The Limited Biography of Sergio Balvista

I went to rehab for being too damn high.

Or, maybe for trying to break into my ex-girlfriend’s house in the middle of the night. I had honestly only wanted to talk…but, either way, I was here; at the Open Oasis Rehab Resort. And while this fiendish hell-hole brought on many daily trials in the dull and absurd, one positive thing it did was to introduce me to Sergio Balvista.

Sergio was a man, simple in his vices. His vices were simply, everything. Beer, bourbon, gin, grass, acid, mushrooms, peyote, molly, uppers, downers, crack, smack, ether, nitrous, cards, dice, women, speed and Sinatra. But for all the simple ubiquity of his addictive personality, he had an odd depth of complexity to his person.

While I had to be damn near dragged from a bar to the Open Oasis Rehab Resort; Sergio checked himself in freely. When I had to be guilt-tripped into staying by way of the selfless donations of friends and family to cover my costs; Sergio had paid for himself. Not to say that he was guiltless in his motivations for his sojourn here, he was here for his daughter. Even for me, it was almost remarkable that a man of such powerful and varied addictions even had the time to have a daughter, but like I said, Sergio was complicated.

We weren't roommates, but neither of us thought much of our assigned roommates and thus resolved to simply function as roommates from the time we left our respective dorms in the morning to the time we returned to them for lights-out at night. We had our different daily activities, of course, but when we weren't engaged in those follies, we were always sure to be in each others company.

Our preferred pastime was strolling the grounds, puffing Sergio's "candy sticks". They contained a delightful mixture of tobacco and grass, enough to give you a feeling of euphoria and escapism from the boring monotony of sobriety. They were, of course, prohibited in the facility, but Sergio had cleverly smuggled them in, premade in the hollowed-out soles of his shoes. It was his little way to still fly in the face of the system. I suppose we could add defiant opposition to Sergio's list of vices.

Every evening, we would stroll the grounds together, eventually stealing behind a clump of trees or getting “lost” down one of the short nature trails, share a candy stick and then quietly head to bed.

Sure, that obviously violated the whole spirit of what we were there to be doing. But the whole thing was just too mundane, too boring. Frankly, sobriety was too boring. I guess if it’s your kind of speed then more power to you, but it was not to me and not to Sergio. We wanted to rage through life. The whole idea of orthodoxly creeping along to arrive at death in a well-preserved, unused body was far too tame and nonsensical to us. Substances were, it seemed, a kind of perfect release valve for those of us who just were never meant for the sanctioned moderation that society demands.

The only problem with Sergio's hollowed out shoe holders and the candy sticks was that they were limited. I remember the night the stash started getting really low. Sergio was taking shorter, quick puffs, trying to make it last longer. As he tossed the smoldering stinger he muttered, “another one bites the dust.”

We had more regularly begun smoking on the many winding nature trails of the campus as they were less ostentatious and more secluded. As we meandered our way out of the trees, to the east yard of the campus, the center before us gleamed in the steadily fading light. The tobacco warmed our heads, and the grass lifted our hearts. As we made our way down the shallow embankment from the trail head toward the main dormitory, Sergio broke our customary silence.

"The way I always figured it," he began, apropos of nothing, "as long as I do not harm another soul, there really can't be any objection to what I do…or what anyone else does for that matter.

No one can tell me what my life is, nor what it ought to look like, except me. And, to be fair, only the deepest, most honest depths of my soul know that truth. I frankly find it comical that anyone else in the world thinks they can even suggest what might be the best thing or the right thing for me to do at any given point.

Do not kill, rape or steal. We can all agree on these things. Because they clearly harm another person. Do not smoke some weed in my own house and pleasantly interact with everyone for a few hours? I'm sorry, but I don't see why anyone can tell me not to experience life that way.

I mean, sure, the moment the drug or vice causes me to even raise my voice at another outside of necessity, I am in the wrong, and the drug may indeed be seen as an added mark against me for dancing with a partner who I clearly could not keep up with.

But as long as I do no harm to anyone else, and in fact find some new plane of joyous emotional experience, then I am afraid it is not for you, him, her, the police or indeed my mother to judge it as wrong or inappropriate for me.

I envy those who feel the same beauty staring at the sunset on the heights of a rolling country peak that I find high on cocaine with the wind gently whipping my face as I sit on the edge of a city center rooftop…I’m glad that their joys are gotten with far less risk, but I don’t understand why it’s my fault that the sunset doesn’t move me and a baby's laugh doesn’t make me overflow with joy. Should I then just be deprived of these feelings that others are so graced with in their commonplace day? I want to feel them too! I believe I should be allowed to feel them too! And while I may have to take some risks in order to enjoy those same feelings…again I say, why is it so wrong?

