16
As I plop a scrub bucket, rubber gloves, bleach, black trash bags and a four-pack of Sutter Home merlot on the counter at the drugstore, I realize I’m just a spool of rope and a shovel away from looking like a suspect in a cold case—especially with the dark circle under my eye.
My usual checkout lady asks no questions as she bags up my goodies, other than: “Pack of Camels?” She’s already reaching for them from behind her. I had no idea buying my boyfriend cigarettes was such a noticeable habit. I tell her no thanks, not today.
I get home and crack a merlot. I chug it in what feels like record time. Wiping my wine-stained lips with the sleeve of a Mizzou hoodie, I think to myself: Why the hell did I just buy such shitty wine? And in travel sizes, too? After all, there’s no one here I have to tiptoe around and I don’t know when there will be again. The thought is both liberating and sad as I open bottle number two.
One week ago, I was sitting on a picnic blanket in the warm Chicago sun enjoying the lake to my left and the skyline to my right. I was surrounded by people I hardly knew but who cared about me anyway. Why? Because I was with Benji, which was like having a fast-pass to the front of the line. And now, in just seven days, all of the wheels have managed to fall off. I’m not soaking up the sun, I’m soaking up bleach. I’m not surrounded by anyone, I’m shamefully alone. And the people who cared about me then probably won’t anymore because Benji is currently out of the picture. The picnic is over.
My phone rings as I’m scrubbing black tar from around the drain of my white porcelain tub with my sleeves rolled up. It’s my mom again. She probably actually needs something this time, but I still can’t talk. I attempt to decline it by tapping the ignore button with my exposed elbow, and instead, accidentally pick up. FML.
“Hey, sweetheart. I tried to call you earlier.”
“I know. I saw. Sorry, I’ve been cleaning my apartment.”
“Oh, that’s okay. Where’s Benji? Out doing big chef things?”
“Uh, something like that,” I say.
“Well, we’re going to make this quick. I’ve got your dad on the line.”
“Hey there, Allie-bear,” he says.
My dad. My sweet, simple dad. His calming voice is enough to get me to pause the madness and peel off the rubber gloves for a few minutes.
I don’t let myself get too comfortable, though. With the both of them on line, this could be it. The dreaded I-word. And if it is, they’re ironically too late. An intervention would be pointless now.
“So listen, Al. We don’t agree—” he begins.
“Definitely don’t agree,” chimes my mom, his apparent hype woman.
“Patty, please. As I was saying, we may not agree with what you did with your money, but it’s your money. And you’re an adult now. So we’re going to let it go.”
“We’re going to have to let it go. That’s what the therapist said, Bill.”
I had no idea they were in counseling, but I’m tempted to ask who they’re seeing so I can find out if he or she is taking new patients.
“Anyway, as a rule of thumb, let’s just keep all conversation about money—yours, ours, Benji’s, whoever’s—off the table, at least until emotions settle down a bit.”
“Deal,” I say. A free pass not to go into detail about my twisted living situation? Hell, I’ll take it.
“But...”
Why is there always a but?
“If you find yourself in any trouble, you know what to do,” my dad says.
I do know what to do.
Tell them the truth.
“Hey, Mom?” I start to say.
“Yes, sweetie? What is it?”
“Any idea how to get permanent marker off a mirror?”
“Nail polish remover,” she says mother-of-factly.
* * *
I finally got to sleep last night by counting all the ripples that make up the popcorn ceiling directly above the bed in my studio (1,783) and polishing off the four-pack of Sutter Home. I’m not exactly sure what time I finally slipped into another dreamless night, but I have to imagine it was somewhere around the time people are waking up to go for a jog before the lake path gets too crowded. I don’t even remember what it’s like to go to bed and wake up at normal hours anymore, but somehow it’s now ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.
I haven’t told anyone about the relapse yet. But then again, who am I really going to tell? Who really needs to know?
Angela, yes. I get that. But I’m holding off on sending that text because, even though I didn’t see this coming, I know that I still know Benji. Always-frantic-to-communicate Benji. He may have had a field day in my tub with some controlled substances, but let’s not forget he was coherent enough to leave a well-intended love note behind before exiting the building on his own two feet. My money is on a deep apology and a “come to Jesus” moment being in my near future. I’m certain of it.
