by Rob Sedgwick
Nurse: It’s similar to morphine.
Me: Always loved morphine. “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree!” Go Coleridge!
Ben: We’re waiting for Dr. Bornstein to figure out the next move.
Me: Are they going to have to cut my legs off?
Mom: They…
Ben: Pat! (To Nikko) But why did he start to cross Park Avenue again?
Nikko: Huh?
Ben: You were talking about going out to get chocolate milk. If you got the Bosco from Lexington Avenue and we live on the east side of Park Avenue, why would he then cross the street to the west side of Park Avenue? That makes no sense.
Nikko: Um…I don’t know.
Mom: We don’t know.
Me: Don’t know what?
Mom: If…
Ben: Never mind, Pat. Son, we’re very glad you’re alive. We love you very much.
Me: Thanks, Ben. You’re a peach.
Ben: We’re going out to the waiting room for a little bit until Dr. Bornstein comes. Try to get a little rest. It’s been a long night. (He kisses my forehead)
Nurse: What’s your name?
Me: Mud.
Nurse: Well, Mr. Mud, we’re waiting for your legs to absorb all that blood. It shouldn’t be too long, and you’ll be good to go.
By now I’ve been in the hospital for several days. My legs—which are enormously swollen with blood and look like an obese person’s—are perpetually raised. It’s hell until I get the shot of Demerol. It takes me forty-five minutes to get from the bed to the toilet, which is two feet away, but once I’m on the toilet it is as if I have climbed Everest. I stay there for as long as I can. It’s a vacation from the bed. Jordan and Nikko come to visit at night, right before visiting hours are over. I’m so glad to see them and wish I could hop the hell out of here and we could all go to a bar, but that’s impossible.
Nikko: Hey. How’s it going? You feeling any better?
Me: Ehh. Not so hot. Hey, Jordan.
Jordan: Hey. This so sucks, I’m so sorry.
Me: Yeah, it’s bad, but at least I’m not dead. And this Demerol they’re giving me is great.
Jordan: I hear that’s supposed to be lovely this time of year.
Me: Yeah, it really takes the edge off. Only problem is, I end up needing more. The pain is really bad without.
Nikko: You don’t want to get hooked on that stuff.
Jordan: Well, we brought you a little something you won’t get hooked on but we thought would take the edge off even more. Or put the edge on. You don’t want to lose the edge, ya know.
Nikko goes over to close the door, comes back to the bed. Jordan takes out a little packet of coke. A party in the hospital! We need something to cut the coke on. I tell him to open the night table drawer. He does. There is a pristine metal sheet. Perfect. Jordan expertly cuts up the coke. His wrist flows—an artist with his palette. He makes about twelve lines.
It goes up smooth and easy and I’m smiling, wired. We chat away. We’re having a small party in the graveyard dead ambience of Lenox Hill. I run my finger over the sheet to get a freeze then rub the coke dust on the gums above my front teeth. We chat away. I laugh way too loud. My gums are numb. We do more lines. This is great, the opposite of the wooziness I’ve been feeling for the last couple of days. I wish we had some booze right now. Both Jordan and Nikko say they wanted to bring some booze, but they nixed the idea because they didn’t want to get caught. But it’s too bad they didn’t, because a shot right now would even out things nicely. The coke’s making me jittery. We chat away about Jordan’s new business venture.
Nikko: Jordan’s getting into the pot business.
Me: Really? That’s so great, Jordan! How exciting! What’s that mean?
I’m all lit up with coke excitement.
Jordan: It means, and keep this under your yarmulke, that I’m dealing in small quantities for now and things are going well. A small, sinewy operation. I want to be away from the large, lugubrious thing. That way things can break bad.
Me: That sounds like the way to go.
I have no idea what I’m talking about.
The buzzer goes off!
I nearly jump out of my bed. That scared the shit out of me! I didn’t realize how jumpy I am.
Time for all guests to leave. Now! Some invisible loudspeaker announces.
