Rose Bowl Bound

I’m not actually leaving for Pasadena until New Year’s Eve, but as I’m heading out to the track tomorrow and I’ll be busy the day of departure, I thought I’d put out the vibe now. Once again, I am going to ask you good people to gather up all your positive energy and good thoughts to influence, via the magic of quantum physics, the outcome of a football game. But not just any game. Dear no. For this is the granddaddy of them all, the one, the only Rose Bowl. My beloved Ducks will be facing off with the brutish Buckeyes of Ohio State, a team so uninteresting and bland that their coach wears, as a signature, a sweater vest.

As I informed you all before the Civil War game, I was present fifteen years ago when Joe Paterno’s Penn State team, led by Ki-jana Carter and Kerry Collins whooped up on my Ducks and won the game 38-20. I don’t think I can take it again, and I need my drunk to be a happy one this time around.

So can you say it for me one time, gentle, informed and intelligent readers: Go Ducks!

A Quote From Frida Kahlo

"I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things learned how to swim."

Honest Addict, Chapter Seven

7

Reno was a first love, the place where he had cut his teeth as a compulsive gambler. It was raw and honest, gray, dreary, unsophisticated and painfully dated. This is where the real gamblers came to play. Of course, all the high rollers, the big money players, were in Las Vegas. But it is inaccurate to presume that the amount one plays is a reflection of how big a gambler they really are. The ten dollar player is perhaps the biggest risk taker in the room if he is putting his rent money on the line. The real gamblers are the low down degenerates, the hard core losers. These are the truest of the true. And they came to play in Reno in droves.

It is said that for the first time in its history, Las Vegas hotels make more money from non-gaming revenue than from the casinos. This is not hard to believe with all the shows, shopping and entertainment options available to the average tourist. And while he had no hard data to prove his belief, Peter knew that this simply couldn’t be true in Reno. You will not find any celebrities here: no rappers, athletes, movie stars or Saudi oil billionaires. The strippers are less attractive, the prostitutes second tier. There are no glamorous showgirls, and only a tiny fraction of the fine dining. The gaming floors in the older casinos, such as the Cal Neva, are positively soiled with years of wear and tear. The ceilings are stained yellow with decades of cigarette smoke. You’ll find no art galleries in the casinos, no albino Siberian tigers. But the gambling can’t be beat.

He always played and stayed at the grimy Sands Regency. It was small, run down and unpopular, filled with broke locals, the elderly crowd and out of town miscreants: the very best the city had to offer. But as he walked through the entrance he noticed that the interior looked different in an oblique, indefinable way. It had been a good while since his last visit, but Peter was certain that something had changed. For some reason, this was disquieting. He approached the front desk.

“What’s changed about this place?” he asked the assistant, a young girl whose nametag read Jennifer.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been a while since I played here last – maybe ten months. Something’s different.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised, as if a great mystery had just been solved. “This place was bought out by a different company seven months ago. But not much has changed, I don’t think, anyway.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Only a few months.”

She was a moron but he couldn’t blame her. He had been a moron too when he was eighteen. Looking around, he realized that the place had been slightly cleaned up. And to his left he saw a husband and wife being trailed by a group of four screaming kids. He couldn’t remember ever having seen children there before, and wondered what had brought a family like them to this place. These portents didn’t bode well.

“I’d like to speak to the casino host, please.”
“Sure,” she replied in a squeaky, upbeat tone. It was obvious she was just happy to pawn off what she correctly interpreted to be a problem customer.

It was several minutes before help arrived. And when it did it was in the form of a heavy set, unimpressive looking man with deep jowls and a false smile. He extended his hand and shook Peter’s in an insincere way.

“Name’s Charles Tischen,” he said in a mock southern style and accent.
Peter introduced himself. He wondered how a man with such an interesting name could look and sound so unappealing.
“What can I do you fer?”
“I have been coming to this casino for many years now – over a decade, in fact. In the past, I had a substantial line of credit and the several accommodations that are generally extended to larger players.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s so.”
“Well, I don’t know you from Adam. But you should be in our computer. Let’s take a looksie, why don’t we?”

Tischen took him to the player’s club kiosk. Peter gave him his drivers license as identification and the chubby man went to work. An impressed look manifested on his face as the information came to him.

“Well sir, you weren’t lying. On your last visit your line of credit was extended to seventy-five thousand dollars. I don’t see why you shouldn’t enjoy the same privilege at this time.”
“That’s fine.”
“We’ll set you up with a suite, of course. Anything you want you can order from room service; your meals in our restaurants are all complimentary of course.”
“Thank you.”
“I see here that you used to smoke Marlboro lights. Is that still the case?”
“It is.”
“I’ll send a carton up to your room immediately. And are you still drinking champagne?”
“Absolutely.”
“A bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame as well then. Is there anything else you require in the immediate future?”
“Ten thousand in chips ready for me at the cage. And you might as well send a deli platter up to my room also. I might get hungry later.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Castellano. I’ll call a bell hop to get your…”
“I am not carrying luggage,” Peter interrupted. “That reminds me: I need a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and some deodorant as well. I’ll get some new clothes tomorrow.”

***

The largest suite at the Sands was a pittance compared to what the big players got comped in Vegas, but Peter was satisfied with his space. It was quite spacious, consisting of a lower floor with a couch, loveseat, two chairs and television and a raised platform on which was placed a king sized bed. As the drapes were closed, he opened them and saw the town laid out before his eyes. He admired the panoply of silent flashing colors, the muted power of their electric light a mere whisper in the roar of sunrise. There seemed to be a message behind them, an optimism that no longer really existed but maybe once did. He especially liked the old fashioned, analog bulb effects that were present on the exterior of some of the buildings; they blinked in predictable succession, chanting an indecipherable mantra to an antiquated commercial spirit.

A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. He answered it to find a pimply faced kid standing there was a large cart piled with all the items he had requested. Peter wondered where the hotel was getting all these youthful employees at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.

“Come in.”
The kid rolled the cart into the room. “Where d’ya want it?”
“Right there’s fine. Do I owe you anything?”
“Naah. It’s all on the house.”
Peter pulled out a twenty dollar bill and handed it to him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. What’s your name?”
“Kevin.”
“You like working here?”
“It’s all right, I guess. You need anything else, sir?”
“No,” Peter responded, almost disappointed that the kid wanted to leave so quickly. “Take it easy.”

When he had left Peter inspected the contents of the cart: champagne on ice, deli tray, cigarettes, toiletries: everything he needed until he went to sleep. He picked at some salami and cheddar cheese, popped a couple grapes into his mouth and inspected the bread. But he wasn’t too hungry.

Things were starting to slow down in his mind, but the day was only beginning. He addressed this situation by pumping still more cocaine into his wearying system. The deleterious effects of the drug were becoming more chronic, but now that he was high again the urge to gamble was too strong to resist. Before heading down to the casino, however, he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his matted hair. The face that looked back at him was hideous: pale, almost yellowish skin, pupils dilated, heavy, dark caverns under eyes which were excessively watery and bloodshot. It looked as if he had aged several years in a night. Putting his hand to his mouth he realized that his breath was terrible as well. He cleaned himself up as best he could.

Back on the floor the blood was pumping through him, fueled more by the adrenaline of impending gambling than by the copious drug use. At the casino cage he was given ten thousand dollars in chips in a single rack of the white one hundred dollar denomination. Approaching the empty twenty-five dollar minimum blackjack table, it was as if the universe were at his feet. Was it even possible that he lose?

He looked at the dealer and read her nametag. “Let’s gamble, Irene.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she responded, unenthused.

He played three hands at a time, wagering between three hundred and five hundred dollars each. Early on, his luck was very even: win one, lose one and so on. He hovered between up a thousand and down seven or eight hundred for almost an hour. The house cordoned off the table just for him, not allowing any other players access to the game. This was a part of the Sands that he loved: even in other, bigger Reno casinos he wouldn’t get this treatment. At the Sands he was the celebrity. In addition, the house assigned a cocktail waitress to be available to him at basically every moment. This assured that his constant stream of vodka-tonics never ran out. Because he tipped well, she was more than happy with this arrangement.

In the second hour, bad luck came his way and he lost about three thousand dollars in a fifteen minute stretch. Fearing that he was becoming too drunk, he went to the bathroom and inhaled more blow from off the tip of his car key. Staring up at the ceiling as he did so, he realized that there was a camera watching this area too. He hoped that nobody had seen him, or if they had they would prefer his money to the satisfaction of turning him over to the authorities.

Back at the table, a run of good cards offset his earlier losses and he found himself even again. Recklessness of manner, the byproduct of so many intoxicants, began to take over. He hollered and screamed when victorious, sang nonsensical songs to the ever changing dealers, waved and blew kisses at old ladies across the floor and told the waitress that he loved her and wanted her hand in marriage. It was all great fun for him, and this kind of behavior continued throughout the day. He never once raised his voice in anger or frustration, only in merriment, so his increasingly outlandish behavior was tolerated, if not enjoyed. And, once again, because he spread so much money in tips around to the dealers and his personal waitress, nobody was going to turn off the faucet. In fact, everybody acted as if they were his long lost friends.

After about two hours at blackjack he moved over to roulette, where he wagered about a thousand a turn out on the individual numbers at a hundred a piece. As at blackjack, he held up pretty well. He missed all his numbers in the first three tries, putting him down three grand. But then he hit back to back 8’s, which resulted in a five thousand dollar swing the other way.

Time began to fade away as a boundary of reality. At some indefinable point, watching the little white ball careen on the edge of the spinning wheel, Peter remembered he had nowhere to be and nothing to do. Nobody knew where he was. A sense of profound freedom, coupled with a kind of contented loneliness came over him. Delusion then began to manifest itself in his mind. Whereas before, in his drive from Marin, he had experienced himself passing through physical space and time, now he envisioned himself to be traveling through an almost tangible mathematical actuality, the limits of which were established by the variable odds of the game. He saw himself as a mystic wanderer, a migrating bird. Some would say he was just wasted, and of course they would be right. But it felt real to him all the same. And at the time that was truly all that mattered.

