Hayden lights his cigarette, blows the smoke smugly into the air. “You see? Your pathological shallowness is going to be your demise.”
All of a sudden, I feel like an emotional paraplegic. I feel that all of my gains and insights are based on control and denial. I’m worried that I’m so profoundly sick as to appear healthy and together.
Once I actually placed a personal ad asking for somebody who was paralyzed or without arms or legs. I did this while very drunk, but I did it. I thought that maybe this way, I could get a really good person that nobody else wanted. I’m like Greer’s mother who at Thanksgiving dinners always announces to the table, “That’s okay, I’ll eat the neck.”
Had I placed a personal ad to meet Foster, this is how it might have read:
Handsome and naturally masculine recovering alcoholic with 5 months sobriety and thinning hair. Sexually inhibited, gym-body, chain-smoker. Enjoys reading, photography and listening. Seeks substance abuser with criminal record, current abusive boyfriend, and untreated medical conditions for permanent relationship. I’m very sincere, honest, fun to be with, affectionate and have a large disposable income. You needn’t have phone service or a steady job. Hairy arms a big plus. I like to try and fix things.
“Foster is consuming you. He’s become your drug. You never see Pighead anymore,” he says. “Pighead is your closest friend, yet you never see him. Or call him. It’s just work. And Foster.”
I take two Advil. Not because I have a headache, but because they’re the only thing left that I can take.
I’m sitting in Wendy’s office, confessing. Hayden guilt-tripped me with slogans from rehab: secrets make you sick, your addict will do anything to get a drink, get your will out of your way. Shame oozes out of me as I tell Wendy about eating fish and chips in a cemetery with Foster. About the kiss on the beach. I even tell her about his clocks. “My relationship with Foster has progressed. Well, maybe progressed isn’t the right word,” I tell her. “It’s metastasized. I went over to his apartment to tell him that this just wasn’t working. And something happened and we ended up in bed. Or, on the floor, actually, right in front of the door. But that’s how close I was to leaving.”
Wendy nods, the kind, compassionate therapist. Then she says, “I’d like you to read something.” She reaches behind her, scanning the bookcase with her fingers. From in between a couple of books, she pulls out this thin booklet and hands it to me. I read the title: The Codependent Woman’s Survival Guide. I read the title again. It still says the same thing. “Don’t pay any attention to the title,” she says. “It’s not just for women.”
No, of course not, I think. That’s why they put the pink type on a baby-blue background. So guys will see the blue and think, hey—that’s for us too! I feel like she’s handed me a tampon. I drop the booklet on the floor. “I don’t think it’s just my shallowness,” I tell Wendy. “I think part of the reason I’m attracted to Foster is because he’s such a mess. I mean, the people I have loved in my life have never been easy to love. I’m not used to normal. I’m used to disaster. I don’t know, as messed up as he is, he’s also sort of exciting, sort of a challenge. I’m accustomed to working for love.”
Wendy licks her lips and gives me a large, enthusiastic nod.
“What, am I onto something here?” I say.
“Yes, I think you are.”
I decide to run with it. “Well, the thing is, part of me believes that love is more valuable when you have to work for it. Like taking a clunker of an old car and really fixing it up so it’s a restored classic. As opposed to just running out and buying a new Lexus.”
“Question?” she says, crossing her legs. “Which car would you depend on to get you to work day in and day out? The clunker or the new Lexus?”
This is so pathetic. Like looking in the mirror and noticing that your mole has changed colors. I can’t believe I need to ask someone with a doctorate in psychology whether or not my attraction to this man is unhealthy. Like Wendy’s going to say, “Well, as long as you realize it, I don’t see why you can’t just go ahead and date him. As a matter of fact, I know this great Thai place . . .”
What I really want is to sit next to someone under an L.L. Bean blanket on the beach in the fall and drink coffee from the same mug. I don’t want some rusty ’73 Ford Pinto with a factory-defective gas tank that causes it to explode when it’s rear-ended in the parking lot of the supermarket. So why do I keep looking for Pintos?
