by Adam Nimoy
But Chris is sober now and has been for twelve years. We sit and talk for almost an hour about our trials and our sobriety and how we’re going to deal with our kids and drugs.
James comes out of his room, taking a break from his harem. Chris introduces us. James is tall with dark wavy hair and a cute face, the kind that makes it easy to imagine what he must have looked like as a boy. He goes to the kitchen for a glass of water then back to his room. Chris and I continue our conversation about people we know and what they’re doing now and about how he managed to put together twelve years of sobriety after horrible struggles with heroin. Chris tells me he hit bottom so hard that at one point he got down on his knees and begged God to either kill him or show him the way. That’s when he found Alcoholics Anonymous.
Maddy appears. Apparently, James just told her I was sitting at the dining room table with Chris.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“Honey, Chris and I were friends when I was growing up in Westwood.”
She sort of pretends to get mad and acts like she wants me to leave. But I know that inside, she’s happy. Happy to have me around. Happy to know that I cared enough to come back. Happy that I’m friends with James’s dad, which gives her a leg up on the other girls—who are also into James—because it puts the focus back on her.
When we finally leave, I give Chris a big bear hug good-bye and promise to go to an AA meeting with him. By now, the MA meetings have gotten a little dull. Especially because Lynn with the long dark hair is rarely there anymore.
I drive Maddy back to the house.
“Dad, I saw you hugging Chris good-bye. Why did you do that?”
“Because Chris is like a long lost brother to me, honey, and finding him was incredibly lucky and made me really happy. And it’s all because of you.”
And then I squeeze her knee. I do this all the time, I reach over and gently squeeze her left knee, and with intensity I say, “You’ve got knees, Maddy. You’ve got the knees in the family!”
We drive down Palms Boulevard. Along the way, we pass by that first house my parents bought.
Still dilapidated.
THE LISA SCHWARTZ SCHOOL OF DATING
IT’S BEEN MONTHS now and the kids still won’t come over. Sometimes I lie in bed and just ache to have them near me. We’ve finally managed to find a therapist the kids and I both trust, and the therapist tells me that because he’s twelve and she’s fourteen, this is a hard age to get them to do anything because they’re old enough to make their own decisions. I’m just going to have to be patient.
“Things will get better.” That’s what Paula tells me. Paula’s in my writing class. She’s recently divorced with two kids, was in AA back in New York, and has been sober for years.
“In a year’s time, Adam, things will be so completely different you won’t even recognize yourself. I promise you.”
Paula is smart and pretty. T-shirts and jeans, Frye boots, blond, petite. I talk to her on the phone all the time. But when I try to ask her out, she reminds me that she has very young children and that she’s just not ready to get involved. She always puts me off, but she always welcomes the phone calls. Maybe it’s too soon for me too. But I’m not like Paula, because she’s got primary custody of her kids. And I’m starting to think there must be some separated or divorced moms out there who would be willing to at least meet for coffee. Because let’s face it, cyber girls are helpful, but they’re not available for coffee and they certainly can’t keep you warm in bed at night.
My friend Lisa says I’m a great candidate for Internet dating because I’ve had the experience of a long-term marriage, so I’m clearly not afraid of commitment. The fact that I’ve managed to keep most of my hair and some of my girlish figure is also a plus. She gives me some hip singles Web sites to check out and then she gives me some pointers, the Lisa Schwartz dating tips:
First, she tells me that women lie because they post old photographs of themselves and that I should trust her on this because she’s done it many times herself.
Next, she tells me to meet these women right away, that I shouldn’t exchange too many e-mails with them or talk too much on the phone because people can seem very clever and then turn out to be very disappointing when you meet them in person.
Then, you have to meet them for coffee, not for lunch, not for dinner—just coffee. You don’t want to spend a lot of money on someone you may never want to see again.
Finally, you can meet for only forty-five minutes max. You have to say you have to be somewhere in forty-five minutes to pick up the kids or pick up the cleaning or walk the dog, because within the first minute, you’re going to know if there’s an attraction, and within the first five to ten minutes, you’re going to know if there’s an agreeable personality. And even if there is something there, you’ve got to give yourself an out to take a breather and not ruin it.
And then you can call for that second date.
So that night, I start casually looking at Internet dating sites, and I freak out because I discover that several of my ex’s single girlfriends are plastered all over those sites, and if they ever saw my picture, I’d never hear the end of it and I’m just not ready for that.
Then Michael, a buddy of mine, says he wants to fix me up with a woman he met at the gym. He assures me that Terry is pretty and has a great figure and might be perfect for me. Michael e-mails me what he says is a recent picture and he’s right: Terry is a knockout. I’m also happy to learn that she’s Jewish. And her résumé looks exactly like someone I’m looking for: about my age, divorced with two grown kids, a good job, lives close by, grew up on my side of town. Having graduated from the Lisa Schwartz School of Dating, I make a date with her right away. But I don’t quite follow the Schwartz Protocol, where first dates are only for coffee, because without even thinking about it, I find myself asking Terry to dinner. (Sound of warning buzzer.) But, hey, this is different: I didn’t meet her over the Internet, and she came highly recommended, and I’m in love with her photo, which Michael tells me is recent, so I figure it’s probably okay to bypass this one rule. (Second warning buzzer.)