Nikko: Oh shit. I guess we have to go. Bummer. I’m so sorry, Rob. I love you so much.
Me: I love you too. Thanks for coming. Great to see you, Jordan! So great about your new business!
Jordan: Yeah. It looks swell for now. Remember, mum’s the word. Loose lips, etcetera. Get better. We’ll see you when you’re out of here.
Nikko hugs me goodbye and they softly leave the room.
Now I am alone. Like Hamlet. Only he had a soliloquy to do and wasn’t cranked up on speedy coke like I am and stuck in a hospital bed with bashed-up legs swollen with blood. My jaw is wiggling around all over the place. The notion of sleep is a joke.
I keep ringing the nurse for more Demerol.
38
The Giants had battered their way into the playoffs for a first-round bye and had been terrific for much of the season.
I was to go to my lawyer’s office to go over the specifics of my sentencing and courtroom etiquette. Everything frightened me. I found myself staring into space with what must have been a twisted and freakish expression. Tybalt had developed this penchant for distracting me from myself to snap me out of it. He either snored, snorted, or manufactured these deep guttural sounds before leading me to the front door to go for a walk, to take my mind off my impending doom—as if to say that the actual doom wasn’t as bad as the impending doom, so let’s go for a walk and forget about it.
“We’re getting down to it here,” Ron said.
I heard him, but as if from a great distance. Those days I was in another realm most of the time. Even when I worked out, I moved as if through gelatin.
“We want to get our ducks in a row here, Rob.”
I was at the law offices of Montano and Primo.
“And, in addition to everything else we’ve put in place,” said Warren, “the community service, your working record, cooperation with the government, and that you’ve kept your nose clean—we have to make a little speech for Judge Ashberry.”
“Yes, Rob, you see, the speech is important, because chances are that the judge isn’t going to know what he’s going to do until after everything is in. And even then, he’s still not going to know. You’re an actor. Now is the time to act.”
“We’re going to call this speech ‘Weep and Wobble for Warren.’”
“I like that,” Ron said.
“Thanks, Ron,” said Warren. “You see, Rob, in your profession, on TV, movies…lots of actors emote. A lot. But what happens most of the time when you get inside the courtroom is you freeze. You can’t believe this is happening. So you’re having these tumultuous emotions on the inside, but on the outside, because of your incredulity at the situation, you appear almost placid, certainly removed. That’s why many times you’ll read in the paper about how a defendant was ‘strangely unemotional’ during sentencing. It’s a big turn-off to judges.”
“That’s why, if I may,” Warren repeated, “we’re going to call this lesson ‘Weep and Wobble for Warren.’”
“I really do like that,” said Ron.
“We want the speech to come in about a minute fifteen, a minute thirty tops. Use your own thoughts, but we need things like making restitution, apologizing to your family—”
“And speaking of family, have them all there, or as many as you can manufacture. Friends, too—the more, the merrier,” Ron chimed in again.
“It impresses the judge that you’re a beloved member of the community.”
“But no one with a do-r
ag.”
“Thanks, Ron. Anyway, use your own words, but—and here’s where your acting comes into play—it is essential that you’re emotional in the delivery of this speech. That way, Judge Ashberry will fully comprehend your remorse, your guilt about your transgression. And that will figure strongly in his determination.”
Oh, Christ. This felt like the first time I sparred. I ducked under the ropes, and there I was in a boxing ring with this other guy who was training for the Gloves and was going to try to take my head off. What the hell was I doing in a boxing ring with a real fighter?
The bell rang, and I was swarmed; it was relentless. My punches had no effect. Every time I ducked, it was right into his fist. I split his lip by mistake, but that just made him mad, so he hit me with body blows that felt like I was being smashed in the stomach with a baseball bat. I had no recourse. I couldn’t breathe. My head got foggier and foggier. All my attempts to replicate the styles of great fighters yielded a big nothing. I was just a big dope who got in way over his head and was being pummeled for it. In the midst of this frenzy, however, there was this weird sense of composure. I knew the punches were coming even if I couldn’t see them, so I stood up as best I could. Pain wasn’t a factor anymore. I was just doing my level best to somehow manage this onslaught, this exquisite confusion, this eggbeater of whirring arms, head, and body whose objective was to knock me out. Nothing else existed except dealing with this force. I was completely in the present.
