Pill Bragger

JW, I soon came to realize, was really good at two things: Complaining and bragging.

He was a pill guy, and liked to boast about how he learned how to work a bunch of doctors. “It’s not tough, they’re crooks.”

White guy, about 6-1, bright blue eyes but a long, sad face. A little on the chubby side, never seemed to help with the group cooking – but never missed a meal. Maybe he thought telling stories was his way of pulling his weight …

He sure told me a lot. About how he got into pills because of all the surgeries he had, car wrecks and getting shot three times. “But the ones who shot me, they’re not shootin’ anymore.”

He’s from Baltimore, and hinted about shooting black guys who tried to come into his white neighborhood when the unarmed-black-guy-shot-by-white-cop riots hit. “I told my neighbors, ‘Don’t let them in here, if you do it’s all over.’”

Another time, he told me about how he used to be a Marine, and (of course) was a crack shot. He was the oldest in his squad, and led his young soldiers into battle in Iraq. “This was against the National Guard, they knew what they were doing – they didn’t run away.”

Some kind of shoulder-launched rocket got fired at them, and everyone panicked. But not JW. “I went to a knee and started firing, one by one.”

He blasted eight of them in the head, the rest ran away.

It sounded like a movie I had seen, but I didn’t say anything. I just asked if they gave him a medal. “Bronze star.”

One morning I came on shift, and JW was on the UA list. He was already awake, and I told him. He threw up his hands in despair. “I told you guys you need to tell me in advance – I just whizzed my balls out.” For the next two hours, I kept gently encouraging him, and he kept complaining. “I drank coffee, two sodas and a water – I hate that bloated feeling. And I still don’t have to go.”

I told him he had to at least try so I could tell my supervisors. So we went into the bathroom, I handed him the cup, and after trying (or pretending to) for a minute, he handed it back – empty. “Told you I didn’t have to go.”

He finally did, a couple hours and dozens of complaints later. “I don’t know why they make me do this, you know how many times I’ve been in rehab? Never had a dirty UA. What’s the point?”

Another time, he told me how smart his middle kid is. She’s in a private high school, very exclusive place, getting a 4.89 GPA. Yale is recruiting her. She doesn’t even have to be told, after school goes to her room and does her homework until 3 in the morning.

Probably has a 170 or so IQ. JW has a 155 IQ, he told me.

HIs oldest girl is really smart, too, but didn’t really try. “She was more into the guys.” He came home one day and caught her having sex.

“I told her, ‘Don’t you ever fuck a guy in my house again.’”

They used to be really tight, but that pretty much soured their relationship, he said. She moved out, and he hadn’t heard from her for a long time.

Then, just before he got to rehab, he got a text from her. Two words: “Fuck you.”

 

After a week, his case managers and insurance wanted the usual route: PHP. He wasn’t having any of it. “I know all that shit. I know what I need to do to stay sober.” At a group meeting, he told the other residents the psychiatrist asked him why he didn’t want to go to PHP. “I don’t want to be the one everyone’s lookin’ at. I don’t want to be the fat virgin.”

He got a completion for residential, but bailed out of going to PHP. I was in the tech office when he asked to call his wife, to set up a plane ticket. He started talking in a calm voice about how he was coming home, but then got surly and defensive. A case manager walked in, and JW handed the phone to him. “She says I’m sabotaging so I can get out of here. I told her I’ve done everything you asked me to.”

She hung up on the case manager. He called back; she didn’t answer, and he left a message saying he needed her to get the ticket, he would do it for her.

After he got off the phone, he was pissed. He kept his voice low, as usual, but told me, “She better get me a plane ticket. But if she don’t, I’ll call my buddy to get it. And then I’ll go home and kick in the door and say, ‘Guess who’s home?’”

Reminded me of another movie …