by A. F. Brady
“They didn’t even bother to check? You couldn’t have gotten away with that.” I finish sipping my drink.
“No, they didn’t check anything. They were so crowded because all the kids were looting, and there was so much chaos, it didn’t seem to matter. Jesse and I were in the same holding cell, and there were so many other people in there, and it was so hot. Then they started bringing in all the blacks and the yellows, and it got to be a real mess.”
“Blacks and yellows? We don’t use those terms anymore. Come on.”
“Back then we did. It was a really racist time. That’s what’s crazy about this story. All the mick cops were so racist that when the cells started to get too full, they just let the white kids go. They came into the cell with their billy clubs and pushed the blacks and the Asians out of the way, and they grabbed the white kids by the collars and they told us to leave. They were filling up the cells with just the blacks and the Asians. They let us go, me and Jesse.”
“They just sent you home? They let you walk out the door? Did you get fined? A summons?”
“No. Nothing at all. It was like it never happened. It was so chaotic, and then suddenly Jesse and I are back out on the streets. We had to walk home because the trains weren’t running, and it was so hot out. The air was thick and it made it hard to breathe. We kept running and then slowing down to look at everything that happened. There were cars turned over and buildings on fire. There were smashed windows and glass everywhere. People were just standing in the streets looking around, trying to figure out what to do. It smelled so bad, and all you could hear was the crackle of the fires.”
“I remember seeing footage of it on TV, but I can’t imagine what it would have been like. I was here for the 2003 blackout, but it wasn’t anything like what you’re describing.” I put my feet up on my desk and lean back in my chair.
“It was a crazy time. I got home that night and Jesse left me at my door, and we promised we would never tell anyone that we got arrested. Jesse was over eighteen at the time, so it would’ve been worse for him if anyone ever found out. He told me the name he used was Jim Morrison.”
“Did it ever come up for you again? That you had been arrested?”
“Yeah, of course. Because my fingerprints are my fingerprints. So when I went to prison, I was already in the system. But they didn’t know my real name. I went to prison only two years after the blackout, but I still didn’t have any ID. And I had no family, and no one to vouch for me, so I think there was some problem with my name. After the day I got booked in the blackout, I started liking to be called Henry, so sometimes I would tell people that was my real name.”
“Sort of like a different identity, huh?” I wish I could have a different identity sometimes, hide behind something more resilient than just my professional reputation.
“Yeah, something like that. Maybe I wanted to be somebody else, because when I looked at my real life, it didn’t feel so good to be me.”
“When did you start going by Richard again?”
“I guess I started thinking of myself as Richard again when I was in prison. But no one calls you by your name in prison, so it was just in my head. When I got out, and I went to the halfway house, that’s when everyone started calling me Richard again.”
“What did Frances call you?”
“She called me Richie.” He’s reaching into his pocket for more nips that we haven’t drunk yet. He’s pulling out two bottles of Patrón. I feel myself stopping him as he puts the bottles on my desk.
“Let’s not drink any more today. You’ve already told me your story for the day, and we don’t need them.”
“You sure? You haven’t told me anything yet. You don’t need one?” He dangles the bottle between his fingers.
“No. I need to do this with a clear head.” I draw in a deep, cleansing breath and clutch the arms of my chair. “You asked me a few weeks ago why I stashed those bottles in my office.”
“Yeah, I remember.” He holds the bottles between his knees. Not quite accessible, but not quite put away, either.
“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot these days, and I’m getting a better understanding of why I drink so much. And I don’t think it’s just about fucked-up things in my life.” I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure I want to see his reaction.
“I know.”
“You do?” I open one eye to look at him. “Why do you think I drink?”
“People don’t drink because fucked-up things happen, Sam. People drink because they’re fucked up.”
“You know I’m fucked up?” Now both eyes are open, and my hands slump down into my lap.
“I know you’re not happy. I know you’re not okay. I know you’re holding on to the strings of your life and you feel like they’re slipping through your fingers.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“All you have to do is look, Sam. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“Richard, I’m fooling everyone.” Doesn’t he see the professional superhero? Doesn’t he know I’ve been hiding behind this mask of perfection at work, and no one is the wiser?
“That just means that no one’s looking.”
“And maybe that’s the biggest problem of all.”
“So why do you drink so much?”
I’m already terrified to share this story with him, and he’s so astute and insightful, it’s making it harder for me to admit the whole truth. “I have… I have this problem, this disease.” My heart is beating in my throat, and I’m preparing myself to say the words out loud for the first time. “This horrible thing. And I always sort of knew that I had it, and I always wanted to fix it, but I never got formally diagnosed. And I just did.” My mouth turns into a dry field of razor blades and my stomach twists into adrenaline knots. I can’t say it. I can’t say the words out loud.
“You have borderline personality disorder?” Richard says it for me.
“What?” The saliva catches in my throat. “Do you know what that is? You know about borderline personality disorder?” The words fall out of my mouth like vomit.
“Yes. Frances was borderline.”
“Oh, my God.” I’m astounded, stupefied. He knows what this is? He knew that I had it? “Okay, enough. I can’t talk about this with you.” I immediately feel dizzy and slack-jawed. Where the fuck is the catharsis? I thought admission was supposed to make me feel better!