Play continued, interspersed with increasingly drawn out visits to the bathroom. Peter realized he had cut through a pack of cigarettes since he had come down to the casino floor. The funny thing was, he couldn’t remember smoking but one of them. The waitress brought him another complimentary pack and he continued in the same manner as before. His eyes stung from the incessant smoke. Looking around, he saw that everybody, or almost everybody, in the room had a smoldering butt between their lips or fingers. It was like 1978 in there – the only place in the contiguous United States where so many cigarette enthusiasts could congregate in such large numbers indoors.

A tap on the shoulder and he turned around, annoyed.
“Is everything to your liking, Mr. Castellano?” Charles Tischen asked.
“Oh, it’s you. Yes, everything’s fine.”
“I’m about to go home sir. Is there anything more you require of me before I leave?” He was being very cautious in his speech, less informal than before.
“You’re taking off already?”
“I have been on shift for sixteen hours. My replacement Mr. Jameson will look after all your wants until I return tomorrow.”
“What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“In the afternoon?”
“That’s right.”

Peter looked down at his stack of chips and realized that he had blacked out for a spell. There was forty-five hundred dollars in front of him. “How much money have I withdrawn from the cage?” he asked, not remembering going back for more but knowing from experience that his memory meant nothing in these matters.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Tischen replied.
“Do you mean to tell me I’ve been playing all this time on one rack of chips?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Castellano.”
He smiled broadly. “Magnificent.”
“If I may say so, you are correct, sir.”
Peter erupted in uncontrollable laughter. “From the moment I saw you, Charles, I didn’t like you one bit. But for that comment alone, I’ll consider us old friends from now on.”
“Well, thanks,” he replied, reverting instantaneously to his Southern style. “Yer not a bad fella yerself.”
Peter withdrew a one-hundred dollar chip from his stack and handed it to the host. “For your trouble.” The words barely slurred out.
“And by the way, partner,” Tischen whispered in his ear. “There might be a little surprise waitin’ for you in your room when you finish. Mr. Jameson will take care of that.”
Having no idea what was meant by this inference, Peter replied ridiculously, flourishing his right arm in the manner of a triumphant bullfighter “hidi-ho.”
The host lowered his voice even further and came closer to the gambler’s ear. “Listen buddy, I’ve been doing this for twenty years now. I’ve seen ‘em all come and go. I’ve even seen some of the great ones play when I was in Atlantic City. But you, my friend, are truly one of a kind. I’ll never forget what I’ve witnessed here tonight.”

From his location in interstellar space he traversed the emptiness and then the outer and inner reaches of our galaxy and solar system before returning to earth; a dust mite buried beneath a thousand blankets he climbed through to the top and breathed for just a second fresh, open air; perfectly sober for that instant, Peter replied in unwavering voice, “I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
Tischen looked him in the eye, shook his hand, turned, and departed.

It wasn’t long thereafter that Peter finally gave in. A short winning streak on the craps table left him with the belief that his luck was about to expire. He went back to the cage and returned seventy-seven hundred of the ten thousand he originally withdrew on his line of credit. Considering the sums he was playing and his absolutely crippled state of mind, it had been a very successful night.

He wasn’t really tired, but his vision was blurry and pixilated. On the elevator ride to his suite the plastic bubbled numbers swirled and danced in front of his eyes. The hallway as he walked down it seemed interminably long and increasingly narrow. The carpet was a slithering mass of colors and elongated shapes. Finally, however, he reached his room. He inserted the key, entered, and was immediately confronted by Tischen’s surprise.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a black dress that was hiked up almost as far at it could reasonably go, exposing thick but firm haunches. She had full, dark brown hair that was done up in a large fashion that reminded him of women fromTexas. Her face was covered in makeup, her lips a bright, candy-color red.

“You must be Peter.”
He could barely respond. “Uh-huh.”
“I hear you’re a big player around here.” She stood up and walked over to him, then placed the back of her hand against his face. It was then he remembered he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What do you mean, baby?”
“There’s no point. I’ve been getting high for two days. I’m finished sexually. You’d have more luck with a neutered dog.”
She frowned. “That’s too bad.”
“Not necessarily.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “You wanna do anything?”
“You like to get high?”
“Sure.”
He handed her the rest of the blow. There was a little bit left. “Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s your name?”
“Veronica.”
“Could you do me a favor, Veronica?”
“Sure. Anything you want. They already paid me for my time.”
“Make me a sandwich. The foods over there. And get me a glass of champagne while you’re at it.”

While she went about her business he crawled into bed with all his clothes on. He propped a couple of pillows behind his head and she returned with the sandwich and champagne. He devoured the salami and cheese on a roll and guzzled the sparkling liquid like it was water. Everything tasted delicious. Energy surged within his body for one last time.

“Honey,” he implored a moment later in his most childish voice. “Would you please make me another sandwich?”
She did so, and appeared to enjoy taking care of him. It must be a relief sometimes when they don’t have to turn a trick but still get paid, he thought. He ate and drank while she got high, cupping the coke in her long pinky fingernail. They talked for a little while and were having a pretty good conversation when he took his inquiries too far.

“How’d you get into this life?” he asked.
“How does anybody?” she answered vaguely with a shrug of her shoulder. It was obvious from her body language that she didn’t want to continue this topic, but he persisted, not knowing what else to do.
“I assume you’re a drug addict or something. I assume most of the girls in your business are.”
“How the fuck would you know that, asshole? You don’t know me. You don’t know the first thing about anything. You’re just some fucked up gambler with a few bucks in your pocket.
“That’s right.”
“So where do you get off?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, it seems like you do.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was just curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity.”
“What’s that?”
“It killed the cat.”
“Huh,” he chuckled.
“So what about you? Are you a drug addict?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so. Or I’m just a completely compulsive person, you know? When people say ‘drug addict’ I always think of somebody who has a compulsion for one particular thing: like heroin or crack. It appears I have a compulsion for everything. My appetites are pretty universal. Maybe ‘chemically dependent’ is the best phrase to describe me.”

“You got no compulsion for sex. At least not right now.”
“That’s true. Sex is different. It involves another person. That makes it infinitely more complicated.”
She eyed him curiously. “You like to tell it like it is, don’t you?”
“I tell it as I perceive it to be,” Peter replied. “The attempt at honesty is a good thing.”

She was quiet for a second and then the words came out in a rush. “I sucked my step Dad’s cock when I was fourteen years old for five dollars. It was his idea, you know. After that, he used to fuck me in the basement while my Mom was upstairs making dinner or whatever. He always gave me something in return, a few bucks to keep me quiet. But he also threatened me and told me he’d kill me if I ever said anything about it to anybody. And I never did. The truth is, after a while I kinda started to love him in a demented way. My real old man had split when I was just a little kid.”

The thought of his own father flashed through Peter’s mind.

“So, anyway, in my sophomore year in high school my Mom came in and caught the two of us fucking on the couch in the family room. She was supposed to be gone for the whole day. She flipped out. And of course my stepfather blamed the whole thing on me, said that I had come on to him. So my Mom kicked me out of the house while he got to stay. I was out on my ass, had never worked a day in my life. I only knew how to do one thing well. So I started doin’ it. That was ten years ago.”

“Oh,” he said meekly. He felt emotion rising inside and tried with only marginal success to restrain it.
“Jesus,” she exclaimed, frustrated by the pained look on his face. “I don’t need your pity. My life’s no worse than anybody else’s. I just don’t walk around fooling myself into believing I’m something that I’m not. How’s that for attempting honesty?”

Not bad, he figured.

Another Festivus Miracle

Just when my bitching about the season was reaching its crescendo, Christmas came and went. And I’ve got to come out and be honest: it wasn’t so bad this year. The presents were purchased well in advance, my stress level was under reasonable control and I went into the day with as good an attitude as could be expected.

And a good day it was. My family does the big dinner on Christmas Eve, which I like because by the time 3:00 rolls around on the 25th, I’m about ready to pass out from exhaustion and dehydration caused by drink. What a dinner it was: we started out with an endive, avocado, cherry tomato and Dungeness crab salad – the vegetables fresh and clean, the crab impeccably sweet, pulled off the ocean floor only forty-eight hours earlier. We then enjoyed beef filet, scalloped potatoes and string beans with mushrooms. Delicious. For desert, we had a sweet fruit tart, pudding and ice cream. These delicacies, preceded by hors d’oeuvres and coupled with a boatload of beer, booze and wine, left me afterwards feeling weak and satisfied beyond expectation.

On Christmas day, there were no arguments and my inevitable depression was muted compared to years past. Looking back, it was a lovely thirty hours spent with the most important people in my life. It just goes to show: sometimes, mentally preparing for the worst sets the stage for a pleasant surprise.

Dead Wrong, Alton Brown

I actually like Alton Brown, renowned chef, cookbook author and Food Network host. His show is informative and funny. However, I disagree vehemently with his antiquated and pedestrian views on addiction.

In a recent article in Time, (December 14, 2009, pg. 68, The Toughest Diet) Brown talks about his struggles with overeating, how he lost weight and how he now copes with being surrounded by food constantly. He has completely changed his eating routine, which seems to be working for him, and now, instead of snacking on French fries, enjoys sardines, avocados and almonds. I say bully for him. However, Mr. Brown misses the boat when he says by way of analogy, “You don’t cut back on heroin, you don’t cut back on smoking; you either quit or you don’t.”

This is a really helpful and illustrative quote, an excellent example of the unquestioned, unexamined societal attitude I stand firmly against. And I’m not trying to pick on Mr. Brown. He just has the misfortune of publicly saying what everybody else thinks without challenging the notion on any level: a crime we are all guilty of at one time or another.

You can cut back on heroin. You can cut back on smoking, or drinking, or marijuana or cocaine. You can do anything you set your mind to. Is it easier to just quit completely? Of course it is. But each of us is born with will, with volition. We are the masters of our own destiny – at least within the rat maze which is human existence. For someone to say that a given individual has no control of himself is to bestow the dubious gift of abdication of responsibility. If you want to quit your habits completely, do it! I’m with you all the way. But don’t then turn around and say that, because you had to quit, everybody else does too.

