He woke up at 6:30 in the morning,unable to bear twisting and turning feverishly on the harsh cotton bed sheets any longer. Slowly sitting at the foot of the bed, James placed his feet inside the black slippers while tearing at his allergy-ridden eyes, trying to rub out all the crust so he could see clearly–well, physically see clearly, anyway.
His eyes sufficiently red and puffy, he walked over to the curtains blocking the sun rays from entering the small room. Quickly, he pulled the curtains aside, letting the natural light flood in light up every nook and cranny. Staring out the window, James saw the flood of paparazzi and media snapping pictures and taking video while a throng of Hollywood police officers attempted to keep them contained, like horses locked in before a race.
James had to admit–he hadn’t missed the constant attention before being forced by the courts into rehab for 60 days. Following his every move, knowing where he’d be before he even got to a location, repeatedly asking the same questions … he’d absolutely had it.
Everything came to a head after he found out his wife was extorting money and cheating on him with multiple “men”–and brought one of her trysts to the funeral of James’ parents. That’s when he really flew into a drunken, prescription pill-laden rage. James burst through the crowd and threw his wife’s date to the front of the altar, screaming and pounding on him until he couldn’t feel his bones giving resistance anymore. In one last act of rage, James picked up the now limp, unconscious adulteree and threw him against the giant crucifix hanging behind the altar–knocking the cross to the floor. The adulteree, Kyle, was still in the hospital as far as James knew.
James clenched his fists at the thoughts and silently rapped them against the window, drawing more flashbulbs from the paparazzi. Sixty days of rehab and paying medical costs were a lot better than jail time to most people. For James, being cut off from the outside world and in the process his inner circle was worse than any other punishment the justice system could have doled out. With his parents gone and not being able to see his true friends, James had never felt more alone in his life. He would never touch booze or pills again–the 60-day detox cured him of that. But would the pain and anger ever subside? The feeling of complete worthlessness? That’s something Dr. Drew could never cure with isolation and light conversation.
“I suppose I’ll never really find out ’til I’m back out there,” James confessed to the window before turning away and walking over to the nightstand.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling the smoke over the blinking intercom system, indicating there was a message from the front office. “James, be ready for Rob to pick you up at your room at 7:30 a.m. You’ll have a few minutes to gather your things and then you’ll leave through the front. The only way to face your fears and beat addiction …”
“Is to face your fears head on,” James finished from memory, holding his middle finger on the erase button.
Quickly stubbing out what was left of his smoke, he threw all ofhis personal effects into a bag and washed up–as it was only another 10 minutes before Rob would be up to see him.
In between splashing his bearded face with cold spurts of water, James was afraid of seeing Rob. There was literally no one left on the Earth who James really cared about–and he had let him down. Hiding the pills, the gin, the problems–he had shut out the only person who had his best interests at heart.
As James toweled his face dry, he heard a hard knock at his metal reinforced door. “James, Rob is here for you–answer the door now,” the new, overly enthusiastic orderly barked.
James took a deep breath, walked to the door and opened it. He saw Rob standing before him, rocking back and forth on his heels and peering at James. “Hey,” Rob said, as James stepped aside the doorway. “You look great! You’ve lost like 15 pounds! Fuck, I need rehab.”
They both laughed, and immediately all of the anxiety left the room with the new orderly. They embraced, and James was finally able to really let go as he started crying on Rob’s shoulder. “It’s been a long two months,” James said between sobs.
“Tell me about it,” Rob said. After ending their embrace, they closed the door and sat down to talk.
“You ready to go back out there?” Rob asked, nodding disapprovingly at the pack of Marlboro Reds lying on the table in between him and James.
“I don’t know … I … just don’t know,” James sighed, running his fingers through his now way-too-shaggy hair. “I’m sick of California. I’m sick of who I’ve become. I just want to start fresh–I don’t want to be talking to anyone right now.”
“I figured as much,” Rob said, taking out some papers to show James. “I’m moving our operations back to Tennessee–you’ve got one hell of a story to tell.”
James looked at him quizzically. “Who’s going to want to read a book from a recovering addict? I’m not James Frey for Godssakes,” he muttered, taking the pack of Marlboros out of Rob’s hands.
“Really? So the fucking Christian Family Coalition or whatever they are denounced you … even though you donated $1 million to their projects. Ever since they put you in rehab, your sales have skyrocketed. If you’ve truly turned it around, people want to hear you. You’ve got to get it out of you, otherwise you’ll hate yourself forever, and I’m not letting you do that!” Rob exclaimed.
James thumbed through all the figures Rob gave him. It was true; in the past two months DVD sales from his movie Run With Metripled, and loyalties for the novel with the same title (predating the movie) doubled. “But I don’t want to be one of those people who profit off of pain and misery, you know?” James asked.
“No one–well, no one with a brain–looks at it like that,” Rob replied quickly. He wanted James to realize that this isn’t just about dollars and cents, though he could use them after all of the legal ramnifications he’s had in the last couple of months. This is to save James from himself, because Rob knew better than anyone else that James had to get it out, whether on paper, on film, through sobs, viral Internet, or to himself–it had to come out. Otherwise he would never truly recover.
“Look, James, you’ve been through more in the last few months than anyone should ever have to endure–but it will only make you a stronger person,” he said, holding a lighter to James’ cigarette.
James rubbed some tears from his eyes and put on his dark sunglasses. “Good idea,” Rob chimed in. “Your allergy eyes make you look blazed–not a good look for you stepping out of rehab.”
James put on his leather bomber jacket and black leather boots–slinging his bag over his right shoulder, he rose to his feet, walked with Rob, and left the room he had called home for the past 60 days. “So,” James said softly, “We headed straight to Tennessee?”
“Yep–car’s gassed up, and packed with what you’ll need, which isn’t much,” Rob said. “A few cartons of cigarettes, clothes, your laptop, and cell phone. You should be good.”
James allowed a small smile at that remark before putting on a stone face to meet the throng of press outside. He was still extremely nervous. Could he recover? Would he relapse? Would he let the anger go again, like he did three years earlier?
Stepping out of the facility and onto the hot California pavement, his incessant internal questioning matched that of the press. They knew no bounds.
“Are you cured? Do you feel any remorse? What have you learned? Was this outburst intention for your sales to improve? Do you think you’ll ever want to be a father again after your wife had an abortion and told you it was a miscarraige? Do you think your dead parents are ashamed at the man you’ve become?”
Rob swept James away after the last question, pulling him off of the sidewalk and into their Lexus which was idling in the parking lot. Finally, Ryan Seacrest yelled out, “What are you doing next??”
James rolled down the window and stared coldly through his avaiators, dangling another lit cigarette between his fingers. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see–or hear from–James Blackistone. I’ll be back. Doubt me? You’ll be fucking sorry,” James declared as he rolled up the window and Rob peeled out onto Sunset Boulevard.
As James stared out at all the fake wann-be stars and hopelessly destitute, he realized that he had alreday risen above the white noise once. He had been stuck in a string of hard luck and monumental life failures. But, he made it. And something told him that he would again. Maybe it was the spirit of his parents, but James just couldn’t put his finger on it. He would do it, nonetheless–for Rob, for Mom, for Dad, for God–nothing else at that moment mattered to him. It was like someone had taken James and shaken him loose of all the other clutter. He had only one word running through his head, just like three years ago when he broke out onto the scene. Three years ago, it was vindication.
Now, it’s redemption.
Rob knew without having to say a word. “To redemption,” Rob said looking over at James.
“To redemption,” James said with a large grin, shaking Rob’s hand and closing his eyes, his mind racing to start putting the award-winning pieces of his life back together.
