Lava sears my lungs, bright lights blind me, the floor heaves and falls like a ship at sea. My throat burns. Black tents simmer in the scorching sun. Black bearded men race across brown sand. A machine gun throbs. Someone screams. Eyes gleaming like headlights on a troop carrier, the bastards circle me. I reach for my M4, slip and sprawl in the sand, my mouth dry, my lungs screaming. I’d slug my way out of here, but my arms won’t work.
“Wade, Wade. It’s me. Leah. Relax. Breathe. No one wants to hurt you.” Her voice tinkling glass from thick fog. “The music triggered you.”
Isn’t she in Oceanside? Not Helman Province?
Some idiot’s twisting my arm. “Please, officer,” Leah says. “Don’t hurt him. Let’s get him outside.” Floor tiles, chair legs, sandals and shoes swim pass.
“Keep the shit head on the ground.”
“He’s not a shit head. He’s having an episode.”
A bullet sharp voice says, “Don’t give a fuck what he’s having. He can’t have it here.” A Rent A Cop? I’m the victim. The ground doesn’t move any more. The machine gun out of action. I tremble and shake like a recruit at the firing range. Leah touches my arm. “Wade. Your lip is bleeding.”
BFD. War’s bloody.
Bullet voice again. “I won’t press charges since no one was hurt.”
No one hurt? I was almost killed.
“Can’t the VA help him?”
“He’s been there. No help.” She knows damn well they don’t care.
Bullet shoots again. “I’ll post his picture on our website. He’s eighty-sixed forever. Understand? Troublemakers drive away business.”
Me a troublemaker? They tried to fucking kill me, Asshole.
“Thank you, sir.” Why is Leah kowtowing to this idiot?
She tugs my shoulder. “Let’s get you in the car.”
My legs are weak, but work after a few steps. We pass parked cars. Light poles. The concrete is hard. My head’ll split open any minute. I could drink a river dry. In her car, Leah says, “You went off. No warning.”
“I was attacked.”
“Not what I saw.” She takes my hand. “Wade, I can’t deal with this crap. I’m taking you to VA.” She squeezes my arm. “Get help or I’m gone. Understand?”
“Sure.” Anything to shut her up.
* * *
“Overall, your physical health seems good.” The speaker wears a blue uni. “Blood pressure’s a little high. That’s expected. You’ve had a tough few days.”
Few days? Sorry, lady. Wrong person. I was attacked on a date with a pretty girl.
Blue uniform consults her clip board. “You suffered an adverse reaction to music. People. Became physical. Scared everyone witless. You have no understanding of what happened. No remorse. Just denial.” She pauses. “Classic PTSD symptoms.”
Blah, blah, blah. What’s she talking about? I was attacked. I fought back. What’s wrong with that? Her badge reads Holly Paige, Senior Psychiatric Nurse. Veterans Administration.
With makeup she’d be decent looking. I know her type. Phony sincerity. Crocodile tears. All talk, no do. Next, she’ll give her we’re-here-to-help-speech. I’ve sat in cold rooms while old men in baggy clothes and plastic shoes babble about Uncle Charlie and Huies and In Country. I’ll pass, thank you.
Holly Paige says, “You’re on a 5150 detention. SOP for PTSD patients like you.” She pauses. “You have a choice, my friend. Enroll in our program – sober living, therapy, career-counseling, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Or walk. If you do that all criminal charges will be prosecuted to the fullest. Your choice.”
She ignores my hand waving in protest. “Untreated, your PTSD will progress. It’s a threat to your safety now. And society’s.”
She glances at her clipboard. “This isn’t your first offense.” She turns the page. “Disturbing the peace. Malicious mischief. Trespassing. Drunk in public. Physical assault. Terrorist threats. That’ll get you 6 to 8 months in the Cross Bar Hotel.”
She’s a comedian, huh? Can’t say jail?
“Complete our program and all criminal charges will be expunged. Once your PTSD is under control you’ll undergo a series of assessments – aptitude, skills, career. Based on those findings, you’ll get appropriate occupational training. Career counseling. Your decision. Walk, or go to jail. Stay and you have a chance at a new life.”
Okay, okay. I get it. What did Leah say? “Accept help or I’m gone?” Guess I’ll hang around a few days.
* * *
“Horticulture’s filled,” the Career and Education Counselor says. “So is Small Engine Repair.” His smile shows crooked teeth. “Culinary Arts and Health Care have openings. What’ll it be?” He pauses. He has a tat of a red rooster standing on a dog house on his right arm.