And actually, Mr. Brown is the perfect example of my point. He had a problem over eating. Did he quit eating altogether? Of course not. He found a way to work within the confines of his need to eat and find a healthy plan. Which brings me to my final observation. Do we tell recovering sex addicts to cease having sex altogether? Generally, no. Why? Because sex is seen as indispensable to a happy life, something people don’t want to live without. Obviously the same goes for compulsive eaters – they can’t live without sustenance, so they find a way to eat healthier. The same solution can be true for the drug addict and so-called alcoholic. But most people and our social institutions refuse to concede this point.

Honest Addict, Chapter Six

6

He had lied to Violet when he told her that he didn’t know where he was going. The destination – at least for the foreseeable future – was certain. But he didn’t want anybody else to catch wind of it. He didn’t even want rumors circulating as to his whereabouts. The idea was to fall off the face of the earth.

It was easy to get out of the Bay Area quickly at that hour: north on 101, connect with Highway 37 through Vallejo, over to Interstate 80 and northeast from then onwards. It didn’t hurt that he was driving his relatively old but fully and lovingly restored Jaguar XJS. The only events that slowed his progress were the numerous pit stops which were required to stay high and alert. Not taking into account these interludes, he had everything in front of him he needed: highway, space and time. Despite the confounding effects of the drug and the inky blackness of the night that enveloped him, his head felt clear and his intentions certain.

Soon he was in the farm country that surrounds the towns of Vacaville and Dixon. And then, in a flash, the city of Sacramento made its appearance, seeming a great, luminous metropolis in the middle of so much empty space. But it was gone in only a moment: a reminder to Peter of its provincial nature.

Then he began climbing the Sierra Nevada foothills. Something about the increase in elevation made his escape more palpable. His thoughts wandered as the hypnosis of the curving road added to his already altered state.

It struck him as a realization – though this fact really should have come as no surprise at all – that everybody he knew was addicted in one way or another. The story of Stephen and Juliet recurred in his mind, and he realized that Violet’s final comments on the subject were predominant. Other addicts needed people like Stephen and Juliet. They were the kind that all the other compulsives loved to point at and say: at least I’m not as bad as them! They’re really fucked up. But the comfort that their example provided was illusory at best. Because their folly, Peter knew as certainly as he knew that he was still alive, was the same as that contained in the heart of every addict everywhere, the identical glitch he carried around in his own heart and soul at this very moment.

Inside, every addict feels the same, desires the same and pursues the same. It is easiest to spot in the drug users, alcoholics and problem gamblers, of course, because they have the habits that stand out in society; they bear the scarlet letters that are easiest to identify and disparage. But what of the avaricious, the accumulators and creators of wealth – like his former coworkers at the firm? Were they not also obvious addicts, he wondered? Or the politicos, the power mongers, who stop at nothing to achieve status and influence. What of them? Or the average American consumer, who defines their very existence, their intrinsic value as a human being, based on the most meaningless trifles, on molded Chinese plasticity? Is the insanity of the average American any different or more purposeful than that of the most abject crack-head? Does it matter in the moral equation that some otherwise equal behaviors are rewarded or at least tolerated by society and others are punished or considered taboo? Peter thought perhaps not.

As he drove along the curving roads, he spotted the historic lighted civic dome that has become the symbol of the town of Auburn. It too was gone from his vision almost instantaneously, but it had a lasting effect on his train of thought, which was bouncing from one idea to another almost incessantly.

It must have been a good time in America, he thought, those early days when our country was still expanding, when the west was not yet won, when God was still very alive, when mere survival had been the primary motivator. Back then there were basically three great vices: booze, illicit sex and gambling. And these were considered potentially terrible problems, more than enough to take the average man down. Pool was the trouble in old time River City. Today the citizens of that little town would be slamming heroin. Something somewhere had failed in the human spirit and the American identity. Now that everything was at the click of a button, we had very little left to strive for, and too much free time on our hands.

Were we in the same stage of societal development as the end of ancient Roman civilization? It certainly seemed an apt analogy. Delusions of an expanding empire, cultural degradation, gratuitous excess and a dearth of good leadership at the highest levels were in evidence both then and now. Or were we on the precipice of a distopian nightmare: an Orwellian world of absolute tyranny and the disintegration of individual humanity? It was tempting to believe these comparisons, to see the course of history as some kind of cyclical predestination. Despite all the supporting evidence of the endless repetition of human failure, Peter did not want to want to believe this. He wanted to believe in something more, something better. But if it didn’t start with him, then where? And this was the biggest problem of all.

Peter knew he had given up on most of the good things he had once believed in. This did not necessarily mean that he was a bad person, but it certainly made him feel like an incomplete one. Time and time again he had seen how the best impulses are met by greed and opportunism. People who offered up unconditional love, decency and real humanity were generally taken advantage of by those who possessed more cunning. And so at some point in the not so distant past, he had detached himself from his better impulses. He had gotten “real.” He accepted that all life – including, if not especially human – was Darwinian competition.

And so he had learned to accept a job – but more really than just a job, an identity – where he contributed nothing of value to society, where he too stalked and hunted the easy prey. All he had done with his life for the past seven years was create more artificiality in an already artificial world. And what was worse was that he had done so in a manner that he knew in his heart was manipulative and inherently dishonest. There was only one goal at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir: keep the client’s money in the firm’s possession; and, if at all possible, get the client to put more money at the company’s disposal. If this meant lying about the state of the market, so be it. There was only one truth at the firm and it could be measured in dollars and cents. All other facts, opinions and data were subservient to that truth.

Peter remembered a private lecture he had once received from Gerry Weir. The stock market, he said, was a zero sum game. Money changed hands, stocks rose or fell on speculation, companies were built and destroyed. Where there was a winner there naturally also had to be a loser in equal proportion: this was the essential nature of the game. In the end, whether you were a winner or a loser in the world of asset management depended on your image. The basic strategies for playing the market varied only slightly from company to company. Of course, every so often, bad luck befell even competent firms. But bad luck aside, whether you lived or died was based on image control. So long as a firm projected the attitude of a winner, the money would follow. It was that simple. The only difficult part was hypnotizing yourself before you attempted to hypnotize others.

Peter later looked up the definition of a zero sum game and realized that Weir’s definition did not fit perfectly into the construct of the stock market. But his point had been made in any event.

The Jaguar twisted and turned through the hills. There was snow piled high on both sides of the road. Peter saw the Highway 20 exit to Nevada City and thought about a time a decade ago when he and a girlfriend had stayed in the town for a day and a half. In his memory it was an idyllic place and an incredible time. They had seen a fine version of The Glass Menagerie at a surprisingly professional local theatre. He remembered tears welling up in his eyes during several powerful moments in the play.

That was like a million years ago, he thought. He believed himself to be a completely different person now. But one thing remained the same – he was still addicted. In his heart if not his head, he had known it in the past as well. But he felt like a lesser person now, because piled atop his physical and psychological compulsions for alcohol, drugs and gambling there now existed a new layer of cynicism and greed that had not always been there, the product of too many years scratching his way to the top.

For a moment he thought that at least he had quit. That was a step in the right direction. But his insecurity would not even let him enjoy this morsel as he reminded himself that he had only left the job once he had more than enough money piled up in the bank.

It was becoming early morning and tiredness began to set in. At Truckee he pulled the car over in a Burger King parking lot and snorted more cocaine off a powder-caked compact disc case. At first it had no effect whatsoever, so he inhaled still more. After a while a cold, metallic energy reinvigorated him. He lit a cigarette and continued on his way.

What really bothered him was this: an aching feeling, a suspicion, an instinct, a whisper that he could have done something with his existence, still could do something that had meaning. He used to tell himself that he had ended up exactly where he had always wanted to be. But now he wasn’t so sure that was true. There had always been a yearning within him, one that had remained almost completely dormant for many years. That yearning appeared to be returning to him since Carol’s death. It remained to be seen whether this was only one of so many passing fancies or if the idea would take root and grow.

All of these thoughts were annihilated when finally, at 6:20 in the morning, he saw the familiar neon glow cutting through the still dark but gradually illuminating sky. As the Jaguar crested the hill he could see the lights of the Circus Circus Hotel and Casino blinking in the distance, the R on the first “Circus” malfunctioning, frozen in place while all the others blinked on and off in succession. And then, a second later, there she was in all her dilapidated glory, spread prostrate before his eyes: the dirty old whore, the bygone success, home of the lonely and transient, the biggest little city in the world – Reno, Nevada.

It looked good to him and he knew that he was home, at least temporarily.

Double Duty at Sonic

What is it about the fast food joints? Compare this story with that of the South Carolina McDonalds which ran on this blog on September 27, 2009.

Cape Girardeau, Missouri (first reported by the Southeast Missourian):

Dennie Bratcher has (or perhaps, had) a good job as a shift manager at a local Sonic restaurant, famous for its burgers, dogs and frozen treats. But it seems that his income from managing the store just isn’t enough to cover his other lifestyle choices.

Police were called to the restaurant at 1:57 a.m. on Thursday, December 10 on a report of a possible burglary in progress. When they arrived, they found Dennie cooking in the kitchen. Strange, considering that the restaurant had been closed for hours. What was even more strange was the fact that he was not grilling a burger, but rather was cooking up a fresh batch of methamphetamine. Police arrested him on the spot. He is currently charged with second degree burglary and attempt to manufacture a controlled substance

A Quote From Richard Neville

"Is marijuana addictive? Yes, in the sense that most of the really pleasant things in life are worth endlessly repeating."

Number One Pusher

I parked the car in the already crowded lot and began walking toward the strip mall. The ubiquitous green sign beckoned in the distance. Time was pressing against me; I prayed there would not be a line. A car cut in front of me and came to a stop in a red zone adjacent to the mall. A woman jumped out and began running toward the Starbucks while her companion waited, smoke billowing out of the tailpipe, doubly full in the cold morning. A man walking toward the storefront quickened his step, then broke into a jog to beat her to the door. She looked frustrated and offended.

