Chapter 4 – Residing on Avenue B
Detox: (d-tks) Informal tr.v. de·toxed, de·tox·ing, de·tox·es
To subject to detoxification.
the process of removing drugs or alcohols from a body system.
the hospital ward or clinic in which patients are detoxified
Hell.
Mark Cohen looked at the man sitting in the chair across from him and he lied – yes, feel better then I have all year, withdrawal is barely felt, uh huh – rehab was killing him. He had a week left, and then he was out, and would never have to return to this place with its pea-green walls, its twice daily 'talk' sessions, and it's preaching twelve-step program. He was a master of lies and hidden secrets now, during the day he looked and acted like a normal person, sometimes even being confused with the staff by outsiders, but during the night was when the real trials started.
The shakes, the bone aches, the stomach cramps, the heaving, and the craving almost drove him mad. He never made a sound, for fear of waking his roommate or alerting the staff. He faked it every day of those two months, pretending that everything was getting better. He laughed and joke, he encouraged others to bear with it, telling people that they could beat it. He lied, and became the master of living outside of himself, disconnected from himself, others, and his painful addiction that he had no control over, or desire to control. All Mark cared about was getting out the Detox center so that he could go get high.
Two months went by in the Detox center before Mark saw his father again. Walking in the door, William Cohen glanced at his son and went straight to the nurses' desk. Everything was efficient with William Cohen; no effort would be lost, he wrote the check, signed the paper, and walked out with out a glance behind him. Mark followed his father, not knowing what else to do, but that the nurses said he was free to go. Outside he followed his father until they reached the car. His father looked at him before reaching into the front seat of the car. He handed Mark a duffle bag, Mark grunted a thanks, and pulled out his pocket book and wrote another check. Handing the check along with a piece of stationary with an address written on it he looked at his son. – Son, I don't want you to come back home. Maybe in a few years. – The old bastard seemed to soften for a moment at the idea of saying goodbye to his son for the last time. Logically it did not have to be forever, but the old man knew in his heart it would be. Both men looked at each other for a moment, both wondering at their decisions but to stubborn to say anything.
The last thing William did before he drove out of his son's life was to pick up a scarf from the passenger seat. He wrapped it carefully around Mark's throat – your mother made it so that you could hide the burn marks – Mark was left standing in the parking garage with a duffle bag at his feet, and his camera bag slung over his shoulder. His scarf hung around his neck, hiding the brand of his addiction, with his long sleeves hiding the foot prints of the monster that took over his life.
Mark walked out of the parking garage and down the road towards the train station. He got a one way ticket into the city and sat staring at it. Finally remembering the stationary that he had clutched in his hand he looked at it, reading the words. – Mark, here's the address of an apartment. We hope you go, there's 6 months rent has been paid. You have 6 months worth of rent in that check. What you do is your choice, but we hope you will rebuild so you can come back home at some point. I know your father is harsh, but he does love you. That scarf? I hope you like it; I tired to make it 'manly'. Keep it okay honey? It gets cold in the city. – The train pulled up to the station and Mark boarded it for New York City, the new home of Mark Cohen, who would reside on Avenue B.