I’m standing here looking around my apartment realizing that I bought all of my furniture while either hungover or drunk. Tables that are too low. Surfaces that need to be polished constantly. “Oh, that’s fine, I’ll just dust them every day.” All this stuff bought for somebody’s else life, with somebody else’s lifestyle. What compelled me to purchase a two-hundred-dollar Ted Muehling butter dish when I don’t cook or even eat in the apartment? I bought it for the person I wanted to be. Bookshelves that don’t hold enough books? “I’ll buy fewer books.” A twelve-hundred-dollar video camera, which I never use. Adirondack chairs for my summer house. Which I don’t have. It will work. I will change. I will shrink to fit the too-small sofa.
Hayden comes home, sees me standing in the middle of the room staring at the table beside my bed. “What’s the matter, is there a rat?” he asks with alarm.
“No, I was just thinking about how at one point, every decision I made in my life was somehow influenced by alcohol. And now, I feel so far away from alcohol that I can barely remember what I was like. Sometimes, I think ‘You must be in denial. You must want to drink so much and are so close to the bottle that you cannot even allow yourself to admit it.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Hayden says. “I think you’ve made a choice. I think the reason you’re sober and the reason it’s not difficult for you to remain sober is because you’re doing it for you.”
“Shit, do you think I could possibly be that healthy?”
“I think you’re healthy in certain ways, and I think you’re a pathetic disaster in others. Oh, speaking of which,” he adds, “Foster called while you were in Group, asked you to call him back.”
Foster answers on the first ring.
“I went to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and I got an interim sponsor. I just wanted you to know. Plus,” he continues, “I cleaned the entire apartment and called a real estate broker about maybe getting some small little thing on the coast, maybe even Providence. He’s also looking into bed-and-breakfasts for me to buy.”
I say nothing.
“Auggie, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m just . . . listening.”
“I want to make a fresh start . . . you really have no idea how powerful your influence was on me . . . and I really want to change my life . . . maybe even finally do some writing . . . maybe get a puppy . . . you’d love a puppy . . .”
“Don’t get me wrong here, Foster. I’m really glad you’re so . . . motivated . . . and everything, but you sound a little, I don’t know, hyper?”
He laughs into the phone. “Well, I must have had ten cups of coffee today. Plus a couple of Xanax.”
“You’re taking Xanax?”
“My mother’s a nurse, Auggie. She sends it to me.”
“Well, I’m really happy to hear all of this, but I have to run. I’m supposed to meet Pighead for dinner, and I’m already running late.”
I call Pighead. “Can I come over? Do you have any hot dogs?”
I’m at his apartment in ten minutes.
“Oh Sport, what are you doing hanging out with this man? He’s totally unstable. Hand me that spatula,” Pighead says.
“Why does he have to be so sweet and weird and handsome?”
He rolls the hot dogs around in the skillet; the butter crackles. “I’m sweet and weird and handsome. And I don’t see you banging down my door.”
“I know. But you don’t have enough psychological problems for me. I need somebody with more damage.”
?
??HIV isn’t damage enough for you?”
I hit him on the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
He turns and looks at me. “No, honestly, I don’t know what you mean.”
I look for the pepper. I ignore this comment.
“I think you’re obsessed with this guy and—well—you just deserve somebody who’s not addicted to deadly illegal narcotics. Grab a couple of plates.”
“Any more hiccups?”
“So far, nope.”
“And they still don’t know what caused them?”
“Not a clue.”
I walk into the dining room. “Where’s the remote?”
“Where it always is.”
“No it’s not.”
“Oh, okay. Maybe it’s on the—”
“Found it.”
As we sit at the table, watching TV and ignoring each other, I think, This is such an amazing relief. To just sit here and not have to talk somebody out of some criminal activity.
