital care” was brought up. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand.
  I ran away the night before. My dad was yelling about my mom. At my mom. But she was gone. Some business trip. He was staying with us for the week. I couldn’t take anymore. He wouldn’t understand that I couldn’t go back to that school. That bad things were going to happen to me. That I couldn’t leave the house to go to school. I couldn’t talk to people. They didn’t understand what I was saying. He was going to make me go and I couldn’t.
  So I ran away to across the street. I’m so daring. But I’d only been in the state for two weeks and didn’t know where I was. Didn’t know who to call. Who would understand. The drug rehab I’d just been released from three weeks before. They would understand. I called them. After trying to explain to them for two hours they called a woman who called the sheriff who called the store and then my dad. The store clerk came out and got me and the sheriff went and talked to my dad.
  I wasn’t in danger from my dad. Again, no one had understood me. It was the school. The people at the school that were going to hurt me. I couldn’t go there. It wasn’t my dad at all. He just wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t and wouldn’t hit me. The lady finally came at two thirty am and took me to a runaway shelter.
  I got to bed at three am. Back up at six am. Breakfast at seven. School in the big room at eight. I was ushered in to see a counselor at nine and talked to him for an hour before my dad got there.
  He tried to tell me I had to go to my regular school. I tried to explain to him that I couldn’t go there. I would be hurt. I could not go there. I tried to tell them how much I couldn’t go back to that school. I’d rather be dead. At least I couldn’t be hurt. But no one seemed to understand that. My only problem was the school. I’d be just fine if I didn’t have to go to that school. I asked to back to the school I had transferred from. No. I asked to go a new school, another school. No. I asked to go the school of creative and performing arts. No.
  My dad came and I was asked to leave so they could talk. I waited. They talked. I waited some more. Finally I was brought back in and talked to some more. That’s when I heard those words. The ones Id heard before at the drug treatment center. All about how I needed psychiatric care. But it wasn’t true. There wasn’t anything wrong with me. It was just a mistake. It wasn’t me at all. There was nothing wrong with me.
  And now we were having that same mistake. I tried in vein to make them understand but no one seemed to get it. Finally, just before noon I agreed to talk to a Dr. A Dr. would surely know there was nothing wrong with me.
  We walked across the street to the hospital emergency room. Sat in the waiting room. My dad on one side of me, Jim on the other. I didn’t have to wait long. I was taken before some others even. I asked Jim to come back with me. I was scared and crying and I didn’t want my dad to see me like that. They took me back and put me in a room. We waited. And waited. Finally a Dr. came and I talked to him a little bit. Then he left and left me there. But I wasn’t admitted.
  Jim had to leave and he was leaving me behind? My dad was coming back and for the first time, they locked the door to my room. From the outside. Like I would run away. My dad sat with me until the other Dr. came. It took a long time for him to come. I don’t know how long, there was no clock in my little room. Just a bed and a chair. The second Dr. came. A psychiatrist. I talked to him. Still I wasn’t admitted. Not then. I waited. Dinner came and went. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day. And still I had to wait to find out my fate. I was the last to know.
  At just after six pm on a rainy evening at the end of October in 1988 I was admitted to St. Elizabeth Hospital North Adult Locked Psychiatric Unit 5C. I was fourteen years old

