"We both are," said the Glandular Case. "I'm sober eleven years. Brad is sober thirteen years."

"How is that even possible? The truth is I'd like to stop but I just can't. I wouldn't make it more than a few days, never mind thirteen years."

"You can do it," said fat-Brad. "Not for thirteen years, but I bet you make it through today."

"Yeah," I said, "I can make it through today, but that's about it."

"And that's enough," said the Glandular Case. "Today is all that matters. Who knows what tomorrow brings? Just take it one day at a time and you'll be fine. That's how I do it. I didn't wake up this morning and say, 'Gee, Mike, it's important to control your urge to drink for the rest of your life!' I said, 'Gee, Mike, just make it for the next twenty-four hours and the rest of your life will take care of itself.'"

Fat-Brad nodded. "He's right, Jordan. And I know what you're probably thinking right now-that it's just a stupid mind-dodge, like pulling the wool over your own eyes." He shrugged. "And it probably is, but I personally couldn't give a s.h.i.t. It works, and that's all I care about. It gave me my life back, and it'll give you your life back too."

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I liked these guys; I really did. And I truly wanted to get sober. So much that I could taste taste it. But my compulsion was too strong. All my friends did drugs; all my pastimes included drugs. And my wife...well, the d.u.c.h.ess hadn't come to see me. With every terrible thing I'd done to her, I knew in my heart that I would never forget how she hadn't come to see me after I'd tried to commit suicide. it. But my compulsion was too strong. All my friends did drugs; all my pastimes included drugs. And my wife...well, the d.u.c.h.ess hadn't come to see me. With every terrible thing I'd done to her, I knew in my heart that I would never forget how she hadn't come to see me after I'd tried to commit suicide.

And, of course, there was the d.u.c.h.ess's side of things. Perhaps she would choose not to forgive me. I couldn't blame her for that. She had been a good wife to me, and I had paid her back by becoming a drug addict. I had had my reasons, I figured, but that didn't change things. If she wanted a divorce, then she was justified. I would always take care of her, I would always love her, and I would always make sure she had a good life. After all, she'd given me two gorgeous children, and she was the one who'd organized all this.

I looked fat-Brad straight in the eye and started nodding slowly. "Let's get the f.u.c.k outta this h.e.l.lhole."

"Indeed," he said. "Indeed."

CHAPTER 38

MARTIANS OF THE THIRD REICH

The place seemed normal enough, at first glance.

The Talbot Marsh Recovery Campus sits on a half dozen immaculately landscaped acres in Atlanta, Georgia. It was only a ten-minute limo ride from the private airport, and I'd spent all six hundred seconds plotting my escape. In fact, before I'd deplaned, I gave the pilots strict instructions not to take off under any circ.u.mstances. It was me, after all, not the d.u.c.h.ess, I'd explained, who was paying the bill. Besides, there was a little something extra for them if they stayed awhile. They a.s.sured me they would.

So as the limo pulled into the driveway, I scoped out the terrain through the eyes of a prisoner. Meanwhile, fat-Brad and Mike the Glandular Case were sitting across from me, and true to their word there wasn't a cement wall, a metal bar, a gun tower, or a strand of barbed wire anywhere in sight.

The property gleamed brilliantly in the Georgia sunshine, all these purple and yellow flowers and manicured rosebushes and towering oaks and elms. It was a far cry from the urine-infested corridors of the Delray Medical Center. Yet something seemed a bit off. Perhaps the place was too nice? Was there really that much money in drug rehabs?

There was a circular drop-off area in front of the building. As the limo inched toward it, fat-Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out three twenties. "Here," he said. "I know you don't have any money on you, so consider this a gift. It's cab fare back to the airport. I don't want you to have to hitchhike. You never know what kind of drug-addicted maniac you'll run into."

"What are you talking about?" I asked innocently.

