A Quote From Eknath Easwaran

 "Even the most confirmed addict, whether to tobacco or alcohol, can get a fierce thrill of satisfaction when he walks away from them."

A Quote From Alan Watts

 “Man is in a certain sense redeemed by his passions.”

Condo Conversion, Chapter 5

I was running out of money when Lars called ten days later.  I felt as if my desperation permeated every aspect of the conversation.
            “Pete, I’ve got a case in Redwood City for you.”
            “What is it?” I asked.
            “A DUI.”
            “Why don’t you want it?”  His firm specialized in DUI’s, five grand for the first few hearings and associated motions, ten grand more if you wanted to go to trial.  Steep.  But they were among the best in the business.  Despite their prices, I believed they fought the good fight. 
            “He can’t afford our fees.”
            “What can he afford?”
            “Fifteen hundred: you do the early hearings, convince him to take whatever deal they’re offering and you’re finished.  His arraignment is tomorrow.”
            “I’ll take it,” I said.  I hardly had the gas and bridge toll money to get to the courthouse in Redwood City.  But Lars assured me the client would greet me with a check when I arrived.  Hopefully it wouldn’t bounce, like numerous others had in the past. 
            Lars and I had entered law school together eight years earlier.  We had been, I would say, contemporaries and equals.  Neither one of us showed much drive to compete for the best grades.  We both had an interest in criminal law.  But at the same time we were more interested in women and partying than the rigors of academia.  But we had our talents.  We did well in moot court and could hold our own in classroom debates.  Both of us graduated and passed the bar exam on our second try.  There was no shame in that.  There are people I went to law school with who are still trying to pass the bar and are on their tenth go around. 
            Two years ago he was calling me for advice on how to get cases when you didn’t know shit and had no connections.  We were basically in the same boat then, each of us trying to establish a private practice as young attorneys.  But since that time he had taken an unpaid position with the Public Defenders office and had gotten hired by a criminal defense firm in downtown San Francisco.  He had half a dozen trials under his belt, one of which he had won outright.  He had surpassed me as a lawyer in every way.
            And while that fact bothered me a bit I didn’t hold it against him. He had always been decent to me and I responded in kind. And anyway, here he was, bringing me business. Fifteen hundred bucks was a big score for me. Shit, my rent was only five hundred a month.  
 
            The alarm went off at six o’clock but I was already awake.  Whenever I have to get up early in the morning I can’t rest properly.  They call it sleep anxiety.  I used to be a chronically late person in college and before.  Now I’m paranoid about tardiness, oversleeping.  Lateness is one of the hallmark insults of our age; nobody likes being on the receiving end but we all seem to do it.  It shows how little respect we have for one another and ourselves.  A culture can often be assessed by its observance of the little courtesies.  And I don’t generally think much of ours.
            The Volkswagen sputtered and shook as it has a habit of doing in the mornings.  Of course, I had the steaming cup of Starbucks in my right hand as I drove with my left.  The burning liquid shot out from that tiny hole in the plastic top and splashed on the cuff of my shirt.  Great.  I hadn’t been out of the house for five minutes and my shirt was already soiled.  The essence of futility.  It cost a buck-fifty to dry clean.  I have a hard time dealing with the little things. 
            I stopped at a red light and looked into the car next to me.  A pretty woman was sitting in a black BMW smoking.  She took a long drag of the cigarette and blew out the window.  As she did so, her eyes closed and a look of utter tranquility came over her countenance.  Satisfaction: her little piece of contentment.  I eyed the burning cancer cylinder lasciviously.
            I had given it all up six months earlier.  Well, everything but drinking, of course.  That was inviolable.  I had quit smoking: cigarettes and dope.  I had quit cocaine and all the ancillary drugs that would dart into my life from time to time.  Although I had been pondering this move for what seemed like an eternity, the decision, looking back on it now, appeared sudden and capricious.  What was the point?
            My hope had been that my lack of motivation had stemmed from sixteen years of drug abuse.  Maybe if I quit, the reasoning went, I would gain clarity and the inspiration to become somebody: the person with all that potential, the person my parents always wanted me to be.  I’d have more energy, exercise, think positively, fuck on a regular basis.  I’d be a member of society instead of the guy living comfortably on the periphery, a Pluto in the cold depths of the outer solar system: sometimes a planet and sometimes not. 
            But the reality was far from the ideal, as is the case with most things in life.  There were a number of positive aspects that were evident from the start.  I didn’t wake up vomiting three mornings out of seven.  That was nice, because I was getting really tired of that.  My paranoia was reduced by eighty percent.  The nosebleeds stopped.  I no longer spent time crouched over dirty urinals trying to snort that insidious powder.  I slept well and felt refreshed when I woke up in the morning.  I experienced and remembered dreams again, and realized how much I had missed them.  These little changes were very nice. 
            However, as time went by I noticed that certain other things did not change.  My place in the solar system, my irregular orbit around the sun, remained the same.  I didn’t become more engaged, more enthusiastic about my possible identity as worker, earner, head of family, member of society.  I was in fact more comfortable than ever with my peripheral role.  Instead of desiring more money, responsibility, possessions and authority I found that I was relatively comfortable with less.  I reread Walden and got far more out of it than the first time. 
            It soon dawned on me that the drugs had been holding me back, only not in the way that I previously believed.  Before, I thought that there was an achiever inside of me that was waiting to break out, but was being restrained by my bad habits, a Prince Hal just waiting to become a King Henry.  The truth was that this person within was a figment of my imagination; I had always been averse to the notion of a regular life.  Even as a child, I can remember a cold feeling of detachment from the goals and ambitions of the other kids.  “I want to be a pro baseball player,” one would say.  “I’d like to be a movie star,” said another.  I never wanted to be anything but free to do my own thing.  For a short spell, I thought I’d like to be a Catholic priest, which was for me the equivalent of wanting to be a philosopher, but this notion withered even before puberty.
           
