Disturbing the Peace

  “John, this is absurd. You’re acting—”

  “ ‘Paranoid,’ right? Is that another of your favorite words?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that at all.”

  “All right, look now if you don’t believe me. Everybody in this whole fucking restaurant is—”

  “They’re not.”

  “Yes they are, God damn it. What the fuck do you think I am, crazy?” And from the corner of his eye he saw the waiter advancing on their booth with quick little steps.

  “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to keep your voice down.” The waiter was old and soft and Italian.

  “All right,” he said. Far across the room the strolling violinists seemed to increase their tempo.

  “Do you want to leave, John?”

  “No, I don’t want to leave. I want to sit here and finish my drink. Fuck ’em. Go on, eat. Eat, God damn it.”

  But instead of eating she covered her face with both hands.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “That really rips it. Look, I’m warning you: if you start crying here there’s going to be trouble. Stop it, now. I said stop it, God damn it. Look. You want to get me thrown outa here? They can do that, you know. If you go on crying and I go on yelling at you they’ll throw me outa this fucking faggot joint. Stop it, I said….”

  The old Italian waiter was back, holding up both hands in supplication, and now poised behind him were three younger, stronger waiters. “Sir,” he said, “I spoke to you before. I must ask you to keep your voice down.”

  Wilder laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, then a second and a third. That should cover it. “There,” he said. “Now why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

  “Oh, John,” Pamela said.

  The old waiter stood dumbfounded, opening and closing his mouth, and the three younger men suddenly converged around him, one of them pulling the table away from the booth. “That’s all she wrote, mister,” he said.

  Wilder was on his feet, hauling off for a swing at the man who’d said that, but his wild, looping right was neatly blocked by the man’s forearm, and then suddenly all three waiters were on him, one of them clamping his neck in a painful half-nelson. They had him off his feet and struggling in their arms; they dragged and carried him among other startled diners as the violins played on. “That’s all she wrote,” one waiter kept saying through gritted teeth, until one of Wilder’s flailing hands found his throat and he pressed his thumb as hard as he could into the man’s Adam’s apple. From somewhere behind him he heard Pamela crying “Oh, don’t! Wait! Stop! …”

  They were carrying him down the dark corridor and past the dribbling fountain; he felt that some semblance of pride could be maintained as long as he held his grip on the windpipe of the man who’d said “That’s all she wrote.” Then the heavy front door opened and they threw him sprawling onto the sidewalk; he rose and stumbled and fell again before he righted himself.

  When Pamela came out he said “The car – where the hell’s the car?”

  “The attendant took it,” she said. “Wait, I’ll—”

  But the attendant was already sprinting away to get it, and in less than a minute they were away from the place, driving too fast down La Cienega Boulevard.

  “I want you to stop this car,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice for someone who’d recently been crying, “and let me drive, before you kill us both.”

  But he insisted on driving himself, while she huddled in fright against the passenger’s door. He took several wrong turns, caused other drivers to blare their horns at him for changing lanes too abruptly, and once scraped the fender of another car.

  When they were home at last he fixed himself a drink. She had one too, and then she broke it to him.

  “I’m moving out, John,” she said, pacing the carpet with her glass in her hand. “I can’t take this any more. I found another apartment today, while you were at the doctor’s, and I left a deposit on it. I’m planning to move in the morning.”

  He was stricken – “Oh, baby, don’t do that; please don’t do that” – but at the same time he was mildly relieved: with her out of the place it would be possible to drink at any time of day, even in the morning. Besides, she would have to keep in close touch with him so as not to miss any meetings with Munchin. He’d get her back.

  “There’s no phone there,” she said, “but as soon as I get one installed I’ll let you know; that way we won’t miss anything with Munchin. I’m sorry, John, but I can’t live this way.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I’ll take my emergency kit.”

  “Your what?”

  “Brink gave me a special set of pills to take in emergencies – times when I feel I’m about to – I’ll take them now.”

  “Oh, John, you’re too much. Do you honestly think pills are the answer to everything? You can’t change your whole personality with pills.”

  “I don’t want to change my personality. I just want to get so you can go on living with me.”

  “Well, you’d better forget it. No pills are going to fix that. Do you want to sleep on the sofa, or shall I?”

  “I will,” he said. At least the sofa would give him easier access to the liquor supply. “Listen, Pamela, please reconsider this.”

  “I’ve been reconsidering it for weeks. Now I’ve made up my mind.”

  For the fourth night in a row – or was it the fifth? – he hardly slept at all. No amount of whiskey could make him drowsy as he sat or sprawled on the sofa and tried to think things out, and he watched the morning break through the closed blinds.

  “I’ll just make some coffee,” Pamela said, coming sleepily out of the bedroom. “I don’t want to go through a whole breakfast scene before I leave.” And they went through no scene at all. They decided she would keep the car – he could rent another one – then he helped her with her suitcases and she was gone. There wasn’t even a chance to wonder whether he should kiss her goodbye.

  The first thing he did when he was alone was go to his own suitcase and find Dr. Brink’s emergency kit: three vials of pills with names he forgot as soon as he’d swallowed them at the bathroom sink. Then he found a hard-boiled egg in the refrigerator and wolfed it down, and then he sat on the sofa with a light whiskey and water and tried to make plans.