“You ever think of becoming a preacher or an evangelical?” I asked.

“I suppose I could’ve, but then I wouldn’t even be able to trust myself, and that just sounds confusing.”

Still,” I said chuckling, “I can understand the point of normal folk…it does seem an impossibly fine line to walk.”

“Oh no doubt! In fact, I am quite sure many a good man will be lured to his early grave if such ideas were allowed to seep out into society. Fuck, the curer of cancer may be huddled six feet underground right now thanks to ideas such as that.”

“So, what should society do…?”

“I have no idea my friend, but I know what I do.”

By the time he had finished this thesis we had arrived at the dorms and bid our usual, simple "good night" as if it were any other night. But as I made my way back to my room, as I climbed into my bed, laying there in the dark with my mind feeling slightly lifted from my body thanks to the weed, all I thought about were the words of Sergio Balvista.

In the morning I waited at the end of B hall for Sergio to join me to breakfast as various gaunt, boney bodies slogged their way past me. I could smell the sausage and French toast from my proverbial street corner, and began to anxiously pace at my spot waiting for my friend, praying that there would still be enough when we arrived in the cafeteria.

When Sergio finally came rushing down the hall from his room, he seemed anxious and a little out of sorts.

"Hey." I said to him as he nearly blew by me in a huff.

He turned and saw me. "Oh! Sorry man." he said, almost as if he forgot that we meet. Something was definitely off. "I got a call this morning. I've got a visitor downstairs. So, I gotta run 'n do that."

"Oh, of course!" I said, trying to sound enthusiastic over my anxiety at the prospect of now eating alone.

He dashed off, still pulling his flannel button-down on as he went. Unenthusiastically, I headed off to the cafeteria alone.

Being without Sergio for breakfast might have been bad enough, but as the day dragged on, his absence grew more and more excruciating. He was nowhere to be found. Throughout the day, taking the greatest care to not seem too desperate, I searched high and low for my companion. Group therapy was a pure knot of anxiety. I endlessly fidgeted, wondering if I would have my friend to decompress to after the session.

I checked all around the grounds and down the short nature trail.

My one-on-one therapy time was a collage of short, terse answers repeated ad nauseum. She could tell my mind was elsewhere, and I didn't care.

I stopped by the gym and re-checked the cafeteria.

My exercise time consisted of me leaning up against the far wall of the basketball court. For the first time in my life, I honestly felt like an outcast. Outside of the center, I had my drinking buddies, party pals and stoner friends. Even when my closest friend felt that I needed to be removed from society for mine and it's mutual benefit, I still had Sergio. Now, I felt so alone.

I walked past the cafeteria and headed down B hall to my room. I would not be subjected to another private dining session, and I was in no mood to seek out other’s company.

I stopped outside of Sergio's door. I felt so pathetic. Never in my life had I so genuinely relied on another person for company. Nor had I realized the pangs of feeling totally alone. I didn't know how to feel about it, but I knocked anyway. However, the only response I received was the silent, solidity of the door in front of me. Dejected, I scuffled off down the hallway to eventually arrive at my own room.

I walked in, and I nearly cried out for joy at the sight of my long lost companion. I didn't even question the oddity of finding him in my own room when he was absent all day.

"Thank fucking god!" I cried when I saw him. He turned and smiled at me, but it was a hesitant, complicated smile.

"Hey," he said, hesitating as though he was searching for words. "I ahh...I'm headed out." he said flatly.

It felt as though I had burst of jail only to run straight into another, stone wall. My initial elation was crushed.

"What? Why?" I replied, as flatly as he stated it. It was so sudden, so confusing.

"It's ahh..." he began, clearly uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed. "It's my daughter. She was my visitor today."

"She's taking you home!" I somewhat cried, trying to moderate my tones.

"Oh, no," he chuckled, "No, she's pretty pissed."

"Why?"

"Ehh, she knows about the candy sticks."

"How!? I mean, we..."

"Oh, I told her." he confessed, cutting me off. He seemed to regain his resolve and continued, "she knew something was off. How, I'll never know, some kind of woman's intuition, but she knows. And once she knows, I learned long ago that trying to lie my way through it just makes her more angry. I came here so that I wouldn't loose her, and let's be honest, I'm never gonna quit here."