“Restaurants always need waiters. Line cooks. Prep workers. Hospitals and health clinics are understaffed. Decent pay. Benies. Whichever path you opt for you’re guaranteed employment while in training. A cot. Three squares.” He claps his hands. “What’ll it be? Food prep or medicine? Speak up.”
He looks around for the hat to pull a rabbit from. “Our door swings both ways. But know this. You leave, you’ll go to jail. Stay and you can change your life. You decide. Culinary Arts or Health Care?”
I joined the Marines to escape a two-horse Kansas town. See the world. Learn a trade. An Asian war interfered, left me a fucked up drunk. I’ve got paper chasing me, but never did jail time. Can I get clean? Help others? Sticking needles in a vet’s ass or emptying bedpans doesn’t turn me on. I can fry eggs. Make toast. Maybe Culinary Arts will teach me to bake a cake or roast a duck.
* * *
The room is butt ugly. Black tile flooring. Four folding tables. A glaring ceiling light. Two industrial sinks. Hot water heater. Three black ovens. Refrigerator big as a U-Haul trailer. Eight folding chairs. Laptop on a table. Five addicts and a sober drunk waiting for the festivities to begin.
A man with a pound of black hair and slumped shoulders, stands, claps his hands. “Welcome to Introduction to Sour Dough. For the last six weeks you’ve baked bread and pastries using yeast, sugar, butter. Acquired basic baking skills. You showed promise or you wouldn’t be here.” He grins. “Look around. Anybody missing?”
Yeah. Where’s Gomez? Gutierrez? Who can I bum smokes off now?
Robin’s here with her fine April ass and December face. Lisa. No teeth. Eyes too big. Jose. Blue tattoos on brown skin. Full of himself. Ratner. Skinny guy. From Texas. Sullivan – Sully – plays the guitar. All addicts – I’m the only drunk. And only veteran. The VA contracted a private firm to teach me to bake bread. Aren’t I special?
“I’m Andre. Your Chief Instructor for the next six weeks.” He could use a shave. A black hair net criss crosses his forehead. Black horn-rimmed glasses. His pants bag in the ass, but are tight around his middle. Italian accent? Fake or real?
Andre says, “Over the next six weeks you’ll learn to bake bread with just three ingredients: water, flour and salt.” He looks around as if expecting applause. When none comes, he adds, “The famous sourdough bread of storied restaurants and ancient literature.”
He’s really into this. “Sourdough needs a starter.” He caresses a gray mass. I’m lost already. “Starters have bacteria which create gasses, making dough rise. Magic, right?” He pauses. “Not really. It just seems that way.” He laughs. I don’t get the joke.
“With proper care, manipulation and baking, dough becomes bread – a thing of beauty. In looks. Texture. Taste. A simple process, yet difficult to master.”
He flashes a crooked smile. “Warning. You have to feed your starter regularly or it’ll starve. We don’t want that, right? You’ll learn some starters are hundreds of years old.” The crooked smile again. “Sourdough demands patience. Two days to bake a loaf. And discipline. You have to feed your starter daily.”
Andre fiddles with the computer. “The video is about sour dough, an overview of what it is. If you understand the what, the how and why are easier.” Three fat guys talk about sourdough ingredients. Starters. Fermentation. Other shit I don’t understand. When it ends, Andre lifts a clear glass crock filled with gray yuck. “Isn’t this beautiful?”
He’s got to be joking. It reminds me of the glue I smeared on my Big Chief note pad in kindergarten. What’s that smell? Yogurt? Mushrooms? Fresh mowed grass?
Andre says, “Okay. Chose a table.” Robin and I bang into each other getting to the far right table. We’re partners, I guess.
Andre says, “You’ve been issued two mixing bowls, a digital scale, a timer and a wooden spoon.” He holds each item up as he names it. “Flour. Salt. Water. And starter.” He smiles. “Hopefully, you can measure accurately by now.” He holds the digital scale in his tattooed hand. “This is your friend. Start by putting the called for amount of water and grams of flour listed in the formula.”
Andre’s serious as a machine gun. “Mix the flour and water with your hands until the flour’s wet. Cover with a damp towel. Wait an hour. This is called autolyze.” For the next hour he harangues about different flours and the importance of reading the dough, not the clock. “Now, add salt and starter. Mix with your hands.”
Finally, “Wet your hands. Carefully place your dough onto the table, you’re hands under it like in the video. You’re going to ‘slap and fold.’”
What’s that?