"I saw you whispering in the pilot's ear," said fat-Brad. "I've been doing this a long time, and if there's one thing I've learned it's that if someone's not ready to get sober, there's nothing I can do to force him. I won't insult you with the a.n.a.logy of leading a horse to water and all that c.r.a.p. But, either way, I figure I owe you the sixty bucks for making me laugh so hard on the way here." He shook his head. "You really are one twisted b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Anyway, I'd have to say that this has been the world's most bizarre intervention. Yesterday I was in California, sitting in some boring convention, when I got this frantic call from the soon-to-be-late Dennis Maynard, who tells me about this gorgeous model who has a zillionaire husband on the verge of killing himself. Believe it or not, I actually balked at first, because of the distance, but then the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge got on the phone and she wouldn't take no for an answer. Next thing I know we're on a private jet. And then we met you, which was the biggest trip of all." He shrugged. "All I can say is that I wish you and your wife the best of luck. I hope you guys stay together. It would be a great ending to the story."

The Glandular Case nodded in agreement. "You're a good man, Jordan. Don't ever forget that. Even if you bolt out the front door in ten minutes and go straight to a crack den, it still doesn't change who you are. This is a f.u.c.ked-up disease; it's cunning and baffling. I walked out of three rehabs myself before I finally got it right. My family ended up finding me under a bridge; I was living as a beggar. And the real sick part is that after they finally got me into rehab, I escaped again and went back to the bridge. That's the way this disease is."

I let out a great sigh. "I'm not gonna bulls.h.i.t you. Even when we were flying here today-and I was busy telling you all those hysterical stories and we were all laughing uncontrollably-I was still still thinking about drugs. It was burning in the back of my mind like a f.u.c.king blast furnace. I'm already thinking about calling my Quaalude dealer as soon as I get out of here. Maybe I can live without the cocaine, but not the Ludes. They're too much a part of my life now." thinking about drugs. It was burning in the back of my mind like a f.u.c.king blast furnace. I'm already thinking about calling my Quaalude dealer as soon as I get out of here. Maybe I can live without the cocaine, but not the Ludes. They're too much a part of my life now."

"I know exactly how you feel," said fat-Brad, nodding. "In fact, I still feel the same way about c.o.ke. Not a day goes by when I don't get the urge to do it. But I've managed to stay sober for more than thirteen years. And you know how I do it?"

I smiled. "Yeah, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d-one day at a time, right?"

"Ah," said fat-Brad, "now you're learning! There's hope for you yet."

"Yeah," I muttered, "let the healing begin."

We climbed out of the car and walked down a short concrete path that led to the front entrance. Inside, the place was nothing like I'd imagined. It was gorgeous. It looked like a men's smoking club, with very plush carpet, rich and reddish, and lots of mahogany and burled walnut and comfortable-looking sofas and love seats and club chairs. There was a large bookcase filled with antique-looking books. Just across from it was an oxblood leather club chair with a very high back. It looked unusually comfortable, so I headed straight for it and plopped myself down.

Ahhhhhh...how long had it been since I'd sat in a comfortable chair without cocaine and Quaaludes bubbling around inside my brain? I no longer had back pain or leg pain or hip pain or any other pain. There was nothing bothering me, no petty annoyances. I took a deep breath and let it out.... It was a nice, sober breath, part of a nice, sober moment. How long had it been for me? Almost nine years since I'd been sober. Nine f.u.c.king years of complete insanity! Holy s.h.i.t-what a way to live.

And I was f.u.c.king starving! I desperately needed to eat something. Anything but Froot Loops.

Fat-Brad walked over to me and said, "Ya doing okay?"

"I'm starving," I said. "I'd pay a hundred grand for a Big Mac right now."

"I'll see what I can do," he said. "Mike and I need to fill out a few forms. Then we'll bring you in and get you something to eat." He smiled and walked off.

I took another deep breath, except this one I held in for a good ten seconds. I was staring into the very heart of the bookcase when I finally let it out...and just like that, in that very instant, the compulsion left me. I was done. No more drugs. I knew it. Enough was enough. I no longer felt the urge. It was gone. Why, I would never know. All I knew was that I would never touch them again. Something had clicked inside my brain. Some sort of switch had been flipped and I just f.u.c.king knew it.

