Greenhouse: Rehab Karaoke

Welcome, campers

This is the third piece in my Greenhouse series, which covers my escape from alcohol. You’re welcome to start here or read the first two pieces I wrote, which cover the morning I was taken to rehab and the intake process. Thank you for reading!

Photo by Tim Photoguy on Unsplash

My head is filled with a thick sap of dwindling drunkenness and detox meds as I stand in a small wooden room with windows on all sides. It’s somewhere between a shed and a bullpen-style office and it smells like sawdust and a fresh box of envelopes. It’s comfy; three desks, stacks of papers and books, and the cheeky desktop assortments of Funko Pops and trinkets found in any office. There’s a whiteboard on the wall with four large names written across the top in caps. Under them are other, smaller ones, including mine. I guess the big names are caseworkers or something, and the rest are my addict cohorts.

I want my vape. I have a nicotine gremlin bouncing around my insides, demanding satisfaction. I guess the meds only work for alcohol withdrawal.

A lanky guy named Daniel kneels beside the duffel bag I didn’t pack, digging through its contents. His ID lanyard swings over my boxer briefs and band shirts. He now knows more about what I brought with me than I do. A blonde girl named Sierra stands next to me with her hands on her hips and offers casual chatter that I think I'm keeping up with. It's hard to tell; my need for nicotine makes it hard to pay attention. I want to punch everything. 

When Daniel is done searching my bag he zips it back up, stands, and smiles pleasantly. He has this contraband investigation down to a friendly science.

"Alright, man," he says. "Looks good. I'll take you to your cabin."

My cabin. 

Camp counselors, a redwood forest, and what seems to be a chill vibe. The movies get rehab wrong. I was expecting dreariness and desolation. There should be a morose cloud of hopeless desperation hanging over the place. But instead of landing in some sterile psyche ward run by a tyrannical nurse, I’ve been cast in an addict version of the 80’s summer camp comedies I grew up watching. Maybe I’m just lucky. God loves a drunk. 

Daniel leads me away from the little wooden office, what he calls the tech station. It’s situated at the base of a thickly wooded hill. A path the width of a road, lined with mammoth redwoods, leads up the hill to groups of cabins. There’s a main hall nearby that looks like a lodge. Maybe that’s where the final dance-off will take place at the end of my summer romp. 

Apparently, Daniel and Sierra are techs, not counselors, and there are others I’ll meet later. He tells me they take care of the day-to-day stuff, oversee the patients, make sure we have what we need, and get where we need to go. He reassures me in his raspy surfer drawl they’re all CPR certified and then goes over the rules around which parts of the property were allowed in and at what times. My days will be structured and attendance at groups and classes is required. I’m a patient, not a camper.

 Daniel looks to be in his early forties and has a hip-hop skater-punk charm. His laid back, non-judgmental demeanor puts me at ease. I can imagine getting trashed with him at a warehouse show in the city. He probably still goes to Hiero Day every year in Oakland. If I had to guess, he’s probably got an equal amount to say about Hank Williams, Lee “Scratch” Perry, Minor Threat, and MF Doom. My brethren. I don’t think music is the only thing Daniel and I have in common, though.

I grew up around people in recovery, with my dad hopping on and off the wagon until the day he died. I can always spot a person who has a few extra years tacked onto their age; nights crashed on dirty carpets or park benches, trips to emergency rooms and drunk tanks. Hard years hang on a person, like tattoos only visible to others with the same ink. I wonder if everyone who works in these places is a recovering addict. It makes sense. It makes me feel safe.

 Daniel takes me to the cabin nearest the tech station.

“Alright, you can drop your stuff on any of the open beds. Everyone is in group or doing their activities right now, so you can just hang here or wander around. Karaoke is at four in the main hall if you want to check it out.”

The word karaoke pulls up like a clown car outside a cancer ward. What the fuck?