"So you figure out there is the best place to clean up?" I asked, incredulously.

"Of course!" he replied, with the tone of a man who has been preparing for this very question. "See at the end of the day life is about freedom. Freedom of choice. Here I have no choice. I am made to get sober, and that just isn't going to sit well with me. I'll fight it. I know that. But if I make the choice myself to go out there and get sober, it's my decision, and I know that I will do it. I trust myself to that."

"So it's all just a choice then. You just, wont do it anymore. Just like that!" I was beginning to get angry. He couldn't leave! And not like this! It just didn't make sense!

"Listen," he said, calmly, "at the end of the day, I made a choice to start doing those things. And every time I woke up, I made the choice to keep doing them. I honestly know that, for me, the choice to stop is just as simple. So long as it is my choice. I'm not being told to stop by any cop, court or annoying do-gooder."

"So you're not doing it for your daughter then?"

He huffed, annoyed - I think - at the holes I was poking in his speech. "Okay, fine," he sputtered, now clearly annoyed, "I am doing it for my daughter. But she's not forcing me to do this. She simply gave me the choice. Clean up, all the way, and see her and be apart of her life. Or, don't and never see her again. That's the choice. And I choose to see her."

"What about all that crap about 'as long as I don't hurt someone else no one can tell me what to do'."

"It still holds," he replied, "she's not telling me to quit. And my using stopped hurting her a long time ago. She knows what I am, so she's not hurt by my using, but she wont be around me if I'm doing it. So I choose to stop. I choose to see her."

We paused for a long moment. I could see in his eyes that there was no moving him from this decision. I crossed the room and hugged my friend.

After a long moment. We stepped back. He headed for the door.

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, not really wanting him to actually go.

"Ehh," he said casually, "I have the money, you know that. And while money doesn't buy you happiness, it does by you freedom. Freedom to not have to grind out a 9 to 5 to survive. Freedom to do what you want. Even if what you want is to embrace soul-crushing, pure-sober boredom."

"Be careful with that." I said.

"I'll be fine," he replied, "I'm choosing this. You take care of yourself man. I'll see you around." He slipped out of the door and was gone from my life.

As I turned to my bed, a slight smirk spread across my face as I saw his hollowed out shoes sitting there on the floor just tucked under the bed.

Several weeks past and I moved, slowly on through the program. I ran out of the candy sticks and was now fully embracing sobriety...in all of it's overwhelming dreariness.

Yesterday, the monotony was broken as a pretty young woman came to Oasis to visit me. She was a stranger to me, but I was thankful to be able to talk to anyone these days.

Our meeting was simple and brief. She introduced herself as Christina Harper and without any explanation or discussion, she handed me a thick stack of money, more than I had ever seen in one place in person. When I inquired of her what it was, she replied, “That’s your freedom. Your freedom to choose.”

She got up to leave and at first shook my hand, but then she pulled me into a true, ardent hug. She felt so warm and soft, so unlike those cold, boney bodies I was used to. She whispered, “thank you for being here for him.”

They all tried to blame the pills or powders. But I knew the truth of it. All of his toxicology screens were negative. They thought that by cutting off his fins they could stop his being a shark and transform him back into something else that they preferred more. But instead all they had done was taken away his ability to swim.

You see, Sergio was a shark, and trying to make him anything else was to go against the will of Mother Nature herself. He wasn’t mean or evil. But he needed to swim. Simply drifting through life in a dreary state of dreaded orthodoxy was as dangerous for Sergio as pumping pure gasoline into his veins. Hard as that notion may be to understand, it’s even harder to live with. The ability to drink any man under the table or do enough blow to make Escobar blush may seem quite the gift, but the need to crack a beer immediately upon rising or having to do mushrooms to make a family board game tolerable is the price of this curse.

Now that will not work for most, and it’s a dangerous thought at best because it will surely ruin many a good young man who thought they could be sharks too. But for some select few, it just works.

Near as anyone could tell, Sergio died peacefully in his sleep. I’m sure there are many self-righteous know-it-all’s who would fancy such a death too good for a 'derelict' like Sergio, but I’m sure Sergio wouldn’t have been happy with his manner of death either. Surely, he always imagined going out in an explosive, mind-mangling wild blaze of euphoric glory. But, in a final, subtle showing of his complexity, Sergio sacrificed his proper demise to die the way his sweet daughter wanted: clean and quiet. Thankfully, I think she understood that.