Pat Cadigan -Is There Life After Rehab

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SCI FICTION | Is there Life After Rehab?

Is There Life After Rehab?

Pat Cadigan

Oral sex and only oral sex," said a woman's voice somewhere on my right. "Forget beef consommé,

forget gravy, forget any of that shit. It's got to be oral sex or nothing."

Now that's one hell of a conversation to wake up in the middle of, I thought, trying to open my eyes. I

was slumped on a sofa in some dimly lit place that smelled like a bar. Had to be one of those cocktail

lounges that were springing up around the city of late. Trends, eh? You never know what's going to be

chic next. Or even chicy/Mickey, as we used to say back when the Berlin Wall was coming down.

Pronounced sheeky-meeky, it meant something was both trés chic and Mickey Mouse all at once. Can't

tell you who came up with that one, but I can tell you that I find myself using it now more than ever,

even though no one knows what the hell I'm talking about.

"But wasn't that rather, uh, awkward?" asked a different woman, on my left. I struggled to raise my

drooping head. With my eyelids fluttering, I could only see what looked like a malfunctioning filmstrip

of my own lap and part of two others on either side, both of which were far better dressed than mine.

"That's the understatement of the decade," said the woman on my right. I must have passed out during a

less interesting conversation, I decided, and my rudeness had driven away whomever had been sitting

next to me. Then these two had taken their places. I just hoped they didn't think me rude for waking up

uninvited. "But that wasn't the worst part," the woman on my right went on. "You know what the worst

part was? Nobody appreciated it."

Left: "You're kidding."

Right: "I don't kid about things like oral sex. If I'm lyin', I'm dyin', to borrow a saying from you-know-

who."

Both sides laughed together. Obviously, they knew who. I didn't.

Right: "Nobody appreciated it, not one little bit. Not my boyfriend, not my other boyfriend, not my

other other boyfriend—hell, not even my husband."

Left: "Okay, now I'm shocked."

Right: "Not any more than I was. A husband who doesn't appreciate regular blow jobs? How fucked up

is that?"

Left: "Fucked up doesn't even begin to cover it. If it had been me, I'd have been looking around for the

other three horsemen."

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SCI FICTION | Is there Life After Rehab?

Right: "Damned fucking-A right you would have. And I bet they'd have appreciated getting some

action." I felt a hard nudge in my ribs. "How about you? What do you think?"

"I don't know," I slurred, or I think I slurred, as I tried to focus on her. "I've never tried to blow a

harbinger of the apocalypse."

Both women laughed heartily, and one of them gave me an even heartier slap on the back. "Hey, Grace,"

called the one on the right. "Your friend came to. You maybe want to get her some coffee?"

Someone grabbed my wrists and hauled me to my feet. "Glad to see you're back among the living. If

you'll pardon the expression." Lots more hearty laughter as the same someone took my chin between

finger and thumb and lifted my head. I found myself staring into the flawless, near-ebony features of my

new best friend, Grace Something-Or-Other. Sweeney? Swanson? Swanwick?

"Do you remember where you are, Lily?" she asked me.

"You're assuming I knew to begin with," I said by way of stalling. Things were coming back to me in

bits and pieces. Grace Stone. Her name was Grace Stone, and she had brought me here, which made her

the best and only friend I had in this vicinity. "I don't think you ever actually told me where we were

going, just that it was a friendly after-hours club that liked to get started early."

Grace smiled, looking pleased with me. "So you do remember coming here?"

"Not exactly. I remember that we came here, but I can't even imagine how I was still capable of walking

after all those Bloody Marys. You didn't carry me, did you?"

Considering that she was almost a head taller than I was and, though not bulky, definitely more muscled,

I didn't think it was such an absurd question. But it made her throw back her head and roar with laughter.

"No, I'm not possessed of that kind of extraordinary strength. At the moment," she added, barely under

her breath. "Do you remember how you got this, uh, inebriated?"

I tried to think, but strangely, all that came to me was a vague image of someone wearing a white dress

shirt and a bow tie putting what seemed to be an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth.

"Did I get CPR from a bartender?" I asked finally.

Grace laughed again. "No, but you did get AWOL."

I had to replay that one a couple of times, and even then I wasn't sure I'd heard her right. "I thought it

was 'go AWOL,' and only if you were in the military." My head wavered between aching and exploding.

"Please don't tell me I enlisted."

"No, you're still a civilian. In more ways than one." She started walking me slowly through the room.

"You can get AWOL when AWOL stands for 'Alcohol Without Liquid.' I didn't realize you'd never had

the pleasure. Otherwise I'd have ordered you a half-strength shot. One whiff and you were out."

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Pat Cadigan -Is There Life After Rehab

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