Free Sick City by Tony O'Neill

this shit. I haven’t touched a drink in fourteen years, and I feel better than ever.”
    Randal laughed sadly to himself. He walked slowly over to the window.
    â€œI like this place,” he said softly. “They don’t treat you so bad in here. I could make a go of this if they’d let me move in permanently. Give me my meds three times a day; let me watch the Tyra Banks Show . Thing is, that bitch is a whole lot more bearable when you’re on medication, you know?”
    â€œRandal, I’m just telling you—if you can’t keep it together this time, then you’re out. You’re on your own. The family can no longer support you. We’ve done all we can do. We have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to help you, but you won’t even meet us halfway.”
    â€œI know . . . I know. Look, I want you to know that I wouldn’t be doing this if . . . if I had any choice in the matter. I’m not in control of this anymore. I’m struggling, bro. I’m struggling.”
    Harvey smiled, coldly. “I know. And I’ve heard this from you before. I’ve seen sorry-ass Randal, just like I’ve seen don’t-give-a-fuck Randal. If you want me to believe that things will be different, then take this program seriously. We cleaned out your apartment, because when you come out of here, you’re moving in with me. I’m gonna personally monitor your recovery.”
    â€œOh, come on!”
    â€œYou don’t have a choice. You live under my roof, you stay close to the family, or you go your own way. I’m not having everything my father worked for pissed away by a selfish fuckup like you.”
    Harvey stood and walked over to his brother.
    â€œI can help you. Just let me.”
    Randal shrugged. He looked out the window again. Harvey didn’t move.
    â€œIf you’re waiting for a hug, or some fucking thing, you’re out of luck,” Randal snapped after a few awkward moments.
    â€œWhatever, bro. Your clothes are in the suitcase. I guess I’ll see you on visiting day.”
    â€œDon’t bother. I don’t wanna see anyone right now.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    When Randal was moved to population he was taken over to the main building by Jay, another one of the long-term patients. Jay was an enormous Mexican. He walked with a limp, and had an “LA” tattoo on his cheek. He didn’t go in much for small talk. The lobby was bright and stark, a kind of faux Frank Lloyd Wright glass structure. Once you made it to the dormitories, the surroundings were slightly less palatial. He was taken by elevator to the third floor. They walked a little down the corridor, stopped outside of a room, and knocked. From the other side, the sound of reggae music was reverberating. The door opened, and a tall, skinny white kid stood there, with tiny little dreadlocks sticking out at angles from his head.
    â€œLevi,” the kid said, slapping Randal on the palm when he held out his hand. “Respect, mon.”
    Randal’s new roommate was Levi Stanson, a twenty-year-old heroin dealer, in for an addiction to the same substance that he once sold. He wore a baggy T-shirt with an image of a lion wearing a crown, and spoke with an accent that was some strange bastardization of Jamaican patois. When Jay split, Randal was left with this kid, who was blasting his music on an expensive-looking stereo system and dancing around the room examining a sheet of paper.
    Randal said, “What you listening to?”
    â€œYah man, it a Dennis Brown selection, init?” Levi said, with an easy grin. “Ah say one. You into da reggae?”
    â€œI don’t know much about it.”
    â€œAh Dennis Brown, ’im a bad bwoy. Check it doh—dis ’ere is my sound system. I listen to reggae, yeah? If you ain’t down wit’ dat, you better get some earplugs, init?”
    â€œI don’t care about