Andre turns the whole fucking mass of gray stuff over, then slaps it. Twice. Really. And again. “The key to a successful loaf is slap and fold,” he smiles. “Some loaves may take ten or fifteen folds, others may need three hundred and fifty six to build strength.” Why that particular number? He doesn’t say.
Okay, here goes. My hands under the beige blob, I lift and flip. Then slap. Once. Twice. I repeat this until my arms ache and sweat stings my eyes. I look at Robin. “Haven’t fun?”
She blows a curl that escaped her hair net. “Beats waiting in a crack house to suck a dick for a fix.”
She’s right. The dough’s lighter now. I lift. Flip. Slap. Fold. Lift. Flip. Slap. Fold. Two hundred times. Maybe three hundred. A faint aroma rises from the dough. More folds. More slaps. Is it alive? It’s tender. Pliable. Could I name it? Rub it in my face? It’s firm, yet soft. Andre tells tales of how sourdough fed soldiers and shepherds and families for years and years. Somehow it infiltrates my blood, jolts my heart, ignites my soul, opens doors on a painful past, gives me a glimpse of a new life – of early morning rendezvous with pre-heated baking ovens and late nights reading about an ancient bread that has fed the masses – bread that contains only three ingredients, flour, water and salt. A new life is born on a folding table in a bleak industrial building on a nameless street in a California beach town.
* * *
My Rehab schedule’s tight as an unopened bottle. We bake sourdough or read about baking sourdough or hear a lecture about sourdough Monday through Saturday from 7 a.m. ’til 5 p.m. Then a Hungry Jack dinner or Subway foot long, a quick shower, maybe a shave, then pound the pillow until eleven. My shift at Artisan Bread and Pastries runs midnight to five. I work alone, stocking shelves, washing and greasing baking pans, scrubbing floors. Flour canisters and salt shakers are always empty. Trash bagged and carried to the dumpster. Sometimes three trips. For this I get seven bucks an hour – thirty hours a week. Payday every Friday. VA reimburses Artisan Bread for my salary, so I’m free labor for them. Each week there are time cards to fill out and three-part forms to hand personnel. I’ll get my fifty bucks a week rent and ten-dollar cleaning fee back when I graduate rehab. Laundry, transportation expenses, meals, are all on my dime.
When my shift’s over at Artisan, it’s breakfast at IHOP, then bike to the Kitchen and wash dishes, sweep floors, listen to lectures on sourdough, read about sourdough, watch videos on sourdough. There’s not much time to think, or bitch. Just do what’s in front of you.
I’ll give Leah credit for honesty. Wednesday evening, from 7:00 to 9:00 is Family and Visitor’s Night at the Kitchen followed by thirty minutes of hushed talk, forced smiles and hopeful goodbyes. Week Three, Leah’s email read, “Previous commitment this evening.” Week Four, the night I’m to get my thirty days sober token, her email came midafternoon. “I’m proud of you. You’re realizing your true potential. I’ve met a guy. We’re serious. I hope you understand. Leah.”
My heart felt like it had been pounded with a wooden spoon. Hard. I didn’t want one drink. I wanted a train load. Vodka, scotch, bourbon, beer, gin, even weed. Anything to quiet the roaring pain. But I wanted to keep my sobriety. The counselor said, “Remember the incomprehensive demoralization of your last drunk? Read the Big Book. Bob’s Story is a good place to start. Pray.” I did as he said, repeating over and over, “I’m powerless over alcohol. My life is unmanageable.” Then sit-ups. Sidesaddle hops. Pushups until sweat ran off me like I’d been in a rain storm. Finally, too tired to think, I fell into bed and read Tartine, a book about how a bakery became famous by selling sourdough bread. The desire, the urge to drink, died a welcome death that night.
* * *
Monday of Week Five, Andre announced, “Bake Off’s semi-final is Wednesday. The Showcase Award on Saturday.” He smiles like Pat Sajak gave him a million bucks. “You have to add two ingredients for the contest – raisins, seeds, cheese, olives, peppers – whatever. The more creative, the better.” He wags a finger. “One loaf for Wednesday. A different one Saturday. No carry overs. Understood?”
Andre’s excited. “Wednesday’s really the semifinals. The judges will select three top loaves. Those lucky dogs compete for the Showcase Award on Saturday. The prize? A dream come true job with a local bakery. Starting salary $750.00 a week, benefits in six months.” Andre wipes his eyes. “Here’s an opportunity to display your skills, and possibly win a job baking sourdough for coin of the realm – money in your pocket.”
