Rob Delaney: Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior. Falcon. Yardstick. Turban. Cabbage. by Rob Delaney

Author:Rob Delaney [Delaney, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Comedian, Nonfiction, Retail
ISBN: 9780812993080
Google: DdDwAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 081299308X
Barnesnoble: 081299308X
Publisher: Spiegel & Grau
Published: 2013-11-05T05:00:00+00:00

After exactly twenty-eight days at the hospital it was time to move on to a sober-living halfway house in West L.A. While rehab had been coed, the halfway house was one hundred percent dudes. It was kind of like sleepover camp.

While everyone in rehab was just totally broken, me included, people at the halfway house were a little further down the road to recovery; really taking a stab at actually living life without booze or drugs. The day I moved in, I was assigned a “big brother,” Byron, who showed me around the place and told me the deal. He had brown teeth from smoking cocaine for ten years contrasted with probably the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He pointed out which bed would be mine and told me that since it was a bottom bunk I could hang a sheet from the top bed and make it into my own little “jack shack.” A true big brother.

My roommates were a cute, chubby Armenian junkie from Glendale named Paul and an aggressive, muscular crackhead named Rick who terrified me. The first thing Rick said when I moved in and lay down on my bunk was, “Hey, wanna see where I got shot?” I said yes because I was afraid to say no, and he immediately pulled his pants down, spread his butt cheeks, and stuck his asshole right in my face. He then asked me if he could fuck my armpit on his birthday, which was coming up, because in prison, that’s what his cellmate let him do. I was so scared I almost blacked out. Even if I was in my top physical shape, he could have killed me with his bare hands, and in my current condition I was absolutely defenseless with my arms in their casts.

Looking back, moments like that may help explain why I’m a comedian now. I could ONLY defend myself with humor. As hellish as all that sounds, Rick and I eventually became friends. He had an adorable wife and daughter who would visit him on weekends. When he wound up getting kicked out of the house for relapsing, I cried.

We got a third roommate after a while, a very wealthy crackhead who took the bunk above mine. He shook for days as he detoxed and my bed would essentially vibrate through the night. After he stabilized a bit he would regale us with stories of his opulent lifestyle paying hookers to watch him masturbate to porn.

We ate breakfast and dinner at the house as a group and had two weekly group meetings at the house. Thursday nights, a psychologist would come in to lead a discussion meeting with us, let’s call her Elaine. She was crazier than most of the people in the house. One emblematic exchange with her went like this: Paul, a resident at the house, said at one meeting, “You know, I just would sit there and cut myself on the chest with a razor because I just, I felt that I deserved it.

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