2.14
9:33am
A spot! You’re 12 minutes earlier than your 15-minute-early
goal. You found a spot. You’re already making it work, today.
9:33:30am
The spot’s by a fast-food drive-in. It’s a real spot, but you see
why it’s open. A little too close to the driveway. Getting
sideswiped, a nightmare you can’t add. Smart people pass this
up. They don’t take the bad spots. They have the confidence to
stroll in a few minutes late. There’s enough time to find
another spot.
9:34am
Pace up and down and around the decision. Wince when cars
get too close. You should move. You should move the car for
peace of mind. It’s not too late. Move the car. You’re
supposed to be meditating on faith. You found this spot.
9:35am
It’s too late to move the car. You have an appointment. You
can’t make them wait.
9:38am
Leave car.
9:42am
Two-step turn. Check the bumper one more time. Clench your
stomach and turn towards the Drug and Alcohol Intake on
Fillmore. Walk. Cross. Take note of how much you don’t like
this street and can’t come back.
9:44am
Open the clinic door with your sleeve. This is the responsible
thing to do. Catch things before they spiral. You’re good at
this. Catching. Measuring. The damage already accumulated.
Both your therapists agree. It’s (probably) situational. But in
case.
9:45am
Fold into the instant stick of hot, candy breath and sanitizer.
Dirty, eggshell-tiled floors. Fidgeting hands and elevated,
tone-deaf greetings exchanged mid-conversation. Disquiet.
You were too honest. You’re always too honest, too late.
That’s why you’re here. No one checks the correct boxes on
health-intake forms. It should have gone, a routine physical.
9:55am
The first counselor wishes you a happy Valentine’s Day. You
have to recall the last 30 days, how many without a drink? It’s
been almost a year. Today, also Fat Tuesday. There are ways
to count, ounces in drinks. Binging denies a cruel imperial
chart. Were you abused? Always the oddest query. Do you
know what that means? Perspective makes it an impossible
question. Recalibration says, don’t be dramatic.
10:13am
You’re led with a plastic urine cup. Told to leave your purse
on the chair, the nurse will watch. The bathroom has no sink.
You can’t be trusted with water. No mirror. You can’t be. No
one here is allowed to see their fingerprint. It’s feigned
sanitization. It’s a false profile you surrender. It’s only that
piece of you.
10:19am
Drained. You step outside and ask where you can wash your
hands. There’s a sink in the hallway. You wash in front of the
half-sleeping man you saw earlier. He’s slinky hunched in a
chair, indifferent to your ceremony. His heart rate is seductive.
You mime his breaths. Every 11 seconds. You haven’t slept in
days. You’re asked if it’s ok to be weighed. You say, no. It’s
only blood you’re offering.
Kimberly Reyes |