* * *
Graduation is soon. Robin’s sure now that she’s sober, Childs Protective Service will give her kids back. When I showed her the cast iron baking pan and nesting glass bowls I bought, she laughed. “You drank the Kool Aid like a good boy.”
She’ll enter her olive loaf with seeds for the Bake Off. Jose brags, “It’s over, perdedoras. My jalapeno and cheese won the para tanto.” He’s an asshole. Lisa changed her mind a dozen times before deciding on her cranberry walnut loaf. Robert won “Baker of the Week” with his raisins and walnuts. Sully says, “My dark chocolate and dried cherries is sweet. Delicious.” Me? I love my raisin cinnamon loaf. Stick with the winners, I always say.
Tuesday afternoon, I soak raisins in hot water and start my bake, hoping the bread gods will grant me a winning loaf. I’m familiar with the construction process now, but follow the formula closely. Mix the dough. Slap and fold. Bulk fermentation. Cold overnight proof. A sharp razor to score that sucker. Bake at 450 Fahrenheit. Hopefully it’ll be golden brown with a perfect ear. Delicious when eaten with salted butter.
* * *
Wednesday evening five drug addicts and one alcoholic ride to the hotel in the Rehab van, cradling prized loaves in brown paper sacks. Tonight’s judges are three high school teachers who bake sourdough as a hobby. No names are allowed on the loaves, just the number we draw and Andre’s sign, “Cinnamon Raisin Loaf” (or whatever.) Like Paul Hollywood’s Great British Bake-Off show, the judges tear the loaf, smell the bread, look at the crumb, the crust, smear on butter and chew slowly, testing for flavor, aroma, texture, chewability. The loaf with the most points wins.
To keep us from influencing the judges, we’re herded into the coffee shop to swallow 5 Minute Energy Drinks, smile bravely and hope the other guy’s loaf falls flat. After a pin and needles thirty minutes Andre escorts us back to the judging room.
Ten or twelve men and women are scattered around the room. A quick peek at the judging table shows three loaves, mine one of them, sitting on a silver mirror, a Blue Ribbon attached to each. Maybe five minutes later a gray-haired man comes forward, adjusts the microphone and welcomes everyone to the Bake Off.
“Know how to tell a good baker,” he asks, then pauses. “Find one whose been bread to bake.” Funny. He clears his throat. “This was a tough contest to judge.” He’s talking to people so disparate for something to do they’ve spend an hour watching amateur judges poke at bread baked by addicts and a drunk.
He says, “We started with six excellent entries. Some loaves seemed more excellent, which is often the case in contests.” He smiles at his joke. “Three were so excellent we couldn’t agree which was the best, so we awarded three First Place winners.”
The audience applauds. Wow! For the first time I realize I could win the whole shooting match.
The emcee says, “Bakers, when your number’s called, please come forward. Number Three, Number Four and Number Six. You won!”
The judges shake hands with Jose, Robin and I. They say congratulations over and over, joking they’ll steal the loaves and pass them off as their own. We three line up like Kindergarteners. Andre congratulates each of us, handing each a twenty-five-dollar check. Guss I can retire to Florida now. Still, I smile. I’m proud. Really.
“Saturday night is the Showcase Award,” Andre says when we’re in the van. Jose laughs. “No es para tanto.” Yeah, it’s no big deal. But twenty-five bucks means new tires for my bike.
* * *
“Take a hit,” Robin says. “It’ll smooth you out.”
“No, thanks. I’ll end up drunk and puking. I’m through with that.”
We’re in her room. Her roomie disappeared for the night. “I need to relax. Wanna hang out,” she asked earlier. She takes a long toke on a blunt and slides into bed. She has a rattlesnake with red fangs tattooed on her stomach. A monkey with red lips on her rear. She’s the first woman I’ve been with since Leah.
“Wanna hear something funny,” she’s strung out now. “My fucking Dad keeps calling. From Massachusetts. Wants me to learn the fish processing business. Take over when he retires.”
“Gonna do it?”
“Why not? I’ll get my kids back now that I’m sober. He wasn’t ‘round much when I was a girl. He sent me a check for airfare.” She’s sweating, breathing hard. “Imagine. Me the Fish Gut Queen of New England.” She laughs as if this is the funniest thing ever. Minutes later, sobs rack her body.
“I miss my girls.”