She never told me I was going to rehab outright. What she said was “lets go eat”. And off to Surry Square Mall’s Pizza Hut we went. What else she said was “I know you smoke so go ahead”. And I did. And I started to cry. 
  She handed me the pack of cigarettes and that’s when I knew for sure. I suspected something when I came home and she said “lets go eat”. ‘Family dinner’ was and oddity. We NEVER did that, NEVER. That should have been the bigger tip off. But it was the cigarettes. Handing me the pack. The lighter. Acknowledging what she already knew. I knew she knew. How could she not know? I’d been stealing her cigarettes and she knew that, after all she changed where she kept them in response to that.
  At the gas station she had Jared go in with her and sent him home on foot. It was only a few blocks from home. She came back out without him and with cigarettes for me. I knew then. Knew for sure. And I contemplated running. I had places I could go. People I could stay with. The thought crossed my mind. Just hopping out before she could take off and running away. But I stayed. I had stayed through dinner. I had known, on some level even before I went home, what was coming. Hadn’t I?
  I’d been in a summer drug counseling program and was failing at it. Not showing up for the van to pick me up. Smelling of alcohol. Hung over. Now it was the end of summer. I knew something was coming. I hadn’t been home in some time. Three days. Although I hadn’t spent a night at home in about three weeks. I hadn’t needed to. There were other places to sleep, and who needed sleep anyway. So I knew something was coming. That was why I went home. The counselor told me to go see my mom. So I did.
  I suspected it was the counselor who told her to send me to rehab. I later found out I was right. She told my mom to take me to a different place, but my mom didn’t like that one. She called around and found Glennmore CareUnit. Drug Treatment for Adolescents.  Except the youngest they took was ten, I believe. Imagine that. A ten year old in drug rehab. It happens.
  I cried all the way there. She got lost. When we did get there we didn’t go in right away. We sat and cried and smoked. I smoked my cigarettes. Just a few. Hard to smoke and cry at the same time. Mom needed a joint. She cried too. I cried more. I didn’t need drug rehab. She should take me home. This was all wrong. She stayed. Finished her joint. Smoked a regular cigarette and told me all the reasons I needed to be there. Then she smoked another joint. There’s an irony to this that I don’t believe she was able to grasp at the time. I don’t believe I could either. I sure do now. I drank her alcohol and stole her pot that she was too busy out partying to notice and she put me in rehab. Seriously. Not all the stuff I did, drank or smoked was hers, but some of it. I started with hers, and in a pinch hers was always around. So I cried some more. And so did she.  By the time I was admitted I was exhausted and didn’t fight it.
  There was no way at fourteen to express the unreality of sitting in the car with a parent who is getting high in the parking lot of the drug rehab they are about to admit you to. I don’t think I can now, at thirty four. But I have a better understanding of it.
  One week after I was admitted to drug rehab my mother was arrested for her second DUI.

Greasy eggs and sausage in the all night diner. Snowed in at the truck stop in Toledo Ohio. We slept in the bunk of the truck. Tangled in my dad’s jacket sleeves. No cover.

  “So what should we do now?” she says. And I think,  what should we do? We both look at the phone.
  “Well,” I say, “what we should do, and what we’re going to do are probably two very different things.” I think a minute. “What are the chances he’s home from his date?”
  “Not good” she says and we both look at the phone again. “It’s only nine.”
  “Then where are we going to hang out?” I start to panic just a little. Neither of us are ready to go home just yet.
  “Well” she says “we can call him and see. Maybe he’s home.” We’re both eyeing the phone still.

Only nine pm. Only. But we’ve been in this building all day. Since before two wiring, rewiring and trying to repair issues with paintings. The worst being the Pugsly piece. But I was able to fix it. And I believe it will hold. I’m happy with result.
  Still, its been a long day in a week of long days and really we should go home, eat a little, sleep a lot and try to recover as much as we can. Only one errand to run tomorrow, one more thing to pick up, one more thing to do. So really we ‘should’ go home and sleep. We did manage to get a break in today, for coffee soda and pizza. Not that long ago actually.
  Now, high on caffeinated calories, at nine o’clock on a Saturday night bored and with no where to hang out I look at Liz and say “let’s just go to Maverik”
  “okay” she says.
  And off we go.

“I’ll be right back” I say, Hopping down and closing the door. I run in for a diet white tea mango peach flavor for $1.84. I don’t notice the two guys buying the 18 case of beer behind me. As I’m leaving the store they follow me. Another guy going in asks them how they are doing and one of them replies “not sober”.
Liz isn’t in the truck so I head to our usual spot, the far picnic table. Most convenience stores don’t have picnic tables but Maverik is special. The guys sit at the other one and discuss how the one of them meant to say ‘not drunk enough’ and ‘too sober’. They then inform the third guy of this as he comes out. And also, “Utah sucks”. Apparently Utah will suck less after nine or so beers. I should conduct a few experiments to see.

