Like The Romans Do

Back in rehab … again.

Round three in my illustrious career as an alcoholic. They say it takes an average of seven tries for most addicts to get clean. I’d like to think I’m not most addicts. But if I’m being honest, I’ve always been on the severe end of the spectrum.

I wasn’t here because I wanted to be. My manager, Ryan, and I had been trying to keep my drinking under the radar, but too many mornings I came down with the brown bottle flu. Other times I disappeared. Days, weeks, months. Bender after bender.

Eventually HR started asking questions. Ryan had to cover for me. The first time it happened, he pulled me into his office and laid it out.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, Mick. If you came to me and said, ‘I got a problem’, and we both know you do, I can send you to rehab on an FMLA ticket. They can’t touch it. Guy’s got a problem, that’s it.”

I was lucky. Ryan had too much money and training invested in me to let me go. I was a damn good tire tech when I wasn’t drunk. If I wanted to keep the job, I had to go to treatment. And this time, make it look real.

So there I was, getting the grand tour from one of the techs. Becka.

“That’s pretty much all there is to the kitchen and cafeteria,” she said, holding the door as we stepped into the hall.

Becka showed me the kitchen, the group room, I didn’t care about square footage. Her hips were giving the real tour.

She gestured down the corridor.

“These are the dorms for patients. Since Mauro took the guys out for the afternoon group, I’ll go ahead and unlock your room so you can unpack and settle in.”

I nodded, glancing around. For the first time since the tour started, I let myself think: Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Sounds good. Let me help you grab my stuff,”

We picked up the bags I’d packed for the next thirty days ... just the essentials: clothes, hygiene items, books. That was all they allowed, and honestly, it felt like enough. My room was the last one on the left. Becka unlocked the door, and we carried everything inside. I looked around:

Two twin frames with thin, plastic-covered mattresses. Two dressers, two nightstands, two desks. Two lamps, two alarm clocks. Everything came in pairs. Simple. Utilitarian. Exactly what I expected from a rehab center. What I didn’t expect was the emptiness. No clothes in the cubbies. No personal items on the nightstand.

“Am I alone?” I asked. I’d never had a room to myself before.

Becka smiled. “We’re only at about sixty percent capacity right now, so most people have their own rooms. For now.”

Score.

A room to myself. First time for everything. After I dropped my things on the bed, Becka turned to leave.

“The rest of the guys will be back just before lunch. That’s at 12:30. Don’t be late!”

She pointed to the wall clock and walked out. Then I got to work unpacking. The room was clean. And for now, it was mine. Sure, I’d rather have whiskey. But if I’m going to play the part of a teetotaler, I might as well keep up appearances.

Funny how rehab always makes me care about how things are arranged. My socks folded into perfect pairs. My books are stacked in the order I’ll read them. Even make the bed, hospital corners and all, then fluff the pillow before sitting down.

I look around, appreciating the order I’ve imposed. For a second, I consider tossing one off. Habit, I guess. But I’ve got the room to myself all night. Plenty of time for that. Out in the hallway, I catch the faint hum of voices. Must be the other clients, back from their excursion.

I step outside and head toward the front desk. The chatter grows louder, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Time to meet the crew. The lobby was buzzing. About a dozen guys filled the room, talking over one another. Bursts of laughter slicing the air like flashes of static.

They stood leaning against walls or slouched in chairs. A few had that functional-alcoholic look, the ones who could pass in daylight.
Then there were the others. Ghosts waiting to be told which way was heaven.

A twitchy guy with cratered cheeks kept yanking his hoodie tighter though the room was warm, rubbing his forearms like he was trying to start a fire. Fresh off a speed bender.
A few feet away, a rail-thin man swayed mid-nod, riding the Suboxone wave.
The big one, red-faced, sweating through a wrinkled T-shirt, gripped his Styrofoam cup like it was oxygen.

Then there was the old guy. Graying, wiry, nose lit up that alcoholic red you earn after decades of punishment. His laugh came out hoarse, like someone who’d smoked and drank his way through too many lives. He wasn’t doing much, just chuckling, but there was something in his posture. That mix of weariness and defiance. It stuck with me.

Finally, a young Asian guy sat near the corner, thick black glasses magnifying his wide, nervous eyes. He had a big, bushy beard that looked out of place on his otherwise slim frame. Every few seconds, he’d glance at me, look away, then glance back. Sharp, jittery movements, like a bird sizing up a predator. His energy wasn’t hostile. More like he was trying to figure me out without getting caught.