So certain, in fact, that I kept my phone on airplane mode all night. That means no texts in, no phone calls out and no email dings before I have a chance to at least try for a solid night’s sleep. Now that I’m awake, my plan is to toggle out of airplane mode, pee, check on my eye situation and then be greeted with an onslaught of warm, reassuring messages from Benji saying how this was all just a giant mistake. It would excuse nothing, of course. But at least it would be the proof of life I need to feel better about things. And I know he’s phoneless at the moment, but I also know that when his need to reach me kicks in, there’s virtually nothing that will stand in the way of getting me on the other line. That’s Benji for you.
As I wait for my phone to kick back in, I realize it’s taking longer than usual for the pings to come in. So far, silence. I power off completely, then reboot just to make sure my phone isn’t still in some weird sleep mode. But even with a hard restart there, it’s dead air.
Zero new messages.
Nothing from my mom, nothing from Angela, nothing from Jazzy, Maya or Rita. And definitely nothing from Benji.
“What the actual fuck,” I say to myself.
I’m officially up and at it, no longer tempted by the warmth of my bed. I pry open my laptop and immediately check his social media streams. If he didn’t have a phone, maybe he had access to a computer. And if he didn’t have the balls to contact me directly through email, then perhaps he ran his mouth on Twitter instead. We all know that’s his MO anyway, especially when he’s been using.
But those are showing no signs of activity either. And according to the time stamp on his last post, mum’s been the word now for over twenty-four hours.
With the laptop still open, I do the next sleuthy thing I can think of and pull up the history in my web browser. We share this laptop and like I mentioned, we’re on different circadian rhythms. So when I’m trying to go to sleep for the night, he’s almost always still up playing video games, reading FoodFeed or menu planning. At least, that’s what I assume he is doing. Now’s the time to find out.
Porn. Lots of porn. The first three hits back on the history report show me Benji has a fetish for wet panties and saggy tits. This is not the kind of porn the two of us have indulged in during foreplay in the past, so I’m curious what’s changed. Oh, right. This is your brain on drugs.
Right below the smut-fest is a hit for a YouTube video of a guitar solo during an old AC/DC concert. Benji used to play guitar, so I’m not too floored by this one.
The third hit down looks like it could be the most helpful insofar as piecing together where Benji may be—or where he’s gone recently that he shouldn’t have. It’s a Google Map result for an intersection in the far West Side of Chicago in a neighborhood called Garfield Park. I’ve never been to this part of the city, for good reason. Namely, I don’t want to get shot by a stray bullet. I pull up the URL and poke around in Street View.
The exact pin on the map takes me to what looks like a gravel-filled alleyway with a rusty blue Dumpster. That’s when my brain goes to a place I don’t want it to. Because there’s probably no better spot to score cheap, hard drugs than an alley like that.
The radio silence makes me more nervous than I care to admit. For as high as he’s already gotten, the fact that he’s not barreling down my door frantic for help getting clean in time to open Here tells me he may be in “Fuck the World” mode and on the prowl for more drugs. He’s a man of extremes and I have a hunch that the excess is what he’s after, no matter what it takes to get it.
However I may be feeling right now about my decision to ever get involved with a guy like Benji, I table it. I have to. This is not the time to beat myself up over following my heart. Because at the end of the day, I care about this man. And I refuse to believe this is it. For his sake, my sake, our sake and the sake of Here, I have to try and find him. ASAP.
With my phone still glued to my hip waiting for an SOS from Benji, I think of a quick and dirty plan that starts with a group text to Jazzy and Maya.
Brunch in the West Loop? Meet @ my place first?
Into it, replies Maya.
Same. Be there in 15, texts Jazzy.
Using the lure of some fancy eggs Benedict, I quickly begin picking up the other areas of my apartment. I recycle the empty wine bottles, put away the bleach and toss Benji’s knife roll under the bed. It collides with what sounds like a bottle of pills, so I reach my hand through a field of dust bunnies and pull out a clear, orange container. The label is mostly ripped off but from what I can still see clearly, it’s a prescription for Xanax made out to some guy named Anthony. No last name is legible before the adhesive behind the label starts to show.