            There was a large group of people standing out in front of the twin wooden doors of the courtroom when I arrived.  I was five minutes early for the official start of court, which meant I was probably thirty minutes early.  Court starts when the judge says it starts.  Most judges take their time and start late, wasting the valuable time of the public that pays their salaries. This always pissed me off.
            Since I didn’t know what my guy looked like I just blurted out, “Is there a Tyler Green here?”
            A nice looking kid, early twenties, emerged from the crowd.  He was six feet tall, athletically thin, had pale white skin and thick, curly, blonde, almost yellow hair.  He looked like a young version of the guy who starred in the 1970’s TV show “The Greatest American Hero.”  I almost mentioned that to him as he offered me his hand to shake, but I refrained.
            “I’m Tyler,” he said.  “You Peter?”
            “I am.  Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
            “It’s not your fault.  I’m just glad I could afford your services.  That reminds me.”  He stuck his hand inside his white collard shirt and pulled out a bank draft (not a personal check!) in the amount of fifteen hundred dollars.  He had even spelled my last name correctly.  He handed it to me and I put it in my back pocket.  I immediately liked this kid.
            “Thanks,” I said, trying to be casual, trying not to let him know that this money was my life’s blood.  Ninety-nine percent of attorneys would have had a contract for him to sign, something stating exactly what the fee did and did not include.  Most attorneys would have covered their asses in case the client bitched to the State Bar later on.  I never bothered.  This was the apex of foolishness, but I just couldn’t be bothered.
            “So what’s going to happen today?”
            “It’s simple.  Today is what they call the arraignment.  It’s when you plead guilty or not guilty.  We’re obviously pleading not guilty.  The deputy district attorney in charge of your case will give me initial discovery – that’s some of the information they have gathered against you, the police report and what not.  We’ll set a future court date and we’re out of here.”
            “Will it take long?”
            “No.  I’ll try to push my way to the front of the line.  Once court starts it probably won’t take fifteen minutes.”
            “That’s great, cause I’m so hungover I can’t believe it.”
            I already knew that.  He reeked of it: that smell of last night’s latent booze still coursing through his system.  It’s a strange, familiar smell, almost metallic. 
            “Tough night, huh?” I inquired.
            “The toughest.”
            “I know how you feel.”
            We sat down on a bench outside the courtroom and waited.  We got to talking about the arrest, what he had been doing that night, what blood alcohol test the police had administered: all the basic B.S.  Then we got to talking about real things: his girlfriend, where he went to college, what he was doing for a living – it turned out he too was unemployed.  He really was a nice kid.  He even inquired after my own life, which is rare.  Most people only want to talk about themselves.  My father once told me that if I ever wanted someone to think that they had just had a wonderful conversation with me I should let them do ninety percent of the talking: some of the best advice I’ve ever received.   But Tyler was different.  He was genuinely engaged.  Time flew by pleasantly. 
            The courtroom was opened and the crowd flooded in.  We stayed back and took our time.  Hungover people don’t like crowds or enclosed spaces.  I knew that all too well. 
            As I had promised, I pushed my way to the front of the docket and had his case heard second.  Defendants who have an attorney generally get heard primarily; the unrepresented rabble waits to be called by the Judge.  The appearance was uneventful. Tyler had chosen a blood test and the results weren’t in yet, so I served the deputy district attorney with an informal request for the results when they arrived.  I had Tyler out of there in ten minutes, initial discovery in hand and a court date eight weeks off.  We walked outside together.
            “Thanks man,” he said.  “It went just like you said it would, and real quick.”
            “Piece of cake.”  I handed him one of my cards.
            “See you soon.  I’m going home to get some sleep.”
            So was I.