As I passed the young Asian guy, he shot to his feet, like a spring uncoiling. I slowed, half-expecting him to say something, but his face stayed blank. Unreadable. Something about it felt off. I kept moving, skirting the edge of the group, trying to blend in without drawing attention. From the corner of my eye, I saw him lower himself back into his seat only to pop right back up the moment Becka stepped out from behind the desk. Like her presence had flipped a switch in him.

The room buzzed with the usual rehab chatter: pseudo-intellectual junkyisms and recycled conspiracy theories. Flat-earthers argued with armchair chemists tossing around five-dollar words like currency. Philosophical musings flowed freely, each guy trying to one-up the next with mushroom-induced epiphanies or secondhand Eckhart Tolle wisdom.

Amid it all, the Asian guy with the Jerry Garcia beard was muttering under his breath. Words too low to catch. What the hell was he saying? I glanced over his way. Yep. Looking at me again. Quick, stabbing glances. He was seriously giving me the creeps.

I turned at the sound of footsteps clicking across the floor and saw a guy walking toward me, clipboard in hand. Not what I expected. Average height, chubby, probably ten years younger than me. Handsome … Mexican, clean-shaven. He looked professional, friendly.

“Mick, right?” he said, smiling as he approached. “I’m Mauro. I’ll be your counselor while you’re here.” Great. A kid. I stood and shook his hand, gave him a polite nod.

“Nice to meet you.” He seemed confident in a way that caught me off guard. Most of the counselors I’d dealt with came in with that rehearsed empathy, the kind you could smell a mile away. But Mauro didn’t seem like he was trying too hard. Still, a guy his age? What could he possibly know? If he was an alcoholic, he couldn’t have been drinking long enough to get it. And if he wasn’t? That was worse. One of those college types, trying to speak the language of addiction like it could be learned secondhand.

“I hope you’re settling in okay,” Mauro said. His tone was calm. Like he’d done this a thousand times. Maybe he had. I nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself.

“Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

“We’ll get to know each other better soon,” he said, his smile still intact. “For now, just focus on settling in. You’ll have your first one-on-one with me tomorrow morning. Cool?”

“Sure,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. As he turned to leave, I watched him go, already wondering if this match was going to work. He seemed nice enough. But nice doesn’t fix anything.

Just then, the man with the cherry-red alcoholic nose wandered over. His kind, almost childlike eyes made him the least threatening presence in the room. He extended a hand ... firm, friendly.

“Hi. My name’s Matt Dillon,” he said. “Guys around here call me Marshall Matt Dillon.”

I blinked. Matt Dillon, sure, the Hollywood actor. But Marshall? That threw me. He must’ve seen it on my face.

“Like Gunsmoke,” he said, voice patient, almost rehearsed. Still nothing. I vaguely knew it was some old TV show, but that was it.

“Oh, never mind!” he laughed … a warm, self-deprecating chuckle. “Just call me The Marshall. Everyone does,” he nodded toward a couple guys behind him. The obese one in the stained sweatshirt, and the junkie barely holding himself upright.

“Those are the fellas,” he added with a smile, like we were all in on some inside joke. I couldn’t help but grin.

“Alright then. Mick Weldon. Alcoholic..” We shook hands again, and the conversation flowed easily from there. I told him this was my third time, that I needed to fix things with my job. Marshall waved off any pretense of ambition.

“Lost count of how many times I’ve been to rehab,” he said, scratching at the bristle of gray on his cheek.
“I’m sixty-one years old. I’ll never quit. Just here to give the ol’ liver a breather. Gotta do that every now and then, y’know?” Brutally honest. I liked it. No self-pity. Just resigned wisdom. He leaned in slightly, lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret.

“Used to be a pornstar back in Colorado. In another life,” he said, winking.

“Pornstar, huh?” I said, smirking.

“Yeah, big-time,” he said, waving it off like it was nothing.

“Funny thing, though. Gunsmoke was my alias. Thought the nickname was fitting.”

That got a genuine laugh out of me. Marshall Matt Dillon. I liked the guy already. Becka poked her head into the room, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

“Lunch is ready!” she called, motioning toward the cafeteria. I followed the group in and grabbed a seat at one of the long tables with The Marshall, the big guy, and the half-conscious one. The table felt like a roll call of vices. The pizza smelled decent enough, but the company was what caught my attention. Marshall nudged the big guy with his elbow.

“Mick, meet Jake,” he said. “Jake, here's a food addict.” Jake wiped his hands on a napkin, flashing a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and say it. Never seen a food addict in rehab before, huh?”

“Honestly?” I said. “No, I haven’t.” He shrugged, his chair creaking as he leaned back.

“Well, it’s a thing. I’m on disability now, trying to get into a group home. Spent six hundred bucks on soda this month. Six hundred. From the damn vending machine.” Marshall let out a loud laugh, slapping the table.

