So we do.
I mean, we keep lowering the goddamn net and drinking beers while he tells me stories and I tell him mine.
“I’ve been through some dark times,” he says. “Doin’ coke and whatever else. Somehow, you just got to learn how to fall in love with life, you know? I mean, shit, man, just look around, right? How great is this? We ain’t got shit to do but sit in the sun and maybe catch a few crabs, or maybe catch nothin’ at all. It don’t matter. And then we’re gonna go back home and boil these fuckers up and melt some butter and talk some more, and maybe a game’ll be on. That’s it, man. That’s fuckin’ it.”
There used to be this TV program in the ’70s called The Dick Cavett Show. I have an old tape of one of Cavett’s interviews with John Lennon and Yoko Ono. On the show, John talked about wishing he could be a fisherman—pulling his dinner from the sea, connected with the tides and the swells and whatever. He said he wished he coulda been that kinda person, instead of someone who needed to perform and question everything and be forever unsatisfied and wanting more.
Looking over at Russell, goddamn, I want to be a fisherman so badly.
I mean, why can’t it ever be enough?
What is this craziness and pain in me that rips apart a beautiful day like this? The sun, the marsh, Luna hiding in the shade behind us. Why is there this restlessness that won’t let me alone?
I look at Russell and I admire him completely.
He’s figured out the greatest challenge for any of us: just being content.
So as the sun starts setting, we head back to his place. Then we cook up the crabs and eat them with melted butter and a big hunk of bread.
We sit in the living room smoking pot and drinking until both Kelly and Sue Ellen show up from work.
Russell and I get up and greet the girls. We decide to all go get some Mexican food.
I want so badly for this to just be enough, you know?
I smile and laugh and drink. But there’s something in me that opens up and swallows all this and keeps demanding more. I can’t be satisfied.
And I hate myself so much for that.
Ch.23
Is this really all there is—creating little tasks for myself to get me through the day—a schedule repeated in my head over and over so I never forget and never have to face a moment of stillness?
I write five pages. I make a cup of tea, smoke a cigarette, take a belt from the vodka bottle I have hidden under the back porch—eat something—write five more pages, smoke a cigarette, take another hit off the bottle—trying not to get too drunk but trying even harder not to get too sober. I listen to Syd Barrett, John Coltrane, Robert Johnson, Marc Bolan, the Yardbirds, Joy Division, Nick Drake. I put on my VHS copy of the Who’s Tommy and let that play through while I keep working.
Five more pages.
Hit the bottle.
Smoke another cigarette.
Take a shower.
Brush my teeth three times to cover up the smell.
Rinse with mouthwash.
Get dressed.
I have to work a shorter, closing shift tonight—from three to eight.
It’s important not to get too drunk.
It’s important not to get too sober.
I’m working with that goddamn, super-uptight Elaina girl, so I definitely don’t want to be any more sober than is absolutely necessary. And while I am fairly lucid at the moment, the alcohol’s sure to pass out of my system before my shift is over, so a trip to the liquor store is beyond crucial. I mean, my life might just depend on it.
Unfortunately, however, I’ve already spent all of my last check, so I’m forced to rummage around through the jar of spare change Sue Ellen keeps on top of her dresser. The entire collection is a little under five dollars, but I guess that’s just going to have to do now, right?
I take the money, the coins heavy and bulging in my pocket—jangling as I walk, like I’m some stupid cat with a bell tied around my neck.
The sky has blown clear again, the storm clouds like black floating mountains passing over the horizon. The rubber soles of my shoes are sticking to the sidewalk, and I find myself actually praying for the rain to come pouring down again—washing us clean. Though that’s never how it works. Charleston is a swamp. When it rains, we’re left floating in a clogged, piss-warmed toilet. The gutters overflow—the parks are all flooded—and the rats convene on the telephone wires, looking down on us and laughing, with fat, bloated bellies.
I go into the liquor store—cooled by the powerful air-conditioning unit.