I rose from my chair and walked over to the other side of the waiting room, where fat-Brad and Mike the Glandular Case were filling out paperwork. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the sixty bucks. "Here," I said to fat-Brad, "you can have your sixty back. I'm staying."

He smiled and nodded his head knowingly. "Good for you, my friend."

Right before they left, I said to them, "Don't forget to call the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge and tell her to get in touch with the pilots. Or else they'll be waiting there for weeks."

"Well, here's to the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge!" fat-Brad said, making a mock toast.

"To the d.u.c.h.ess of Bay Ridge!" we all said simultaneously.

Then we exchanged hugs-and promises to keep in touch. But I knew we never would. They had done their job, and it was time for them to move on to the next case. And it was time for me to get sober.

It was the next morning when a new type of insanity started: sober insanity. I woke up around nine a.m., feeling positively buoyant. No withdrawal symptoms, no hangover, and no compulsion to do drugs. I wasn't in the actual rehab yet; that would come tomorrow. I was still in the detox unit. As I made my way to the cafeteria for breakfast, the only thing weighing on my mind was that I still hadn't been able to get in touch with the d.u.c.h.ess, who seemed to have flown the coop. I had called the house in Old Brookville and spoken to Gwynne, who'd told me that Nadine had dropped out of sight. She had only called in once, to speak to the kids, and she hadn't even mentioned my name. So I a.s.sumed my marriage was over.

After breakfast I was walking back to my room when a beefy-looking guy sporting a ferocious mullet and the look of the intensely paranoid waved me over. We met by the pay phones. "Hi," I said, extending my head. "I'm Jordan. How's it going?"

He shook my hand cautiously. "Shhh!" he said, darting his eyes around. "Follow me."

I nodded and followed him back into the cafeteria, where we sat down at a square lunch table, out of earshot of other human beings. At this time of morning the cafeteria had only a handful of people in it, and most of them were staff, dressed in white lab coats. I had pegged my new friend as a complete loon. He was dressed like me, in jeans and a T-shirt.

"I'm Anthony," he said, extending his hand for another shake. "Are you the guy who flew in on the private jet yesterday?"

Oh, Christ! I wanted to remain anonymous for once, not stick out like a sore thumb. "Yeah, that was me," I said, "but I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that quiet. I just want to blend in, okay?"

"Your secret's safe with me," he muttered, "but good luck trying to keep anything secret in this place."

That sounded a bit odd, a bit Orwellian, in fact. "Oh, really?" I said. "Why's that?"

He looked around again. "Because this place is like f.u.c.king Auschwitz," he whispered. Then he winked at me.

At this point, I realized the guy wasn't completely crazy, perhaps just a bit off. "Why is it like Auschwitz?" I asked, smiling.

He shrugged his beefy shoulders. "Because it's f.u.c.king torture here, like a n.a.z.i death camp. You see the staff over there?" He motioned with his head. "They're the SS. Once the train drops you off in this place, you never leave. And there's slave labor too."

"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about? I thought it was only a four-week program."

He compressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. "Maybe it is for you, but not for the rest of us. I a.s.sume you're not a doctor, right?"

"No, I'm a banker-although I'm pretty much retired now."

"Really?" he asked. "How are you retired? You look like a kid."

I smiled. "I'm not a kid. But why'd you ask me if I'm a doctor?"

"Because almost everyone here is either a doctor or a nurse. I'm a chiropractor, myself. There are only a handful of people like you. Everyone else is here because they lost their license to practice medicine. So the staff has us by the b.a.l.l.s. Unless they say you're cured, you don't get your license back. It's a f.u.c.king nightmare. Some people have been here for over a year, and they're still still trying to get their license back!" He shook his head gravely. "It's complete f.u.c.king insanity. Everyone's ratting each other out, trying to earn brownie points with the staff. Really f.u.c.king sick. You have no idea. The patients walk around like robots, spewing out AA c.r.a.p, pretending they're rehabilitated." trying to get their license back!" He shook his head gravely. "It's complete f.u.c.king insanity. Everyone's ratting each other out, trying to earn brownie points with the staff. Really f.u.c.king sick. You have no idea. The patients walk around like robots, spewing out AA c.r.a.p, pretending they're rehabilitated."