“At a buck-fifty a pop! You believe that?”

“Guess you gotta stay hydrated,” I said, smirking. Jake shook his head. “More like stay diabetic.” He reached for another slice. The guy across from me stirred, blinking slowly like he’d just realized he was at the table.

“And that’s Travis,” Marshall said. “Plumber. Pretty good one, when he’s not blowing all his money on crack and fentanyl.” Travis snorted, head bobbing like he was still half-asleep.

“It’s a living,” he muttered.

“Thousands of dollars a month,” Marshall added, lowering his voice.

“Makes good money, though. Shame.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” I said, still taking it all in. After a beat, I leaned toward The Marshall.

“What about that Asian dude? The one with the glasses? Kinda stares a lot?” Marshall glanced around, then grinned.

“Oh … Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, like the poet,” Marshall said, chuckling. “You’ll see why. Gives me the heebie-jeebies, man.” Jake nodded in agreement, mouth full of pizza. I glanced toward the other end of the room. Shakespeare sat hunched over his plate, stealing quick glances at me. The name already felt fitting. I just couldn’t put my finger on why.

That night, I went to my room early. Drained in a way that went deeper than tired. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, I thought about my first night in rehab, all those years ago. Back then, it felt like standing at the bottom of a hole I’d dug myself, the walls caving in.
But tonight? It wasn’t fear. It was resignation. Third time around, and the weight felt heavier but somehow duller.

I hadn’t thought about a drink all day … crazy. It left a hollow echo. The need started creeping back, slow and certain, like the tide reclaiming the shore.

My mind wandered to the life I used to imagine. I’d been full of curiosity once, maybe even hope. Success had felt like a given, like all I had to do was show up. Now my twenty-year-old self would’ve looked at me with disgust. Three rehabs deep and still circling the drain.

My thoughts wrapped around my throat, squeezing tighter with every memory I tried to bury. I needed something to take the edge off. A drink, a pill, anything.
Instead…

In the morning, the first thing on the schedule was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. What they call an H&I meeting: Hospitals and Institutions. A couple of local AA reps come to sprinkle a little recovery magic on us poor souls in rehab. Lucky us.

I wasn’t exactly AA’s biggest fan. Don’t get me wrong. I’d been to a few good meetings. Even walked away with a nugget of wisdom now and then. But often you’d run into those self-appointed AA messiahs who thought they’d ascended to some higher plane of enlightenment just because they’d managed to string together a couple of sober years. And God help you if it was one of those meetings. The kind where some guy treated the floor like his personal pulpit.

The worst part? The sycophants. Their little band of loyal followers, nodding like bobbleheads in a strong breeze, ready to swoon at the altar of their sponsor’s wisdom. It was enough to make me want to run screaming to the nearest bar.

But here I was, waiting for the next spiritual yogi to grace us with their sacred wisdom. There was only one seat left, tucked in the corner between The Marshall, who was already waving me over, and none other than the infamous Shakespeare himself.

As soon as I crossed the threshold, Shakespeare sprang to his feet like someone had barked a military command. For a second, I half-expected him to salute. But no—he just stood there, ramrod straight, staring at something invisible over my shoulder.

I was starting to notice a pattern. Whenever someone crossed a certain boundary, maybe the entrance to a room, maybe just his orbit, he’d pop up like a jack-in-the-box. I tested it. I leaned back on my heels and stepped outside the doorway again. Sure enough, Shakespeare’s knees dipped, his body easing down like he was winding back into his box. I stepped forward again. Pop. Right back up. Rigid. Unflinching. The strangest part? His face didn’t register a thing. No flicker of awareness. It was like I was pulling invisible strings.

Without missing a beat, I walked into the room, shook off the weirdness, and dropped into the seat between Shakespeare and Marshall Matt Dillon. The Marshall gave me a wide grin and stuck out his fist. I bumped it without hesitation. I glanced around, taking stock of the usual suspects. Jake was munching on a Pop-Tart, blatantly ignoring the signs on every wall screaming:
NO FOOD ALLOWED IN GROUPS.

Classic.

A few guys clutched their coffee like lifelines. Next to Jake, Travis was out cold, chin sunk to his chest, snoring softly. Across the room, paranoid-looking meth head was sweating bullets even though the room was freezing. That’s rehab for you: The alcoholics are always cold. The speed freaks are always hot. And the junkies? They’re always asleep. Across the room sat a super-muscular biker dude, like he’d wandered into rehab on his way to a Hulk Hogan look-alike contest. Mauro was there, too.

