I kind of counted on this happening someday. You know, when you spend some time going to anti-alcohol treatment centers and lecturing local patients on how they can break free from it too. It was to be expected that occasionally I’d come across someone for whom it didn’t work out. There are several buts, though. The most significant one being the need to have another very strong addiction, namely to music. Also, being a smoker doesn’t really help, nor does managing to devastate yourself so much over your lifetime that any movement causes trouble. The effectiveness of the treatment centers themselves isn’t exactly stellar either. When you add it all up, a very high majority, after leaving the gates of the treatment facility, fall back into relapse. In the local jargon, it’s called “recne.” So it’s no wonder that one morning, roughly a quarter to eight, while riding the bus with other school kids to my piano lesson, someone taps me on the shoulder. When I turn around, I see a face that I can immediately place as belonging to Pavilion 18 of the Bohnice treatment center. This pavilion, usually for three months, is inhabited by those who have been through several anti-alcohol treatment facilities. Here, I also had the honor of attempting to deliver instructions on how to break the vicious circle, and this roughly thirty-five-year-old man was present during some Sunday sessions. Unfortunately, I couldn’t immediately discern that the passenger belonged to those who relapsed, and by a quarter to eight in the morning, he was already well loaded. Unaware of any wrongdoing, I even naively sat next to him. Next time, I won’t be so friendly. Moreover, at that moment, in his alcoholic haze, he only knew he knew me but didn’t know from where. I foolishly revealed that to him later on. I don’t even remember what I hoped to gain from that dialogue. But looking back now, my counterpart was clear from the start about his intentions. My willingness to sit next to him surely reinforced his belief in achieving his goal. He wasn’t alone; perhaps he wanted to show his less communicative colleague how to lighten his wallet for a shot. It looked somewhat like an experienced salesman coaching his less experienced colleague on how to conduct a successful business conversation. In his left hand, a can of beer from which he heavily sipped at a quarter to eight in the morning while conversing. He didn’t let me speak much. He remembered my involvement with music, which I tried to present in Bohnice. But he was not interested in that at all. His monologue, interspersed with sips of beer, was aimed at persuading me that after he finishes another beer at half past seven in the morning, which he laboriously extracted from his backpack, he will have to eat, or else he will feel sick. However, there’s not enough money in the world for that. Among other things, he confided in me that a lady probably gave him five hundred crowns for the same tale some time ago. Perhaps to indicate the amount he had in mind. I pointed out to him that he should have thought about that when buying those beers. That was my way of letting him know I wouldn’t be his ATM. I probably threw him off track. He ended the dialogue by calling me a human scum. That was a signal for me to end this conversation. Fortunately, the exit station was already close. Next time I encounter other relapsed graduates from treatment centers, I’ll just steer clear of conversation.
