Then God Created Houston

My eyes, just previously filled with tears, dry out as I enter the TV room, full of eyes staring back at me. I don’t know where to go, so I ask a short man with face tattoos, who tells me I had entered through the wrong door. I go to the office next-door and sit in a chair. I feel a unique mix of relief, shame, and fear, accented by a notable false optimism. The office staff tell me I need to shower, after which I will change into black pajamas, stamped “Property of Rock”, likely worn by many others just like me. In the shower, I pray for anything other than the hand I have been dealt. It still has not occurred to me that I am alone. However, the feeling begins to sink into my bones, making my heart feel a bit funny. I go back next-door and sit with the rest… We are drugged, old, young, sick (physically or by way of delirium), indifferent, or wholly affected. This place is made up of previously dead people and convicts resorting to drug court in order to avoid hard prison time. I do not belong here. Alas, we all sit and watch the news together. This is day zero and I already want to leave, but where to? I am nearly three decades old, or, by many standards, young. Yet I have somehow found myself transported back to the first day of grade school. So far, no phone access and no prescriptions to keep my nerves at ease. I do not feel sick. On the contrary: I maintain a level of hunger that does not permit appetite. A sick game of the gut for which I drink bottled protein shakes to keep up my nutrient levels. All I can do to pass the time is sleep, but the room in which I am placed has seven beds, one of which is occupied by a man with Tourette’s syndrome. My eyes barely begin to shut when I hear a nurse say, rather loudly even though it is 1AM, “VITALS.” I try to get some shut eye still, but instead I am greeted by a whisper. “How are you feeling? You OK? Alright. I am just going to take your vitals, OK?” She straps the device around my arm. It squeezes. When she’s done with me, she checks a couple other men in the room, then leaves. In the morning, around 6AM, it is time for pills. We line up like the desperate souls we are.

The support staff, present 24 hours a day (changing shifts in the late hours of the night, then again in the early morning), are there to keep us in line, lest we become too antsy. Meanwhile, the drugs help. During the day, most of us are high-strung or dozed off. DVDs play nonstop, becoming background noise for some and newly formed addiction for others. Without our phones, our only form of contact to the outside is written on a piece of scratch paper. We quickly make friends, or find out we do not want to. The program is seven days long, but new people come everyday, while others complete it or choose to leave on their own behalf. A viable option. After only two days, this place becomes home. A haven away from any form of common, realistic stressors. Everything besides the mundane is completely stripped from our day-to-day existence. All we have are meds, cigarette breaks, breakfast lunch and dinner, and scratched DVDs in the hundreds. When I say in the hundreds, I mean it. Any title you can think of. However, there are no guarantees your must-see movie is not scratched beyond repair, now taking the form of a nonfunctional disc-shaped object. Card games were an alternative. Shared moments like these can really bring together the oddest group of individuals. For instance, Scott. He was driving down to Baja California when he decided to “drop by” and commit himself, albeit like testing the waters. Annie, Alex, and I would listen to Scott go on about his grand plans following his short stay. Baja, San Diego, Los Angeles, and plenty of motivational monologues which carried more weight without the ability to check one’s phone when passively dismissing someone’s sometimes nonsensical blabber. Another friend, Jesse, said, “I feel like I’ve seen this guy before. I don’t know where, but I feel like I’ve seen him.” Was Scott famous? Later, Jesse would realize, “He used to play poker on television, in one of the tournaments. That’s where I saw him…” Scott believed he could bring order to a place inherently without it. He convinced Annie, Alex and I to organize the plastic cutlery, clean up the day room, and keep ourselves busy by doing something positive for the clients yet to come. Scott would say, “We created a change in how people do things around here. A positive change.” The next step was to change ourselves. He told Annie to get into insurance sales. He told me I can do whatever I set my mind to. Positive thinking to get us through the day, day after day. Most people went to bed early, however a few of us would wait for the last smoke break of the night. Repeat the next day.

Get used to it. That’s what I had to do. At least half of the men and women are straight out of prison, so getting in and out of the shower, fully nude, is not strange to them. Making prison meals out of anything the heart desired was easily done with Hot Cheetos, Top Ramen, and a microwave. They were hungry. However, I was not. As previously mentioned, I survived off protein shakes called Ensure, which tasted like the chocolate milk my mom would lightly heat up before bedtime, ages five through 11. These were the memories that came back to me. I drank and smoked in order to forget, and the serum worked well. But maybe too well. Because I would only start to remember the good times, nestled within my short catalog of life experiences, once the drinking and smoking had ceased. The chocolate milk memory only reveals itself after nearly a year without drink.