I jolt at the knock at the door. Jazzy and Maya have announced themselves, so I tuck the bottle back under the bed and spring up to let them in, looking through the peephole to make double sure my visitors are who they say they are.
“I really love how we’re on a first-name basis with your doorman now,” Jazzy says as she makes her way into my unit wearing black yoga pants and an oversize flannel shirt.
“Yeah it’s pretty cool how we graduated to VIP status and don’t have to get called up anymore.” Maya follows her in, wearing almost exactly the same thing.
I noticed that, too, no call from the front desk. I need to make sure whoever’s working down there doesn’t grant the same access to Benji.
“Your burn is healing,” Maya says.
“What?” I ask.
“The burn, on your cheek, from your curling iron.”
“Oh, right.”
“It looks like it’s getting a little better.”
“Thanks, I’ve been icing it.”
“So where are we going for brunch? Did Benji get us a table at Rosalind’s? Ooh! Maybe we can tour Here after and say hi to him?” Jazzy asks.
“Jazz, we’re a little undressed for Rosalind’s, don’t ya think? And are you even ready to go, Allie? You look like you still need to jump in the shower,” Maya says.
I put a hand to my hair; my deflated topknot is lobbed over to the right side of my head and I’m still in the sweatshirt from yesterday. Hey, you try showering in a bathtub that most recently resembled a crack house and act like everything’s normal.
I quickly redo my bun so at least it’s centered on my head and reassure them I just need to change my shirt and put lipstick on.
“You drove, right, Jazzy?”
“Yup, and we found rock-star parking in front of your building. Must be all those good Catholic neighbors of yours who got up early for church this morning.”
“Perfect. Okay, so I know I said West Loop, but I was thinking we could try another neighborhood. Still west, just not the Loop.”
“Where you thinking?” asks Maya.
“Garfield Park.”
“You’re kidding, right?” snaps Jazzy, her eyes big.
“I was thinking...we can find some cute mom-and-pop place, eat the best greasy hash browns of our lives and then walk it all off as we do some shopping on Mag Mile later this afternoon. It’ll be fun!”
“Allie,” says Jazzy. “I’m all for trying a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but not if that means there will be a hole in my car door when we come back out after paying the bill.”
“Yeah, maybe just text Benji and see if he can get us a table at Rosalind’s. That sounds more our speed this morning,” Maya concurs.
This was not how it was supposed to go, and so I do nothing and I say nothing. I just stand there and think about how stupid it was to try to trick my friends into taking a leisurely ride to Garfield Park on a Sunday morning so while they look for parking, I could look for my missing, drugged-out boyfriend.
“Allie? Hellooo? Text Benji. Let’s get rolling,” Jazzy says, keys in hand.
“Guys. I have to tell you something but you have to promise not to tell anyone. And you can’t go calling my mom or some shit like that either.”
“What’s going on?” Maya asks with genuine concern.
“It’s Benji. He...had an accident.”
“What do you mean accident?” She digs further.
“He, um, he relapsed yesterday.” I practically vomit the word out but I can’t think of another way to say it while under so much pressure.
“I fucking knew he would.”
“Jazzy, don’t. Allie, are you sure?” Maya puts her hand on my shoulder. But what she doesn’t realize is I don’t need sympathy right now. I just need their help finding him.
“Yeah, I’m sure. But, the good news is, it was just a onetime thing. Even though it was pretty bad and his phone got stolen, he left his knife set here.”
“Okay, so he’s coming back.” Maya picks up what I’m throwing down.
“Exactly. But I was thinking, why wait when I have a pretty good idea of where he is?”
“And that’s Garfield Park?” Jazzy asks.
“Yeah. I checked the computer history and that’s the last place he looked up directions to.”
I kneel to grab the pills out from under the bed.
“And then there’s these. Xanax prescribed to someone named Anthony. So I was thinking, even if we don’t find Benji in Garfield Park, we could ask around for who sells pills, or if anyone knows who this Anthony guy is, and—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” Jazzy says. “Sorry for being the blunt one here, but am I the only one who doesn’t even want their DNA in this apartment right now? This is insane and you need to call the cops. Or his sponsor. Or someone.”
“No! No cops. And I don’t have his sponsor’s number—just his wife’s. And if I tell her what happened, she’ll just rub it in that she was right.”
