Sober Dope & Sundays (Weekday Weirdos #2)

Prologue Gage

PROLOGUE: GAGE

I t’s not that I don’t want to pay for the coffee, honestly. I’m trying to pay for it. My phone is out, Apple Pay is on the screen, and the machine is telling me to go ahead and tap. But the twelve-dollar frappé with extra whip and toffee bits is already sweating in one hand while the other is stretching out, part way to paying for the highly overpriced milkshake with caffeine by the time the entire front window of the coffee shop implodes.

And while the entirety of the café is freaking out about explosions and shattering glass, and the odd person is even yelling something about a bomb attack in our small city, my mind is on the debit machine, thinking about a forced relapse. I’m not trying to steal the coffee, but there are bits of glass mixed in with my toffee bits, and the screen of the debit machine isn’t really telling me what to do in this situation or if the payment went through, and if I take a sip, does that mean I’m going back to rehab?

Kleptomania is a bitch, and I’ve worked hard to kick her—and all my other addictions—and now a broken window, a scared barista, a cursed Sunday, and a sweating frappuccino are the only things standing between me and my recovery.

The barista is on the other side of the counter, kneeling with her hands over her ears while people make a commotion to either leave the coffee shop or take on the hero role. I peer down at her, wondering if I should ask if my payment went through or if that’s selfish. I mean, she’s obviously scared, but I am, too. I don’t want to relapse!

“Excuse me?” I call down to her. “Can I get a receipt?”

She looks at me, eyes full of tears, cheeks all red and splotchy, and that real kind of fear on her face.

“Shit. Sorry. Are you okay?” I set down the drink, knowing that if I don’t take it, there’s no way it can be considered stealing.

I climb over the counter just as something else comes barrelling into the café. I land on the barista, but she’s clinging to me and screaming bloody murder in my ear, shaking like a jackhammer.

“Get down!” someone shouts.

We’re already down, but I yank her down more. “There’s a room in the back,” she yells over the sound of the second window breaking and the patrons screaming.

I see the room she’s pointing to, so I push her ahead of me and try to cover her body as we crawl towards it. It’s a kitchen. Just a small one for making baked goods and the odd sandwich, nothing more complicated than that. When the door swings shut behind us, she yanks her purse from a hook. A million things fall out of it, but she’s got her phone to her ear, calling 9-1-1 before I even settle enough to think of that.

I’ve never been good in a crisis. I’ve never been sober in a crisis. High me would have been quicker on his feet, but this slow version—a mix of doubt, fried brain cells, a completely lost way of life, and zero good traits—doesn’t know how to handle a situation that requires me to focus on anyone but myself.

“Yes, I’d like to report a… something. The café on Simcoe Drive just… there’s glass everywhere and things are coming in the windows!” In her haste, she accidentally puts the call on speaker, and I catch the tail end of whatever the operator is saying.

“—delivery truck with construction material. A strap snapped right in your location. It’s not a bomb threat. First responders have already been dispatched and are on their way.”

When she hangs up, she wipes her eyes and stands, letting out a long breath. “I’m sorry. That really scared me.”

“All good.” My hand is damp and clammy from the frappé I sacrificed. “Can I do anything?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to go tell everyone that it’s not a threat.” With that, she leaves me on my ass in the small kitchen.

Despite my focus being on potentially stealing coffee during a possible attack, I’m proud. It goes to show that I’ve come a long way, put my health and well-being first, and recognize possible triggers and relapses.

It’s been eight months and six days since I got out of rehab for the seventh time, and I’m finally feeling really good about my sobriety.

… Right? I mean… who the fuck goes to rehab that many times? Something has to stick this time, I’m sure of it. Lucky number seven and all that.

Deciding I should probably get off my ass and either leave this place or help the barista, I press my hands to the floor to get up. But this woman’s purse contents are everywhere, and before I even see what my hand has touched, I know what it is.

Don’t look at it.

Don’t acknowledge it.

Pretend it’s a spider. We hate spiders.

But it’s not a spider. It’s a dime bag, and it’s making the back of my throat burn with the need to taste the bitter powder. It’s making my body shake and my head scramble. It’s making me itch and scratch and itch some more, and I can’t even rationalize that this isn’t my favourite way to ingest drugs.

I’m a pill popper, but an addict is an addict, and I’ll take whatever I can get.

Eight months and six days, Gage. No pills. No booze. No uppers or downers or inhibitors or muscle relaxants. No pain shots. No patches of fetty. No stealing. No conning. No swindling. No sex.

I let go of the bag and turn my head to the left as far as it will go, refusing to look at the baggie. I’m hot and cold all over, sweating and shivering at once. Maybe it’s just a Fun Dip in a very tiny package. Maybe it’s leftover glitter from whatever glitter is used for. It’s not coke. It’s not brown powder. It’s not ketamine or crushed painkillers. It’s nothing but glitter that has no value and isn’t worth stealing or snorting or licking.

I need to get out of here.

I’m sweating through my hoodie now, my knees shaking with temptation as I push to stand.

I didn’t steal the drink. I didn’t steal the drink. I didn’t steal the drink.

By the time I’m standing, I’m pulling out my phone to call Kristen, my sponsor. Responsible. Yep. So responsible because I didn’t steal the drink, and I didn’t snort the glitter, and I’m calling my sponsor and walking to the door. Headed for escape. Removing myself from the situation. Just like I’ve been taught.

“Gage?” she answers. “Did you hear about what’s going on downtown?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, and my voice is strained, and Kristen is familiar with the strain of a junkie’s voice.

“Where are you? I’m coming.”

Consciously, I’m aware that I’m referring to myself as a junkie again. That’s a big no-no in rehab, and here I am, tempted by a baggie of not-glitter, right back in the junkie mindset.

And I’m telling her where I am because I’m not entirely suicidal, but as I’m talking to her, I’m swiping my frappuccino off the counter, and that baggie of glitter is in my pocket, and the shouting and the sirens from the first responders aren’t loud enough to drown out the voice in my head telling me that one time won’t hurt.

One time isn’t a relapse.

One time is manageable .

And really, I’ll tell myself anything to justify stealing and snorting and chasing a high that never feels high enough.

“Maybe the eighth time is the charm,” I tell Kristen outside the café. I walk down an alley and open the baggie. White powder. I drool for it. “Lucky number eight, right?”

“Gage, just hold on! Whatever you’re about to do, it is not worth your sobriety. I promise you that. Just hold on. Talk to someone nearby. I’m coming.”

But I’ve already snorted the powder and chased it with a sip of the twelve-dollar-but-free-to-me toffee frappé with glass bits and I’m soaring in the bitter aftertaste that has always promised the best of times. I lick my finger and stick it in the bag, rubbing some against my gums and letting the numbness wash over me. By the time I get halfway through the iced drink, I remember every fucking reason why I’m an addict. What a Sunday.