Addict Recommends: (Film) A Dream of Kings (1969)

The primary criticism against this film is that Anthony Quinn essentially reprises his performance in Zorba the Greek. And to some extent, I can see where the two roles overlap somewhat. This observation, however, does not detract in the least from the significance of this film, especially from the point of view of this blog. On the contrary, any similarity between the two characters only lends heft and validity to the importance of A Dream of Kings, a movie which is largely overlooked.

Quinn portrays Matsoukas, a larger than life fellow determined to suck the marrow out of his existence. He spends all his nights carousing, getting drunk and gambling in the backroom betting parlors and card rooms of Chicago. He sleeps in late and seems to work in his job as an abstract personal “counselor” (basically he gives sage advice) about five minutes a day. Although a heavy gambler who suffers severe and sometimes terrible swings in fortune, he is a strict man of honor who revels in his great losses with the same appreciation as he does his wins. He is beloved by his cohorts – who feed off his energy – but despised by his wife Caliope (portrayed by Irene Papas, also of Zorba fame) who resents his freedom, his exuberance and most of all his ethics and ability to abide an elevated, if complicated, code of existence. She probably also resents his philandering, which of course he executes with gusto and panache.

Matsoukas is the father of three children: two sweet, healthy girls and a boy who is terribly ill and is diagnosed with mere months to live. Our protagonist, however, refuses to accept the word of doctors and science, knowing in his heart that if his son could only breathe the clean air of Greece and walk Mount Olympus, the strength of his warrior ancestors would enter his body and cleanse him of all sickness. In the tradition of great characters in narratives like these, (Axel Freed of course comes to mind) Matsoukas believes that the power of his will is strong enough to overcome any obstacle, regardless of the odds against.

Unsurprisingly, Matsoukas lacks the funds to travel to his homeland and cure his son. And so he stakes it all – his marriage, his friendships and his honor – on a desperate scheme to make the dream a reality. It is a grand story and a solution straight out of ancient mythology, set in the small and gritty life of an outstanding yet ordinary man.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Mississippi Grind (2015)

         Although there are no genres of film I enjoy as much as movies about gambling and addiction, the ones about road trips come pretty damn close. (Some of my favorites include Lolita, Easy Rider and The Blues Brothers.) So you can imagine my glee when I came across Mississippi Grind, a movie which combined the elements of gambling, drinking, womanizing and the epic American road trip in one compelling package. 

         The story centers on two characters: Gerry and Curtis. Gerry is a down on his luck real estate broker, played perfectly by the King of the down and outers Ben Mendelsohn. (Whose work in season one of “Bloodline” sets the standard for portrayals of the dirt-bag functioning addict.) Gerry runs into Curtis – played by Ryan Reynolds in a role with real depth – in a casino in Iowa one night. Gerry is almost immediately drawn to Curtis, and the two end up getting drunk at a local bar. The next day, they win a bundle at the dog track, only to lose it back quickly. While getting drunk yet again, Curtis explains to Gerry that “Machu Picchu” time is fast approaching. This is his slang for time to hit the road and get lost. The two become so inebriated that they are thrown out of the bar while trying to play pool for a thousand dollars a game. Outside, Gerry is stabbed by a mugger who incorrectly believes he possesses a wad of cash. 

          After being threatened by his female bookie Sam, to whom he owes a tidy sum, Gerry realizes that Curtis is right and it really is time to hit the bricks. They plan a road trip south through the cities and towns of the Mississippi. They will gamble their way ultimately to New Orleans, where a high stakes poker game awaits. Curtis stakes his newfound friend, who pads his bankroll by stealing the office petty cash. In a scene which is both touching and heart breaking, Gerry fills his cat's bowl to the brim with cheap dry food. It is one of those scenes that makes us wonder when in the world he will come back. It also reminds us of the age old truism in fiction, that Chekhov’s gun must always be eventually fired. The cat, as is good and proper, also returns in this narrative. 