Inside, the line was ten deep. Expectation rattled and buzzed in the eyes of the patrons who waited. The woman who had run in front of me was tapping her foot impatiently. The man who had beat her to the door sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.

“Double tall macchiato for Jim,” the barista called out. A man in a suit hustled to the counter to receive his blessing. I thought how there should be a separate line for people who just want coffee, not some specialty drink. But this thought had no relevance to my situation other than the fact that I wanted my coffee immediately.

Honest Addict, Chapter Five

5

Peter knocked on the door and waited. After what felt like approximately two minutes, he knocked again. Violet’s car was in the driveway, which meant that she was probably home.

This was completely outside the realm of his usual behavior. In the past he had called her a thousand times, of course, at all hours of the day and night. The scenario was almost always the same: one too many drinks leading inescapably toward the urge to take it to the next level. Sometimes she answered but usually she did not, which was in fact an act of mercy. The one thing he had never done, however, was just show up in the middle of the night and knock on the door. That was beyond the pale of good manners and his personal code of conduct. But there was a first time for everything, he thought, the cold night air making his breath clearly visible in front of him: fairly rare for San Rafael, even during winter.

After knocking a final time he turned to leave. She was probably asleep, he thought, though a part of him believed this simply couldn’t be true. Or maybe she was out and somebody else drove. He was almost to the street when he heard her call after him.

“Oh it’s you, honey. Get back here right this instant.” Her voice was unmistakable: forged by a lifetime of cigarettes, it sounded somewhat like that of an exhausted singer at the end of a long and grueling tour, as if it might go out at any minute. But despite the gravelly, scratchy tone, it was for him a pleasant, reassuring sound, full of compassion, suffering and genuine love.
“I am so sorry to do this to you,” he said as he embraced her warmly.
“What are you talking about?” she exclaimed.
“Just showing up like this.”
“Oh honey, everybody just shows up here.”
“Yeah.” One thing he had never wanted to be like was “everybody.” But the longer he lived the more he felt he was becoming so.

They went inside her home, a comfortable, well decorated three bedroom ranch style located in a nice area of town known as Peacock Gap. Her ex-husband had purchased it years before they married as an investment. After the divorce, the home became part of the settlement, in addition to an undisclosed sum. Violet hadn’t worked in over a decade.

“I was rocking out in the kitchen,” she said as they entered. “I almost didn’t hear you because of the stereo.”

Tobacco smoke filled the room, more than a single person should be responsible for. It hung in thin strata and was mysteriously layered. A song by the Velvet Underground could be heard almost imperceptibly in the background, coming from the abutting family room. On the cooking island were two round objects: one a gigantic ashtray – probably a good twelve inches in diameter – filled to the brim with ashes and butts, the other a mirror covered with a pile of cocaine, straw and razorblade. Peter experienced a sickly sweet sensation reverberate through his body at the vision. But he felt satisfaction in knowing that he would be able to obtain what he had come for.

“You want a line?” she asked.
“Desperately,” he replied, immediately grabbing the straw and inhaling a pre-cut portion of the cocaine. Right away he felt better, refreshed, ready for anything the world was going to throw at him. He knew instinctively that this feeling was only going to last maybe fifteen minutes and he would spend the rest of the night chasing it in vain. Still, he was grateful for the reprieve. The drug cut through his drunkenness, sharpening his vision and focus. He looked at Violet, really for the first time that evening.

She was still a good looking woman, though her lifestyle had added artificial time to her forty-five years. She was too thin and her face was gaunt, but imbued with a dignity and beauty that had been handed down through her Anglo-Saxon forebears. Her lips were thin, her nose narrow and eyes a light, ethereal blue. When she looked at you it was as if she was looking through you, Peter had often thought. Her medium length light brown hair was delicate and threadlike, and fell in her eyes often.

Peter pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He offered Violet one as well but she refused, preferring her 100’s to his standard size. She dipped the tip of her smoke in the cocaine and twisted it, then held it at an upright angle as she lit it, so as not to lose any of the precious powder. The end burst into a tiny blue flame as the chemicals reacted with the fire.

She poured him a glass of red wine and they toasted. He tried to drink as slowly as he could, knowing he had a long night in front of him.
“So what brings you by, other than the…” she cut herself off.
“The obvious? It’s okay, you can say it. I’m no better than any of the other degenerates that you shelter.”
“Oh honey, that’s so untrue and you know it. You are one of my very favorites. You always show respect. Your mother raised you right. If she were still alive, I’d give her a big hug right now.”
“It’s nice of you to say. And you know that I love you too. But I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t here to get high. Better to just tell it like it is. I’ve had a bad couple of months since I saw you last. And tonight, well, tonight was dramatic to say the least.”
“Fill me in.”

He told her of the last month of Carol Rutherford’s life, her death, the funeral service and the month that followed. Then he went through the saga of that very night, including the rash decision to quit his job. He went on for a long while, and didn’t know for how long he had been talking when he finally came to the end of it all. But when it was finished he felt relieved, like he had just laid down a heavy and cumbersome piece of luggage.

She offered him the mirror and he inhaled another line, this one twice as large as the first. He slugged down the rest of the wine and refilled his glass to the brim. He could almost perceive the rush of dopamine that was flooding the pleasure receptors inside his brain. He lit another cigarette and smoked it greedily, never feeling like he was getting a complete hit. He removed the filter and tried again. This time, it did the trick.

“So tell me what’s been going on around here in my absence?” he inquired. “Catch me up on all the action.”

He knew Violet had been waiting for her chance to talk. You could always tell when she sat on the edge of her seat that she was anticipating her opportunity to interject. Who could blame her? It was the hallmark of the social-cocaine experience: fast paced, long winded conversation. And once her levee was opened, there was no turning back the torrent that came down the valley.

“Johnny and Rebecca are on the outs again. Apparently he was fucking some other girl on the side and she found out. He must have been really secretive about the whole thing because even I didn’t know about it. At first, she was devastated and came over crying like three days in a row. But then, she found some new guy, a banker in the city who she went head over heels for. Now Johnny’s the one who is devastated. He called her a bunch and begged her to come back to him but she’s having none of it. Part of me feels bad for him: he really is a sweet guy at heart. But the other part of me says hey: he fucked this thing up on his own, so fuck him, you know?”

There being a natural break in the narrative, she snorted a line and lit another cigarette – silence for ten seconds.

“Benny got busted for doing dope and ended up in jail. He was on house arrest after his third DUI, but his dealer was still coming over to make deliveries. So the probation department decided to give him a pee test a couple of weeks ago and it came up positive for coke, pot and morphine: apparently he was popping pain pills as well. Now he has to finish his time in the can – ninety days. Which is a real bummer for him. Who wants to spend Christmas in jail?”

She took a quick drag off the smoke, which was beginning to sport a very long ash that hung precariously from the burning end.

“Oh, and then there’s Stephen and Juliet. That’s a really fucked up situation. They were up for eight days straight doing meth. At first, I think they were having a pretty good time. I saw them on what was, I guess, like their third straight day. They were pretty wild but still with it mentally, you know? But they just kept on truckin’, getting no sleep, hardly eating, just smoking dope and partying day in, day out. So on the seventh day they both started to get real paranoid, each thinking that the other was trying to kill them. Apparently, she shut herself up in their bedroom with a butcher knife and a baseball bat and he was holed up under the house with a shotgun – just him and a family of raccoons. After a while, he started taking pot shot at the raccoons. The story goes that one of them had got up on his hind legs and started hissing at Stephen. So he shot the damn thing and started going after the others. At this point, the neighbors called the cops who showed up and arrested him for discharging a firearm in public. But as they are putting him into the back seat of the cruiser, he tells them that Juliet is in the house and that she was trying to kill him. So they go inside and find her curled up in the corner of the bedroom, knife in her hand, bat across her lap and a bunch of speed in a baggie on the dresser. So they arrest her for possession. Both of them are in jail right now. Gene came over yesterday. He was taking up a collection for their bail money. I pitched in five hundred – doubt if I’ll see that money ever again.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Peter. “That’s a bad drug to get into.”
“No doubt.”
He laughed. “I guess there’s gotta be somebody worse off than us. Huh?”
“Honey,” she said with all seriousness, “there are a lot of people worse off. But we’re bad enough.”

They continued in this same manner for a while. It felt to him like they were under glass, contained in their own pleasant universe from which there was no escape. They talked incessantly, hardly catching their breath for anything that didn’t involve adding more fuel to the fire. It seemed as if about forty-five minutes went by. But the next thing Peter knew, he looked at the clock on the microwave and saw that it was three o’clock in the morning. The time had come to leave.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I didn’t realize how much time had passed.”
“It’s always like that when we get together,” she replied. “You know you can stay if you want to.”
“I know. But I really do have to go. I can’t be in the Bay Area any longer.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Should you really be driving?”
“No.”
She looked at him seriously.
“I know,” he said, reading her gaze. “But I can’t wake up so close to home tomorrow. It just won’t work.”
“Honey, you’re not going to sleep tonight anyway.”
“That reminds me. I really hate to ask…”

She smiled. “Wait here.” In a moment she returned with two plastic bags: one empty and another filled with what must have been an ounce of cocaine. He had known dealers that carried that kind of weight, but for someone who only used it was a gigantic amount. “Take what you need,” she told him.

Peter removed two large rocks and put them in the empty bag. It was a couple of grams, at least, and would carry him as far as he needed it to. He pulled out a hundred and fifty dollars and offered it to Violet.
“Don’t insult me,” she said.

He then removed the cell phone from his pocket and turned it off. He handed it to her. “Will you hold on to this for me while I’m gone?” he asked.
She said she would. There was a time when that phone and the numbers it contained were beyond value. Now it was nothing but unnecessary baggage.

A Poem by Li Bai

Alone And Drinking Under The Moon

Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.

