by Dan Fante
“I do. A few weeks ago I tried to kill a guy. So I know exactly what you’re saying.”
“I’ve worked with four men that died from suicide, sober. Four. They were like me. Just like me. So what’s my problem? How come I’m a person who wants to do well—to do the right thing—but I can’t? How come I’m always mad at my boss and I still terrorize my kids? How come years sober, I’m still pulling guys who cut me off on the freeway out of their cars and punching them out?”
“Right,” I said. “How come?”
“Because I have to treat the mental part of my disease. Quitting booze is one thing. Living with my brain sober is another. But, see, today it’s all different. I have been at peace with myself for a long long time. That’s what I want you to hear. Not the war stories. We all got those. I want you to hear that today—right here, right now—I got a good life. My living ain’t always so great. I mean, I got cancer and I take chemo all day and every time I see the doctor he shakes his head and tells me I might cash in anytime. But that’s okay, see. Because, inside I’m okay. I’m at peace with myself. I got a good life. I’m not angry or pushin’ and shovin’ the way I used to. My brain’s okay, right now. I’m alive and happy, right now. This minute. And right now is all I got. Can you hear that?”
I nodded.
Anderson was smiling for the first time. “Your name’s Bono, right?”
“Bruno. Bruno Dante,” I said.
“So here’s the thing, Bono…”
“Bruno.”
“Right. Okay. So, see, unless you change how you think you’ve got zero chance at this deal. Guys like us—you and me—have to apply this thing as a way to live, as a treatment for a broken brain. AA meetings are okay—they’re good—but they don’t treat thinking. Your brain will kill you sober, Bono. Mine almost did more than once.”
“Bruno.” I said.
“Right. Bruno.”
“So what do I do? And I’m sick of all the slogans and recovery-ese. Let us love you until you can love yourself. One day at a time. That crap. Right now I’m in a six-month inpatient program and I hate it.”
“What about a higher power? How you doin’ there? What’s your understanding in that way?”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “Not so good, I guess. It’s pretty nebulous if you ask me.”
Anderson was glaring at me. “What’s nebulous? What’s that word mean?”
“Well, I guess what I’m saying is that I ignore Him and He ignores me. I try to avoid getting zapped. My opinion is that God has zapped me a lot. God doesn’t like me much. That’s what I think.”
“Listen to me. You and me got to live with the disease of alcoholism for our whole lives. But we don’t have to die from it.”
“Meaning what?” I said.
“Do you want to get this deal? Do you want a good life? Are you ready to start to turn this thing around?”
“I am. I mean, I’ve got nothing to lose. My life’s morphed itself into a pile of dogshit. So sure. I’m ready.”
Anderson stuck a craggy old finger into my chest. “Then will you do something for me?” he asked in a low voice. “Will you do what I ask you to do without any argument or back talk?”
“Okay. If you think it’ll help. Sure.”
“Go back to your room now. Get up and do it. Go in and close the door. I want you to get down on your knees and I want you to ask God—whatever you think that God is—for help. Will you do that? Just say God please help me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t go on like this no more.”
I had to take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I don’t want to, but if you think it’ll help, I will. I’ll do it.”
“When we get back to town I want you to call me every day. If you do what I tell you, you’ll get what I got. I’ll give you a guarantee and sign it if that’s what you want. Fair enough?”
So I went back to my room and closed the door. I thought about what Anderson had said for a long time. Then the thought came: fuckit. You’ve got nothing to lose.
So I got down on my knees and I looked up. There on the wall was a picture of some medieval angel or saint with a halo painted around his holy head. I had to close my eyes to remove the image. Then I said the words. Okay, God, it’s me, Bruno. I’ve really screwed things up. If you’re there, and can hear me, I need your help. I can’t do this alone.
That was it.
When I opened my eyes nothing had changed. I felt the same. The saint was still there on the wall and I didn’t feel any different.
Across the room in my suitcase was my cell phone. Before I went into the next meeting I wanted to make sure it was still working so I could call Anderson when I got back to Costa Mesa. So I went over to the chair and unzipped the side pocket of my bag, found the thing, then turned it on.
There were two more messages from Dav-Ko.
I was going to delete them but I decided to call back instead. I pressed redial and the number clicked in. Rosie Camacho answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Rosie,” I said, “It’s Bruno. You guys have left some messages for me.”