Scattered among the crowd were a few average Joe types, guys who faded right into the background. Then there was the guy running the meeting. Average height, athletic build. Resting on his lap was a massive Big Book, the kind that screamed I’m a lifer. The custom cover had a sobriety chip embedded in it.

Uh-oh, I thought. This guy looked like one of those hardcore AA types who probably thought he was Bill W. himself. And judging by the way he was staring, it felt like he’d been waiting for me to arrive before starting the show.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Anthony B., and I’m an alcoholic,” he said, steady and measured, scanning the room.

A murmur rolled through the group: “Hi, Anthony.”

He went on to explain that he was from a local AA chapter, based out of the house on Beverley Street. That name stirred something. I’d heard of it before, kind of a big deal in the recovery world. It had a reputation. The kind of place where people really knew their stuff ... or at least liked to think they did.

“Today’s topic is acceptance,” Anthony continued. “It’s one of the foundations of this program and, in my opinion, one of the hardest things to truly live by.” His tone was deliberate, almost rehearsed. He shared usual platitudes with the confidence of someone who’d been giving the same spiel for years. When he opened the floor for sharing, it didn’t take long for Marshall Matt Dillon to jump in. He cleared his throat theatrically, and stood up with the flair of someone who’d done this dance before.

“Hi, I’m Marshall, and I’m an alcoholic,” he said with a grin.

“Hi, Marshall,” the room replied in unison.

The Marshall didn’t waste time. “I didn’t start drinking heavily until later in life,” he began. “My big addiction, the one that really wrecked me, was sex. I used to think I was the luckiest guy alive. How many guys get paid to have sex for a living? I was a porn star, legit, not some amateur nonsense. I thrived in that world for a while. Blessed in ways most men aren’t.” He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. “By that, I mean I was packing, boys.” A few chuckles rippled through the room, but Marshall’s face didn’t change.

“Yeah, I thought my life was a dream come true,” he said. “I had all the women I could want and enough boner pills to keep me going for days. But let me tell you something ... what looks like heaven can turn to hell real quick.”

His tone darkened.

“That life destroyed me. Sure, I was living it up, but I was losing myself. Drugs took hold first. Cocaine, then alcohol. But the worst part? I stopped seeing women as people. They were objects to me, and that messed with my head in ways I can’t fully explain. Depression hit. I ended up trying to kill myself, hung a rope in my garage.”

The room went quiet, the weight of it settling in. “Obviously, I failed,” he said, forcing a dry laugh. “But that was my rock bottom, and that’s what brought me here. I’m still trying to figure it all out. But at least I’m still alive.” The room stayed quiet for a beat before Anthony broke the tension.

“Thank you for sharing, Marshall,” he said warmly.

I glanced over, still processing what I’d just heard. Marshall caught my eye and gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, like he was saying, Yeah, it’s a lot. What can you do? I didn’t know what to make of him yet, but one thing was clear: Marshall Matt Dillon had layers.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Shakespeare stood up next to me and shouted: “I am called Bill, though some dost name me Shakespeare! Lo, I am enslaved to the crystalized methamphetamine, forsooth! ’Tis because it doth amplify sexual intercourse to heights most sublime!”

The room froze.

Faces hung between shock, confusion, and barely restrained laughter. Hulk Hogan couldn’t hold it in, he let out a booming belly laugh that echoed off the walls. The Marshall just shook his head and muttered something under his breath as he sank back into his chair. I didn’t know what to think. On one hand, it was hilarious. Especially with the utterly blank look Shakespeare wore as he delivered that bizarre proclamation. On the other hand, there was something about the way he spoke. It sounded oddly intelligent, like a halfwit possessed by the ghost of a medieval playwright. Maybe an alien trying to mimic humanity.

“Oh … alright then. Thank you, Bill,” Anthony B. said, breaking the silence and pulling us all back to reality. Shakespeare sat down abruptly, his movements sharp and deliberate, like his body was following some invisible script. Then, faintly, I heard him mumbling. It was low and rhythmic, like a chant. And now that I was sitting close enough, I could finally make out the words:

“Billy, bring your new red drum,
Robin, get your fife and come.
Dance and make the village hum,
tu-re-lu-re-lu, pat-a-pat-a-pan,
When you hear the fife and drum,
Sure our children won’t be dumb.”

The words sent a chill through me, not because I understood them, but because he did. He whispered the whole thing … quick, precise … as if it were a prayer or some bizarre mantra. When he noticed me watching his lips move, he froze mid-word. And just like that, the chant evaporated into silence.

Anthony B. wrapped up the meeting and we all stood, filing out together, trading glances that said: Did that really just happen? A few chuckles and bits of mockery slipped through the tension in the air. I hung back, waiting for Shakespeare to stand, then followed him into the hallway. A few others watched curiously.