I nodded, fully getting the picture. A wacky arrangement like this, where the staff had that much power, was a recipe for abuse. Thank G.o.d I'd be above it. "What are the female patients like? Any hot ones?"

"Just one," he answered. "A total knockout. A twelve on a scale from one to ten."

That perked me up! "Oh, yeah, what's she look like?"

"She's a little blonde, about five-five, unbelievable body, perfect face, curly hair. She's really beautiful. A real piece of a.s.s."

I nodded, making a mental note to keep away from her. She sounded like trouble. "And what's the story with this guy Doug Talbot? The staff talks about him like he's a f.u.c.king G.o.d. What's he like?"

"What's he like?" muttered my paranoid friend. "He's like Adolf f.u.c.king Hitler. Or actually more like Dr. Josef Mengele. He's a big f.u.c.king blowhard, and he's got every last one of us by the b.a.l.l.s-with the exception of you and maybe two other people. But you still gotta be careful, because they'll try to use your family against you. They'll get inside your wife's head and tell her that unless you stay for six months you're gonna relapse and light your kids on fire."

Later that night, at about seven p.m., I called Old Brookville in search of the missing d.u.c.h.ess, but she was still MIA. I did get a chance to speak to Gwynne, though; I explained to her that I'd met with my therapist today and I'd been subdiagnosed (whatever that meant) as a compulsive spending addict, as well as a s.e.x addict, both of which were basically true and both of which, I thought, were none of their f.u.c.king business. Either way, the therapist had informed me that I was being placed on money restriction and masturbation restriction-allowed to possess only enough money to use in the vending machines and allowed to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e only once every few days. I had a.s.sumed that the latter restriction was enforced on the honor system.

I asked Gwynne if she could see her way clear to stick a couple a thousand dollars inside some rolled-up socks and then ship them UPS. Hopefully, they would get past the gestapo, I told her, but, either way, it was the least she could do, especially after nine years of being one of my chief enablers. I chose not to share my masturbation restriction with Gwynne, although I had a sneaky suspicion it was going to be an even bigger problem than the money restriction. After all, I had been sober only four days now, and I was already getting spontaneous erections every time the wind blew.

On a much sadder note, before I hung up with Gwynne, Channy came to the phone and said, "Are you in Atlant-ica because you pushed Mommy down the stairs?"

I replied, "That's one reason, thumbkin. Daddy was very sick and he didn't know what he was doing."

"If you're still sick, can I kiss away your boo-boo again?"

"Hopefully," I said sadly. "Maybe you can kiss away both our boo-boos, Mommy's and Daddy's." I felt my eyes welling up with tears.

"I'll try," she said, with the utmost seriousness.

I bit my lip, fighting back outright crying. "I know you will, baby. I know you will." Then I told her that I loved her and hung up the phone. Before I went to bed that night I got down on my knees and said a prayer-that Channy could kiss away our boo-boos. Then everything would be okay again.

I woke up the next morning ready to meet the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler, or was it Dr. Josef Mengele? Either way, the entire rehab-patients and staff alike-was getting together this morning in the auditorium for a regularly scheduled group meeting. It was a vast s.p.a.ce with no part.i.tions. A hundred twenty bridge chairs had been arranged in a large circle, and at the front of the room was a small platform with a lectern on it, where the speaker of the day would share his tale of drug-addicted woe.

I now sat as just another patient in a large circle of drug-addicted doctors and nurses (or Martians, from the Planet Talbot Mars, as I'd come to think of them). At this particular moment, all eyes were on today's guest speaker-a sorry-looking woman in her early forties who had a rear end the size of Alaska and a ferocious case of acne, the sort you usually find on mental patients who'd spent the better part of their lives on psychotropic drugs.

"Hi," she said in a timid voice. "My name is Susan, and I'm...uhhh...an alcoholic and a drug addict."

