Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  “Go on, Nate,” Bill Hollings said. “It won’t kill you.”

  To which Dewey Clifford, slouching next to him, added, “Yeah, get plastered, you bastard, just like the rest of us.”

  Someone, maybe me, nodded at Charlie, who filled my empty glass with beer and slid it across the table. I seized the drink while feeling Rachel’s eyes on me.

  “You sure you wanna do this?” she asked.

  Hell no, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this. I was never sure of anything.

  “You won’t like it,” she added.

  “I’ve had beer before.”

  “And?”

  “It was okay,” I lied, recalling the acrid taste.

  “Well then, pour.”

  “Huh?”

  She waggled her glass. “Pour.”

  “You sure you wanna do this?”

  “I’m not a devout teetotaler,” she confessed. “I have a drink from time to time, mainly on special occasions.”

  “And this is one of them?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s … I mean, what’s the occasion?”

  “Well if you don’t know, I won’t tell you.” Her eyes glowed with something, though with what I couldn’t say.

  I reached across the table, grabbed the pitcher and poured. We clinked glasses again.

  “To us semi-teetotalers,” she said.

  We both sipped. Surprisingly, the beer tasted good. Rachel must have thought so too, because she drained her glass. Nevertheless she returned to Coke while I, being of loyal disposition, stuck with beer. A few glasses later I turned convivial, especially toward Rachel, who benefited from my insights into books, movies, music and the current state of the world. As a bonus, I explained why most jocks were dickwads. She listened politely while suggesting from time to time that I stop drinking. This seemed like sound advice so I ignored it. By the fifth round—or was it the tenth?—nothing mattered, not even women, let alone parents, professors and pimples, the latter of which, sad to say, still plagued me. Eventually the room started spinning, so I closed my eyes to make it stop. Then laid my head down.

  Just for a minute.

  #

  I opened my eyes, one at a time, and sensed I was no longer in a room. An enclosed space, yes, but one that, judging by the buildings whizzing by, was moving. The humming tires signaled the space might be a vehicle, but then who was driving? Not me, obviously, so who?

  Too fuzzyheaded to figure it all out, I closed my eyes again.

  #

  The car screeched to a halt and rocked on its heels, waking me out of a sound sleep. An unsympathetic hand shook my shoulder but I played dead—which was how I felt—by keeping my eyes closed. The hand tried again, even more gruffly, while I continued to fake my own death. Next it gripped my chin, tilted it back and moved it from side to side, causing my stomach to protest. I tried opening my eyes but they wouldn’t cooperate, nor would my mouth when I attempted to speak. Maybe I wasn’t just playing dead.

  “Wake up, Nate.” The voice came from a woman; apparently she thought I was alive. “I can’t stay here all night, so please. We’re at your house and you need to get out. If you don’t, I’ll have to ask your parents for help.”

  At that my eyes popped open and turned toward the extortionist. The face looked familiar, like one I’d seen in happier times. I tried addressing it. “Who … what …?”

  I received no answer, but fragments of memory surfaced. A bar. A woman. Another woman, black. A bunch of men, one of them fat. And beer. Lots of beer. Lots and lots of beer.

  I must be drunk.

  “Nate!” Now the voice sounded familiar, though I’d never heard it shout before.

  Rachel Solomon.

  “Please, Nate. Don’t make me regret driving you home.” She shoved at me with both hands. “Now get out.”

  I wished I could. I wanted nothing more than to get out, go into the house, climb into bed and forget this night ever happened.

  I had an unrelated thought. How did Rachel know where I lived?

  Dummy. Reporters know how to investigate things, including where people live. And speaking of things unknown, where the hell was my car? Nothing came to mind, so I focused, if that’s the right word, on getting out of this car. I reached over, and after several failed attempts grabbed the door handle. I managed to press down but that’s as far as I got.

  “Oh dear God,” Rachel said.

  Was it me, or did she sound testy?

  The driver’s door opened and heels clacked around to my side. The passenger door opened and Rachel leaned in. “Give me your hand.”

  She had to be kidding. Still, I tried. And failed.

  Rachel sighed, grabbed my hand and yanked, but I slipped away and fell sideways on the seat.

  And puked.

