The Sponsor

Fred

Fred lolled in the top bunk of the double-decker bed in the rehab facility, her mother had printed the images to give him a sense of motivation. He looked at his father's G550, his office, the hotels he slept in and he almost drooled on himself.

He had been chasing after a life of status, luxury, and notoriety when it had been right under his nose the entire time. Today he would put up a world class performance. Today was the day he would get pumped all the way to green, he decided.

He jumped out of bed, brushed his teeth, had a shower, dressed in his red overalls and popped the mints that were supposed to ease his addiction. The migraine was ebbing but it was still there.

He headed for breakfast. Addicts were trickling in slowly. He picked up a plate and scooped up a sunny side up egg, bacon, French beans and a glass of juice and sat in a table with two women and one chap. They were busy chattering about what they would do ones they got out of the facility.

"The first thing I will do is get a good fuck," the chick in a grey overall was saying. She had a face that had been beautiful ones and limbs like a transformer.

"Tell me about it," her friend chimed in. She was lean in blue overalls. The scene created a picture of David and Goliath.

"What about you," the chap in white overalls said looking Fred straight in the eye.

"Me? Travel, I guess," he stammered the first thing that came to his mind. He couldn't remember a time he had sex without an adult website or magazine being involved. In fact the conversation was making him feel quite sick.

He picked his glass and half eaten plate of egg and French beans and took them to the counter and then streamed to the first session. This time he decided he would talk. Like a radio with new batteries and he did talk. He told them how he started with cigarettes, then whisky, to khat, bhang and finally graduated to powder. They listened and nodded. And then he shared the green rod to the next person.

His afternoon session with his counselor was also a confession. He talked about how drugs had ruined his music career, how they were standing in his way with women, with his family. He vowed to do everything to come out of it.

The counselor showed his approval with a grim smile. 

"Acceptance is the first step to recovery,' he said and wrote something on his notepad. "I will see you again tomorrow."

That evening when he went to his locker he did not have different overalls but he had a recharged feeling. For the first time in a long time he felt that he could beat this. He felt he could make something of himself.