Dry: A Memoir (15 page)

It’s nearly noon. Pighead always walks Virgil at around seven, before work. Even when he’s on vacation from work, like now.

I walk Virgil and the instant his paws hit the curb, his leg goes up and he pees. He pees for what feels like twenty minutes. I walk him around the block and I realize I am feeling a little bit of panic. And then I realize that the reason I am feeling this way is because I saw something in Pighead’s eyes that I have never seen before: fear.

Back inside the apartment, Pighead swears he’s fine and that he just needs to rest. He tells me there’s no reason for me to hang out. That he’ll call if he needs anything. I leave. The whole way home I have an uneasy feeling I can’t shake.

Hayden’s pouring boiling water into a mug when I come back to the apartment. “That was fast. Is your friend okay? Want some tea?”

I lean against the sink. “I don’t know Hayden, it’s strange. I mean, Pighead never gets sick.”

“But you said he has AIDS.”

“No, he’s HIV-positive, but he doesn’t actually have full-blown AIDS. I mean, he’s been positive for years, and nothing—not even a cold.”

“Well, it could just be a cold or something. But you need to not be in denial that it could be”—he hedges—“it could be something
more
.”

The word is heavy, leaden and falls on the floor between us making such a loud sound that neither of us say anything for a while. I don’t allow myself to even imagine that possibility.

Finally, I say, “They have new medications for AIDS now. It’s not like it used to be. People live with it.” As I say this, I recognize in my voice the same tone I use when I’m talking a client into an ad he doesn’t want. I’m selling.

Hayden smiles, blows on his tea.

“Too hot?” I say.

He nods his head. “Oh, by the way, your undertaker friend called you.”

“Jim? When?”

“While you were over at Pighead’s. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

“That’s okay, I’ll call him later.”

“He said he really needs to talk to you.”

A craving strikes. Before, I would have said I wanted a drink. I see now that what I crave is distraction. I don’t want to think about Pighead and his hiccups. I speed-dial Jim. “What’s up?”

“I met somebody,” he says. Jim is always meeting somebody. His somebodies usually last for a week. Or about as long as it takes for him to finally confess what he does for a living. Whichever comes sooner.

“Oh yeah, what’s she like?” I ask.

“She’s great,” Jim says. “A computer programmer. And she’s
stacked
.”

They met at Raven, a very dark and moody goth bar in the East Village that tends to attract people who are nocturnal and consider Diamanda Galas to be easy listening.

“Have you guys gone out . . .” I want to say,
in daylight yet?
But instead I say, “to dinner or anything?”

“Yeah, we’ve already made it past the three-date point. And guess what?” he says excitedly. “She knows I’m in prearrangements.”

“Jim, does she know what
prearrangements
means?”

“Yes,” he answers, annoyed, “she knows.”

I imagine a woman with pale skin, long black hair and black fingernails who wears black lace and is thrilled to have landed herself an undertaker. I see a black hearse sailing along a highway upstate, tin cans flying behind, a sign in shaving cream on the back window:
JUST MARRIED
! “Sounds great,” I say.

“We’re getting together tonight for drinks at this new place. I was wondering if you wanted to join us, so you can meet her.”

My first reaction is fear. I recall something spoken to me in rehab:
If you walk into a barbershop, sooner or later you’ll get a haircut
, Rae had said.
So don’t go to bars. Don’t even think about it
.

“Jim, I’d love to meet her. But I really don’t think I should be going to a bar.”

Hayden looks up from his book.

“Well, it’s not a bar really, it’s a restaurant. They have a bar, but it’s basically a restaurant.”

Hayden watches me, his eyes saying,
whatsgoingon???

I’ll feel like a horrible friend if I don’t go. And as long as I’m aware of what I’m doing, I know I’ll be okay. “What time?” I ask Jim.

Hayden’s mouth opens, his eyes widen in disbelief.

“Eight.”

“Okay, give me the address.”

“Are you
mad?
” Hayden asks after I hang up.

“It’s not a bar, it’s a restaurant.”

“A restaurant with a bar,” Hayden argues.

“Look, I’ll be fine. I’ll walk in, meet this goth girl, have a seltzer and then leave.”

