Soft white leather couches, lined up against the walls. Some generic light blueish green carpet on the floor. Men sitting around the room, and some on the floor, around a game of backgammon. They smell nice: deodorants are big here. I can hear conversations. But just the sounds of them. The contents get drowned out in the loud music coming from the TV. Some music channel playing the same songs, over and over again, all day. People don’t seem to mind though. There’s this energy. We are not alone here -at least.
There’s a balcony. You can see the city lights from afar. But only as far as the metal bars that box us in don’t block your view. The weather is crisp, fresh, and cold. I pick my feet off the cold floor and unto a mismatched pair of plastic slippers. I wish people didn’t smoke in such a small space. But you can’t blame them. This is the only thing they get to use, and out here is the only place to do it. I don’t though. I never did. Not when sober anyway. And yet, a pack of smokes you’re entitled to buy with your allowance each day.
Everyday at 5pm is shopping time: “Is it open yet?” Lets run up the stairs to the third floor, and line up on the steps outside “the store”. Behind the metal bars is Reza and around him are shelves. Sweet snacks, salty snacks, tea bags, shampoo, soap, oh and of course, sugary soft drinks -and cigarettes. Sometimes I help a friend out by giving him my ration of smokes. He gets me chocolate. I eat like four of them each day, and continue to gain the lost weight -and beyond. When it’s your turn, you put your head between the metal bars and your arm goes through them. Then you point and say something like “There, that one! To the left… yes, the potato chips. And some tea bags. etc. etc. Great! How much do I have left? Hmm… OK then, I’ll get two purple chocolate bars… Goes over? Damn… OK one.” Then you go down the stairs with your hands full, passing people in the line, with a stupid smile on your face: there will be chocolate! But wait… Is it OK that I’m being treated like an adolescent child?
We can’t leave. None of us can. I look around me. Some of these men have white hair. Some are young, some old. Tattoos, beards, muscles. And would you believe that our moms put us here? Or maybe it was one’s wife, or an older brother… There was someone who was more adjusted to life and society. Someone relatively more sober. Someone who made the call that brought the hammer down. And now we are caught. Funny how a getting high, that each time felt like taking flight, ends up tying you down so severely. And funny how, what time and time again made you feel like THE man, ultimately makes you doubt if you are one at all.
But we are in this together. After the wake up call, there’s breakfast, and then a circle. This is where you hear things like “I have one week sober!” and applause and “Good job!” This is where I tell my story. Today, I told its sixtieth evolution. Then we do chores. Mine is, and has been for the past fifty nine days, to mop the floor. I like doing it. I’ve gotten good at it. Wearing another pair of mismatched plastic slippers at the balcony, I open up the cold water, and get the mop wet. I put detergent on it. And I stump it a few times. I used to not want to touch that cold damp thing. Now I easily give it a good squeeze and go inside. This time though, someone snatches the mop out of my hands. It’s the “I have one week sober” guy. He insists on doing the job for me. I recon it’s out of what I suspect to be respect, for me and my measly sixty days. Respect… It touches me. It makes me think: I might be the man after all.
وای وای که این خیلی خوبه.