From Wikipedia:

Li Bai or Li Po or Li Bo (Chinese: 李白; pinyin: Lǐ Bái, or, Lǐ Bó) (701 – 762) was a Chinese poet. He was part of the group of Chinese scholars called the "Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup" in a poem by fellow poet Du Fu. Li Bai is often regarded, along with Du Fu, as one of the two greatest poets in China's literary history. Approximately 1,100 of his poems remain today. The first translations in a Western language were published in 1862 by Marquis d'Hervey de Saint-Denys in his Poésies de l'Époque des Thang.[1] The English-speaking world was introduced to Li Bai's works by a Herbert Allen Giles publication History of Chinese Literature (1901) and through the liberal, but poetically influential, translations of Japanese versions of his poems made by Ezra Pound.[2]

Li Bai is best known for the extravagant imagination and striking Taoist imagery in his poetry, as well as for his great love for liquor. Like Du Fu, he spent much of his life travelling, although in his case it was because his wealth allowed him to, rather than because his poverty forced him. He is said, famously but untruly, to have drowned in the Yangtze River, having fallen from his boat while drunkenly trying to embrace the reflection of the moon.

A Quote From Lou Reed

"I tried to give up drugs by drinking."

Honest Addict, Chapter Four

4

The restaurant had been booked solid for two weeks. A number of would-be diners stood hopefully in the bar, their necks craning toward the maitre d’ in the expectation that space would magically open up. For most of them, this possibility would never materialize. Because of their vanity and frugality, they didn’t realize how easy it really was to get a table. But Peter did.

He approached the host podium with the bill palmed in his hand. Jeanette stood beside him, looking truly beautiful in her low cut blouse and the short skirt that showed off her slender yet shapely legs.

“I take it you do not have a reservation,” the maitre d’ said haughtily.
“As a matter of fact I do,” Peter replied. “It’s under the name of Franklin, Benjamin Franklin,” he said, using that stupid, know-it-all tone he had seen applied in the movies for similar situations. He placed the bill in the gatekeeper’s palm.
“Well,” the maitre d’ responded, pondering the situation. “This is going to get me in very much trouble in twenty minutes when the next wave of reservations arrives. But what the hell. They didn’t give me anything.”
He escorted Peter and Jeanette to a nice two-top by the window. “Bon appetite.”

The Royal Stag Roadhouse was one of the best restaurants in Marin. “Five star comfort food,” their slogan declared. The menu had an array of dishes, many of them featuring exotic game meats such as venison, guinea fowl and boar. The elk loin in a red wine reduction with roasted winter vegetables was a particularly good seller. Of course, the restaurant also offered a wide variety of traditional dishes featuring more pedestrian flesh such as halibut, chicken, pork and steak. Jeanette had wanted to visit for ages. Peter hoped they would have a nice night out.

The evening started well enough. They ordered a couple of cocktails to begin, Peter a gin and tonic, Jeanette a vodka-cranberry. Before he was halfway finished with his libation, she flagged down the busboy and ordered a second: never a good sign. But he chose to ignore this portent and focus on making things pleasant. And for a while they were.

“How are things at work?” she inquired.
“Not well,” he replied. “I hate everybody at that place. It’s a den of iniquity. There’s not a good soul left working for the firm. Did I tell you they fired Gerald Jankovic last week?”
“No. What did he do?”
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
“So why don’t you quit? Is it the money?”
“Not really. I have enough socked away. My condo is all but paid for. I could probably live for several years without working if I planned it out right.”
“So why don’t you? And while you’re at it, why don’t you move in with me?”
“At your Mom’s place? In Tiburon?”
“Why not? Quit your job, move in with me, even rent out your condo for extra income. We could travel the world together, do whatever we want. We’re young. Let’s take advantage of that. It would be an adventure.”
Peter smiled at the thought of it. “It certainly would be that.”
“You still love me, don’t you?” she asked. And as she did so he looked deeply into her beautiful face and became enamored all over again: the chocolate brown eyes and hair, the European visage, the omnipresent smirk, even her slightly large front teeth. Somehow it was all so perfect and made the years fall away. For a second he felt sixteen years old again.
“I have always loved you and I always will,” he replied sincerely, though with a nuance to his answer that she could never understand.
“So?”
He sighed. It all sounded so good. But he already knew how the story ended, the impossibility of their full-time cohabitation. “I don’t know, hon. It’s something to think about.”
“Shit,” she said, annoyed. “I know what that means.”

The night continued, but in a decidedly different direction after this exchange. He ordered the white truffle risotto with quail and a Caesar salad, she the Copper River salmon and lobster bisque. After he consumed his third drink and she her fourth, they started in on a bottle of expensive chardonnay. It tasted of butter and apples and had a bouquet of wildflowers. It was gone before their entrées arrived so Peter ordered a second. It was about halfway through the risotto that things got ugly.

“I’m sick of this fucking wine,” Jeanette exclaimed with a flourish of her hand that knocked a water glass off the table. “I want a real drink!”
“Take it easy, babe,” Peter said in his most soothing voice. “Why don’t you wait until we get home? Then we can drink until the sun comes up, I promise.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? That way you wouldn’t have to fuck me tonight! No. You’re not getting off that easy.” Tears began streaming down her face. Her sobs were heavy, coming from a place deep in the pit of her stomach. “My mother is gone and you don’t love me. What’s the point of it all?”

The maitre d’ approached the table with a concerned look on his face. Peter did his best to intercept him before he made the situation worse.
“Don’t bother” he said, waving his hands in the air. “We’re okay. Sorry about the outburst. But everything’s fine.”
“Sir,” the maitre d’ insisted, “we cannot have language like that in this establishment.”
Jeanette started laughing manically, pounding her clenched fist on the table. “Get the fuck away from here you...wetback,” she exclaimed. And then, apparently amused by the humor of her comment, she began laughing uncontrollably once again.
“I will have you know that I am a Spaniard from the city of Madrid. And I will not be spoken to in such a manner.”
“Well, you look like a wetback to me. A spick.” And as she pronounced the s spittle flew from a small pool of saliva that was gathering on her lower lip.
“That is it. I want you both to leave right now. Leave and never come back to this restaurant.”

Peter rose from his chair begrudgingly, knowing there was no rectifying what had just transpired. Jeanette also got up, but was so drunk she had to lean on Peter for support. He reached in his wallet and pulled out several hundred dollars, which he offered to the offended host.
“I do not want your stinking money,” he said, his greed now overwhelmed by humiliation and disdain. “I only want you to leave.” They slouched toward the exit, the weight of a hundred disturbed, disapproving glares burdening their journey.

***

Jeanette passed out within five minutes of arriving home, leaving Peter only the bar and his thoughts. He poured himself a Hennessy and sat down on a plush leather club chair in Eugene Rutherford’s famous study, a long, dark room filled with antiques, awards, an impressive library of first edition books and an immense record collection, comprising jazz, popular music up to about 1972 and an almost complete discography of classical music. Although everything else about the house had been altered after his death, Carol had seen to it that the study was never touched, that it remained as a tribute to the man she had loved so much, a man twenty-two years her senior. It was very fitting.

Peter got up and fingered the records; he was one of the only ones left who still did. He removed an ancient looking copy of Beethoven’s Symphony Number 4 and put it on the very clean but old United Audio turntable. Below he flipped the thick power switch on the impressive looking Macintosh tuner and soon the melancholy music emerged from speakers hidden in the walls. The sound quality was amazing for such old technology: clean and crisp and full, with only the occasional small hiss associated with vinyl. Even this imperfection added something to the listening experience.

He walked around the room, viewing the many framed certificates, letters and photographs on the walls: evidence of a life that had mattered, or at least that was the impression that the decorator was trying to convey. Perusing the room was an old habit of his, one he never tired of. As always, it was hard not to be impressed. There were letters of recognition to Rutherford signed by Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter and Ronald Regan, an honorary degree from Brown University, and numerous pictures showing the great man surrounded by other great men. But it was on the west wall that Peter located his favorite photo. It featured Eugene sitting in the middle of a deep booth in a restaurant at Caesars Palace Las Vegas – this fact was evidenced by a sign that was visible in the background. On his left sat Dean Martin and on his right Frank Sinatra. All three men held drinks in their hands and wide smiles on their faces: the portrait of good living. Rutherford had been an avid gambler, Peter reminded himself.

Peter had come into Jeanette’s life only a year after the old man had died of lymphoma. The family of two was still in shambles emotionally, and Jeanette was probably worse off than Carol. Of course, it wasn’t the norm for a fifteen year old girl to have a father of seventy. Still, it was obviously quite difficult for someone her age to lose a parent. Although he had never met Rutherford personally, he knew more about his intimate life than almost anybody outside the family. Incalculable were the hours he had spent over the years listening to mother and daughter reminisce about the husband and father who was so well known to the world. They only rarely discussed his many accomplishments, and even when they did they focused mostly on his philanthropic pursuits and not his great financial triumphs. The majority of the time they talked about what a good man he had been, his love of life and family, and the aura of optimism he bore wherever he went.

These reminiscences seemed to emanate from a long passed epoch in Peter’s mind. But the memories never felt so far off when Carol had been alive. Even a year ago, when she had first been diagnosed with cancer, the dynamic of their triangular relationship was elementally the same as always. And in a way, as long as Carol was alive Eugene was still alive as well, his spirit, culture and way of life carried in the heart of the woman who still introduced herself as his wife. Now everything was different. There was no real link to the personal world that Eugene Rutherford once inhabited. The last connection resided with his daughter, his only living child, who seemed determined to annihilate what was left of her existence and tenuous hold on the past.

Peter tilted his head back and closed his eyes. What was he to do now? The scene that had erupted at the restaurant was final proof in his mind that he could no longer chaperone Jeanette’s self destruction. But he also felt he had an even greater responsibility now that she was all alone to make sure that she survived into the next year, where maybe she could pick up the pieces of her life and move on. But what of his own personal life? He was still unmarried. Would it always remain so? A part of him desperately hoped that it would. Although he hated to admit it, even to himself, he had a deep distrust and even enmity toward most women.

And how long could he continue working for a company he loathed? The money, no doubt, was great: the previous year he had earned eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. But how much did he really need? Was it worth his soul to be rich? There was a time when this question had been much easier to answer. In fact, there had been times in his life when this question could be easily answered both in the negative and affirmative. At twenty-one, his idealism would have declared that nothing is worth sacrificing your humanity. At twenty-seven, his avarice led him to do almost anything in pursuit of the almighty dollar. Now he was thirty-three and realized he had no beliefs anymore, that he knew absolutely nothing at all: not even who he was.