  It was on the third day that things began to close in. His watch had stopped, but the Venetian blinds showed that it must be past noon, and he decided he’d better get out. Once he was out, walking along Santa Monica Boulevard, he decided he’d better have some food. He had eaten only scraps from the refrigerator and cheap hamburgers from a corner stand since Pamela left. There was an all-day restaurant within walking distance, one that he and Pamela had often gone to, and he went there now determined to stuff his guts: he would have a big Western breakfast of steak and eggs.

  “Something from the bar, sir?”

  “No, thank you. Or wait – yes. I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”

  And over his second Bloody Mary, while trying to work up the courage to attack his cooling food, he discovered that everyone in the place was staring at him. It was true this time; but these people, unlike the ones in the other restaurant, didn’t seem unfriendly. They seemed to be pitying him. They turned quickly away when he caught their eyes, but it was clear from their expressions that they’d been staring as if to say Look at that poor guy.

  He sat up straighter in his chair, put his hands on the table to steady them and tried to imagine how he looked to others. He was dressed well enough – a clean shirt, clean corduroy jacket and clean slacks – and except for the fact that he hadn’t shaved this morning he thought there could be nothing the matter with his face. But there it was, every time he glanced up to test it: somebody looking away with a barely perceptible shake of the head or a little exhalation of breath – That poor bastard’s really suffering.

  One man especially, plump and bald, sitting alone and pretending to read a trembling newspaper, had him under constant sympathetic surveillance. And there were ot
hers: two longhaired youths in T-shirts and jeans seemed to be discussing him in whispers, as if debating whether to come over to the table and speak to him, and a motherly woman with blue hair and a pink pants suit seemed ready to cry for his sake.

  When the waitress brought his check she seemed reluctant to approach him, and her heavily made-up eyes said Are you all right, sir? He wanted to assure her that he was, or at least that he would be if everybody quit looking at him, but instead he kept his gaze fixed on his plate.

  “Something the matter, sir?”

  “No, no; I’m fine. Just not very hungry, is all.”

  When she was gone he laid a big, crumpled paper napkin on the plate to conceal how little he had eaten, left too much silver on the table for a tip and glanced up again. There they were, all the quickly averted faces. He got up and made his escape, feeling many eyes on his back.

  Outside, the afternoon sun was blinding. He moved through it as slowly as if it were a sandstorm, shielding his squinted eyes with one hand.

  A grey, curly-haired man was waiting on his doorstep, and after blinking several times he recognized him as the man from whom he’d rented the apartment, the building manager.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Wilder?” he asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  The building manager looked embarrassed. “I just mean, are you feeling well? The ladies next door thought you might not be feeling well.”

  “Why’d they think that?”

  “They said you were groaning and whatnot last night; said it sounded like you were in bad pain.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I mean I know you’re new here in town. We have this doctor looks after the tenants in all the apartments, Dr. Chadwick; I could call him for you if you’d—”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”

  And at last he was alone, safe in his own place with the door locked. A phone call had to be made, and after he’d fixed a drink to steady his hands he sat at the telephone table and dialed.

  “Neuropsychiatric.”

  “Dr. Rose, please.”

  “Is this Mr. Wilder?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  “Dr. Rose speaking.”

  “Doctor, this is John Wilder. Listen: I think you’d better help me, if you can. The point is I just went out to eat and everybody was giving me these very funny looks, and then when I got back the building manager said – look. Could you come over here and give me a shot or something?”

  “Mr. Wilder, these phone calls are becoming a little bizarre.”

  “Whaddya mean? This is the first time I’ve—”

  “You called me four times yesterday, three times at the office and once at home, and you called twice the day before. I’ve heard a great deal about ‘emergency kits’ and ‘shots’ and all sorts of disconnected talk, and I’ve given you the same advice each time: stop the alcohol. If you want to come and sign into the unit for a few days, that’s something we can discuss during your appointment tomorrow.”

  “The ‘unit’? What the hell’s the ‘unit’?”

  “The ward. I can arrange to have a bed for you, if that’s what you—”

  “Oh Jesus, no, that’s not what I want.”

  “Well, stop the alcohol, Mr. Wilder. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He sat breathing hard into the phone for a few seconds; then he said “All right, Rose – thanks for nothing,” and slammed the receiver into its cradle.

  He must have slept a little after that, because when he looked up again the Venetian blinds glowed with the colors of sunset.

  “… Operator, I want to make a person-to-person call to Dr. Myron T. Brink in New York City. I don’t have the number but it’s in Manhattan, on the East Side.”

  “Dr. Brink’s office.”

  “Long distance calling Dr. Myron T. Brink.”

  “Who’s calling, operator?”

  “It’s okay, operator, I’ll talk to that lady. Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. Wilder?”

  “Did I talk to you yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir. Several times. I told you Dr. Brink will be out of the country until the second week in June.”

  “You did? Well, look: did I ask to speak to one of the other doctors?”