She nods off. Her breathing is ragged. She could use a C-Pap Machine like the VA issued me. No more long minutes of not breathing. A fewer bad dreams. I know I should hit the bricks. Instead I stretch and close my eyes. Hallway noises pull me from a deep sleep. Robin’s gone. Shadows tell me it’s late. I dress fast. Where’s my bike? At the Kitchen. I’ll have to hitch a ride.
A friendly Senior Citizen drops me off fifteen minutes later. I pull on my grays and check my starter. Robin says, “Woke up, huh?”
“Yeah. You feel okay?”
“Great. Smoking help me relax.” She slaps my hand. “Party pooper.”
Andre comes in, all smiles. “About last night.” He motions us to huddle up. “Congratulations again to Jose, Robin and Wade. One of you’ll win a great job with a local company Saturday night.” His eyes meet mine. “May the best baker win.”
He pulls out a paper and reads. “Friday’s graduation. Ceremony starts at five. Goes to seven thirty. You can invite four guests. No more.” A half smile. “For those of you not in the Bake Off, you owe me two loaves before Saturday. Capish?” He pauses. “You guys are clean and sober. Know how to bake sourdough. Put that on your resume. Talk it up on job interviews.”
Then, the zinger.
“Reimbursements end Friday. Including residential assistance. If you need help finding new accommodations, talk to Admin. Your best lead for a job is your current employer. You’re a known quality. Sometimes they hire outright.”
Ah, yes. Time to pay the fiddler.
I’m late getting my Olive Mushroom Sundried Tomato started. It’ll have to wait even longer. I need a bed and a job. Rumor has it Jose’s folks want him to take over one of their restaurants, which means he won’t be a candidate for the Show Case job if he wins. Robin will probably move to Massachusetts. The job could be mine. Maybe.
I’m washing mixing bowls when Andre comes up, wearing a blue shirt and gray trousers. “Personal business to handle,” he says, “Last one out, lock up.”
Jose tosses his apron in the laundry basket. “Okay, campesinos, I gotta pick out a suit for my job interview.” He laughs. “My Cranberry Walnut is excelente, exquisate. I’ll beat all of you losers.” He’s out the door, his motorcycle pops and growls.
Robin calls, “Lover Boy, it’s just us.” She has a joint between her lips. “Want an encore of last night?”
I’m powerless over a naked woman. Admin will wait.
* * *
Later, Robin says, “I’ll be the Fish Gut Queen. CPS has to give my kids back since I’m graduating Rehab and kissing Cali goodbye. I need one last high. In memory of my first one. Then I’ll be a good girl and work forty hours a week the rest of my life.”
“If that’s what you want.”
I’ve learned to never argue with an addict who’s decided to use again. Besides, I have me – Wade Sims – to look after. “Good luck.”
At Admin, they say there’s no guarantee, but they can probably find me shelter, especially if I have a job or proof I’m looking for one. One chore down, I pedal to Artisan Bread, where I’ve worked for three months. I’ve never met the owner, or anyone else for that matter except Lorenzo, the night manager who recites my job assignments like a school teacher calling roll. But desperate men do desperate things. Lorenzo is in charge today. He treats me like we’ve never met.
“What’d ya want?”
“I graduate Culinary School Friday. Any chance I can be hired full time?”
He consults the computer. “Your position is VA reimbursed. New guy starts next week.” He tries not to smile. “Not much I can do for you. We’ll maybe have waitstaff training come fall. Minimum wage. Thirty hours a week.”
“Sounds great. How do I apply?” Beggers can’t be choosers.
“I’ll put your name on the list.” He clicks a new screen. “If we have a class, we’ll call.” He stands. I’ve been dismissed.
I bike back to the Kitchen. The door’s locked. I get the keys from the flower bed. The room smells like Robin and sourdough. I start my levain. After maybe fifteen minutes the lights blink out. I wait for them to come back on, but after an hour I realize they’re out for good. I call Andre. No answer. I leave a message.
The Kitchen is dark as a closet, but not too cold. I’ve slept in worse places. I pile dry towels, dirty uniforms and newspapers on the floor and sack out. The rattle of the door wakes me. Two men in orange vests and hard hats barge in. They’re pissed at me.
“You’re trespassing. Leave or we call the police. We’re here to cleanup.”
I try my bluff. “I’m with the Veteran’s Administration. Our rent’s paid for six months.” I pull out my phone. “Here, talk to my boss.”
“Horse shit. Your boss calls our boss. Now get out.”