And then the moment of clarity descended, and everything seemed so simple. The horizons expanded. Of course, he thought to himself in that simpleminded way he had during his early experimentations as a teenager with LSD or hallucinogenic mushrooms. Knowing that the inspiration could fade in an instant, he jumped up and sat down at the small secretary desk that was at the far end of the room.

Neither Eugene Rutherford nor his several female assistants had ever used a computer; therefore there was none to be found in the study. Of course, the house had several computers in it now, but Peter felt the need to document his thoughts in this place, and not anywhere else. So he took a piece of what felt like very expensive writing paper and placed it in the old typewriter that sat on the desk: a Remington Standard, Number 2. As he rolled the paper into the anachronistic machine, he was transported back to seventh grade typing class – for a second he could even hear the teacher droning in his head, “letter a…strike, semicolon…strike.” It was the last time he could remember using a typewriter. He wondered if the one in front of him would even function. How long could the ink on the ribbon last anyway?

To his surprise it did indeed work: the letters were thick and dark, making a deep indent on the page. The words flowed from him with ease, though his speed was somewhat slow, as had to be extra careful about not making any mistakes.

Dear Jeanette,
You said tonight that I do not love you. You could not be more incorrect about that. I love you and everything you represent about my time here on earth. I will always feel this way toward you, as long as I have breath in my body and thoughts in my mind. When my father left my family I was barely twelve years old. My own mother’s death six years later left me with you and your mother, who became the only real family I had. Her recent passing has left a scar on my being that will never heal, a scar that I will wear as a badge of honor for the rest of my days.
I know that your pain is incomprehensible. And I know that what I am about to say will only exacerbate that pain. I am leaving you now. I cannot say for how long I will be gone or where exactly I will go, but I have decided on this. I will be far away as you read this letter.
As I have often told you, I abhor hypocrisy. It is probably this revulsion that has kept me from saying or doing something sooner. In this instance, however, I will break my own rule. You are going to do whatever you want anyway, so know that I say this only for my own peace of mind: watching you destroy yourself is a pain I cannot bear any longer. Please seek help. You are all that is left of everything that came before you.
With much love,
Peter.

He pulled out the paper and blew on it to let the ink dry. As he did so, he knew that it would change nothing.

Now he took the cellular phone from out his pocket and dialed the office. His hands shook as he navigated the difficult answering service, but ultimately he did arrive at his final destination: the voicemail box of J.B. Richardson. His message was short but to the point.
“This is Peter Castellano. Due to the disgust I feel in working for this company, I have, after long and thorough deliberation, decided that I will no longer be coming in. I quit. If my accrued vacation pay and vested stock options are not forwarded to me in a timely manner you shall be hearing from my attorney. I wish you the best of luck, especially in finding a more valuable use for your ridiculous life.”

He closed the phone and pondered the irreparability of it all. There was no turning back now.

Addict Recommends: (Film) The Road (2009)

Director: John Hillcoat

Starring: Viggo Mortensen, Codi Smit-McPhee, Charlize Theron, Guy Pearce

Normally, I wouldn’t go outside the four corners of this blog and recommend something that is in no way related to the mission. But this movie affected me so profoundly, left such terrible scars on my psyche, that – after much deliberation – I’ve decided to break my own rule. It is quite possible that this will never happen again.

The movie is based on a book by Cormac McCarthy, who also wrote No Country for Old Men, adapted for film by the Coen brothers. (I have already ordered a copy of The Road and am awaiting its arrival with bated breath.) It follows a father and son who travel in a post-apocalyptic world, searching for the coastline and heading south, where the conditions may be more favorable for living. What befell earth is a mystery, but the destruction and devastation is complete. All life other than human has been apparently wiped out. The world’s forests are filled with burnt embers instead of trees. Existence has been reduced to a desperate struggle for food. Many, if not most, people who survive do so by practicing predatory cannibalism. It’s not just that human life has been wiped out; humanity itself is teetering on the edge of a bottomless precipice.

Don’t expect The Road Warrior when going to see this movie. Mad Max’s world is a carnival ride in comparison to what you’re in for with The Road. Be prepared for a place so bleak, so unthinkably brutal as to be almost without hope. It is in this setting that “The Man,” portrayed by Mortensen, tells his son that they are the “good guys” who are “carrying the fire inside.” But even the good guys face terrible choices in a world where everyone you meet is potentially seeking to rape and then consume your child.

“The boy is my warrant,” The Man says early in the film. And throughout the narrative, it is clear that his only purpose is in protecting the child from harm. But this protection also includes instructing the boy how to commit suicide with a pistol in a hopeless situation. “The Boy,” (played excellently by Kodi Smit-McPhee) is often the moral voice, the counterpoint to The Man’s natural impulse to violently oppose every person they come across. This dynamic is played out perfectly when the two catch a thief attempting to steal their food and worldly possessions.

Chalize Theron portrays “The Woman,” who we get to know through flashbacks and recollections of The Man. (Apparently, this aspect of the film is not present in the book.) Her performance is the essence of despair in the face of truly insurmountable odds and, like a horrific accident, is impossible to turn away from. Robert Duvall also has a wonderful cameo as “Old Man,” a decent person in a world of monsters who is basically waiting for his own death.

This movie is a work of art that offends and challenges the viewer’s sensibilities. It sat on the shelves for a year before release. I can certainly understand why. There is nothing easy about seeing this. But in the end, somehow, you leave knowing you’ve witnessed something special and strangely, sublimely beautiful.

The Winter of My Discontent

It’s the same every year, every year it’s the same…to paraphrase rapper Too $hort. The forces are identical as in the past: the grinding financial pressure that isn’t really related to purchasing holiday presents but still reveals itself at just this time in the year; the growing, often illogical resentment I feel at people around me, and the equally illogical solutions I seek to quell these burgeoning pressures and feelings, which, of course, only exacerbate them in the end.

And it’s very strange, because I like Santa, Jesus, Christmas trees, decorations and lights. I was raised Catholic, and though I have my serious doubts about eternal salvation I do feel strongly that this season is supposed to evoke those good values that Christianity purports to champion. I see glimmers at times, short bursts of clarity which warm me. But generally speaking, this is a month of tribulation that can’t end soon enough.

Honest Addict, Chapter Three

3

The market was down four hundred and sixty-five points and it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. Pandemonium ruled the investment offices of Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir. Phones were ringing so regularly that junior executives couldn’t keep up with the volume of calls. Account representatives wore anxious looks as they pleaded with account holders to weather the storm and hold on to their stocks. Days like this had ruined hundreds of firms in the past, and everybody in the room knew it. The lives and financial futures of countless wives, children, mistresses, bartenders, bookies and drug dealers hung in the balance and in the hands of a few desperate, fast talking young men.

From his desk Peter focused his concentration on Gerald Jankovic, a horse-faced account representative who had been hired the same week as Peter, but had moved up the company ladder at a much slower pace. Gerald was a good guy, but had a tendency to crack under the pressure. He had four children below the age of eight and a wife as unattractive as she was mean spirited. Sweat began gathering in opaque domes on his ample forehead, which, when observed in the fractional, frozen moment, appeared almost crystalline, like tiny, hemispherical pieces of quartz.

“I’m telling you, Mr. Davidson, this is not the right time to close your account with our company,” Gerald implored, his body gesturing in a twisted, almost tortured way. “What? The right time? Well, um, Mr. Davidson, there is no right time. No. What I mean is: if you look historically, the stock market always goes up over time. The worst time to get out of the market is right after a downturn like we’ve just experienced. Huh? The market crash of 1929 was a completely different event altogether sir. Well, for one thing, they didn’t have the mechanisms to shut down trading if things got out of…No, please Mr. Davidson, just listen…”

Gerald put down the phone dejectedly and ran his right hand through his dark, matted hair. He looked at Peter. “The guy just hung up. What do I do?”
“I guess you close his account,” Peter replied.
“How many times have I told you,” J.B. Richardson, the in-house manager, bellowed from across the room “that you never let a client dictate the terms of the conversation?”
Gerald stared at Peter, then at Richardson. Somehow he held onto the mistaken hope that he was not the intended recipient of this verbal salvo.
“I’m talking to you, Jankovic, you fucking dimwit!”
Gerald opened his mouth to respond, but nothing other than a few feeble stammers came out. Richardson crossed the floor like he was going to punch Gerald, his face red, his breathing heavy.

Peter whispered, “Psst, he was listening to your call” – a common occurrence at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir. Upper management believed in a Gestapoesque monitoring of company employees, a tactic used to instill fear, thereby contributing immensely toward quality control. At least, this was how the partners felt about the practice. Peter knew that they still listened in on his calls from time to time, despite his advanced position at the firm. There were numerous other indignities which he fortunately avoided, but clandestine surveillance was not one of them.

“Give me one reason, Jankovic, why I shouldn’t fire your stupid ass right here and now,” Richardson screamed, spit flying from his mouth, his nose three inches from Gerald’s, his index finger planted in the center of his employee’s chest.
“I…I…uh.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“I work hard, sir. I put in the hours…”
Richardson pulled back and took a few deep breaths. He appeared to calm down.
“Is that all you’ve got for me?”
“I’ll do better, sir. This is a bad day. I’ll improve.”
“You’re fired. Pack up your shit right now and leave this building. You’re worthless and you know it. We haven’t the time, space or oxygen for you here.”
Gerald stared into his boss’ eyes, dumbfounded.
“Did you hear me? Asshole! Pack your shit up. You no longer work here.”
“Sir, I have a family. Don’t do this to me. Not now.”
“You should have thought of them before you lost that client,” he retorted. And with that the tyrant turned his back and walked calmly to his office on the opposite side of the room and closed the door.

***

Peter felt sick and wanted to get high. He found Jimmy the security guard behind his desk on the ground floor, staring absentmindedly into space. It must be a painfully boring job, he thought to himself. But nothing could be as dehumanizing as the scene he had witnessed only minutes before. Jimmy greeted him in his usual spirited manner.