I pick Terry up in front of her condo and she is gorgeous, with beautiful long brown hair. I bring her red roses, and she says she likes me right away because of the roses. It all looks so good, so incredibly good.
During the short ride to the restaurant, I learn that Terry’s father has all but abandoned her. As I make a left on 26th Street, I learn that her mother is a chronic gambler. As we drive down Main Street, she informs me that she doesn’t get along with her brother and that she resents her sister-in-law. As I park near the restaurant, I’m told that her ex-husband is a total loser.
As per Rule 4 of the Schwartz method, within the first ten minutes, I realize there is no way in the world this is ever going to work out.
At our table, I learn that Terry lived alone with her brother while in high school. Her dad was living with his third wife and her mother was working on the East Coast. After graduating, she fell in with some spiritual group in Phoenix and one of the leaders seduced her. Ten years later, she woke up and realized she was the mother of two boys and married to an abusive husband and absentee father and that she had to get the hell out. She made it to L.A. on her own and her wealthy father would help only by paying moving expenses. She’s supported herself for the past five years by working in the clothing industry and she’s in with a new spiritual group whose credo is to express gratitude each and every day for all the things God has given us in life. But Terry has so much resentment it seems like the spirituality thing is just not working. And she tells me her kids are giving her a hard time because she has nothing nice to say about their father. And when I finally get to speak and tell her how I deal with my daughter when she gives me a hard time, Terry tells me I’m much too lenient and I have to be tougher if I want to see any change in her behavior.
While she keeps talking, I start wondering if I can just turn this into a physical thing
. What if I can base this relationship on sex? But once the sex was over, I’d be thinking about getting the hell out of there, and exactly how long is appropriate to wait after doing it before it’s okay to get up and go? Twenty minutes? Thirty minutes? I’m so new to this I just don’t know. Note to myself: Must ask Lisa Schwartz about this. But the way Terry’s going, I’m not sure I could last five minutes. And then I start to hate myself for even thinking of sleeping with her, and I just keep listening and nodding as she keeps talking. And the evening drags on . . . and it’s getting hot in here . . . and this restaurant is so damn noisy . . . and where the hell’s that waiter with the check . . . and holy shit, it’s ninety dollars! And when I finally get her home, I shake her hand and call her “Carrie” and feel terrible as I stumble through my apology.
The next day, I tell Michael what happened and he tells me that Terry is reluctant to go out with me again because I’m not divorced. He says he argued with her because that didn’t stop her from going out with this dentist who was abusive, and he assured her that I didn’t fit into that category.
“Michael, no! You don’t have to convince her to go out with me again. I’m happy to have the decision not to move forward be hers.”
Note to myself: Must remember to meet them for coffee—not dinner, not lunch, just coffee. And I have only forty-five minutes, I need to leave in forty-five minutes, because I have a soufflé in the oven or I’m flying to Fiji or I have to give my cat a medicated bath. Even if I like them, just keep it to forty-five. Because they lie. People lie. Their pictures lie, even if they do look that good in real life.
THE HALLS ARE HELL
IT’S MY ANNIVERSARY today. It would have been nineteen years. Since I’m not divorced yet, I guess it is nineteen years. Although things are beginning to normalize between us, I don’t call Nancy to celebrate. I’m pretty much set on moving ahead with the divorce, but Nancy’s in no big hurry and the therapists all say to take my time and let the kids continue to adjust to not having me around all the time. So in honor of my anniversary, I decide to show up to a new semester at writing class.
I like the class because you have to bring in material and read it to everyone, and it forces you to do the work and it allows you to get feedback. I need that more than ever now because without the weed, I’m having trouble sitting down to do the writing. That’s one of the other side effects of living without pot: You no longer have that immediate urge after taking a hit to sit down at the typewriter and write every little thing that comes into your stoned head, and before you know it, you’ve been writing for two hours straight. And in the morning, in the sober light of day, you reread the material and keep the stuff that sounds interesting and throw out the stuff that’s really crap that you probably wouldn’t have written if you weren’t so high. So I need the class to force me to write down all the stuff that’s happened to me. All the incredibly wonderful, miserable things that have happened since I put down the weed and the booze and moved out of my house and into my apartment off Venice Boulevard, the apartment my kids absolutely hate.
I also like going to writing class because on any given day, there’s usually about fifteen women in there, and only three or four guys. I go to the first meeting of this session of the class. A couple of guys and a dozen or so women, some of whom I know from previous classes, including Paula, who looks just so damn pretty in her white T-shirt, corduroys, and boots. But there’s a new guy there named Justin. I’m not really happy about him because he’s younger and good-looking and I don’t like having competition. Mid-thirtiess, long dark hair, black Dickies pants, black Converse tennis shoes, no socks. I make a mental note to keep an eye on him, maybe even hoping he washes out.
