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.

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.

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.

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."

Back at the Helm

Well, I’m back after coming off a brutal bender that began Wednesday and continued almost uninterrupted through last night. There was much celebration and indulgence this Thanksgiving holiday, an excellent cocktail party in Sacramento on Friday and the 49er tailgate and game yesterday turned into a long night out on the town afterwards. The result: my mind feels mushy and dull and my body dog tired. It might take a few days to fully recover.

Now that my favorite holiday has passed, we enter the bitter month of December. I don’t dislike Christmas, but I loathe the days and weeks running up to it. Every year, my indulgence goes way overboard as the month degenerates into a long booze-soaked haze of holiday parties filled with banal small talk and finger foods. The prospect is a little bit daunting, I must admit.

Thanksgiving Greeting

Thanksgiving: our national day of excess. What a truly wonderful holiday, by far my favorite. How can I list all the ways it pleases me? From beginning to end, it is the one day of the year where even the most puritanical abstainer gorges at the table of gluttony.

I’m anticipating the deviled eggs, cheeses and brie, pate, copious breads and who knows what other pre meal savories. The turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, creamed onions, green beans, cranberry sauce: these are dancing in front of my eyes. The deserts - Apple and pumpkin pie, ice cream and cookies. And all along the way, a parade of beers, wine and mixed drinks to benumb my senses and prepare my appetite.

And as if all of this were not enough, there is the unending stream of pro and college football games that will be on from the moment I arise until just before I pass out, emotionally and physically satiated.

I would like to extend my Thanksgiving greetings to all of you who may read it. As long as we live in a world where a day like tomorrow is allowed to flourish, where people can come in fellowship and family and test the limits of their personal consumption, there will always be something here worth living for. I hope you all enjoy your turkey day as much as I intend to.

History Lesson

I was seventeen and sitting in history class. The teacher’s name was Lochran. She was a good teacher, someone you could tell wanted to be instructing young people. We meandered off the lesson plan, and got on to the subject of aging. She said, “The one thing about getting older is, you don’t have the emotional highs and lows that you do now. You plateau. And you experience life differently.”

How awful, I thought. And I specifically and deliberately told myself, “I never want that to happen to me. Anything but that.”