  “Too sober” and “not sober” take off just as Liz is coming out of the store. I notice she is not buying an 18 pack of beer but only cigarettes and 64 ozs of soda, the usual. I guess Utah will continue to suck for us tonight.
  She sits down and we begin to discuss the day.
  “What’s left to do?” I’m thinking out loud but not really thinking at all.
  “Send out postcards, reception. What should we have for the reception?”
  “I say we just have cheese crackers and cookers. And punch.”

  “How are you ladies this evening” He sits down with a flourish and I don’t even know where he came from. But here he is, smelling of too much cologne and alcohol, holding a can of beer and smiling. “hope my smoking a cigarette doesn’t interrupt you.
  “You’re fine” Liz says “How are you?” and I’m still wondering where the hell he came from.
  Before he can answer, or before he does Liz introduces us
  “James this is Sasha, Sasha this is James. James is one of the managers here. Is that right?”
  “I’m still training for it” he says. And I notice he’s dressed up for something. Dressed up but not there. Here but not at work. And obviously drunk. You could tell by the way he sat down. By the way he smells. By the beer in his hand.
  Leaning back to one side he takes a swig of beer and tells us not to worry he’s brushed his one tooth. Then he smiles big. Missing several front teeth.
  “Sorry, it’s just a bad joke” he says. I don’t get it. But I’ll have to remember to brush my teeth before drinking any beer.
  “You ladies have a lovely evening” he says and is off, walking semi-straight, across the parking lot before I can even think what to say. He’s pretty quick on his feet too. Maybe I’m the one that needs that beer. 
 

  “So, Costco?”
  “Costco?” I ask.
  “For the reception. We can make a Costco run. The day before and I can keep it all in my fridge.

  I can hear the techno cars about two blocks before they get there. Two sedans and a convertible, top down. They pull in and out pop two girls and a guy from the first sedan and a woman from the convertible. The girls go inside. Another beer run not doubt. The guy walks over to the convertible and they turn down their music
  “I’m Eric” I hear him say. “you guys are going to the this party too?” I don’t hear their replies but they chat back and forth a bit. The girls return with two cases of beer each. I knew they would. I must be psychic. They all pile back in their cars and speed of to their party, dance music blaring once again.

  Half an hour later I hear her before I see her. Laughing around the other side of the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. She’s loud and somewhat obnoxious, with a huge pink guitar slung across her back. As she enters the store she forgets to turn sideways and bangs it on the sides of the door.
  After she emerges from the store, she spots the couple that have been sitting in their truck for the last forty minutes or so smoking cigarettes and talking. She goes right up to them and starts to sing. This is perhaps the most bizarre behavior I have seen all night. After she’s done she talks to the, sometimes loudly enough for me to hear a bit. She says her names ‘candy’ and says she’s “Only had three beers” that she wrote that song “when I wanted to have some fuckin’ fun”. Then she sang another song. Perhaps at their request this time.
  Her voice is really pretty nice and surprisingly steady. More conversation after that. “yeah, I live three doors down from him.” and then “Let me give you my number…… oh I already did”
  And then she was gone. Off in a hurry, guitar slung around her back again, walking off with the guy she walked up with, back around the bushes laughing as she goes.

  All night cars come and go in packs, the lot filling up quick then emptying just as quickly leaving us to plan and plot.

  Here comes some guy with a shaved head. He’s not coming towards us but heading to the shed that’s to the side of the store. To the back of the shed. Turning on the light. What’s he doing back there? What’s that sound? Is he using a hose? Oh. Oh no. Is he peeing? He’s peeing. And Liz and I try not to laugh too loudly. We hold it in as he walks back by.

Really the Maverik is a happenin’ place on a Saturday night. Most people are buying beer, beer, cigarettes and beer.

  And now what the hell is this guy wearing?
  “Is that a fur vest?” I ask Liz, not sure I’m seeing this right. After all it’s late August.
  “It looks like it”
  Black and white print vest with fur trim, tight jeans, tennis shoes. I ponder this. In he goes, and comes back out fairly quickly, no beer. No nothing. I can tell, those jeans leave no room for cigarettes.
  I didn’t notice his two friends, dressed normally for the weather in t-shirts and jeans, holding two gas cans, sitting on the lawn. Out of gas. They all walk off to the east.
  But that vest just screams “party” so perhaps they’ll be back for beer once the car is running again.