“Thanks, man,” I say. I’m reeling from being in the summer camp setting and am too dazed to investigate the karaoke. Is this a hazing ritual? I suppose if the goal is to humiliate rehab patients even further, karaoke is the way to go. I imagine this place is filled with serial fuck-ups like me and I can’t be the only one walking around feeling like they’re wearing a three-foot dunce cone for ending up here. What harm would a little extra embarrassment do? Maybe the karaoke is to ensure you reach rock bottom before your treatment begins. If they make me sing, it’ll have to be, “Bury the Bottle With Me.”

I look around the large, open room. There are six single beds, all but two with bags and stuff on and around them. The air is filled with Old Spice and the smell of dirty and clean laundries. It’s a cocktail of odors from four unrelated men I haven’t met yet. I set my duffel on the bed closest to the door.

“Oh, hey,” Daniel says from a few feet back toward the tech station. “If you need to smoke, the smoking corral is next to the tech station. This cabin has a little patio out back you can smoke on too, though.”

“Thanks,” I answer. Christ, I need fucking nicotine.

It’s only been a few hours since I stopped at the gas station with my mom on the way here, but it feels like days. I should have known they wouldn't allow vapes; it'd be too easy to sneak in THC juice. I was so focused on buying my (hopefully) last-ever beer, that I didn’t think of anything practical. The idea of having to detox off booze and nicotine at the same time makes me realize why the fences around the perimeter of the complex are so high. I don’t know if I can do it and I don’t want to be the guy bumming cigarettes off everyone. That doesn’t seem like the best strategy for making friends. I know I don’t like that guy. I’ve met him outside countless bars and venues. He’s a douche.

I sit on the bed next to my bag and unzip it with trembling fingers. Though my head is swimming with meds and I don’t feel particularly sick, my body is still going through withdrawal. Before the tech office, I was taken to the medical building. A nurse went over the medication schedule with me, letting me know I’d be monitored throughout the night and I could return there at any point if things started getting worse before my next round. She definitely implied things would get worse and it made me nervous.  

The fear of withdrawal has occupied every cell in my body for weeks. I’ve had glimpses of what’s coming after miscalculations, going too long between drinks. It’s a panicked madness unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Frenzied feelings of need and fear, internal itchiness, wild heart palpitations, my brain convinced of its own imminent death. It scared me enough that I’d glug vodka openly from the bottle on the freeway and walk into my boss’s office smelling like I’d shampooed my hair and brushed my teeth with Olde English 800. I haven’t wanted to drink for months. I’ve needed to.

There’s a swell in my gut as I open my bag and see all of my neatly folded clothes. I imagine my mom picking them out, arranging them in the bag, and then Daniel searching through them with such care that they appear untouched. The tenderness of it all, for me in my wretched state, makes my eyes start to well and I breathe deeply to keep from crying. Off to the side, inside the bag, I see the familiar shapes of small blue boxes. My mom sent me with two packs of American Spirits and a lighter. I pick up the cigarettes, turn them over, and see a sticky note stuck to the top of one. My mother’s handwriting. “I love you, Jim.” It shatters me. 

I lay on my bag, hugging it, my only piece of home, and sob. I’m alone in the cabin. The forms are signed, I’m locked behind the tall fences, and they won’t let me out for twenty-eight days. Images of my family, my kids, my cats and dogs, my home, surge in a mass I can barely comprehend. The bag holds smells belonging to everyone I love, as if they all helped pack its contents. 

I am built entirely of shame. There is nothing else and I don’t know how I’m supposed to cope with any of it without alcohol. A terrible son. A burnout father, like my own. A man who wasn’t man enough to keep his wife from straying. A drunkard. A cuck. I’ve failed at everything.

Photo by Spencer DeMera on Unsplash

After I’ve finished feeling sorry for myself, I have a cigarette on the back porch of my cabin. The silence of the forest feels good and the blue dance of the smoke off the cherry reminds me why cigarettes are better than vapes. After hours without nicotine, the drug butters the burnt toast of my nerves. I manage to keep my thoughts blank until I finish my smoke. I dab it out in an ashtray filled with all the brands of cigarettes, each one smoked to the filter. There are no half-smoked cigarettes in rehab apparently. 