“So,” I summarized for my lawyers, “I weep and wobble for Warren. A minute thirty, tops. I apologize and use the word ‘restitution.’ What’s that mean again?”
“That you feel shame and you want to make amends,” Ron said.
“Come back in a couple of days and show us what you got,” Warren said.
What is the ultimate measure of a man? I suppose how he handles pressure, and in this case I wasn’t doing so hot. There were so many “what-ifs” that my nerves were shot.
The only constants in my life were Tybalt and booze.
I met Jordan at Brats for the final time before I was to be sentenced.
“So what is it, a week or so?” he asked.
“Ten days.”
“Look on the bright side, it’ll all be over with. It’s the not knowing that’ll kill you. But, hey, I do have some good news. No more Mexicans fluttering up our tailpipe. Diego’s liver exploded in jail.”
“What?”
“He’s dead. Don’t have to be looking over your shoulder every five minutes. You can wipe your ass in peace.”
“Why his liver?”
“He drank a phenomenal amount of booze. Also, he did more coke than Al Pacino in Scarface.”
“Oh.”
“He even drank more than you, which is remarkable considering you’re rapidly becoming that sort of Fishers Island martini, Lovey Where’s My Teddy type. Like Jim Backus in real life.”
“Oh c’mon.”
“No, really, it gives you an avocation of some kind. Your vocation can be acting, and your avocation can be martinis.”
“I know you’re shooting dope.”
“At least I’m listening to Miles and Coltrane when I’m doing it. Also, I’ve started to go to AA meetings.”
“But you’re shooting dope. I thought AA was just for Fishers Island martini types like myself.”
“It’s for all kinds of addictions.”
“Is it helping you?”
“Not really. I’ve only been to about three, but I gotta tell you, they are truly remarkable. People talking about their addictions, how they got sober, how they stay sober, how they help other people. Truly inspiring stuff.”
“So why isn’t it helping you?”
“One of the tenets of the program is that if you are going to become a member, you have to stop using. I haven’t mastered that part of it yet.”
“You have a lot on your mind.”
“Eggs-actly. But I did have this epiphany.”
“You and your epiphanies—”
“Yes. I epiphed. The last meeting I went to, I thought to myself: I’m shooting about five bags of dope a day, I drink whiskey always, do hookers when I can, am looking at five to forty years in, and have basically lost everything. But if things get really bad, I’ll know where to go.”
39
I’ve cleared whatever it is I have to clear and am to be released from Lenox Hill Hospital. I’m going home to the Ritz. I’m going to have to miss the rest of fall semester at Bennington because I can’t walk, but the doctors feel that home rest in bed with my legs raised should absorb the rest of the blood, and with rehabilitation things should be good in a couple of months.
An ambulance brings me back to the Ritz Tower. I’m taken on a gurney from the ambulance to the nineteenth floor. I’ve told Nikko to have several martinis waiting and chilled upon my arrival.
The door opens and Mom, Ben, and Nikko are there to greet me. They tell the ambulance guys to bring me straight into their bedroom. Nikko brings in a tray of martinis, all for me. I don’t even do the pinky thing on the first one, just down it gratefully. The next one I sip.
Me: Thank God I’m out of there! Nikko, these are wonderful! I’m so happy. Mom, I’m okay, so stop crying.
Nikko: I just showed the vermouth to the vodka.
Me: Excellent. James Bond dry.
Mom: Thank God you’re all right, sweetheart. You scared us to death.
Ben: You’re very lucky, son, but it looks like things are going to be okay. We’re out of the bad woods, for now.