I sigh real loudly, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my T-shirt and saying, “Goddamn, it’s hot.”
The woman behind the counter raises her eyes from the magazine she’s reading—thick, Coke-bottle glasses perched on the tip of her pinched little nose.
“Hey, now, boy,” she says, not smiling at all. “Don’t you blaspheme in here. This is a Christian establishment. We don’t need your kind comin’ in here.”
I wonder whether she means ’cause of my language or ’cause I’m white. That is, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any white folks at this liquor store. Still, it’s not like I’ve ever been given a hard time before, so maybe I really just offended the ol’ girl. Christ, a Christian establishment. Well, at least maybe she’ll demonstrate a little Christian charity by having patience with me while I count out five dollars’ worth of change on the plastic-sealed counter.
“I’m sorry, ma’m,” I tell her, stacking the coins in little piles of nickels, dimes, quarters, and pennies.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” I continue, kinda stumbling over my words. “I just, uh… I’m sorry. It’s been a rough day is all.”
She eyes the mounting columns with one painted-on brow arched significantly higher than the other. “I can see that,” she says. Her red-painted mouth is turned down at the corners, the dark-purple-colored lip liner like wax melted in the creases of her face. “You think you can hurry it up?”
She taps press-on nails against the counter surface—tap-tap, tap-tap. My hand shakes—fingers going all useless on me—the pile of coins toppling over so I lose the count completely.
“Man, fuck,” I start to say, trying to cut off my words but not really succeeding—so instead I just kinda cover my mouth with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I… uh… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I stare down at the mess of coins, wondering if maybe I should forget about it and go try somewhere else.
In fact, I’m about to start shoving the change back in my pocket, when she startles the shit outta me by bursting out laughing—long and loud and deep. “Ah, hell,” she says, cackling all over the place. “I’m just playin’ with you. Boy, you shoulda seen your face. A Christian establishment! Ha. I really had you goin’, didn’t I?”
My head nods up and down—my mouth hanging open and my body kinda paralyzed there.
The woman laughs and laughs, wiping tears from her eyes and pausing to breathe every now and then, making a sort of “whoo” noise.
“Yeah, you definitely got me,” I tell her, still kinda stunned.
She struggles to pull herself together, saying, “I did, didn’t I? That sure was a good one.”
I manage to laugh a little myself.
“Anyway,” she carries on. “What can I get you, young man? Looks like you got about five dollars goin’ there now—ain’t that about right?”
She starts dumping the coins into a cigar box, not counting ’em, and so I just ask for the cheapest bottle of whiskey she’s willing to give me, which turns out to be a pint of Black Velvet. She also throws in three little airplane bottles of flavored Smirnoff, maybe as payment for making me feel like such an asshole.
“My name’s Candace,” she says, reaching a cold hand like crackling tissue paper out to shake mine.
“Nic,” I tell her.
She says for me to come back anytime and, of course, I thank he
r, waving good-bye stupidly.
I walk out into the damp, clinging heat, rushing off down a side alley to take a couple more hits before work.
The black clouds have all disappeared—the sky perfectly clear and wide open.
“See,” I say to myself, “it’s gonna be okay.”
I put the mouth of the bottle to my lips.
I drink.
By the time I get to work, I’d say I’m pretty well lit up, talking to everyone, messing around. The hours go by fast, and I maybe even start blacking out a little—my memory going. I can’t keep track of most of the orders, and I end up burning a bunch of different shit. While I’m mopping, I knock over the bucket in the kitchen, and the gray water, slick with greasy sludge, soaks in behind all the appliances, and it takes me a good forty-five minutes to get the floor looking even half-assed decent. Then, as I’m taking out the heavy kitchen trash, the plastic bag rips when I’m just steps away from the back door—emptying out pounds of wet coffee grounds, discarded, no-longer-identifiable food products, and wadded-up napkins onto the freshly mopped tile floor.