  “Sir, I told you Dr. Grady was handling Dr. Brink’s patients but you said you’d rather not talk to him.”

  “I did? Well, scratch that, okay? Now we’re getting somewhere. Put him on.”

  “Dr. Grady here,” said a voice with an Irish accent, and Wilder did his best to tell him what the trouble was. When he got to the part about the emergency kit the doctor made him stop, go and get the bottles and read their labels aloud. Then he said “You mean you’re drinking with those in your system? It’s a very bad idea, Mr. Wilder; all I can tell you is to cut out the alcohol at once. Beyond that there’s nothing I can do for you at this distance….”

  The sky beyond the Venetian blinds was black when he made his next call – or at least the one that seemed like his next. “Person-to-person to Mr. Paul R. Borg in New York City, operator. I don’t have the number. I used to know it like the back of my hand, but I’ve forgotten a lot of things.”

  “… John! Where are you?”

  “Out in Los Angeles. Listen. Things aren’t so good out here, Paul. Not so good at all.”

  “You finding it hard to crack the movie business?”

  “I’m finding it all too easy. Trouble is the movie business is about to crack me. I’m a co-producer of a movie that’s going to crack me wide open.”

  “I don’t follow you, John.”

  “You don’t? That’s funny; everybody else is following me like a dog. Another thing: my girl’s gone. I can probably get her back if I want her, but she’s gone for now. Moved out on me. Listen: did I just say ‘if I want her’?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  “I’ll be damned; I guess I did say that. Thought I was crazy about that girl – when she left me before I damn near died – but now I guess I really don’t know if I want her back or not. Funny. The trouble is she’s too damn ambitious for my blood. She’s on the make. I don’t mean sexually on the make, though I guess she’s probably that too; I mean nothing’s going to stop her until she – until she’s the first female Samuel Goldwyn or something. Listen. I’ll tell you why I called, Paul. I wanted to ask you a question. How do you think it’d be if I called Janice?”

  “Well, John, I think that would depend entirely on what you have to say. Also on the way you say it. If you’ve been drinking I don’t think it’d be a good idea. Why don’t you wait until you’ve had a good night’s rest, and then—”

  “Are you kidding? Who the hell can ‘rest’ when their nerves are screaming? Listen. Remember the time you took me to Bellevue? Do I sound like that now?”

  “You sound very agitated, John, and very – well, disturbed. Are you in touch with a doctor out there?”

  “Oh, shit, yes. I’m in touch with more doctors than you can count. So you don’t think I ought to call Janice, right?”

  “Not tonight, I’d say. If you’re asking my opinion.”

  “Okay. You know something, Paul? You’re probably the best friend I have, but I’ve never liked you very much. Say hello to Natalie.”

  And he hung up. There would be no more phone calls. “Pamela,” he said to his glass of whiskey, “I don’t like you very much either.” He got to his feet and threw the glass high against the far wall of the apartment with all his strength; there was a satisfying crash and the whiskey slid down the wall in a long wet stain. “Sorry, baby,” he said, picking up his last bottle of bourbon, which was nearly two-thirds full. “Sorry, baby, but it’s time. Down the drain.” Slowly at first, and then more quickly, he emptied the bottle into the bathroom sink. “Down the drain,” he said as the last of it gurgled away; “it’s all down the drain, Pamela sweetheart. I may have loved the hell out of you but I’ve ne
ver really liked you very much.” There was nothing to do with the empty bottle but break it, which made another fine crash; then he started back toward the telephone table and the living-room floor hit him in the face. The crystal of his wristwatch was shattered; that was the last thing he saw.

  When his eyes came open everything was white and green. He was naked and struggling in a hospital bed with three or four white-clad people bending over him, holding him down, trying to stick something into his arm. One of them was a young nurse whose left breast hovered close to his mouth. He bit it, and she said “Ow” in a restrained way, as though her nurse’s training came before everything; that struck him as so funny that he was still laughing when he passed out again.

  Then all the struggling was over and he was alone except for an orderly who was adjusting the intravenous bottle over his head.

  “Excuse me,” Wilder said. “Can you tell me where I am?”

  “You’re in Hollywood Presbyterian, sir.”

  “And is this a psychiatric ward or a medical ward?”

  “Oh, it’s a medical ward, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  A medical ward. Maybe he had injured himself in the fall that broke his watch; or maybe he was being treated for simple exhaustion, with no need for psychiatric care. In any case it was a medical ward. Nobody was fooling with his brains here, and there was no lock on the door.

  “… Mr. Wilder?”

  The orderly was gone and Dr. Burton L. Rose was standing beside the bed, looking very small.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Dr. Chadwick called me. Apparently he found my number beside your phone.”

  “Dr. who?”

  “The physician who brought you here. His name is Chadwick. I understand he looks after the tenants in your apartment house.”

  “Oh. Well, what do you want from me?”

  “I think we ought to arrange a new appointment as soon as you’re – able to.”

  “Okay; I’ll call you.” And he closed his eyes to get rid of the man.

  When he came awake again he felt fine – fully restored to health and strength, as if he’d undergone some miraculous cure – and he wanted to be up and into his clothes and out of here.