“What’s up Mr. C? How’s things in the world of high finance?”
“Worse than usual. The market is tanking. I was hoping we could take one of our little trips to the roof today.”
A grin came across the boyish face. “I was just thinking I could use a little toke,” he whispered. “Give me a minute and we’ll head up.”

The pair got out on the thirty-fifth floor and took the stairs the rest of the way. Upon emerging from the confines of the building, Peter was almost immediately filled with a feeling of relief. It was the perfect San Francisco day: crisp and clear, a few clouds moving lazily through the sky, the bay shimmering in the distance, dotted here and there with cargo vessels, tankers and sailboats out for a weekday pleasure cruise.

The investment consultant pulled out a pack of Marlboros and withdrew a thin joint from between two cigarettes. It lit easily and burned quickly, the marijuana being particularly dry. He passed it to Jimmy, who took a couple of light hits and passed it back. The joint didn’t last very long, only a few rips each, but it was more than enough for a midday session. Soon the two of them were quite stoned and staring silently into the distance.

The downtown looked alive, especially from such a detached height. Below tiny, well dressed men and women emerged from the magnificent buildings and hustled to and fro, escaping for that brief moment their servitude to the lords of the office. Above, on the façade of one building, a series of upright angels looked north over the city. On another, stone gargoyles squatted on their haunches, many of them apparently laughing at some unknown and eternal joke. Imitation gothic spires, a watered down approximation of the architecture of a more inspired time, rose almost majestically toward heaven on yet another. The sun reflected off a thousand windows, a kaleidoscope of light and color. For a hundred years it had been this way in basically this very spot. The fashions changed, a few new buildings went up, the people grew older, retired to their suburban homes, died and were replaced by a new generation. But ultimately nothing was altered. For Peter this thought was comforting.

“Hey, thanks for the weed,” Jimmy said quietly.
“Don’t mention it.”
“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Coming up here, just for a little while. I’d do it even if we didn’t smoke out.”
Upon hearing these words, Peter felt a rush of emotion. He looked his companion straight in the eye. “It’s the only thing I’ve done all day that has any meaning whatsoever.” He patted the security guard on the shoulder. “You’re the only person in this building I really respect.”
Jimmy stared back, saying nothing. He looked a little confused.

When he returned to his desk, Peter saw that the light on line four was flashing. A feeling of dread came over him, an ever-ready companion, especially at work. To his coworkers he was the golden boy, the guy who could talk his way through anything. And although in a way this was at least partially true, he didn’t really believe it. In his head there was a man nobody knew, an anxious little soul who only wanted to fly away. A deep breath and a private reminder to put on a good show preceded his answering the call.

“This is Castellano,” he said, wishing he was still floating in the clouds above the city.
“It’s about time you answered my call,” a voice on the other end barked.
“To whom am I speaking?”
“Son, you are speaking to Bill Goodpasture. And I’ve got one hell of a lotta money tied up with your firm.”

The man wasn’t lying. William Goodpasture was the fifth largest account holder at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir, having under management over one hundred and thirty three million dollars in securities, earning for the firm every year, regardless of profit or loss, one million three hundred and thirty thousand dollars. He was the single biggest account holder not personally represented by one of the named partners, a sign of the confidence the company had in Peter’s abilities.

Goodpasture was born into money, his father having been a successful Texas oil man. But the old timer had taught him well: he was no fool with money. In twenty years he had turned a ten million dollar inheritance into over a one billion dollar real estate empire, stretching from the central Texas plains, north to Oklahoma, and west through New Mexico, Arizona and Southern California. And his personality was almost as big as his bankroll. Part sophisticate, part redneck Bubba, you could find him hunting elk and pounding Budweiser on one of his many spreads one day and drinking fifteen hundred dollar a bottle Bordeaux in an exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant the next. Adventurer, tycoon, blowhard, gentleman, hick: all these words appropriately described the man depending on the moment in time one encountered him. But in this instance he was simply pissed off.

“Son, my portfolio is down fourteen percent today. Do you know how much money that is?”
“Of course I do, Mr. Goodpasture. You are my most important client.”
“Really? Then why the hell was I put on hold for ten minutes?”
“To be perfectly honest sir, I was sitting on the can,” he lied.
“Boy, are you tellin’ me you were takin’ a shit?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Do you realize how much that shit cost me?”
“Several hundred thousand dollars, sir.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right. Ain’t no time for shittin’ when it’s my money goin’ down the toilet.”
“I understand your frustration, sir, I truly do. But what’s done is done. How can I help you now?”
“Are you takin’ a tone with me, boy?”
“I’m trying to serve you, to resolve your problems with my company. If I’m brusque, it’s only because I want to find a solution immediately.”
Goodpasture sighed. “You’re a good kid, Peter. You’ve always been all right in my book. But this shit has to stop now. The market is goin’ to hell and I can’t take any more losses. I want you to liquidate my account as fast as possible and terminate my relationship with your firm. Times up.”
“With all due respect, sir, you’d have to be an idiot to get out now.”

With these words, the door to J.B. Richardson’s office flew open and he came running across the room toward Peter’s desk, a look of utter disbelief on his face. He had been listening in. He gestured for Peter to end the conversation by using the familiar slash across the throat motion. Peter extended his middle finger as way of reply, only further enraging the man who was technically – but not in any significant sense – his direct superior. But one thing was now for sure: the result of this conversation would determine Peter’s future at the firm. Strangely, this prospect held no anxiety for him. Actually, it gave him a sense of absolute relief and freedom of action.

“Who the hell are you to be tellin’ me what I should be doin’ with my money?” Goodpasture asked. “I’ve made more in the last five years than you’re gonna see if you lived two lifetimes.”
“I’m not disputing that, sir. But I know more about the market than you do, despite your infinitely greater wealth. I’m an expert in this field like you’re an expert in yours. And I am telling you that this market has bottomed out. Only fools drop out at the bottom: men dominated by fear. And we both know that you are not one of those men. That’s why you’re going to remain with my company. Because we’re winners; I’m a winner, and you know it. Honestly, I think you should drop another fifty million into your account immediately. You’ll make a killing.”
Laughter erupted from the other end of the phone. “You’re crazier than I thought you were. But you got balls, son; I’ve got to give you that. Today is Tuesday: you got till market close Friday to turn this thing around. It’s probably gonna cost me an extra ten million, but what the hell. I need another tax write off anyway.”

Peter hung up the phone and reclined in his chair. He didn’t say a word.
“Well,” Richardson asked, his eyes bugging out of their sockets.
“Well what?” Peter replied obnoxiously.
“Don’t fuck with me. Not now. You may be number one around here but I still have a say in…”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Peter said with a wave of his hand. “Assuming things improve this week. And even if they don’t, I’ll find a way to keep him around.”
“Jesus Christ,” J.B. said, his torso slumping with relief inside the armor of his heavily starched shirt. “If we had lost that account it would have been curtains for both of us. I can’t believe you called him an idiot. But you really pulled it off, man: I’ve got to give it to you. Way to go.”
“Whatever,” Peter replied, disgusted. “If he’d left us you would have run off to the partners and demanded my ass. You’re no friend of mine. And don’t think I’m not perfectly aware of that fact.”
“Hey, let’s not make this a thing. You know as well as I do that this business is all about results. Money talks and bullshit walks, right?”
“Then why don’t you start walking,” Peter retorted. “I’ve got work to do.”

God Bless John Daly

It appears my favorite golfer is back in the limelight. Yahoo! Sports today reports that Daly, “has shed well over 100 pounds in the last year as a result of lap-band surgery, and he's now a slim, trim 185. He's talking about writing a new book, and at a press conference Tuesday prior to the Australian PGA, he noted that he'd also like to see a movie made of the insanity that has been his life, both on and off the course.”

Honestly, I don’t care what the man does from here on out. In my book, his life has already been a huge success. He’s reached the peaks of golfing triumph, he’s been down and out, he’s won and lost millions of dollars golfing and gambling. He’s been a drunk, a degenerate and a champion. He’s been married and divorced four times. That’s enough life for three men. I get so tired listening to the talking heads on ESPN pontificate about what a disaster his life has been, how he’s wasted his potential, how drinking has destroyed his game. They can’t read his mind. They don’t know what interior struggles he’s gone through. They don’t know what he’s chasing.

That being said, I’d love to read his book or see a movie about his life – so long as it comes from or is endorsed by J.D.

A Quote From Hunter S. Thompson

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."

Addict Recommends: (Film) Days of Wine and Roses (1962)

Director: Blake Edwards

Starring: Jack Lemmon, Lee Remick, Jack Klugman

One of the first great addiction movies, (following 1945’s The Lost Weekend) this was a breakout film for Jack Lemmon, presaging by many decades his legendary late life portrayal of the pathetic salesman Shelley Levene in David Mamet’s film Glengarry Glen Ross.

Lemmon plays Joe Clay, a heavy social drinker and classic functioning specimen. From the beginning, we see Joe at the bar exhorting the bartender to “hit me again.” Before he takes a drink he says to himself – a phrase he repeats more than once in the film – “magic time.” But Joe manages his drinking, has what appears to be a good job and actually uses his habit to advantage in a world where a three martini lunch and getting hammered with a client late at night is considered good form and basic socializing among men. (One cannot help but think of the television series Mad Men when watching this movie.)

Shortly into the film, Joe meets Kirsten, played very well by the lovely Lee Remick. As they begin dating, Kirsten tells Joe that she doesn’t like alcohol, but that she has a heavy fixation for chocolate. So he mixes her a brandy Alexander, which appeases her sweet tooth and provides Joe with a much needed female drinking companion. As their relationship grows we see that each needs the other in a desperate love where something amorphous and indefinable is clearly missing. But for the moment, anyway, their love is an island of refuge in a turbulent sea.