Me: What’s that mean?
Mom: It means…
Ben: Pat…it means you’re safe and home and thank God you’re alive.
Nikko: God bless us, everyone!
After a couple of days of being home and semi-mobile, I crave exercise. If I don’t, I’ll go crazy being cooped up here all the time. There’s nothing I can do for my legs right now, but my upper body’s fine. I love to shadow box, but that requires lots of jumping around on your toes, pretending you’re Muhammad Ali, so that’s out. What can I do?
It’s Sunday, and there’s a football game on. I position the La-Z-Boy chair in front of the TV. There is a long two-foot-wide mirror to the right of the TV. My shoulders twitch with wanting to throw punches. I see myself in the mirror, and the sturdy arm of the La-Z-Boy as well. I straddle the arm of the chair, look full on into the mirror, and start throwing punches, lightly at first to make sure everything’s okay. Then harder, sharper. Upper cuts, crosses, hooks, straight punches. I snap my fist back after every strike.
I will beat this and will walk again.
I will be in top-notch shape.
The heat starts. Snap! I bob and weave. Hook. I figure I’ll do this forty-five minutes a day, easy. After about fifteen minutes, I am soaked and grunting.
Nikko enters the room. He has to go through my room to get to his room. He stops and stares. I fight on.
“You know you’re insane, right?”
I ignore this and continue snapping punches, crisp and true.
40
The Giants were in the Super Bowl. The next day I would be sentenced.
After a squeaker against the great Joe Montana’s 49ers, Big Blue was set to face Jim Kelly, Thurman Thomas, and the rest of the vaunted Buffalo Bill offense. And the next day I was to meet my maker.
Yippee!
I was set up to meet some dancer before the game. For Monday, the day of my sentencing, I had a callback on some play. Moss made me put in for some Super Bowl pool yielding the winner three hundred bucks.
Tybalt was walked, so I was off for the evening, off to find as much distraction as possible from the impending tomorrow.
The dancer was cute and game enough to accompany me to Brats to watch the Super Bowl. The place was packed. To add a diversion, Moss was wearing a diaper as he
tended bar just for the hell of it. He was the Irish/Jewish/human version of Baby Huey. He gave me a shot and a beer, a thumbs up for the dancer, and it was away we go!
The Buffalo offense was superb, with Thurman Thomas gaining acres of yardage every time he touched the ball.
What if I actually have to go away?
My brain felt like jelly.
Hopefully I’ll be fucking this chick later.
Hostetler, the Giants quarterback, was tackled for a safety!
Safety. Safe. Home.
The house in Croton has a large, still, beautiful lake. We have one of those ancient, rickety rowboats we take out in summer and just row and row, with no destination or purpose in mind. The lake is silent, majestic, vast. You can hear a pebble plink from five hundred yards away. And look how young and happy my parents are. And they actually look as if they love each other. Look…
The Giants scored after long, time-consuming drives, but the Bills retaliated with points of their own almost immediately, as if to mock the plodding Giants. For some, that would be discouraging. But the New York Football Giants could not be derailed! They chugged on like a pounding locomotive.
Inexorable.
Inevitable.
Just like the legal system. They might be slow, but they’ll get to you sooner or later. God knows they’re finally getting to me after a year.
Mark Ingram, a Giants receiver, broke like ten tackles for a first down. He loped, he bounced, he slanted, got turned around then turned around again, a real-life pinball. He kept the Giants’ hopes alive.
The chick was so excited she had her hand on my inner thigh. I thought I was in. What was her name again? My brain was so fuzzy. But this game was great.
Buffalo was driving, the waning moments of the game; could the great Giants defense of Lawrence Taylor, Harry Carson, and crew contain this Buffalo offense?
Wait.
It was the final seconds of the game, and Buffalo was behind by two. They were setting up for a field goal that could win it. Their kicker, Scott Norwood, was in a position to fire a shot heard ’round the world!