“Hiya, honey. Howz it going?”
“It’s going. What’s up? Why the phone messages?”
“Hang on, Bruno bambino, lemme check something. There was some mail—a couple of things. I put ’em in a box under my desk. Stuff that wasn’t a bill. They came three or four weeks ago. I left you those messages about it.”
“Right. I know. I didn’t listen to them. I just didn’t feel like any more bad news. Sorry.”
“Okay, here it is. Here’s a letter. It’s from—lemme see—Charter House Press.”
“Open it for me, will you?” I asked. I could feel myself holding my breath.
Then I heard Rosie tearing open the envelope and pulling the letter from inside.
“…Okay,” she said. “I got it. I’ll read it to you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dear Mister Dante.
Your manuscript was forwarded to us and submitted for publication by Ms. J. C. Smart. Years ago Ms. Smart was an editor for this firm and has remained one of our consulting directors.
After reading your stories we have decided that we would be delighted to publish your work. A contract will follow.
Sincerely, Justine Quinn, Editor.
“So, thaz good news, right Bruno?”
It took me a few seconds be able to answer. “Yeah, Rosie,” I said finally. “That’s good news. That’s damn good news.”
“Oh good, Bruno. I’m really happy for you…Oh, hey, there’s another letter here too from them. Same place. A thick one. Should I open it up too?”
“No, Rosie,” I said. “That’s okay. That’s their contract. Just do me a favor, will you?”
“Whatever I can, honey.”
“I’ll call you on Monday and give you the address of where I’m staying now. Put both letters in another envelope and send them to me, okay?”
“Sure will, Bruno.”
“And thank you very much. I mean it. Thank you very very much. For everything.”
“My pleasure, honey. Hey, keep your phone on, okay? You never know.”
“You’re right. I’ll keep it on, Rosie. That’s a promise.”
I caught up with Anderson in the dining room a few minutes before the start of the next session. “Hey, Bob,” I said, “can I talk to you a minute?”
“Okay, we’re about to get going again but I got a minute. What’s up?”
“I did what you said. I went back to my room and I got down on my knees. And then I said, God, I need your help. I prayed.”
“Okay, good. That’s good. That’s a good start.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened. I mean I made a phone call but nothing, you know, happened.”
“What’d you expect?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what to expect.”
Old Bob was getting impatient. “Look, Bono, God ain’t a desk clerk or a bellhop. He don’t bring room
service. It takes time—application. See what I mean? Steps and application.”
“Okay, I guess so.”
“You’re wearing a watch. I see you got a watch on.”
“Yes, I am. I’ve got a watch.”
“Good. Take it off and give it to me.”
I took off my twenty-nine-dollar Timex with the fake leather band and handed it to Anderson. He looked at it for a second then gave it back. “Put it on the other wrist—on your right wrist,” he instructed.
I did what he said and strapped the watch on my other arm. “Okay. Now what?”
“Keep wearing it like that until I tell you to stop. Can you do that?”
“Sure I can do it. But what’s the point? What’s the motivation?”
Old Bob was smiling again. “Every time you look for the time and have to remember that you switched wrists, I want you to say, Thank you, God. Thank you for my life.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Pretty soon you’ll get it. After you’ve done it ten or twenty times a day you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
He reached into his pants pocket and then handed me a business card. I looked at it. The card read simply, Bob A. There was a phone number underneath.
“And call me tomorrow. At home. Like we said. You call me every day at seven a.m. We’ll talk some more. Deal?”
“Okay, deal,” I said. “So…what will we talk about?”
“The steps, Bono. We’ll talk about how you’re going to change your life. We’ll start from Step One.”
“Bruno. It’s Bruno. And I’ve already done Step One. We did it and the other ones at Charles Street.”
“Not with me. You didn’t do no steps with me.”
“But what’s the point? I mean, if I already did it?”
“Are you arguing with me?”
“No, I’m not.” I said.
“Good. Because I don’t argue. I talk—you listen. I answer questions but I don’t argue or debate. Understand?”
“Okay. I understand.”
“Good. Look, the meeting’s getting started. We gotta go here. Any more questions?”
“Yeah, about a hundred.”