          Their journey takes them to St. Louis, Memphis, Little Rock, Tunica and of course the Big Easy. Along the way they encounter hookers, gamblers, tough guys and losers. They frequent back room card games, bet horses at the racetrack and live out of seedy hotel rooms. Money is won and lost. Expectations are disappointed, fulfilled and exceeded in a full and glorious display of the capacity of human nature. What more could you ask for?       

          Directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck – a rare film making duo – were inspired to make this movie by their experiences on riverboat casinos in Iowa. But their command of the language of the gambling narrative is masterful and complete. They even have a scene where they feature, in an interesting if taciturn role, writer/director James Toback, who wrote the original screenplay for the greatest gambling movie of all time: The Gambler (1974), featuring James Caan, Paul Sorvino and Lauren Hutton. (See my recommendation for this legendary film in these archives.)

          The directors avoid employing the now tired, moralizing, cliché ending. Instead, we are granted closure both unexpected and (perhaps) unrealistic, but which somehow works perfectly. Ultimately however, the film proves in conclusion what we already knew at the beginning: that gambling isn’t strictly about winning or losing, plusses and minuses. It is about the highs and lows of the experience. It is about the knowledge that there is never “enough.” And more than anything, this movie stands for the proposition that at the very end of it all, to the chagrin of addicts of everywhere, the best we can ever hope for is to break even. 

Condo Conversion, Chapter 4

         I hadn’t been laid in ten months.  And as is the case when you haven’t been laid in a really long time, I got to thinking about the last girl I had been with, Allison McRooney.  I was walking around Rohnert Park, trying to get a sense of my surroundings.  It was very flat, with wide boulevards that could accommodate far more cars than were in fact using them.  Having moved from crowded San Francisco, I liked that.  There is a surplus of space in Rohnert Park. 

          But the dominant impression is that it is flat.  Flat like we were taught people believed the world to be before Columbus, even though they didn’t.  Flat like a football field.  I walked over to the Safeway, then back around to the Raleys, then over to the Albertsons: three supermarkets and dozens of retailers and restaurants in one gigantic superplex.  Residents of this archetype of urban sprawl called it “downtown.”

          An angry old man rolled by in his electric wheelchair muttering something to himself.  On the back of the chair, on a flexible pole about three feet high, there was a little orange flag waving in the wind.  I recognized him from the day before: he was one of my new neighbors.  A moment later, a young handicapped woman rolled by in her electric wheelchair going the opposite direction.  Two young skateboarders cruised by me, hopping their boards nimbly over the curb.  A pattern was emerging.  Rohnert Park was a place built for rolling through.  This explained the endless number of shopping carts that littered every corner of the town.  Maybe I should get a little chair for myself, I reflected.  It might help me fit in.

           The thought of Allison’s gigantic breasts continued to haunt my mind as I aimlessly trolled the aisles of Longs Drugs.  And her ass; God it was huge.  When she was on all fours it was like looking at two Virginia hams sitting side by side: a glorious vision, it used to make me hungry with lust, all that magnificent, surprisingly taut, perfectly proportioned flesh.  

            She used methamphetamines.  She must have been the biggest girl in the world who used as much meth as she did.  Who knows how much bigger she would have been if she didn’t?  But her habit was one of maintenance and not absolute excess.  She was able to hold down a good job as an investment banker and appear to the rest of the world as if she were relatively normal.  She took two big hits in the morning before heading off to work, would rush home for a half-hour lunch of two more, and would be home at about eight o’clock after a few drinks with her coworkers and smoke a few more hits before getting three hours sleep.  On weekends she would catch up on her slumber, staying in bed until long after noon.  It was amazing, really, how she balanced her entire life around that little glass pipe.  

            I was mainly into coke at the time, but would indulge with her now and again to try to attain some spiritual connection.  People on speed can only relate to other people on speed, and I wanted desperately for her to relate to me.  There were times that she told me she loved me.  Once she even wrote a poem for me, proclaiming her love as infinite.  But I knew that it could never be true, even when I didn’t.  She needed an asshole to push her around, let her know she wasn’t worth shit, and I was basically a nice guy who wanted to tell her she was precious.  It was doomed from the start.  Still, it stung like a motherfucker when she left.  I have only been in love twice in my life.  She was one of them.  

Condo Conversion, Chapter 3

3

The day after I settled into my new place, I was invited to dinner by another old friend, James.  I have known him since I was about ten years old.  Most of my best friends go back that far. 