  The cat comes and goes again. I’ve spent enough time at Maverik myself to recognize it and know it wont even look at me no matter how much I call to it. There are two but only one is out tonight. Ignoring me as usual.

  Unlike this latest drunk, who I didn’t even see stumble up to the picnic table. I really need to sit on the other side so I can see them coming. Or get a mirror. He is just suddenly there. Scouting around for cigarettes on the ground, looking for a dropped one. Success! He sits down and lights up.
  “White scion” he whispers
  “What?” Liz says. And he mumbles some more. “I can’t here you. It hard to make out what he’s saying, he’s barely talking over a whisper.
  “Have you seen a white scion?” we have to strain to make out even that much. I shake my head and Liz says no. He mumbles something, a girl, and something else, and I just shake my head and Liz says no again.
  “If you see a girl in a white scion you come get me?” he wants to know and then he takes off, before we answer, stumbling away, across the parking lot towards the bushes. Halfway there he decides to run home, long sleeves flailing back and forth, flip flops flapping on the pavement, to the edge of the parking lot and around the corner, out of the sight. Not bad for a guy that could barely stand up straight and in fact even fell into Liz’s truck once.

  Another techno car. This time a woman in a tight mini skirt gets out, leaving it running and goes in. She’s back out quickly with, surprise surprise, two cases of beer. Its never once case, always two. Back in the car and off to some anonymous party I can only imagine.

  Not everyone does come for beer. There’s the nurse that got the coffee. Must have been getting ready for the late shift. She had a white car. I wonder if it was a scion. The security guard with the extra large big gulp. But the big seller this evening, and probably most evenings is beer, and quite a few of the buyers are already on their way to drunk.

And now he’s back. Still looking for his white scion no doubt. But not coming over to us this time. Stumbling down the street, to the corner, crossing over and I lose sight of him. He seemed so sad. I don’t worry about the scion. If he’s that drunk she’s probably with someone else and not going to come to the Maverik.

  That’s when the car alarm goes off and I notice all six people standing around the car, four girls, two guys. The two girls who look like they own the car also look confused as to how to turn it off. It takes them a few minutes but finally they do get it off.  Only to set it off again a few minutes later. Again it takes them a bit to get it off. Brunettes but blondes at heart. The car is white and I can’t help myself. I wonder if it’s a scion.

  It’s now eleven thirty. Liz Is tired and I can hardly see straight. And I’ve not even had any beers. Time to head home if I expect Liz to be able to be conscience sometime tomorrow for our last few errands. Besides, two and a half hours at the Maverik on a Saturday night and I’m calling anyone else a freak?

I count to ten.

That’s what the trainers had said to do, and, being trainers, they are supposed to know these things. I’m not sure their method is the best way though.

One.
I cross my legs. She’s waiting for advice and I don’t know what to say.

Two.
Three. The guy across from me clears his throat. He’s probably wondering why I don’t say something. I’m wondering the same thing.

Four.
No one is relating well to these other two people. Like two outcasts. Its my job to pull the group together and I don’t seem to be making that happen. Not very well. I suck.

Five. Six.
Please, please. Someone, say something. Please! Anything at all. A N Y T H I N G

Seven.
The lady to my right fidgets in her chair and smoothes her skirt. I uncross and recross my legs. I should cross them again for luck, lucky three.

Eight.
Now I really need to pee. Always at the most inopportune times. Always. I wonder why that is. Nervous bladder.

Nine.
My head might really implode this time. That would make a huge mess on the white board behind me. I wonder who would clean that up. Poor janitor would get stuck with it. They wouldn’t be able to hold group in here for a few days, that’s for sure.

“Um, that must be really hard on you” I say, breaking the silence. And she starts to talk again. Others start to chime in and things go smoothly. I think we’re over the hump. Its all downhill from here.  Maybe the group can come together, at least a little bit, after all.

Oh shit. One. Two.