On the way home, I walk past a wine bar. It’s bright, with clean lines, modern and utterly appealing. It’s not dark like an ordinary bar, but flooded with light. Why couldn’t I have a glass of wine now and then? I wonder. Why must I be so extreme? And in the back of my mind, I’m also thinking that if Foster gets to smoke crack, I should get to drink wine. I walk on, telling myself how much better my life is sober.
The nasty German client finally bought a campaign. It was our least favorite campaign, of course. Unoriginal, uninspired. It is, what we call in advertising, a “montage” commercial. Instead of a concept, it contains only happy shots of attractive people leading active lives. There is a puppy in one shot. And of course, nobody actually sips the beer, as this is illegal to show. He felt it would be “more than satisfactory.” He especially liked that we didn’t have to fly to Germany to shoot it, but could spend a hundred thousand dollars less and shoot it in LA.
“It’ll be a relief to get away,” I tell Greer.
“I know. Let’s try to eat healthy,” she says. “Let’s treat it like going to a spa. I really don’t want to end up hanging around the set eating all those M&Ms and corn chips all day.”
Basically, this is what commercial production is all about. The director shoots the commercial, the client dresses “casual Friday,” worries constantly and pesters the agency, and the agency ignores the client and hangs out at the craft service table gorging on cocktail weenies and cookies. The craft service table is a magic, magnetic thing.
“We’ll take the fat pills,” I reassure Greer.
“Thank God for chitosan,” she says.
Both of us swallow fat-absorb pills with religious fervor. Greer owns stock in the company that manufactures them.
“I need to get out of New York,” I tell her. “Too much stress.”
“I’ll bring along some books. Seven Spiritual Laws of Success for me and . . .” She thinks. “A Setback Is a Setup for a Comeback for you.”
Two days go by without a word from Foster. I will not let myself go to his apartment again. When he’s good, he’s so good. He makes me laugh harder than I ever laughed when I was drinking. He’s so warm and loving and attentive and sensitive. But then all of a sudden, he’s gone. Missing in action. It really is like he’s seeing somebody else. How can I compete with crack?
Why would I want to?
He told me, I love you. Then he called me all manic saying how much I’d changed his life. And now, nothing. So I’m going up and down, my mood completely dependent upon his sobriety or lack of. He’s like this incredibly beautiful Van Gogh painting with slashes all through it. True, it’s a Van Gogh. But look at those slashes.
I can see the person he could be, the person he almost is. And I want that person. I want to love that person. I want that to be the person who tells me I’m hogging all the covers. I can’t stand one minute looking at the stars out the sunroof and the next minute wondering, does he have a broken bottle pressed against his neck?
And here’s the part I don’t admit to anybody, even Hayden: part of me wants to see him using. I want to know what he’s like. I want to know all sides of him. I want to see if he looks more content when he’s with me or his crack.
When Hayden walks in the door, he looks suspicious. Guilty. I immediately think, You’ve relapsed. “Augusten, we need to have a talk.”
Here it comes.
“I’m going back to London.”
Because this is the last thing I expected him to say, I make him tell me again.
“It’s time for me to get back to London. I’ve been here for more than six months. And there’s a project waiting for me there.”
I feel as if I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I should be relieved, I suppose. To have the apartment all to myself, the inconvenience of stepping over suitcases gone. But instead, I feel like I’m being abandoned.
“When are you leaving?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“When did you decide this?” I can’t believe it’s so sudden.
“Today, when I got the call about the project in London. It’s a famous composer. I’d be insane not to take it.” He lights a Silk Cut.
I have to be happy for him. I can’t be selfish for me. He can’t stay forever, no matter how much I want him to. “Well, we should do something special before you leave. Maybe I should try and see if I can get tickets to Rent.”
“Oh, that would be terrific, but I doubt you can.”
“I’ll call Ticket Master.”