I lumber down the stairs from my cabin, soaking my lungs in the damp musk of the redwoods, and wander in the direction of the main hall. It feels like I arrived at a new school in the middle of a period. Everyone’s in class and I’m left to meander through an empty space that was built to be occupied. They took my phone; I have no idea what time it is, how long the intake process took, or how much time I have before I can satisfy my morbid curiosity about rehab karaoke.

I walk through the double doors of the main hall. It’s filled with windows and sunlight, potted plants and pictures of the ocean. The entry area has round tables surrounded by chairs, a shelf with board games and books, and a kitchenette with a Keurig machine. Caffeine and the cigarettes my mom sent; two allowable vices accounted for. It smells like bulk-bought industrial disinfectant spray and shitty coffee. The daycare quality of the entryway reminds me of the church rec rooms I hung out in in middle school. There’s even a stack of blue bibles.

Off the entryway is a larger room looking like the church attached to the rec room and the similarities between this place and my childhood house of worship are too close. Churches make me uneasy. Someone is always trying to sell you something or convince you of something ridiculous. There are two sections of chairs organized in rows with a path down the center. I take a seat in the back, staring ahead at a mounted TV and two large signs hung up high. One lists the Twelve Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous and the other lists the Twelve Steps. There was a lot of talk of steps at various points in my house growing up but I’ve never sat down and actually read them. I begin thrashing against them immediately.

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.

Powerless? I don’t like that at all. I had the power to call a helpline. I had the power to get in the car and accept the help. I have the power to sit here, read these words, and poke holes in all of them. The unmanageable life part is definitely true, so I guess I can find a way to get through step one.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Again, no. I lost my faith in God where so many do: at Christian camp as a teenager. I’ve remained friends with Christians, I’ve debated endlessly about the existence of God, I think faith can be a beautiful thing. But faith is not something you learn. It’s something you feel without reason. You can’t talk a person into faith and God isn’t the reason I’m in rehab. My mom and Nicole from the helpline are. If God is real, I sincerely hope he/she/they are using their grace on better things than my infinite thirst. 

Nope. If getting sober means that I’m going to have to find faith in God in twenty-eight days, the people here can try their best. My faith was ripped from the flesh of my youth like stitches too early and that wound has never fully closed. I’ve tried.

At least I’ll be able to detox safely and get a break from the real world for a while. Maybe I can cheat the system the way my sneaky little addict self has done my whole life. I give up reading the rest of the steps since I know I won’t be able to make it past step two as Daniel enters, pushing a cart of AV equipment.

“Hey, man,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

Daniel laughs.

“That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to know anything right now.”

Daniel begins setting up at the front of the room. He’s got a mic, a music stand, a speaker; all the tools of the bad-singing arts.

“So, you did actually say karaoke?” I ask.

“Yep,” he answers. There’s a silence between us as if rehab karaoke doesn’t need further explanation. He stands up straight, like he’s remembered something, and looks at me with a goofy smile.

“You don’t have to participate,” he reassures me. “It’s pretty popular but it’s totally optional. There aren’t many opportunities to listen to music here, unfortunately. People kind of jump at the chance, even if that means they have to sing along. It’s super low-presh.”

I feel a strange combination of emotions. I’m relieved I won’t be expected to sing, but part of me craves the humiliation. If I’m here to strip my self down to its rawest form, let’s fucking go. I will belt out a version of “I Dreamed a Dream” that will bring these junkies to tears.

“Everyone‘ll be here in a few,” Daniel says. “You should check it out. It’s more chill than it sounds.”

“I will,” I answer, unsure if I’m being truthful. The sudden fear of meeting the other patients rushes me and I get up to leave. I’m gonna need another cigarette if I’m going to brave this karaoke session. 