Elaina, as you can probably imagine, isn’t really speaking to me anymore, which is probably for the best, considering I must be practically sweating cheap whiskey at this point. I mean, the bottle’s just about done. Not that I meant to drink it all. I was trying to keep it under control. Honestly, I’m not even sure what happened. It’s like one minute I was opening the bottle, and the next, well, I’m where I’m at now: teetering, sloppy, throwing up in the bathroom sink. The world spins out of control—the floor dropping out from underneath me—my body pinned back against the wall—like I somehow stepped onto one of those rides at the carnival—centrifugal force—my stomach tightening like a fist.
I can’t tell whether my words are slurred, but I know damn well that I won’t ever come back here. If they called me out on my behavior, man, I just couldn’t take it. I’m not gonna let them fire me. I mean, I get it, I fucked up—I drank too much. The hell if I’m gonna give them the chance to try ’n’ tell me I have a problem. Besides, I hated this job, anyway. And it’s the job’s fault that I’m drinking like I am. If I wasn’t so goddamn miserable working here, well, I wouldn’t have to numb out like this. I’ve gotta get outta here. I can’t stand it another minute.
My legs zigzag, stumbling their way up to Elaina behind the register. Believe it or not, I’ve got the goddamn hiccups.
“Hey,” she says, putting down the rag and spray bottle she’s been using to clean the pastry case. “I need you to take over for me while I go make a phone call. Why don’t you start breaking down the espresso machine? Then you can do the mats when I get back.”
I nod as she passes on by. Maybe I’m just fooling myself, but she doesn’t seem to suspect anything. I mean, she’s not treating me any differently than she normally does. It could be that I’m holding shit together better than I thought. I could even be getting away with it. ’Cause if Elaina thought I was drinking, I’m pretty damn sure she’d have called me out by now. Hell, that’s the kinda thing that’d make her day. So, yeah, maybe she doesn’t know.
But I still can’t risk it. There’s no way I’m gonna give these fuckers the satisfaction of firing me. I’d rather quit. That’s the only way to go.
So I hiccup.
And even gulping water doesn’t seem to help.
A customer comes up and orders a cappuccino—insisting on chatting me up, even though I’m hiccuping like a fool. He’s nice enough about it, though, offering some advice about placing a spoon to the bridge of my nose while I drink water for ten seconds without taking a breath. He watches me struggling to complete his ridiculous little hiccup cure. It doesn’t work. He goes on to tell me about a girl he saw on the Today show who’d had the hiccups for over three months straight.
I laugh. “Well, thanks anyway,” I tell him, my words broken up by the goddamn hiccups.
It’s all too goddamn embarrassing.
I mean, drinking isn’t a problem for me, but I definitely need to get my shit together a little more. As it is, I’m not even gonna be able to get my last paycheck. There’s no way I can face coming in here.
So, with that as the only justification I really need, I quickly take two twenties out of the cash register—just enough to buy another eighth from Carmine.
I stuff the bills in my pocket and go to grab my bag from the office.
The hiccups haven’t stopped.
I unscrew the bottle of whiskey and drain the last of it, immediately moving on to one of the little airplane bottles of raspberry vodka.
Everything’s gonna be better now. I just need to quit this job, and then I’ll be able to drink like a normal person again.
’Cause that’s all I want.
To be normal.
And to drink.
Ch.24
Sue Ellen was pissed at me for quitting my coffee shop job—especially since it’s taken me over a month to finally find some other work. But I did. I mean, I got a new job, and so far it seems like a much better fit, for sure. Plus I’m making a ton more money in cash, every day, which is good but, uh, hasn’t really helped me cut back on drinking at all. Not to mention that the place I’m working, a barbecue joint called Dorothy’s that caters to Charleston’s gay community, is equipped with a full bar that I have ready access to throughout my shift. That is, I usually have a vodka and Coke hidden away for whenever I get thirsty—which, these days, is just about always.