Hayden has turned into a mistrustful parent. He doesn’t even need to use words, he can use
looks
alone. There will be no drive-thru McDonald’s for me tonight.

The restaurant is in Soho, on Wooster Street. It’s easy to spot, because its fabulousness can be seen from a block away. Two huge French doors open out onto the sidewalk, and long, rich, red velvet drapes hang from each door and billow in the warm summer evening breeze. Inside, it’s so dark my eyes need time to adjust. For a moment I stand there in this unknown void. Gradually, it reveals itself to me. An expansive bar begins near the door and stretches back into blackness for what is probably miles. Low Moroccan tables are peppered throughout the converted loft space and the only light comes from small votive candles inside blue glass orbs on the tables and along the bar. Behind the bar, colorful liquor bottles are lit from below like fine art.

They look breathtakingly beautiful. Seeing them, I am filled with longing. It’s not an ordinary craving. It’s a romantic craving. Because I don’t just drink alcohol. I actually love it. I turn away.

Two women sit cross-legged on tapestry cushions at one of the tables, each with an exotic blue drink before them. Cigarette smoke curls up from their ashtray like a cobra. In the corner, I see a tall man in a suit whispering into the ear of a woman who looks like a young Kathleen Turner. Four gigantic, thick-bladed ceiling fans barely spin above my head. I realize that in Manhattan, this is the year of the ceiling fan. I could be in Madagascar, circa 1943, in a bar reserved for spies.

Jim is standing at the bar, talking animatedly with a woman, their backs to me. Relieved, I make my way slowly over to them, careful not to accidentally trip on one of the cushions, the low tables or some other unseen, impossibly exotic design element. This is the Kingdom of Heaven and I am only allowed to visit briefly. Sit on the floor, not a cloud.

“Hey, buddy,” Jim cheers as he sees me. “Holy shit, you look totally different, you look awesome.” His eyes are wide with vodka. I haven’t seen him for over a month. I have never seen him when I’m sober. In the hundred-watt bulb of sobriety, he reminds me of a train wreck.

He aims me at the tall, attractive blond woman next to him. “Augusten, Astrid—Astrid, Augusten.” We shake hands. Her hand is moist and cool, not from nerves but from the drink she is holding.

“Shit, man,” Jim says, giving me the once-over for the second time. “I gotta say, the way you look—hell, I wouldn’t kick you out of
my
bed.” He breaks into laughter and gives Astrid a playful wink. She laughs too, and takes a big swallow of her cocktail.

Jim forgets that two years ago, he in fact
didn’t
kick me out of his bed. We had been out until four in the morning when the bars closed and ended up at his apartment. When we woke up the next morning, we were together in bed, naked. We were both so horrified by the situation that neither of us ever spoke of it again. I am tempted to remind him now, but refrain.

The bartender glides over, as if propelled by silent jets attached to the heels of his Prada shoes. All bone structure and musculature, he’s a head shot that can also mix drinks. “What can I getcha?” he asks, using just one corner of his mouth. I am sure he has stood in front of his mirror for many hours saying this exact phrase, using this exact side of his mouth. If you asked, I bet he’d describe himself as
A few degrees left of cool
.

A Ketel One martini please, very dry with olives
, I want to say. “Um, just a seltzer with lime,” I say instead. I might as well have ordered warm tap water or dirt. I feel that uncool. And suddenly, it’s like I can feel how depressing alcoholism really is. Basements and prayers. It lacks the swank factor.

“You guys okay?” the head shot asks Jim and Astrid, pointing at their drinks.

“We’ll have a couple more, same thing,” Jim says, giving Astrid a sideways glance that tells me he might have found his female drinking buddy after all.

“Done,”
the head shot says with a polished
kewl
ness that brings to mind images of nipple rings, Sudanese beatnik poets and quality nightlife.

Jim turns to me. “So I was just telling Astrid here about this family I’m dealing with at work.”

Thank God. A good undertaker story will take my mind off this place. “Yeah, what’s going on?” I ask.

