Drug of choice
How to tell if you're an addict.
“Hello, my name is Bob,” he said when it was his turn to shine. “And I’m an addict.”
“Hiiii Bob,” we chimed back.
Then he launched straight in.
“Last Thursday was payday, so I went to the motel on Lundy’s Lane,” he began. “You know the cheap ones on the strip. I met a girl there. I already gave the wife an excuse — I was out with the guys. I brought a half-ball of hard. You should have seen that rock—”
“Oh,” the meeting facilitator cut in. “Let’s try not to mention it by name. It may trigger others who are listening tonight.”
It was already too late. Bob had only just begun, and he was in full command of the room. We leaned in.
“Okay, okay, sorry… drug of choice,” he mumbled through a thicket of spit‑stained beard. “Anyway, we’re smoking our drug of choice in the room when the smoke detector goes off. And I don’t know about you, but when you’re doing… my drug of choice… in a cheap motel with a crack wh— I mean, a woman who also smokes your drug of choice, and the alarm goes off? It’s full‑blown panic. She drops her pipe. It shatters. And we just run around like chickens with our heads cut off.”
I felt sweat bead along my neck. Tiny hairs at full attention.
“Anyway, I yank out the battery. Then I poke my head out the door to make sure it’s clear. I guess it didn’t matter. Everyone at that motel smokes their drug of choice…”
Here Bob faltered. He twirled his beard, looked around wide‑eyed — as if suddenly unsure what he was doing in this fluorescent room, with all of us staring so intently. Come on, Bob. Don’t let us down.
Only the kindly counsellor seemed anxious. She probably knew Bob was about to make a magnificent mess of things. Her smile clung to her face like a sticker on a banana. Evening meetings must be murder for underpaid drug counsellors. She’d probably heard this story a hundred times. She knew exactly where it ended.
At last, Bob drew a breath and continued. “So when the dust settles and we clean up the glass with our hands, I realize the drug of choice is missing. Not the little chunk by the bed — the big piece on the coffee table.”
Everyone nodded at once. Someone erupted into a long “Uhhhh‑huh.”
“He got robbed,” someone hollered. “Rinsed!” called another.
“Please,” the facilitator begged. “Let’s not talk over each other.”
Bob raised both hands. Silence.
“Well, I asked her if she accidentally took my drug of choice. It was right there on the coffee table — a huge piece.”
Fool.
“Then things go sideways. She starts freaking out, yelling she’s not a thief. Keep your voice down, I said. She just keeps hollering about how she doesn’t steal.”
The facilitator’s smile was finally calling it a day. She glanced at the clock while I stared at the colourful crayon art covering the walls. Why decorate a recovery meeting like a kindergarten? It didn’t matter. Horrified and enthralled, we were all on the same voyage to the heart of Bobness.
“She’s already got her shoes on. My rock — or drug of choice — in her pocket. And she’s going out the door. But fuck it, I thought—”
“Language, please,” our host interrupted.
A river ran down my neck and spine. But I wasn’t getting off this boat for anything.
“I let her leave because I didn’t give a sh— darn. I was just gonna call my dealer and get an even bigger piece delivered. No drama that way.
“But a second after she slams the door, I realize my phone’s gone. Wallet too. I run out the door and catch the — the girl — on the sidewalk. She doesn’t know nothing about my wallet. It’s broad daylight and she’s making a real scene. Then she turns to go and I grab her wrist. I can’t let you go with my wallet, I tell her. And boy, does she ever scream. She shakes and cusses but I won’t let go. Then she punches me right in the mouth.”
“See that there?” Bob asked, pulling his button lip down so we could inspect a tiny swell of reddened flesh. The room issued a collective “ooh.” Bob released his lip, satisfied.
“It looks like we’re running out of time,” the facilitator pleaded.
The room groaned. “Let him finish!”
“I’ll wrap it up quick,” Bob said, bowing to popular demand. “So one thing leads to another. We wrestle — she’s strong. We get tangled and fall half into the street. Next thing I know, there’s another set of hands on me, pulling me up hard. It’s a cop. You know what that mother—”
“Bob…” the counsellor warned.
“Sorry… anyway, I already had a warrant. So I’m hauled off. Straight to the station. I don’t know what they did with her. But she had my wallet, all my ID. And it wasn’t even that. What really bothered me was the way they treated me. They put the cuffs on real tight. They laughed at me all the way to the cop shop. They called me a… you know… a drug‑of‑choice‑head.”
“Sorry, I’m going to have to stop you, Bob.”
“What did I say?”
But he knew. We all did. He’d broken a cardinal rule: glamorizing drug use. Somewhere along the way, we’d stopped hearing a story about lies, theft, violence, and arrest. We’d started rooting for him.
Outsiders have a hard time understanding this part.
What’s glamorous about lying to your wife, spending your paycheck on — drug of choice — getting robbed, degraded, abused, and arrested?
If you still think the answer is obvious…
congratulations.
You’re not a drug addict.