Drunken Phone Calls at 2 AM

I got a phone call at 2 AM. The first thing that went through my mind was that something bad had happened in my family or someone was violently ill and had to go to the hospital. I picked up the phone and a slurred and drunken voice responded. It was my once friend Chad.

I and Chad were the best of friends in high school. He was straight laced, never drank, and was a good student. Somewhere down the line he took a wrong turn and things got bad. He now lives in this beat up old trailer home and can barely pay his rent and utilities. He can never keep a job for long and bounces from one to the other. Because of my own experiences with drinking and addiction I avoid him as he is a bad influence and will not clean himself up.

“I need you to come over, man,” He said as he slurred his words. “I don’t think I can take it anymore.”

“Chad, it is two fucking AM in the morning dude,” I said sternly.

“Man, I think I am going to kill myself and momma wouldn’t answer the phone,” He replied.

“Okay, let me put on some clothes and I will be right over,” I replied.

He only lives a 5 minute drive from me. I pulled on some shorts and put on a t-shirt. I got in the car and drove over and knocked on his door. He let me in. The place was a wreck. There were beer cans and liquor bottles everywhere. The kitchen sink was pilled high with dishes and there was trash everywhere; the place reeked of stale cigarettes, alcohol, and rotting food. I cleared some junk off of a chair and sat down.

“What is going on man?” I asked.

“I am tired of being poor and things never going right with me,” He replied.

I picked up an empty bottle of vodka and showed it to him.

“Chad, this is your problem,” I said. “This is why you are poor and why things never go right. I know. I was once a drunk as well.”

“Fuck you man,” He said. “You don’t know shit. I ain’t a drunk.”

I got up out of the chair and started to walk to the door.

“You called me for help dude. If you don’t want it then I am going home,” I replied.

“No wait,” He said. “I am sorry. What can I do?’
I wrote down my psychiatrist’s number on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

“Call her tomorrow and she will get you into BIT (brief intensive treatment),” I said. “You only have to pay what you can afford. It is based on your income.”

“Do you think they can help me?” He asked as he lit another cigarette.

“Chad, only you can do that,” I replied. “They can just help you help yourself. They will help you sober up and get you a few weeks of sobriety under your belt before you are released.”

With that, I bid him farewell. I got in my car and drove home. Now, I cannot sleep and it is 4:30 AM in the morning. I am so wired that I will never get back to sleep again.