"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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.
Monday, December 7, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Dreary Terror of Naltrexone
From Time magazine this week (The Decade From Hell, pg. 52):
"Drinking too much is a deadly gamble at any time of the year, but especially during the holidays. One answer for problem drinkers is naltrexone - a drug, taken daily, that curbs the urge to drink. But in order for the pill to work, you have to take it, making a commitment to sobriety every day. In 2006 the government approved a naltrexone injection that works for a full month. In a study conducted late last year, the injection got high marks, reducing the number of days on which the subjects drank and the amount they consumed when they slipped. These results were consistent throughout the year - even during holidays, when the temptation and risks are greatest."
I'd sooner kill myself drinking.
"Drinking too much is a deadly gamble at any time of the year, but especially during the holidays. One answer for problem drinkers is naltrexone - a drug, taken daily, that curbs the urge to drink. But in order for the pill to work, you have to take it, making a commitment to sobriety every day. In 2006 the government approved a naltrexone injection that works for a full month. In a study conducted late last year, the injection got high marks, reducing the number of days on which the subjects drank and the amount they consumed when they slipped. These results were consistent throughout the year - even during holidays, when the temptation and risks are greatest."
I'd sooner kill myself drinking.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Honest Addict, Chapter One
Earlier this year, I finished a novella which I titled Honest Addict. Since nothing has really happened with it since, I've decided to serialize it here. It is my sincere hope that it is enjoyed by my select readership.
"A man's strength can be measured by his appetites. Indeed, a man's strength flows from his appetites."
- Roper, Enter the Dragon
1
Carol Rutherford’s once beautiful face was pale and swollen, her breathing was strained and when she coughed a deep gurgling emerged from her lungs. Although virtually every part of her body was dying, her mind remained intact as she conversed freely and reminisced about better times. And as he stared down at her shrinking body, Peter Castellano was filled with feelings of pity and reverence, knowing with perfect certainty that he was witnessing his own fate as well: the disintegration of life, whether it be through cancer, accidental death, murder, suicide or simply time, the banal, terrifying eventuality that awaits us all. And he knew that if he had to face this same inevitability today he would be unable to muster one-tenth of the courage that he saw on the countenance that was propped up so pathetically on the cheap hospital pillow.
“Jennie dear, light a cigarette for me,” Carol instructed her daughter.
Jeanette Rutherford’s face crinkled with anxiety. “I don’t know, Mom. You’re not supposed to smoke in the hospital. That nurse has been watching this room like a hawk.”
“I paid for a private room and I’ll use it any way I want to. You leave the nurse to me.”
Jeanette rummaged around in her purse for the smokes, but was unable to find them, so Peter reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro’s, took one out, lit it, and placed it between the patient’s trembling fingers. Carol took a deep drag and exhaled; relief washed over her body.
Jeanette gave Peter a dirty look, chiding him silently for abetting her mother’s habit. He knew, of course, that it was a grim, seemingly contradictory scene: the woman dying prematurely at sixty-three years of age from lung cancer enjoying a cigarette during her final time on earth. But what was the point of depriving the one thing that supplied real satisfaction at this stage in the game? She had been a smoker her whole life, since she was thirteen years old. She was going to die as she had lived. It made perfect sense to him.
“I remember when I first saw you,” Carol began, addressing Peter. “My daughter brought you home, so excited about her new beau. I took one look at your skinny teenage face, that ridiculous thin facial hair you were sporting at the time, and thought to myself, ‘Dear God, what has Jennie dragged home this time?’ I figured you’d be gone in a month or two, just like all the others. But here you are, seventeen years later, still hanging around. You’ve been in and out of our lives so many times I’ve lost count. Jesus, you really are a part of the family.”
Tears welled up heavily in the young man’s eyes until the weight was too much and a couple streamed down his cheeks. Jeanette took his hand in hers and squeezed it.