            James had married Jenny, his high school sweetheart.  There weren’t many couples from way back then that had made it this far; I was happy to see them happy.  They made a handsome couple.  James was an all-American looking guy, six feet tall, symmetrical features and a full head of dark brown hair.  Jenny was only a little shorter than him, long curly brown hair, porcelain skin and a slender, lithe figure.  Although she had given birth to their first child, Chloe, only half a year earlier, she had immediately regained her figure.  James was lucky. 

            It used to make me uncomfortable, being the unattached guy going over to dinner at the married couple’s house, especially without a date.  Sometimes I felt like I was missing out, and that secretly they pitied me.  But I had recently gotten over my insecurities.  I was happy with who I was becoming for the second time in my life, the first being my wild adolescence. 

            Jenny held Chloe in her arms and then handed her to James while she stirred the pasta sauce.  I love pasta.  Then he carried her around for a while rocking her back and forth in his arms.  I played with her a little, too: lightly pinching her soft rosy cheeks.  She smiled at me.  Most babies like me, and animals, too. 

            James put her down for a moment and she scurried around the house on all fours.  We were drinking beer, following her around, making sure she wasn’t getting into too much trouble. 

            “You’ve got a cute kid,” I observed.

            “She’s a handful,” he responded.  There was an uncomfortable silence.  I could tell he was deep in thought.  “I gotta ask you something, Pete.”

            “Go ahead.”

            “I want your honest opinion.  Don’t pull any punches.”

            “All right.”

            “I feel like I’ve become boring, one dimensional.  I love Chloe, more than I can tell you.  But ever since she was born, it’s as if a part of me shut down.  All I talk about is the kid now.  Remember those long talks we used to have when we were young, drinking until all hours of the night?”

            “Those were good talks.”

            “They sure were.  We solved the world’s problems back then.  I never have conversations like that anymore.  It’s just eat, shit, work, feed the baby, clean up the baby’s shit.  I feel like time is speeding up, as if I’m hurtling toward nonexistence.”

            I understood where he was coming from.  Often I’ve observed the very phenomenon he was describing manifest itself in the lives of other comrades.  What is it about having a child that robs some men of their creativity and vitality?  Was it always this way?  Or is it a more recent development in contemporary life, the result of increased demands?  Not all fathers turned out like this.  But many of them did. 

            “That’s nonsense,” I told him. “Your existence is more relevant now than it has ever been.  You have the privilege of being responsible for another life.  What could be more important than that?”

            “You’re right,” he responded, pleased.  “Thanks.”  He patted me on the back and took a long drink off his beer.

            And I wasn’t placating him.  I had meant what I said.  It’s strange how two competing ideas can be equally true in the same instance.  One of life’s tradeoffs.

            Dinner was great: green salad with vinaigrette, walnuts and bleu cheese, penne in a thick meat sauce and good red table wine.  We were all sitting around the living room finishing off the second bottle, my elastic stomach bulging with fullness.  Chloe began crying from her crib in the bedroom and both parents excused themselves for a moment.

            “Take your time,” I said, semi-comatose.

            There were a number of magazines resting on the coffee table.  I picked one up; it was the spring circular for “Terracotta Shed, Bed + Bath.”  I began flipping through it.  Inside, there was the bathroom collection: the “classic console,” “accessories,” “monogrammed towels,” and “fixtures and sconces.”  It looked like nice stuff, very expensive.  “Obtain the bathroom of your dreams,” the magazine exhorted.  In the back was a price guide to all the products, complete with serial numbers to help the buyer place orders.  This guide was several pages long.  Here and there an item was circled: the “double console,” the “linen closet” the “mini vanity” and the “full length mirror.”  Also completed was an order for towels, monogrammed of course.  There was a neat little section where the buyer wrote out the appropriate letters and then chose from a variety of fonts.  It was Jenny’s handwriting.

            I soon left.  The baby was screaming.  It was good timing for all.  I promised to return soon.  Nice people.

            I went home to my tiny new apartment and looked around: tattered reading chair, 1980’s era love seat and cheap overstuffed bookshelves.  A true bachelor’s home, it declared “NO WOMAN HERE!”  I went to the bathroom to take a leak.  Afterwards I washed my hands and splashed my face, ruddy from wine, with cold water.  I tried to imagine the items from the bathroom collection in my inadequate space.  Nope, it just wouldn’t work.  I was glad.  I liked my apartment the way it was.  Inadequate: it reflected the way I felt about myself and about the world I lived in.  I threw a porno entitled “Dirty Sluts Young and Tight” in the old-school VCR and turned up the volume.  Good thing those seniors don’t hear too well.