Mark

One time I told Mark, “If I ever had a body in my trunk, I’d call you”.

He gave me a serious look and said, “That would be a smart move on your part”.

He had a hard childhood. His mother was a drug addict who would leave him and his younger brother alone for weeks on end in motel rooms. No food. No money. They would have to fend for themselves. They were 8 and 6 years old.

He would bounce around from foster home to foster home. At one such place the foster parents would invite their friends over and have the kids fight each other in a gladiator style tournament. The adults would drink and bet money on each fight.

He said he was once in “a good one”. A wealthy older woman ran it. She was kind and loved Mark. He loved her. She offered to adopt him but when she said she couldn’t also adopt his younger brother, Mark passed. He was 12 years old.

By age 20 Mark started going to prison. His longest stint was 5 years. He told me he would tell newcomers to the prison, “You’re gonna have to either fuck or fight in here… and you’ll probably end up doing both”.

Mark was 31 years old and had over a year sober when he started working at the rehab. He was at the end of a state run program for ex prisoners to integrate back into society.

He was hard working, smart, and funny as hell. And he was damn good at his job.

One day, I got into work and the program director and clinical director wanted to meet with me to discuss a patient named Peter. Peter was an odd depressive 24 year old who wouldn’t get out of bed and was either asleep or reading one of his hundred anime books. He had multiple suicide attempts and wouldn’t speak to anyone.

Admin wanted to know if I could attempt to coax him out of his bed and into a shower. The goal being self care. They said they would also love it if I could possibly get him to interact with the other clients for 5 minutes or so but weren’t holding out much hope. They told me to “be gentle”.

I left the meeting and walked to Peter’s room, going over what I might say to this poor kid. When I opened the door Mark was standing over his bed shouting at him…

“You’re gonna get up. You’re gonna take a shower. You’re gonna eat and then you’re gonna go out to the patio and spend an hour talking to these other assholes. And if you don’t, I’m gonna set fire to all these stupid fucking anime books! Got it?”

Before I could say anything Peter was getting out of bed and grabbing a towel for his shower…. He did what Mark said that night. And he got better from that day on. Not great, but better. And the only one Peter trusted and would open up to was Mark. Not the program director. Not the clinical director. Not the psychiatrist. Not his counselor. Not me. Mark.

He was early every day, loved his job, and loved his life. He eventually got a car and an apartment. When I’d ask him how he was doing he’d say, “I can’t fucking believe how good I’m doing!”

Mark’s mother and brother continued to use drugs but now looked at their family member as an inspiration. Something they may attain one day. Someone they might become. He was an example of sobriety and how it was possible to change your life.

One night we found 200 dollars worth of crack on a new intake. There is a whole procedure to document and destroy contraband. And it must be followed to the letter with 3 staff present at all times.

While the third member of the staff was filling out the proper forms, Mark was holding the destruction bin that I was meant to drop the bag of crack into. Instead, as a joke, I stuffed the baggie into my jacket pocket, looked up at Mark, and said loudly enough that the other staff could hear, “You got it all in there”? Mark, without flinching, said, “Yep. It’s all destroyed” and headed out of the room.

“Wait!” I called after him. I took the contraband out of my pocket and placed it in the destruction bin.

“I was just kidding!!”

“Oh” Mark replied.

Mark didn’t think it was up to him to keep me sober. And whether or not I was, it wasn’t going to change the way he felt about me. I was his friend. No matter what choices I made. And he wasn’t going to give me up. The CIA could’ve tortured Mark during interrogation and he never would’ve said a fucking word. Now, ain’t that love?

Mark got Covid during the first year of the pandemic. He eventually went to the hospital and was put on a ventilator. He spent weeks in a medically induced coma. I visited him, held his hand, and told him I loved him. But he couldn’t hear me. Six days later he was dead.

The staff was devastated but after some time the cruelest thing of all happened. As it always does. Life went on.

But I’ll tell you this, the rehab has never been as good as it was with Mark in it.

And now, every day, I’m surrounded by people who I look at and think, why couldn’t it have been you instead?

A horrible, cruel thought, I know.

But, still… a valid question.