“His sponsor’s wife warned you about this?” Jazzy asks.
“Sort of. But it doesn’t matter. I’m telling you, if we just go to Garfield Park—”
“Allie. Jazzy’s right. This is not your problem. It’s too big to be your problem. You need to turn this over to someone who’s equipped to handle it.”
Who could be more equipped than me?
“Here’s an idea,” Maya continues. “Why don’t we just stay here? We can grab bagels and Bloody Mary mix from downstairs and just hang out and chat and go up to your pool later. You know, a little Sunday Funday action. That way, you’re not alone when he comes home.”
“If,” Jazzy huffs. “If he comes home.”
“That sounds great,” I say. “And we can definitely do all that...after we take a quick, twenty-minute drive to Garfield Park. There and back, I promise. Please, Jazzy, can you just drive us?”
“Allie, someone’s stolen prescription for Xanax is in your apartment. Your boyfriend is missing. You want to take a leisurely drive to the most dangerous neighborhood in all of Chicago. What is going on with you? The answer is no.”
I need them to see this my way.
“Do you realize we could have him back in this apartment helping him sober up with some Gatorade and back massage in a matter of an hour? It’s really not that big of a deal. The first time this happened—”
“Whoa. Whoa. Wait. There was a first time?” Jazzy asks.
I forget I never told them—or anyone—about the night before he went to rehab.
“Yeah, but it was a long time ago...we weren’t even official yet. And it was different that time. Someone reached out to me because he was at his worst. But the good news is, no one’s reached out yet. So he can’t be too far off the deep end. We just need to leave. Now.”
“Absolutely not,” says Jazzy.
It’s time to throw out a Hail Mary.
“I thought you guys said you were done making judgments about my relationship. Can’t you just be a good friend? My boyfriend obviously needs our help and if you say no, and something happens to him...”
“Nice try making this our problem, Allie. But flash bulletin: we don’t owe anything to Benji. I’m sorry if that’s harsh, but I’m not going to sit here and let you try to convince me otherwise. Like there’s blood on my hands if I don’t drop you off in the ghetto right now. Take an Uber if you want to go so badly.”
I would, but I’m positive any sane driver will refuse the ride.
Maya stands in the hallway and looks at me with compassion.
“Maya, let’s go,” Jazzy says, heading for the door.
She doesn’t move. I can feel her turning. And so what if Jazzy leaves? Two sets of eyes are still better than one. My fingers are crossed in the pocket of my hoodie.
“I’m sorry, Allie. I can’t be a part of this.” Jazzy’s tone softens. “But if you change your mind and decide to stay back, let me know. I’ll meet you here with frozen yogurt, margaritas, Ryan Gosling movies, whatever you want. And we don’t have to talk about any of this. We can forget it even happened.”
“I’m not staying back,” I insist.
“Maya, please. Let’s go.”
I dead-bolt the door behind my closest friends. I cannot believe how badly this backfired. For the first time, I chose to be honest about the less-than-perfect side of my relationship and this is what I get? Total abandonment in a time of need? Fuck it. Fuck them.
I move on to Plan B and text Angela.
R U at the resto?
Always, she rapid-fires back. I’m grateful it seems she is never far from her phone.
Can I borrow ur car?
Silence. Ten seconds turns to twenty turns to thirty and beyond. I wait for a full, painstaking minute before she finally writes back.
Was chatting w/ a vendor. Yes. Come get key. C U soon.
For a moment, I’m shocked she said yes. We barely know each other and I offered no explanation of why I need it or where I’m going or when I’ll be back. Sure, Angela may consider lending me her whip the least she can do since I’ve forked over $30,000 so she could be “chatting w/ a vendor” this fine Sunday morning, but maybe she’s just loyal and kind. Unlike Jazzy and Maya right now.
I promptly take an Uber over to Here and, again without question, Angela lobs me her keys from a meeting she’s having in the dining room with someone from the construction crew. The place looks remarkably different, in a good way—no, a great way—though now is not the time to soak it all in. I mouth thanks and walk back out to her Jetta. As I adjust the mirrors and move the seat forward I think about how I cannot let her down. Because if I come back without Benji, it’s truth time. And that scares me.