“Don’t get maudlin on me now, either of you,” Carol insisted. “I’ve lived a wonderful life. I was married to a good man once. We had twenty fantastic years together. When he died he left me a very rich woman. I’ve traveled the world, rubbed shoulders with all the best people. That’s what money can do for you. Don’t ever let anybody tell you money isn’t important, because it is. Of course, life has presented me with my share of difficulties, that’s for sure. It hasn’t all been good but it’s always been interesting. And that’s the most anybody can ask for.”
The sharp sound of quick steps could be heard coming down the hallway. Jeanette grabbed the cigarette from out her mother’s mouth and flicked it through the open window and into the alley below. She then waived her hands about wildly, in a vain attempt to dissipate all trace of the smoke. A moment later the nurse, a middle aged black woman named Shirley Jenkins, entered the room. Her attitude was at once hostile and suspicious.
“I smell smoke in here,” she said determinedly, “there is no smoking allowed in this building.”
“Now, there’s no reason to get your feathers ruffled, Shirley,” Carol Rutherford cooed. “Everything’s fine. We’re not upsetting anybody.”
“Listen here, honey,” Shirley said, a hint of understanding now reflected in her voice, “I know who you are and what you’re going through. Lord knows I sympathize. But rules are rules, and I can’t let you light up in a hospital room.”
“How many kids do you have, Shirley?”
“Three boys, Daryl, Arthur and Clarence. It’s nearly killed me, raising them.”
“How old are they?”
“Daryl’s the youngest, he’s seventeen, still in high school. Clarence is the oldest, twenty-nine now.
“Is Clarence married?”
“Sure is.”
“Any grandkids?”
“One. A beautiful little girl, three years old. Looks just like her grandma did at the same age. It’s true: I could show you pictures.”
With this Carol magically pulled out an envelope from under the sheets and held it in her hand. She looked Shirley Jenkins straight in the eye, seriously but also with understanding. “I don’t have any grandchildren, dear. But I know if I did, at this time of year, with Christmas around the corner, I’d be concerned about getting them the best presents possible. Since you are doing such a good job, I’d like to give you what’s inside this envelope to help you out. Just a little token of my appreciation.”
Shirley opened up the envelope and peered inside. She looked surprised. “This is very nice of you Ms. Rutherford, but I’m not sure I can…”
“Of course you can. It’ll be our little secret.”
“That’s very kind, but…”
“But nothing. Just one thing, though. You’re going to make sure that nobody bothers me, right? During my final hours I want to be as comfortable as possible. Do you understand?”
“I don’t want to get in any trouble. Not for any amount of money. This is a good job.”
“You’re not going to. Like I said, our little secret. We’ll cover for you if anything comes up. Isn’t that right, everybody?”
Peter and Jeanette nodded their heads simultaneously in agreement.
“Well,” Shirley said, convincing herself of the logic of the situation, “all right. I guess it doesn’t make much difference what you put in your lungs now.”
“That’s right,” Carol said, her voice now strained. She had used up her last reserve of energy conducting the negotiation. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m tired, and would like to get some rest.” With her left hand she pressed the morphine button a number of times, even though it would only release the drug once every so often. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and in an instant she was asleep. It was as automatic as flipping a light switch. Nobody in the room could be certain if she had spoken her last words or not.
After Shirley left the room, Jeanette became uncontrollably emotional at the sight of her mother’s feeble body struggling for each breath.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” she said, panting heavily, apparently suffering one of her regular panic attacks. “I need to go out and get a drink or something. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Why don’t you go down the street to that bar on Fillmore and have a few pops. I’ll stay here in case your mother wakes up,” Peter suggested.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Why not?” The truth was: he had been hoping this very scenario might unfold.
“You’re too good to me…to us,” Jeanette said as she hugged him loosely around the neck.
After Jeanette had left the room, Peter counted to one hundred. He didn’t want to be caught, over anxious, making his move too soon. But as he reached fifty his pace quickened appreciably, and the last ten counts lasted only three seconds. At this point, he felt the coast was clear.
