Detox (Part 2)
(Read Part 1 here)

I'm quiet when my mother and father pick me up. I know I should keep my mouth shut (I have a tendency to say things I wouldn't normally when I've been drinking, especially for five+ days straight). Fort Macleod Detox Centre is 40 minutes away from Lethbridge, in a tiny town mostly known for its turn of the century architecture, which was used as the town in Brokeback Mountain.

As we drive out of the valley of coulees and onto the flat, treeless prairies, farmland takes over. Monotony is broken only by occasional patches of cows. Restless skies of swirling clouds provide the only drama to the landscape. Fort Macleod, in the near distance, has a fairly well known musical theatre where I watched friends from art school perform during the summer season. But this time I wasn't going to Fort Macleod for superficial entertainment.

I have no idea what to expect from a detox centre. The only images that come to mind are from Hollywood. It's where street people are thrown when the cops pick them up, passed out on the street. Rough, nasty, mean and brain-damaged red-necks going through delerium tremens. It's not a place where well educated, well spoken, well dressed gay men go after a binge. I'm still wearing the black dress pants and black long sleeved leatherette shirt from a few days ago – I'm sure I stink like booze and tobacco, although I think I look alright. But in the motel bathroom mirror my skin colour looked strange – it almost appears as though I have an orange spray-on tan.*

Although I'm quiet, my brain is on speed. Several lines of thought run through my mind, simultaneously . I can feel my heart beating irregularly. Fortunately I'm still drunk enough that panic isn't overwhelming me. I run through possible scenarios in my mind: "What if one of the drunks in there starts calling me a fag, or gets physically abusive with me?" I'm not the most masculine guy you've ever met, but I haven't been bothered by anyone since high school with taunting and teasing. I'm definitely not a fighter, but if pushed I'd be willing to throw myself into kicking the shit out of a guy. I'd probably lose, but I refuse to get pushed around.

"I'm doing the right thing, aren't I?" I ask my parents, looking for a much needed 'pep talk.'

"Yes, yes," they say, encouragingly, their heads bobbing up and down in unison, with comforting grins.

We pull up to a non-descript, tiny looking, one level brown house with a gravel driveway. “We're here already? This is it?” I ask.

"Yes," they say, already out of the car and emptying the trunk of my luggage.

As soon as I stand up, I feel more drunk. Giddy drunk. I stumble four steps backward. Maybe the several ounces of rye I drank before leaving are finally hitting my blood stream. As they press the buzzer at the front door to admit me, I begin acting silly, trying to make my parents laugh.

"Well, this sure isn't Betty Ford, that's for sure." The 1970s shit-brown paint peels from the exterior wood paneling, and a tumbleweed rotates down the unpaved driveway and dandelion landscaped yard. "Here I go, into the observation room…." I said, mock-grimacing, trying to make light of this nightmarish scenario.

A stocky native woman in her mid-thirties opens the locked front door, and welcomes us. My parents take over for me, explaining things to her. As we walk down a linoleum hallway to the office, I peek into one of the rooms and see a dormitory of about 20 beds, side-by-side, each with horrifically mismatched bedding. Brown hand-knitted comforters with patchwork quilts of many colours lie on top of white, pink, blue and beige sheets. Banged up, hospital-green gym lockers line the opposite wall. I'm aesthetically horrified, and knowing my mother would be too, I grab her arm and said, "You've got to see this…" with an exaggerated sense of horror and playfulness.

She looks in the room, and suppresses her desire to make a face. “Oh my,” is all she says, and I laugh.

We sit in metal chairs in a small office, with a large window that looks into the observation room – the "dry-out" room where I'm about to spend the next 24 hours before being allowed the 'comforts' of the dormitory. Thin mats with a blanket are provided, but privacy is kept to a minimum - even the washroom door has been removed.
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*Alcoholics often have an orange or yellow toned skin colour because liver function is compromised by excessive and toxic levels of alcohol in the blood system for ongoing periods.

To be continued...