Hayden’s going to work with a famous composer and I’m going to end up sitting in a parked cab on Eighth Avenue, waiting while my Banana Republic boyfriend buys crack from a teenage hustler. That is, assuming he’s still alive. I hate that I love him.
The intercom on the wall next to the door lets out a lame squawk. Hayden and I both look at it; we’ve never heard it before. Nobody ever visits me and I always pick up, never order in for delivery. I go over and push the TALK button. “Yeah?”
“Auggie, it’s me, Foster.”
“Brilliant!” Hayden says, excitedly rubbing his hands together. Hayden has never seen Foster before. Suddenly there is the possibility of drama.
I buzz him up. A few seconds later, he knocks on the door. I let him in.
“I had to see you.” And then he starts crying, grabbing ahold of me and sobbing against my neck. I look at Hayden who mouths, Crack. I mouth back, No shit.
“Foster, what’s going on? C’mon, pull yourself together and tell me what’s happened.”
He sniffs, wipes his nose on the shoulder of his T-shirt and says, “Hi, you must be Hayden. I’m Foster. Nice to meet you. Sorry for barging in like this, but—”
“Yes, that’s whom I assumed you were. Nice to meet you, too.”
“I picked up again, Auggie. Big time. I couldn’t stop myself. I’m out of control.”
“Where have you been?”
“The U.N. Plaza.”
“What? The U.N. Plaza? For two days?”
“The windows open so the smoke can get out. Anyway, I want to get better. I’m checking into rehab.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. I think I’ll go peruse Barnes & Noble for something to read on the plane. Something inspiring like Final Exit.”
“Thanks, Hayden. See you later. I’ll call Ticketmaster, see about Rent.”
“You guys are going to see Rent?” Foster asks. “I wanna go.”
“You wouldn’t like it. You can’t smoke inside the theater,” I tell him.
Hayden leaves and Foster takes my arm and pulls me over to the bed, where he sits.
“I’ve never seen where you live before. It’s . . . small.”
It occurs to me that no matter how rock-bottom Foster became, he would never be able to live in something as humble as my apartment. And my apartment is probably not too humble by ordinary standards. He’s completely spoiled. “Yeah, I know. Forget about the apartment. Listen, you better get to rehab. You’re a mess, a real train wreck.”
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“I know, Auggie. Please, will you forgive me? I can’t help it. You know what that’s like, remember? You used to be a mess.”
“Yeah, I know,” I admit, “I do remember what it’s like to be out of control.” Odd that I say this in the past tense.
Foster gives me a small, sweet smile. “I do love you, you know. Even though I know I’m no great prize, I am your no great prize.”
“Why did I ever agree to group therapy?”
“No, Auggie. You got a lot out of it, you really did.”
“Like you?” I ask nastily.
He rolls me over on top of him. “Yeah, like me.”
After Rent, we walk over to Ninth Avenue and hail a cab to take us back downtown. “There’s really no reason to ever go above Fourteenth Street,” I say as we fly down Ninth, making all the lights. “Except for the brief excursion for live theater.”
“Are the meat samosas filled with lamb or beef?” Hayden asks the waiter at the Indian restaurant.
“They are filled with meat,” he replies proudly.
Hayden orders the vegetarian samosas.
“At least I can better understand your attraction to him now, after seeing him,” Hayden says, breaking off a piece of papadum. “He’s possibly the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life. He’s quite literally breathtaking. I no longer blame you at all for your shallowness and lack of judgment.”
I smirk. “Yeah . . . well.” I take a sip of Diet Coke, the Ketel One martini of those in recovery. I’m so sick of Diet fucking Coke.
“It’s almost like a male Liz Taylor thing.”
“How do you mean?” I ask him.
“You know, if she weren’t as beautiful as she is, people wouldn’t admire her struggle with booze and pills. They’d just cross her off as a hopeless lush. We’re a very visual society.”
“I don’t know. My obsession with Foster is kind of fading. It’s like he’s severed my give-a-shit nerve. I’m over him.”