All the Martians in the room, including myself, responded dutifully, by saying, "Hi, Susan!" to which she blushed and then bowed her head in defeat-or was it victory? Either way, I had no doubt she was a world-cla.s.s drizzler.

Now there was silence. Apparently, Susan wasn't much of a public speaker, or perhaps her brain had been short-circuited from all the drugs she'd consumed. As Susan gathered her thoughts, I took a moment to check out Doug Talbot. He was sitting at the front of the room with five staff members on either side of him. He had short snow-white hair, and he looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. His skin was white and pasty, and he had the sort of square-jawed, grim expression that you would normally a.s.sociate with a malevolent warden, the sort who looks a death-row inmate in the eye before he flips the switch on the electric chair and says, "I'm only doing this for your own good!"'

Finally, Susan plowed on. "I've...been...uhhh...sober...for almost eighteen months now, and I couldn't have done it without the help and inspiration of...uhhh...Doug Talbot." And she turned to Doug Talbot and bowed her head, at which point the whole room rose to their feet and started clapping-the whole room except for me. I was too shocked at the collective sight of more than a hundred a.s.s-kissing Martians trying to get their licenses back.

Doug Talbot waved his hand at the Martians and then shook his head dismissively, as if to say, "Oh, please, you're embarra.s.sing me! I only do this job out of a love of humanity!" But I had no doubt that his happy hit squad of staff members were making careful notes as to who wasn't clapping loudly enough.

As Susan continued to drizzle, I began craning my head around-looking for the curly-haired blonde with the gorgeous face and the killer body, and I found her sitting just across from me, on the opposite side of the circle. She was gorgeous, all right. She had soft, angelic features-not the chiseled model features of the d.u.c.h.ess, but they were beautiful nonetheless.

Suddenly the Martians jumped to their feet again, and Susan took an embarra.s.sed bow. Then she lumbered over to Doug Talbot, bent over, and gave him a hug. But it wasn't a warm hug; she kept her body far from his. It was the way Dr. Mengele's few surviving patients must've hugged him, at atrocity reunions and such-a sort of extreme version of the Stockholm syndrome, where hostages come to revere their captors.

Now one of the staff began doing a bit of her own drizzling. When the Martians stood this time, I stood too. Everyone grabbed the hands of the people on either side of them, so I grabbed too.

In unison, we bowed our heads and chanted the AA mantra: "G.o.d, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." "G.o.d, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

Now everyone began clapping, so I clapped too-except this time I was clapping with sincerity. After all, in spite of being a cynical b.a.s.t.a.r.d, there was no denying that AA was an amazing thing, a lifesaver to millions of people.

There was a long rectangular table at the back of the room with a few pots of coffee on it and some cookies and cakes. As I headed over, I heard an unfamiliar voice yelling: "Jordan! Jordan Belfort!"

I turned around and-Holy Christ!-it was Doug Talbot. He was walking toward me, wearing an enormous smile on his pasty face. He was tall, about six-one, although he didn't look to be in particularly good shape. He wore an expensive-looking blue sport jacket and gray tweed slacks. He was waving me toward him.

At that very instant, I could feel a hundred five sets of eyes pretending not to look at me-no, it was actually a hundred fifteen sets of eyes, because the staff was pretending too.

He extended his hand. "So we finally meet," he said, nodding his head knowingly. "It's a pleasure. Welcome to Talbot Marsh. I feel like you and I are kindred spirits. Brad told me all about you. I can't wait to hear the stories. I got a few of my own-nothing as good as yours, I'm sure."

I smiled and shook my new friend's hand. "I've heard a lot about you too," I replied, fighting back the urge to use an ironic tone.

He put his arm on my shoulder. "Come on," he said warmly, "let's go to my office for a while. I'll drop you off later this afternoon. You're being moved up the hill to one of the condos. I'll drive you there."

And just like that, I knew this rehab was in serious trouble. I had the owner-the unreachable, the one and only Doug Talbot-as my new best buddy, and every patient and staff member knew it as well. The Wolf was ready to bare his fangs-even in rehab.