Even though it’s the first class, I’m ready to go with fresh material I managed to crank out at one AM without the weed. I get up and read “We Have Our Man,” a story about how I was hassled by the Isla Vista Foot Patrol when I was a student at UC Santa Barbara in 1975 for allegedly stealing hashish from some knuckleheads I was trying to rent an apartment from. The whole idea of those jerk-offs complaining to the police that I stole their hash was something I thought amusing enough to write about. And apparently so does the class because they’re laughing through much of it, which makes me feel good.
But Justin one-ups me: He gets up and reads this story about the various ways he would fake prescriptions to get opiates from the pharmacy to feed his habit. He’d do things like impersonate doctors over the phone, and he’s impersonating these doctors during the reading and it’s funny as hell. Especially the Russian doctor. I really want to hate this guy for crashing the class, but I can’t stop laughing.
At the end of the class, Jack, our fearless leader, passes out a class list with all our personal information. And then he goes around the room as people tell him they want to change their address information or their phone number or their e-mail address. This goes on for about five minutes until finally, Justin raises his hand.
“Jack, I’d like to change my name.”
* * *
Justin’s a recovering junkie who’s been sober for four years and he takes me to some pretty cool AA meetings. I like hanging with him because he’s a good writer, he’s funny, and he plays a mean bass, both stand-up jazz and electric rock ’n’ roll.
He takes me to a Monday night meeting in Mar Vista and it feels good to be there. It feels comfortable. And one night, there’s a big turnover in commitments. They’re reassigning jobs like setup and cleanup and making the coffee and bringing AA literature, and Justin urges me to take a commitment. And so I opt for the literature commitment, because I figure it’ll get me to read more of the material. And when I get the assignment, he turns to me.
“Now you’re sure to get laid.”
“Really?”
“Works every time.”
* * *
I still like Paula from my writing class. But she still won’t date me. It doesn’t really matter because we talk all the time in class and on the phone. We talk about single parenting and about sobriety, she having also been in the program when she lived in New York.
“You’re not in the program at all anymore?”
“I’m still sober, but now I attend Al-Anon meetings. Twelve-Step and therapy and astrology. I’ve done it all and it all works on some level. It just depends on where I’m at in my life.”
And I would tell her what’s been going on with me and she’d say things that made so much sense. She’d tell me little slogans she learned from AA in New York that helped her get through the early days of her own sobriety, things like “The halls are hell,” meaning that transitioning from one point in your life to another can be brutal. And “Feelings are not facts”—that just because you feel something doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true. And one of my personal favorites, “Don’t just do something, sit there!”—you don’t have to react to other people’s craziness when it’s directed at you because often it’s not really about you anyway. It’s because there’s something else going on and they just happen to be taking it out on you. This is something I’ve known for some time and have occasionally been clearheaded enough to put into practice.
When I was fourteen, my family spent some time in Spain, where Dad was in a western called Catlow starring Yul Brynner and Richard Crenna. A seriously flawed movie, Catlow looked like it should have been made for TV. Dad played Miller, the heavy, and he really looked the part with his black beard, buckskin jacket, and custom-made rifle. Miller was the leader of a pack of young, hip bad guys with long hair and ponchos and the grit and grime that came with the trail. When I was on the set watching them shoot, it was perfectly clear to me that Miller was the coolest character in the movie.
At first we stayed at Hotel Aguadulce, which was on the Costa del Sol, but after a few weeks, Dad rented us a house nearby. There were a number of problems with the house and it was some distance from the beach.
One night, we were all having dinner back at the hotel. Dad was agitated and having a h
eated discussion with Mom about the situation with the house. Mom and Julie and I wanted to move back to the hotel, but Dad wasn’t happy about the costs involved in staying at the hotel and argued that the house was just a short drive to the ocean. In a lame attempt to lighten the proceedings, I casually mentioned that the Mediterranean is not an ocean, it’s a sea. He lit into me.
“Don’t smart-mouth me!”
There was much more, although I can’t remember the words. But I can still see his mouth moving as he continued to unload. I was stunned and embarrassed and sorry that I opened my mouth. He remained angry with me for the rest of the night. And even though I felt a tremendous sense of guilt, for the first time, at fourteen and a half, I realized that this wasn’t just about me. Besides the house, there were issues with the movie, problems on the set, personality clashes or creative differences that I didn’t fully understand. Then there was the fact that Dad himself repeatedly admitted that he was, is, and probably always will be a tough kid from the tenement streets of Boston. And when he feels threatened or undermined, his impulse is to come out swinging.
The next morning, I went to Dad to show him a cane my mother bought for me when we were in the nearby city of Almeria. The handle of the cane was carved in the shape of a dog’s head. When Dad woke up, I sat on his bed and told him the story of the dog’s head cane, how it once belonged to a wealthy Spanish nobleman who died years ago. The cane was sold off to an antique store and sat there until I happened along and found it hiding in the back behind some furniture. Dad said that was a good story and everything seemed to be okay again.
Ultimately, we moved back to the hotel.
* * *
I really want to spend more time with Paula. She tells me that sometimes she goes out to the movies alone and I suggest that we could go alone together.