Andre agrees to speak with Orange Vest’s boss, then Orange Vest’s bosses’ boss. Everyone agrees it’s a mistake that our lease is still good, but the power won’t come back on until midday Friday. I hop on my bike and petal to the Alano Club to take in a meeting, then Z out in my room. I’m at the Kitchen when Andre turns the key the next morning. My levain is overflowing. I handle that and start assembling my baking tools. A few minutes before nine, Jose comes in.
“Abuela’s in the hospital. I’ll meet you at the Bake Off.” He says to me. “Don’t bother entering your crap, Wade. My Cranberry Walnut loaf will win hands down.” He’s out the door before Andre can ask questions. Robin’s still missing in action at eleven. Andre doesn’t seem bothered. “Less competition for you and Jose. She’s been a little hinky lately.”
It’s almost one when the lights flicker, then come on full force. Simple math tells me I’ll have to skip a few steps with my loaf, and hope for the best. I mix the dough and set it to strengthen. There’s no way to hurry fermentation, so I turn it every forty-five minutes as usual. I’ll skip overnight proof. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon when I shape my dough, score it and pop it in the oven. It should be cool enough to slice when the judging starts. It’s not my best loaf. The rise was too small. The ear tiny. The crust feels tough. But what the hey, what is, is. I climb in the van with Andre at 6:30, my loaf in a brown paper bag.
Tonight’s judges are two women and a guy in a wheel chair. Jose arrives a few minutes after Andre and I set up the room. He doesn’t speak, just hands Andre his loaf, and heads for the café. A long forty-five minute wait and Andre ushers us to seats near the judge’s table. Jose’s loaf has a blue ribbon on it. He’s the Showcase winner. Darn!
Andre motions Jose into the hallway. He’s pissed. They speak Spanish. I can catch some of it. “Your loaf was supposed to be cheese. What’s gy? ” Jose shrugs. Andre shakes his head. “I’ll tell the judges you inadvertently grabbed the wrong loaf, but I can’t let you be the Showcase winner.”
Jose slams his apron to the floor, he rattles off something in Spanish about who gives a fuck, and I’ve got a real job. He’s out the door without a glance.
Jose’s disqualified and Robin didn’t enter anything. “I’m the winner, right” I say to Andre. “Technically, true. You’ll be listed as such. As talented as you are, you don’t have the experience the restaurant job demands. I’ll tell them we had no clear winner.“
I’m pissed. I needed that job. I feel cheated. AA says grudges can lead to drunks. I don’t want that. I change into street clothes and bike to the Alano Club, sit through two meetings, then drink too much coffee at the Human Bean. No one talks about resentments, but it doesn’t matter. I bike to my room and sleep late. I shower, brush my teeth. Dress. I’ll pack tomorrow. After breakfast at IHOP I’ll pick up my pots and pans, then search the internet for a job. Roberto serves my two over easy, hash browns and hot cakes. My phone blooms. It’s Andre.
“Just so you and I are clear. I didn’t ask for the Showcase job. They offered it to me. I accepted.“
“Congratulations, I guess.” I’m not upset. He’ll do a good job. I’m still a babe when it comes to sourdough. I’ve never baked ciabattas. Never made pizza dough. Or pie crust.
Andre says, “Admin wants to see you before ten, okay?”
“Why?”
“No idea. Just be there, hear?”
My phone says it’s nine twenty seven. I hang up, jump on my bike and petal like Armstrong at the Tour de France, cutting through the vacant lot as usual. A drunk is passed out next to a pile of discarded tires and a dirty mattress. Long hair. Her shirt is hiked up. A monkey with red lips shows. “That’s Robin.”
I kneel beside her. Her dress has blood on it. Her arm an angry red, her hair matted with dirt.
“Robin? Can you hear me?”
She struggles to sit up. “That you, Wade?”
“Yeah. You look awful.”
“I’m a druggie. I’ll steal. Fuck. Lie. Anything for a high. That’s how it is.”
“How can I help you?”
“You can’t. I’m not ready to quit, but I’ve baked my last loaf of sourdough. Gut fish? Never. I just want to get high.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t look so sad, Wadie. This is the real me. A fucking addict. An unfit mother. A worthless addict. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“I don’t agree. But it’s your life.” She jerks her hand away.
”When you’re ready to get clean, you know where to find me.” I climb on my bike and ride off. Only flour, water and salt will take away the hurt.
* * *
Six members of the new Rehab class set in a circle, ready to learn their next move. I look at my watch. Game time! I stand and clap my hands. “Hello, everyone. Welcome to Introduction to Sourdough. My name’s Wade Sims. I’ll be your Chief Instructor for the next six months.“