The smoking corral next to the tech station is fenced like a hog pen. Benches with ashtrays line the perimeter and there’s a view of the entrance to the main hall. I think of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest as I drag on my Spirit. I imagine depressed, slack-jawed addicts, itching their skin, mumbling to themselves. People start wandering into the main hall and it’s hard to tell who works there and who is a patient. They’re all shapes and sizes, all ages, from old folks to people barely out of high school. One guy I spot as the comic relief at any frat party anywhere in America. He looks affable and funny even from a distance. Maybe his brothers at Alpha Velveeta Drunko dropped him off as a prank. 

I decide on another cigarette. They can start karaoke without me and I’ll find somewhere in the back to hide and observe once they’re distracted by the shitty singing.

When I finish my smoke, I cross back to the main hall. I can hear music and people laughing. Inside, the patients are gathered in groups sitting and joking with each other. “Big Yellow Taxi” by Joni Mitchell is playing and a woman in her sixties is singing in a cute falsetto. She looks firmly tethered to her hippie roots. A woman half her age has her arm around grandma Joni and is trying to keep up but has to read the lyrics and is struggling. 

There’s an overwhelming warmth in here. Most of the people have rough exteriors, those tattoos Daniel and I have, but everyone is smiling. The only person in the room who looks like they would ever listen to Joni Mitchel is the woman singing but everyone is vibing, nodding their heads. This is the kind of happy-camper cornball shit I usually sneer at, but the atmosphere is undeniable. These kinds of lighthearted and churchy rooms aren’t usually filled with these kinds of people – rugged, scarred, sad-eyed and wide-grinned. 

The woman hits the bassy notes at the end of the song perfectly and mimics the same giggles; she’s sung it a hundred times and loves it as much as ever. The room applauds loudly. People stand up and tell her how amazing she was. She thanks them all and sits down next to the woman she sang with, arm-in-arm in the front row.

“Caleb!” someone calls. “Caleb, you have to!”

Everyone is looking at the frat bro. He’s shaking his head and smiling sheepishly.

“Come on, Caleb! You have to!” a girl says. Caleb gets up and walks to the front. He’s in his mid-twenties. Basketball shorts, a loose white t-shirt, and Nike slides with socks. All he’s missing is a solo cup and a funny story about the last time he went wakeboarding.

“Okay, okay!” he says and talks to Daniel. They’re using Daniel’s phone as a makeshift karaoke machine. Caleb picks up the microphone. “No laughing!” he says into the mic with a wolfish grin. Everyone laughs. The sweetness of it all makes me forget why I’m there, the alcohol leaving my system, and my worries about home.

Post Malone’s “I Fall Apart” starts playing and the room erupts in hoots and hollers. People get up and start dancing. Caleb is singing for his life immediately. He can’t hit a single fucking note and means every fucking word. He puts a finger against his throat and vibrates his windpipe to imitate Posty’s vibrato, which obliterates the crowd – everybody is laughing and singing along. Caleb bends over, singing like he’s sold out the Forum. Everybody cheers him on, waving their hands in the air, and I’m floating in the back on a cloud of reprieve. Fuck yeah, Caleb. 

Someone pulls out a lighter and flicks it on. Daniel points at them with a smile and they put it away. There’s true love everywhere. I feel it. I feel good for the first time since I can remember.

These people are weirdos. These are my people.

I belong here.

---

Grateful, as always, to

Dev

for her eyes, knowledge, thoughts, and editing skills. I am a very lucky writer and human.

---

If you’re struggling, please please please reach out to someone. You are not alone. This is my story but I know there are so many people out there who have or have had these feelings and experiences. I called out in my darkest moment and I am grateful every day that I did.

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

SAMHSA Substance Abuse National Helpline

---

I realized after writing this how many music references I made, so I threw together a little playlist if you’re curious about any of the songs or artists. Warning! It’s all over the place and you may feel like a crazy person if you listen to these songs back-to-back.