Next thing I know, I’m cruising on I-90 West. I turn the radio off because what’s the soundtrack for something like this? Instead, I roll the window down just slightly and let the city air be the white noise as it stings my still-sensitive eye. A text from Angela buzzes in and I glance down at the screen on my phone, which is resting in the center console cup holder.
Having brunch w/ Benji? TELL HIM 2 CALL ME. Important!
I have no choice but to ignore her, which I know is the last thing she’d do to a text from me. Just give me a half hour, I think to myself. That’s all I need to find him, bring him to safety and get this Here stuff back on track. My relationship, too. But I’ll worry about that part later.
And, for the record, brunch with Benji sounds really good right about now.
A few minutes later, I exit the highway and I’m in a neighborhood that looks like it could be the set of The Wire. It’s probably a good thing Jazzy and Maya ditched out because when I look around, I don’t see much in the way of places to get a home-cooked meal. In fact, the only services I see are a dive bar with boarded-up windows and a Chinese restaurant that’s closed on Sundays. Everything else is just unmarked, brick, graffiti-laden warehouses and dilapidated flats that may or may not be infested with rats. I continue driving toward the pin I dropped on Google Maps, keeping my eyes peeled for the exact narrow, gravelly alley that Benji last looked up.
That’s when I spy two men sitting on the ground. It’s the beginning of September but they’re dressed for winter in dirty puffy jackets with a patchwork blanket over their laps. There’s a bucket of picked-apart fried chicken beside them. Their faces look like leather. The thought dawns on me to pull over and ask them if they’ve seen a guy with a bunch of tattoos sporting a man-bun, or maybe if one of them is “Anthony,” but as soon as I slow the Jetta, they both flash their crooked smiles, which chill me to the bone.
I speed away quickly, barely realizing I just blew a stop sign. A red Honda Civic slams on its brakes, lays on the horn and flips me the bird. I deserve it.
I’m freaked out, to say the least. I can’t believe that Benji would voluntarily come to a place like this. That he’d actually spend time researching where exactly to go for drugs in this hellhole, down to the verified Google Map result. This isn’t the Benji I know, the one who enjoys the safety of our cushy Lincoln Park digs. The one who never has to worry about opening the electric bill, or how our fridge stays stocked all the time, or how to get his dream restaurant funded. Benji lives the good life with me and I have to imagine he’d prefer to stay on the safe side. Has he really given it all up for this?
No matter the answer to that, I can’t give up so easily. Obviously Benji’s been in the area, which means there’s a good chance he might still be here now.
I drive around the block and suddenly see a guy walking alone about 200 yards ahead. Similar hooded sweatshirt, twentysomething...but definitely not Benji. Strangely enough, though, I’m calmed by the sight of someone who could be him.
I pick up speed to catch up with the man. Fifty yards ahead, he stops at the corner to wait for the light to change and takes out his phone. I slow down so as not to freak him out by coming in hot. I’ve got eight (...seven...six) seconds before the light changes, so I roll my window down in preparation to yell, “Excuse me!” in the most friendly, non-drive-by-shooting voice I can muster. But before I ever get a chance, another man appears from around the corner. The two touch palms and then carry on in opposite directions without so much as saying hello.
Was that what I think it was? A drug deal—in broad daylight—completed in half a second, right before my eyes?
It was stupid of me to come looking for Benji. When drugs are this easy to get, you don’t have to hang around here. You can come and go as you please. You can send an eager sous to do it for you. You can roll up in a taxi and not even stop the meter. You can be in and out and on your way in less than a minute.
Reality slaps me in the face. But there’s one thing left to check before I can be fully convinced the theme of the morning has officially gone from hopeful to futile.
I survey my immediate surroundings to make sure I’m safe and put Angela’s car in Park with the flashers on. I pull up my text string with Benji and access the photos we’ve sent each other. I scroll to the NA key chain picture he sent me the other day and save it to my camera roll, then drop it into a reverse Google image search and press “go.”
My newest worst nightmare comes true. The photo traces back to a Narcotics Anonymous website for a chapter in Philadelphia. It’s a photo they have featured on their About Us page. The site hasn’t been updated since 2009, meaning that key chain never belonged to Benji and he certainly didn’t take the picture of it.
The master manipulator has struck again and I’m the dumb bitch who fell for it. In my gut, I know the truth. Benji is gone.