Of course, I’m drinking at home, too—still trying to work on my book during my free time—but always drunk, or, well, not even drunk. I mean, I’m at the point where I barely even feel the alcohol anymore.
But my body still craves it.
I wake up sick every morning, head pounding, hands shaking so badly I can barely get the bottle to my lips, forcing the liquor down till the tremors finally ease up some.
As far as she’s letting on, it seems that Sue Ellen hasn’t figured out what’s going on. I keep bottles hidden all over the house, so I never actually have to drink in front of her. Plus, that way, if she does find a bottle and makes me dump it out, I’ll still have more stashed around. ’Cause the thing is, I fucking need it. My body’s developed a physical dependency. I mean, after all, I know what to look for. I’ve sat through thousands of twelve-step meetings and listened to thousands of drunks describing the exact same behavior I find myself doing now. They talked about hiding bottles, getting the shakes, shitting blood, watching their bellies swell. I’d never experienced any of that. They were alcoholics. I was a drug addict. But now, I guess, I’m not too sure.
We were visiting Sue Ellen’s brother three hours away in Greenville, South Carolina, and I got so drunk before driving back that I had to keep one eye closed the whole way ’cause I was seeing everything double. And, of course, I couldn’t ask Sue Ellen to drive, ’cause then she would’ve known something was up. I mean, I’d stolen a bottle of tequila from her brother’s liquor cabinet and drunk the whole thing just before getting in the car. I remember the eye thing, but that’s pretty much it. The rest is all lost to me.
My world has closed in around me. I can’t hang out with Russell ’cause I’m too embarrassed for him to see me like this. I’m constantly terrified that the people at work are going to find out how much I drink. I’m lying to my editor in New York and my mom and dad on the phone. My body is weak and bloated. I’m slowly poisoning myself to death. And it’s not like I haven’t seen what this shit does to people. The most fucked-up detoxes I’ve ever seen are the people coming off alcohol. It’s worse than heroin, worse than benzos, worse than anything. Alcohol can pickle your brain—leaving you helpless, like a child—infantilized—shitting in your pants—ranting madness—disoriented—angry—terrified.
But that’s not gonna be me, I mean, it can’t be. I may hate myself. I may fantasize about suicide. But I’m way too vain to let myself die an alcoholic death. There’s nothing glamorous about alcoholism. You don’t go out like Nic Cage in Lea
ving Las Vegas, with a gorgeous woman riding you till your heart stops. Alcoholism takes you down slow, robbing you of every last bit of dignity on your way down—leaving you bloated, paranoid, delusional.
There’s no way I’m going out like that.
Not me. Not like that.
The only problem is, well, I can’t stop.
Every night before I fall asleep, or pass out, or whatever, I promise myself I’m not gonna drink when I wake up. I set little goals, like not drinking till after I get off work, or drinking only beer and wine. But at this point, man, there’s no way I can even go to work without at least a couple of shots of vodka in my belly. Without the alcohol, I can’t even hold a conversation anymore—not to mention being all up and enthusiastic like you’re supposed to be when you’re waiting tables.
Every night is a performance. I put on my costume, smile like an idiot, chat everyone up, all clever and funny and understanding. Honestly, it doesn’t feel all that different from hustling. I mean, I’ve always been able to show people exactly what they want to see. And I become whatever it is they want me to be. And I flirt and tease and listen. The gay girls think I’m sweet. The gay men love me just like they always do, tipping big, leaving their phone numbers, business cards. And all I do is keep playin’ it up, lying without thinking—a natural-born whore. The only differences now are that I’m not shooting drugs and I’m not actually sleeping with them. Instead, I drink and drink and wonder how much money it’ll take to make me feel beautiful. The right offer will come. I’ll fight to resist it, but it’ll come just the same. And then I’ll have another opportunity to show the world how weak I still am.
The right offer will come.
I mean, it does.
It just doesn’t come the way I thought.