Jim reaches for his glass, sees that it’s empty and looks at the bartender. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking,
Can’t you shake that thing any faster, Pretty Boy?
“Anyway, like I was telling Astrid, I’m handling the arrangements for the daughter of this rich, snotty-fucking Park Avenue family.” He pauses while the bartender sets the drinks down on the bar. Both Jim and Astrid take immediate, thirsty sips. “And get this,” he says wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “the mother actually asks me, ‘She will be safe in your building, won’t she?’ Man, I just looked at her like,
Huh?
I wanted to say, ‘No, I’m gonna dress her up in black fishnet stockings and red split-crotch panties. And then I’m gonna prop her up in my minivan and have her turn tricks for horny bums on the Bowery who are into girls with chilled and distant attitudes.’ ”

Astrid lets out a loud chortle and links her arm through Jim’s, sloshing liquid out of both of their glasses.

I laugh politely. I feel uptight, stiff. The phrase
social lubricant
comes to mind and I realize this is what I want, social lubrication. Cocktails. My mouth is dry and I take a sip of seltzer.

“I don’t get it,” he continues, shaking his head. “They’re just gonna plant her in a former landfill cemetery in Queens. And they want to know about her
safety
at the funeral home?” He contorts his features into a mask of disgust. “I mean, in two days this girl is gonna be under six feet of smelly earth with old Delco car batteries and used condoms resting on top of her. Shit. The stuff people worry about.”

I realize for the first time that part of what bonded Jim and me in the first place was that our jobs were a major reason we drank.

Jim turns to Astrid. “Hey, babe, you’ve been awfully quiet,” he says, placing his hand on her lower back.

I learn that Astrid is twenty-nine, Danish and once dated a guy who claimed he once slept with Connie Chung.

Jim kisses her cheek and then orders another round.

This is my cue:
exit, Augusten, stage right
. “I gotta take off you guys, I’ve got some work to do.” I turn to Astrid. “It was really nice to meet you.”

She looks at me as if she has just seen me for the first time. Jim looks stunned. “Hey, you leaving?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to pop by and say hi,” I say, resting my glass of ice and lime on the bar. I’ve gotta get out of this place
now
.

“Okay, well, thanks for coming, buddy. I’ll call you next week.” Then immediately he turns away from me and starts talking to Astrid.

“Cool,” I say, slap him on the shoulder. As I leave, I notice the head shot talking to an Asian model who is standing at the bar, probably fresh from a go-see. This makes me feel as cosmopolitan as skim milk.
And I am somebody
.

“I really wanted to drink. I didn’t. I didn’t even come close, but just being there, in that atmosphere, it was just like, powerful. It was the first time since I’ve been back that I really felt the alcoholic terrorist in my head.” It’s Monday and I’m sitting in Wendy’s office, confessing. Part of me feels guilty telling her this, like I’m breaking a confidence. Part of me didn’t want to admit that I wanted to drink with Jim and Astrid.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go to bars, but I’m glad that you’re being honest about how you feel, that you’re not just keeping this inside of you.” Then she asks, “Did you go to a meeting afterward?”

I tell her I didn’t. I came home and talked with Hayden about it until midnight.

“Next time something like this happens, it’s a good idea to force yourself to go to a meeting.”

Meetings are the Hail Marys of alcoholics. You can do or
almost
do anything, feel anything, commit any number of non-sober atrocities, as long as you follow with an AA chaser.

“After I cut off his penis, I sautéed it in rosemary butter and ate it.”

“But did you go to a meeting afterward?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, then.”

Wendy asks how things are going between Hayden and me. I tell her it’s great to have him around, how he takes his sobriety very seriously, how we’re both really good for each other. We spent the entire weekend going from AA meetings to movies to Ping-Pong.

She asks me how Group went last week. I tell her that I thought Group was very helpful. She says she thinks I’m doing well, that I’m “rising to the challenges of sobriety.” I nod and think,
I’m actually getting away with this
.

As I’m standing in the hallway, waiting for the elevator to take me downstairs, I hear behind me, “Auggie?” I turn to see Foster walking toward me. “What are you doing here?” he says.

“One-on-one with Wendy,” I tell him. I wish I had a longer answer. One that would take at least forty-five minutes to explain. In private.

“I just had my one-on-one with Rose. What a coincidence,” he says, shifting all his weight onto one leg and smiling at me.

“Yeah, funny,” I manage. My heart is racing in my chest.