The couple marry and the problems begin in earnest. Joe, frustrated at work, where he is often required to perform tasks which challenge his somewhat vague morality, comes home drunk or needing to drink every night. He is clearly losing control of his habit. He complains that Kirsten won’t drink with him enough, that he needs her to join in his nightly ritual. Finally, she relents and falls down a rabbit hole of her own, one that, ultimately, goes even deeper than her husband’s.

Jack Klugman does an excellent job of portraying Jim Hungerford, Joe’s Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor who gives good advice and displays unending patience and understanding for his charge, who loses jobs, friends and familial ties because of his addiction. Jim is always there when Joe falls off the wagon and is also there to help him get back on when the time is right. But things are not so simple for Kirsten, who doesn’t buy into the AA worldview.

The movie is a little preachy at times and a bit too bent on the concept that Alcoholics Anonymous is the only savior of the problem drunk. However, we need to remember when watching this film that it was made in 1962, and was way ahead of its time. The subject matter is well presented and very well acted, especially by Lemmon. This may be one of the top two or three performances of his amazing career.

Honest Addict, Chapter Two

2

The funeral was held at Grace Cathedral on San Francisco’s famous and eminently wealthy Nob Hill. There was not an empty seat in the spacious house. The attendants represented every important element of society in the Bay Area. The mayors of Oakland and San Francisco, district supervisors and council people, members of the ballet and symphony, the curator of the Museum of Modern Art, a member of Congress, several famous local actors and actresses, religious leaders from every community, downtown financial titans, artists, writers and musicians were all in attendance to pay homage to the wife of financial titan Eugene Rutherford, the richest and most influential man in the history of Northern California since William Randolph Hearst. Everybody who mattered was there to be a part of the event, which was, in its own way, the closing of a chapter in history. The press, never to be dissuaded from an opportunity to capture fleeting images of the rich and famous, skulked and sniffed around the outside of the Cathedral like ravenous wolves.

The reception was held in the Ballroom at the Ritz Carlton. Only a few of the entourage from the service did not find their way into the sumptuous interior of the hotel, where only the finest wine, booze and food was being served. They, too, were ravenous: for the food, the drink and the attention. As Peter gulped his vodka-tonic he surveyed the lamentable scene that was unfolding in front of him. Everywhere he looked he saw fraudulence; the smiles, the handshakes, the impeccably rehearsed memories, the crocodile tears: nothing he viewed or heard rang true in the least to him. Of all the people in the room he was perhaps the best to judge the veracity of the crowd, for in his heart he knew that he was as full of shit as any of them.

Jeanette at least was being herself. She had begun drinking prior to the service and was drunk before the reception was an hour old. At first, her intoxication took on the form of a strange solemn chattiness, a papier-mâché brave face that fell apart after half an hour. Subsequent to that, she became inconsolable with grief, her tears smearing makeup down her face. Peter had tried to be a comfort, taking her to the bathroom, helping to clean off the running mascara, attempting to say the things he believed she wanted to hear. But at this point she manifested a sullen, brooding attitude and wanted nothing at all to do with him, preferring instead the company of another young man she knew, a twenty-something musician named Brad whom Peter suspected Jeanette was sleeping with when it suited her.

“What’s the story with your girlfriend?” a woman’s voice asked from out of the crowd.
Peter focused his vision in the general direction of the voice. “Excuse me?” he responded.
“You are Jeanette Rutherford’s boyfriend, right? I saw you sitting with her in the front row of the funeral. Now she’s hanging all over that little twerp at the bar, the one with the spiked hair wearing jeans. What the hell is up with that?” She was an older woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties, but she was extremely attractive – straight, full, dark brown hair that went down her back, an angular face offset by perfectly round eyes and ample, dark red lips and a curvy figure that women decades younger aspired to – the kind of woman men dream of having when they enter their more advanced years.
“She is getting drunk,” he responded bluntly. “She is a different person when she drinks, I assure you. You can hardly blame her for tying one on; her mother has only been dead six days.”
“Oh of course. But still, it must bother you…”
“Actually, no. People think of me as her boyfriend, but I’m not really…not in the traditional sense.”
“And what sense is that?”
“I know there is no future with her, that sooner or later this thing will fall apart. You’d be surprised how liberating having no expectations can be.”
“But I did see you in the front row.”
“I have been a friend of the family for many years now. I will continue to be a friend of the family in the future, even after…”
“Look at my manners,” the mystery woman interrupted as she extended her delicate hand, “my name is Margaret Swift.”
“Peter Castellano.”
“What do you do for a living, Peter?”
“I manage high net worth accounts at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir, Investment Consultants.”
“Really? That must be fascinating work.”
He recognized something in her tone and knew what was coming even though it did not fully materialize in his mind at exactly this moment. It was more of a familiar feeling, a sense of deja-vu, that he had been in this position before. “I’m afraid you would find what I do for a living to be very tedious, Mrs. Swift. It’s little more than upper-level babysitting.”
“Ms. Swift.”
“Pardon me. I saw the ring.”
“I got divorced a year ago but I’ve always loved the ring, and see no reason to take it off now.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going to be blunt, Peter, as at my age one tires of delays and misdirection. I have a room here at the hotel. You interest me. Men are usually interested in me. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“What do you think?”

Suddenly, a great crash came from the bar and Peter could see Jeanette struggling with Brad. She screamed, “Get your fucking hands off me you son of a bitch!” The party came to a complete standstill. All eyes were focused on the scene. Not a word was spoken; not so much as a cough or a sneeze cut through the silence. Jeanette Rutherford, realizing the effect of her words, put her hand to her mouth and began giggling uncontrollably. She stumbled at first forward and to the left, then to the right, reaching out in the air for the bar that was now several feet behind her. She slumped to the ground, her legs crossed unnaturally. Peter turned toward his new companion.
“I think that would be very pleasant. I’m sure you are everything you appear to be and more. I have no doubt you could fuck any man in the room you wanted to. But I’m afraid I have more important matters to attend to at this time. It was a pleasure meeting you. Excuse me.”

He walked over to the bar and picked Jeanette up off the floor. She was mumbling something incoherent in his ear.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’m taking you to bed now. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she muttered, her head resting on his shoulder, her legs wrapped around his torso like a sleepy child.

They entered the sumptuous suite and Peter threw her on the bed. He took his jacket off, unbuttoned his collar and loosened the tie that was knotted tight around his neck. He felt like he could breathe again. He grabbed a tumbler from off the table and poured a heavy glass of Johnnie Walker from the makeshift but complete bar Jeanette had assembled.
“What about me?” she inquired. Now her voice was sweet and pleading. He turned and saw as her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
“You’ve had enough, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, well I think you’ve had enough.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, as he took a pull off the warm scotch. “But it’s not as obvious.”
“Motherfucker,” she hissed spitefully.
He turned the television on and flipped around looking for the scores of the morning football games.
“Peter?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Uh-huh,” he responded, sitting on the edge of the bed as he found a wrap-up of the early NFL action.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I heard you, hon. You’re too drunk for that now, much as I’d like to.”
“I am not too drunk. I’m exactly as drunk as I should be. Now get over here, whip out your dick and fuck me.”
“Could you be quiet for just a minute? I’ve got a lot of money riding on these games.”
She moaned. “I need to feel something goddamnit! Take off my dress for me.”
Peter turned toward her and felt a twinge of compassion that vaporized almost immediately. She certainly was a bad drunk, he thought to himself. Even her good looks could not overcome the revulsion he felt when she was in this condition. “Listen,” he said seriously, “one of us has to get back to the reception. Now how about I tuck you into bed? You’ll feel better once you get to sleep.”
“Whatever,” she said as she rolled onto her side.

He pulled out the sheets and put them over her, tucking them under her chin. Her mouth opened wide and she began breathing heavier. She was asleep within a couple of minutes.

The scores of the games flashed by quickly, but Peter had no problem keeping up with the results and their effect on his financial position in his mind. He had a gift for the quick math of gambling.
Kansas City 23, Miami 17: minus $1650.00 on the straight bet on the Dolphins plus three and a half, minus $1000.00 on the parlay to the under: negative $2650.00.
Indianapolis 35, Oakland 21: plus $1500.00 on the Colts minus seven and a half: overall negative $1150.00.
San Francisco 17, St. Louis 14: plus $1500.00 on the 49ers, pick ‘em: overall positive $350.00.
Pittsburgh 23, Cleveland 17: minus $1650.00 on the Steelers, who were favored by 7: overall negative $1300.00.
New York 28, Tennessee 27: plus $1500.00 on the Titans, underdogs by a field goal: overall positive $200.00

Not bad, he thought to himself. As the 1:15 games had only just begun, he turned off the television, not bothering to check their scores. He had twelve thousand dollars riding on the afternoon games, and wasn’t going to watch them. What a waste, he thought ruefully.

He went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror. The face that looked back at him would have pleased most men in their thirties: clear, blemish free, tanned skin, a full head of thick black hair, dark brown eyes and a face that was the definition of symmetry. No feature was too large or small, no single area stood out as a problem. Despite his habitual self-destruction, he was still in good shape and had never developed the thick midsection of some of his married friends. He should have been satisfied, but he wasn’t. For as Peter Castellano stared into the mirror all he saw was the reflection of a man who had lost his way, a reflection of the same society that coughed up all those sycophantic, self-absorbed fakers he had been forced to deal with all day.

He splashed cold water on his face then dried it off with a towel. He tightened the dark blue Hermes tie that hung loosely around his neck and buttoned the top of his shirt. Staring again into the mirror, he reminded himself that he had a job to do, that today wasn’t about his petty psychological problems. A vision of Carol Rutherford just before she died flashed in his memory. It was impossible for him not to find life pointless when these images entered his mind.

But then he remembered her bravery during those last days and hours; he saw that spark of light that still shone in her eyes even after she had lost the capacity for speech. He thought of the woman who had lived life so well, even when tragedy befell her, and wondered how more of Carol’s fortitude had not been handed down to her daughter. A sign of the times, he mused: each successive generation in fact degeneration.

Peter returned to the bedroom and closed the shades. It was almost completely dark inside. Jeanette stirred in bed but he knew that she was dead to the world, possibly for the rest of the day. He took a deep breath before he returned to the objectionable scene in the ballroom below.