“You can’t talk about it with anyone else.”
My head is in my hands, the tears are flowing like rivers, and the slaps they make on the desk are audible. I need to escape.
“I know what it’s like. I know you’re suffering.” Richard’s voice is soft and soothing. I can’t respond. The words are all stuck in my throat, and I can’t make sense of anything.
“It’s not your fault, you know. You’re just sick. It doesn’t mean you’re bad.”
“Please, stop.” I choke back the tears and grab the bottle of Patrón from his lap. I crack the top and pour it down my throat. Richard obligingly opens the other bottle and hands it to me with one hand while taking the empty away with the other. I drink the rest of the tequila and throw my head back against my desk chair. My hair is down and it’s stuck under my head and it hurts, but I don’t move and I squeeze my eyes shut and let the tears dribble into my ears. I take deep breaths until the lump is out of my throat. I’m covering my face with my clammy hands, and I know it won’t make him leave, but that’s all I want him to do because now he knows too much. I should have kept my goddamned mouth shut.
“This wasn’t a good idea. I can’t talk to you like this. I can’t tell you what’s happening with me. I am here to help you; you’re not supposed to have to worry about me. I don’t care what fucking deal we made. This isn’t right.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You are leaving. We can’t do this anymore. We can’t have these meetings anymore. Richard, I seriously can’t do this.” I’ve held this secret in—safely, tightly—under my skin and my mu
scles and my rib cage, down in the pit of my stomach where it belongs, and now it’s out, and it feels like I’ve released a toxic gas into the office and it’s going to suffocate me.
He’s leaning forward in the patient chair. He isn’t leaving. Now he’s leaning closer to me, looking at me, and I feel like his ice-blue eyes are piercing my soul and he knows something about me that no one else in this world knows, and he’s a patient in my office.
I have to get out.
I have to get out.
I have to get out.
I’m breathing too quickly, my heart is pounding, and my hands are sweating.
I have to get out.
FEBRUARY 9TH, 7:21 P.M.
I realize as I sit in the Laundromat waiting for a machine to open up that I will have to do laundry much more frequently now that I’m not with Lucas. I hear the rhythmic whoosh and clink of the washing machines and begin to wander to the back of my mind, where I store all the secrets. I watch the scenes between Lucas and me in my mind as if they were in an old movie. Grainy, speckled and faded.
I remember the beginning, when it was all exciting, and I could fool myself into thinking the red flags didn’t exist. I see him bringing me flowers, and I pretended they weren’t flowers seeking forgiveness. I am looking at scenes that I should have seen differently when I was living them. Scenes of him coming out of the women’s bathroom, followed by a guilty brunette. I see scenes of him hiding bottles and stashes of drugs in my apartment and his. I shake my head, as if to dispel the memories, but instead it brings up the worst ones. Instead of seeing his alcoholism, his drug addiction, his cheating, I see the beatings now.
I watch as he pulls me by my hair into the bathroom. I clutch his wrist with both hands to displace the weight and prevent him from tearing my hair out. I watch him squeeze shampoo onto my head so it dripped down and burned my eyes. I see myself reaching up for a towel to clean out my eyes, and Lucas taking advantage of my exposure and clubbing my ribs with closed fists. I hear the ringing in my ears that I would always hear when he open-palm slapped the sides of my head. He would push me closer and closer to the toilet. I held the bowl to pull myself up, and when I got close enough, he would push my head into the bowl and slam the seat down. The marks were always covered by my hair.
I’m looking at housekeepers and college students taking their laundry out of the washers and moving them over to dryers, but I’m paralyzed by the memories and I can’t get up. I remember the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I remember the feeling that if I just wait it out, he will eventually relent. I remember knowing that when he lit a cigarette, it would be over. I would always wait for the scratch of the lighter flint, and then I knew I could begin to heal again. He always pulled me into the bathroom, and only now, in this Laundromat, do I realize it was to give himself an easier cleanup. He didn’t want to get blood on his furniture. In all that rage, and being so drunk, he was still a perfectionist.
These memories are filling me up and the adrenaline is making me shake. As the tears begin to fall out of my eyes, I throw my laundry bag over my shoulder and stalk back to my apartment, clothes uncleaned.
I open my apartment door and throw the laundry bag onto the floor. The tears are coming quickly now, and I fumble with a corkscrew and a bottle of wine. I told myself I was just keeping it here for guests and I didn’t need to drink it myself. I fill up a giant stemless glass and take down two hearty gulps. With my back against the fridge, I slide down to the floor and pull out my phone.
I’m backsliding. I can feel the progress I’ve tried to make toward putting myself back together again falling out of me with my tears. I can see the shadow of my future self gathering in a puddle on the kitchen floor. I’m looking around for old reliefs, for old solutions to old problems. I turn to old faithful, the best of old solutions, the wine, and I keep drinking.