“Good. Call me tomorrow morning. Seven a.m. Every day—seven a.m. If you want to change your life I’ve got all the time in the world. And keep that watch on the other wrist.”
The old guy patted me on the back. “Look, kid, you just do what I tell you and everything will start to change. See, if you want to, if you listen, one day at a time I’ll show you how you’ll never have to take a drink again.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”
“And Bruno?”
“Yeah.”
“You made a good start. Keep going. Keep going for more. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“You’ve got that right. I have nothing and I have nothing to lose.”
thirty-four
That Sunday in the early afternoon, after the retreat ended, and everybody had had a chance to stand at the podium and talk about their experience with sobriety, the seven of us from Charles Street were on our way toward Orange County in the van with Armondo driving. It was a quiet ride. Nobody said much.
About an hour down the freeway, in Ventura, Mondo decided to pull off so we could use the bathroom and all get sodas and he could get something more to eat.
We found a shopping center with a big, new Ralphs market and drove into the parking lot.
When it was my turn at the deli counter, I ordered an iced coffee. The girl behind the glass was pretty. Early thirties with big, bright eyes. A light-skinned black woman. Her name tag read “Maria.” She was smiling. A pretty smile on a pretty face. “So how ya doin’?” she asked.
“I’m doing okay,” I said. “Actually, I’m better than okay. I’m having a good day.”
“You up here for the weekend?”
“Yeah. There’s a group of us. We were at a place above Santa Barbara in the hills. Horse-ranch country. Nice. Very pretty.”
Maria was still smiling. “So, you don’t get up this way much?”
“Not much,” I said. “But I want to come back.”
She was looking down, her eyes fixed on the counter. “Well, here’s your coffee,” she said. “And next time you’re up this way, stop in and say hi. Okay?”
“I’d like that. That’s a grand idea.”
“So what’s your name?”
“Bruno. It’s Bruno.”
“I’ll be right here, Bruno.” Maria said, now looking at me.
Walking away from the counter with my coffee I realized that something was different. People looked the same. The guys from Charles Street looked the same and the people in the store looked like regular people and pretty Maria was probably the same, but I felt different. Then I noticed something—the voice in my head—Jimmy’s voice, was gone—or asleep.
Back in the van Mondo started the motor. We pulled out of the parking lot and back on to the freeway. To our right was a hundred miles of Pacific Ocean. There’d been a storm and the sea was choppy. I began counting the sets of waves as they crashed in on the shore. We headed south back toward Los Angeles.
Acknowledgments
Ayrin Leigh Fante, my wife, who from the day we first met, has kept the faith, stayed for the ride, never looked back, and managed to keep her seat belt strapped tight.
Bruce Fitzpatrick, my good friend, for his support, humor, and ownership of a cell phone.
Mark SaFranko, author, musician-performer, poet, songwriter, actor, fiction editor, astrologer, etc., and the god-damndest best example I know of a man who presses forward and refuses to quit—no matter what.
Tony O’Neill, without whose generosity of spirit this book may never have seen print.
Michele Weisler, for her swarming brilliance and friendship and her unapologetic devotion to my work.
John Fante, who missed the boat yet managed to land on top of the mountain, and continues to inspire and amaze me.
Amy Baker at Harper Perennial, for supporting and publishing my stuff and for her kindness.
Bettye LaVette, for changing my life with a single blues song.
About the Author
The son of novelist John Fante (Ask the Dust), DAN FANTE is the author of the novels Chump Change, Mooch, and Spitting Off Tall Buildings; the short story collection Short Dog; two books of poetry; and the plays The Boiler Room and Don Giovanni. Born and raised in Los Angeles, he lives in Arizona with his wife and son.
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Also by Dan Fante
Chump Change
Mooch
Spitting Off Tall Buildings
A Gin-Pissing-Raw-Meat-Dual-Carburetor-V8-Son-of-a-Bitch from Los Angeles: Collected Poems, 1983–2002
Don Giovanni: A Play
Short Dog: Cab Driver Stories from the L.A. Streets
Kissed by a Fat Waitress: New Poems
Credits
Cover design by Milan Bozic
Cover photograph © Lesley Robson-Foster/Getty Images
Copyright
86’D. Copyright © 2009 by Dan Fante. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-195912-7
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