“Hey, Shakespeare, or Bill,” I said. “I’m Mick. Mick Weldon. Just wanted to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, man. What you said there, it was interesting.” I offered my hand. He stared at it for a long beat before his eyes slowly lifted to meet mine.

“’Tis an honor to make thy acquaintance, Mick. My name is Bill. Pray, what is thy lineage? I myself am of English stock … mostly. ’Tis a great pleasure to meet thee. Yet I confess, I am uncertain whether the folk here are kindly disposed toward Englishmen. No, no, I fear they harbor little fondness for Englishmen in this Iowa City. Not at all. Not at all.”

“My lineage?” I said, caught off guard. “Well … Irish, mostly. A little English. Some Scottish, I think. But mostly Irish.” “Irish?” Shakespeare’s brow furrowed. He considered the word like it held ancient meaning. “Aye, I can see it. Weldon … ’tis a stout Irish name. Mick, short for Michael, yes? A good Irish-Catholic name. Strong. Noble. I shall call thee … Mick the Mick. Aye, Mick! Where art thou from, Mick the Mick?”

I blinked. Christ. That one’s probably gonna stick.

“Cedar Rapids area. North of here. You from around here, or …?”

“Nay, not precisely,” Shakespeare said, puffing up with theatrical pride. “Yet I hail from Cedar Rapids, much like thyself, Mick. ’Tis a fine city, is it not? A city brimming with wealth and prosperity! And lo, they are most gracious to Englishmen and Irishmen alike. Very kindly folk, indeed. They bear great fondness for men of noble English and Irish stock.”

He straightened, like he was addressing a crowd.

“Once, I was a barber in that noble city of Cedar Rapids, Mick. Yea, I did ply my trade with blade and comb, tending to the locks of many a patron. A barbershop I had. A fine establishment. They did love me there, for I am English, and Englishmen are well regarded in Cedar Rapids. Yea, as are Irishmen, Mick the Mick. Englishmen and Irishmen. They hold us in high esteem in that fair city.”

Shakespeare’s eccentricities and peculiar manner of speaking were utterly fascinating. It didn’t seem like he was trying to be funny, ironic, or performative. He genuinely believed he was English. To him, the way he spoke must’ve seemed entirely normal. I found myself wondering if I should just play along.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, his expression shifting to something conspiratorial as he leaned in.

“The prostitutes in Cedar Rapids are most magnanimous, my dear friend,” he said with a stately air. “One might procure for oneself a most affordable indulgence. A bit of crystalized methamphetamine, perchance, and the company of a fair woman of ill repute. A bargain, dost thou not agree?”

I laughed and held up a hand in mock surrender.

“I’m not so sure about that one, Bill,” I said, grinning despite myself. I extended my hand again. Part politeness, part deflection, steering us away from the whole meth-and-prostitutes bit before someone overheard and got the wrong idea. He seized it with both of his. One hand gripped my forearm; the other guided mine to clasp his in return. His grin widened, teeth poking through the wild tangle of his mustache and beard. His eyes sparkled with manic joy as he nodded solemnly, like we’d just made a blood pact.

“Let us grasp hands as the Romans of old, my brother,” he proclaimed, his voice swelling with theatrical grandeur. “For thou and I art now as kin, bound by the sacred ties of fraternity!” Over his shoulder, I spotted a few guys lingering in the hallway, watching with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Whatever this was, it had definitely made an impression. And despite how bizarre it all was, I felt a surprising flicker of warmth. There was something genuine beneath the lunacy.

“Like the Romans do, my friend,” I said, matching his tone with a smile I didn’t have to fake. Just as suddenly, he released me, spun on his heel, and strode away with the grace of a man following stage directions only he could see. As he drifted down the hall, I heard his voice float back:
When you hear the fife and drum,
Sure our children won’t be dumb…”

It was oddly mesmerizing, the way he whispered it … like an incantation only he understood. I watched him retreat, his shuffling gait and muttered tune casting an almost otherworldly aura around him.

Most of the guys here would probably do their best to steer clear of Shakespeare. Not me. There was something about this Asian man who thought he was English that struck a chord. He had a lot going on upstairs ... more than a few diagnoses ... but I couldn’t help it. I’d always been drawn to the misfits, the strange and broken souls who hovered on the fringes of this world. Shakespeare was no exception. As I stood there watching him disappear down the hallway, I found myself hoping this wouldn’t be the last time our paths crossed …

BIO: D.W. Chesrown writes from the edge of relapse and recovery. He lives in a halfway house, trying to stay clean one story at a time. This is his first publication attempt.