My shakes have settled, but I can’t clear my head. I’m filled with feelings of hate and resentment. Feelings of fear and worthlessness. I think of Richard’s blackmail, the things he knows I’ve done. Adelle, Eddie, Jenni and her heroin-addicted sister. Shawn’s medicine. The wine is helping but it’s not enough. I need something to fill me up. Something to make me feel loved. I need AJ.
I unlock my phone and scroll through the old messages. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to AJ. I haven’t even been to Nick’s. Come to think of it, this is the first time I have drunk myself stupid in what feels like ages. I look at the wineglass with a red ring of my old friend at the bottom. I fill it up again, but this time with white wine that I pull from the fridge. I told myself that my guests should have options. When’s the last time I’ve had a guest over? I have to concentrate on focusing my eyes on the texts from AJ. The last time he wrote to me, he asked me to come to Nick’s and I turned him down. And now I think I’m about to go crawling back.
The wine is going down like a two-dollar hooker and I can’t seem to drink it fast enough. My tolerance isn’t what it used to be, and the vague, downy haze of alcohol is descending upon me. I open up the pictures on my phone and remind myself what I’m missing. I’ve deleted most of his pictures by now, but I saved just a few. The best pictures. I try to bring back the old butterflies to my stomach. I try to let the alcohol make decisions for me.
I see the response I wrote to AJ, and I read it again and again. “Have fun without me.” Have fun without me. And that’s exactly what he’s been doing. He had fun before me, he had fun with me, and he’s now having fun without me. AJ hasn’t changed. Lucas hasn’t changed. But I have. I’ve changed. And the old solutions only solve the old problems, and this—this isn’t what I need right now. I’m looking into the wineglass. The pinkish orange of the mix of red and white wine. I look at this bulbous glass and wonder why it had so much power.
I’m standing at the sink now, pouring the rest of the glass down the drain. The alcohol will not make these decisions for me. I pick the bottle of red and the bottle of white up off the floor and pour them into the sink. The smell is tickling my nose. I open the freezer and dump out the Tito’s. Another offering for guests. I look to the living room and see the two bottles of scotch on the bookcase. Those bottles I had saved for so long to make it look like I could have alcohol in my apartment without drinking it. There’s less than a shot in each one. I methodically remove them and pour the contents into the sink. The scotch burns my eyes. The combination of scents in making me gag; it’s like the vomit I’ve hurled into my office garbage can so many mornings.
The bottles clank loudly in the recycling bag as I walk it down to the trash room. Back in my apartment, I wash the wineglass with apple-scented dish soap and peel off my clothes. I drop them on the laundry bag and step into my shower. I turn up the heat as high as it goes and watch as my skin turns pink.
FEBRUARY 10TH, 9:13 A.M.
I walk into the morning meeting and see everyone is already inside, sitting down at the conference table. There are packets distributed at every seat, and some of the staff is flipping through them. A couple of security guards, orderlies and custodians are standing along the back wall. They’re all holding copies of these packets, as well. I have no idea how I’m late for this; I’m never late for this.
David pulls out an empty seat beside him and calls me over with a twitch of his head. He hasn’t examined his packet yet. I plunk myself down in the seat next to him, and he taps his watch and gives me a condescending eye. So, I’m late. So what? At least I didn’t sleep with Julie.
“Now that we’re all here—” Rachel looks directly at me “—we can begin. Obviously, you’ve noticed we have some newcomers in our meeting today. These guys are here representing their teams and participating in this important meeting. For those of you who don’t know, this is Sal from the maintenance staff—” Sal smiles and waves hello “—Gerard and Abdul, two of our orderlies—” Gerard lifts his coffee toward the crowd, and Abdul keeps his head down, squinting at the packet “—and this is Raul from security.” Raul remains stoic and moti
onless. His gigantic steroid biceps are bulging against his uniform, and the little telltale acne spots are noticeable even through the fabric.
“I’ve asked that they join us today because we need to address some things that have been going on here that I’m beginning to get concerned about.
“The packets I’ve distributed are the revised ethical guidelines at Typhlos. All of you were given copies of these upon your hire, and you should be familiar with everything in here. Now and again, we get some new language from the administration, and sometimes there are new items added. I am going to need everyone’s signature on a sheet that I’m passing around, indicating that you have read and understand these guidelines.”
The social-work and counseling staff already have their noses buried in the packets. Except for Shirley. Shirley couldn’t give a shit about ethical guidelines. She’s been working here for probably five incarnations of these procedures and couldn’t be asked to modify her behavior to please any administrators.
Gary is noisily flipping pages back and forth, trying to determine if he is breaking any of the rules. David’s leaning back in his chair, drinking a coffee. He’s ignoring the packet, but will surely study every word as soon as he’s safely hidden in his office.
“You’ll see in your packets,” Rachel continues, “that you are not only expected to adhere to these policies while you are on the unit, but also any time you’re in a public place. That includes the subways, out at dinner with your family and anywhere that you could be viewed as a representative of this institution.”
“I’m not allowed to curse while I’m out at a bar in Bushwick?” Gary.
“Gary, you don’t need to take every sentence literally. We’re asking that you follow basic guidelines of ethical behavior, general decorum, because whether you’re here or not, you work here, and we need to keep up a professional appearance both on and off the unit.”