He entered the stall in the bathroom down the hall and emptied half the contents of the cellophane package on the flat top of the toilet paper dispenser. He chopped at the white powder for a few seconds with a credit card until it was all basically broken up: there were a few chunks in there, he observed, but procedures such as these were always imperfect on the road. He rolled up a hundred dollar bill – always a hundred, they were the best – and snorted the cocaine in one furious flash. In a matter of moments he could feel the telltale dripping down the back of his throat, the numbness in his front teeth and the bridge of his nose, and the arrhythmic beating of his fuel injected heart. Peter looked at his watch and saw that it was only a quarter after five o’clock in the evening. There was still time to get some action on the football game. He called the number from his cell without leaving the stall. His voice echoed in the bathroom.
The phone rang only once before it was picked up.
“How ya doin’ Big Pappa?” the voice on the other end queried.
“Good, thanks for asking Mark,” Peter responded cordially. “What’s the line on the Fresno State/Boise State game tonight?”
“Boise State minus fifteen, the over/under is sixty seven and a half.”
“Fresno State’s at home, right?”
“Yeah.”
Peter thought about his play for a moment. “Give me fifteen hundred on Fresno State and a thousand on Fresno State parlayed to the under.”
“A dime and a half on the Bulldogs and a dime on the Bulldogs to under sixty-seven and a half. Confirmed?”
“Confirmed.”
“You are all set, my man. Enjoy the game.”
“I will.”
As Peter emerged from the stall he saw that a young Asian man, apparently an orderly, was standing at the sink in perfect silence without the water running. His head was turned to the side so that he was staring directly at Peter, a look of astonishment and consternation on his face. At first, Peter didn’t know what to do or say. He was already very high, a little paranoid, and had no idea how long the diminutive man had been present in the bathroom. They shared an uncomfortable silence that seemed to last several minutes. Peter broke the spell.
“Is there a problem?”
“No…ahhh…no problem,” the orderly stammered, turning on the faucet and putting his hands beneath the fast running water.
“Cool.”
Peter returned to the room where Carol was still sleeping, her heavy breathing a reassuring sign that she remained alive. He grabbed the remote control and turned the channel to ESPN, where the pre-game analysis was wrapping up:
"It looks to be a real shoot-out here, Dave, as Boise State brings it’s explosive offense into California’s Central Valley to face off against the potent running of Jemarcus Jackson, who leads the conference in yards per carry. For Boise State, a perfect season is on the line while the Bulldogs have bowl hopes of their own to defend. Stay tuned…Wednesday night football is coming up next."
Peter was overwhelmed by a feeling of warmth and comfort at the prospect of the future minutes, perhaps hours, watching the game. This was really all he wanted or needed, he assured himself. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply the sublime toxicity. Life seemed somehow good. He wondered if he would be able to get through the first half of the game without Jeanette returning drunk or Carol waking up and needing attention. And although he knew it was wrong and selfish to feel this way, he prayed that it would be so.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Viva los Patos!
Ladies and gentlemen, tonight the historic match up takes place and the great enmity is renewed. Yes, it is time for the west coast’s oldest rivalry game, the 113th Civil War: the revered, beloved Ducks of Oregon versus the much maligned when not ignored Oregon State Beavers. For the first time in its storied history, the winner of the Civil War – either team – will be going to the Rose Bowl to face off against the Big Ten representative Ohio State Buckeyes.
The Addict, as a graduate of the U of O, has been present for two Civil Wars during his lifetime and has watched every other on television. There have been so many memories made and lost around this game it is hard to keep track of them all. None were more important, however, than 1994, where our victory over the Beavers secured us a berth in the January 1995 Rose Bowl, where I personally witnessed Joe Paterno’s Penn State Nitanny Lions decimate the Ducks, despite a co-MVP performance by Oregon quarterback Danny O’Neill. (I remember I lost $250 on that game, even though I was getting 17 on the spread.)
I won’t boast up my team any more, for fear of the reprisal of the sporting Gods. I can only hope and pray for victory tonight, my friends. For those of you who have no feeling for the game, no interest one way or another, would you please give us a little quantum physics burst of energy and find the time today to say to yourself or another, “Go Ducks!”
The game is on ESPN and ESPN360.com at 6:00 pacific time.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
A Quote From Martin H. Fischer
"There is only one reason why men become addicted to drugs, they are weak men. Only strong men are cured, and they cure themselves."
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