  Chapter 30

  I awakened the next morning wishing I hadn’t. My head throbbed, my stomach roiled and my mouth tasted like fungus. I turned to the right just to see if I could and immediately regretted the move. Lying atop a pile of clothes on the floor was a vomit-stained polo shirt, a nauseating reminder of the night before. I wrenched my eyes away and the pain in my head shot through to my toes. I lay still. The agony eventually subsided, at least somewhat, so I slowly raised myself up and leaned back against the headboard. Next, apparently eager for more punishment, I replayed last night’s events: visiting Sal’s Bar & Grill, getting astoundingly drunk, riding home in Rachel’s car, barfing on the front seat, then hobbling into the house. The replay ended with someone yanking off my clothes, dressing me in PJs and wrestling me into bed. “We’ll talk in the morning,” the someone said in parting. The voice may have been my father’s.

  A rap on the bedroom door disrupted my recollections. “Nate?”

  This voice was definitely my mother’s. She knocked again, a little harder. “Nate, are you up?”

  Assuming by “up” she meant awake but on the brink of death I said yes.

  “Well, better come to breakfast. Your father wants to have a word with you before he leaves for his appointments.”

  Shit.

  “Okay, I’ll be out as soon as I’m dressed.”

  “Please mach shnell. He’s not at all happy with you.” Pause. “And neither am I.”

  Double shit.

  I eased out of bed as if one wrong move might terminate my life. I was still alive, but barely, as I tottered to the window and pulled down the shade. The darkened room soothed my nerves a bit, but the throbbing in my head continued unabated. Gathering my strength, what little remained of it, I brushed my teeth, combed my hair and performed the most difficult task of all, getting dressed. Exhausted from all this activity, I considered crawling back into bed but then thought better of the idea. Dad did not look kindly upon insubordination, and his tolerance level might be lower than usual this morning.

  Before leaving the bedroom I glanced back at Miss Russell, hoping for a kind word or at least a smile.

  But all I got was a snicker.

  #

  My parents were already seated at the table by the time I entered the kitchen. They wore their usual working-Sabbath clothes, Dad a suit and tie and Mom a housedress. She got up and went to the stove while my dad looked at me with less than paternal love in his eyes.

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  Like a well-trained poodle, I sat.

  Mom scooped scrambled eggs from the frying pan onto a plate and added two pieces of toast. She placed the plate in front of me, then poured a glass of orange juice and set it next to the plate. Apparently she was unaware the sight of food made me nauseous.

  Oblivious, or unsympathetic, to my suffering, Dad compounded it with his reaction to my previous night’s mischief. “I’m furious with you, and so is your mother.”

  “Yes, and embarrassed,” Mom added.

  They both sipped their coffee, then my dad continued. “First you stayed out all hours of the night, and when you finally did show up you couldn’t even walk on your own. That nice young
lady had to ask for help getting you into the house.”

  Neglecting her food for once, my mom said, “We were so worried. When you didn’t come home at your usual time we didn’t know what to think. We even wondered if the bus had been in an accident.”

  Dad stared at his untouched eggs, then at me. “When I saw you in … in that condition, I almost wished you had been in an accident. May God forgive me.”

  “Al!”

  “He knows what I mean. Being in an accident is one thing, but spending the night getting shikker is another. He’s brought shame on himself and this family.”

  My dad underscored the point by pounding the table, which startled me because he seldom did anything physical.

  Now his eyes bored into mine. “Shaigetzes get drunk, not Jewish boys. It’s a sin against God and you know it. But as if getting shikker wasn’t sinful enough, you threw up in His face.”

  My mother gasped but otherwise stayed silent, as did I.

  Meanwhile, Dad turned several shades of crimson. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Well, yes, but I was afraid to speak. I hadn’t seen my parents this angry since I farted in shul on Yom Kippur.

  “Answer me,” my dad demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes I’m listening to you.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, young man.”

  Mom placed a hand on Dad’s and gazed at me. “What happened, Nate? This was so unlike you. You don’t usually drink alcohol, not even wine on the Sabbath.”

  “At least we didn’t think you drank alcohol,” said my father the cynic. “Now we’re not so sure.”

  My mom looked at me quizzically. “Nate?”

  “I usually don’t drink,” I assured them. “This was an exception. It won’t happen again.”

  Dad shook his finger. “It better not.”

  In lieu of saying something I’d regret, I took a swallow of orange juice.

  “I’m sure this was a mistake,” Mom said. “He’s a good boy.”

  My dad looked at her, disagreement writ large on his face. Then he fixed his eyes on me again. “We’ll have to think of a suitable punishment for this behavior. We’ll let you know what we decide.”

  I couldn’t wait.

  Dad consulted his watch. “I have to go now.” He got up and began gathering the dishes, still laden with food.

  “Leave them or you’ll be late,” my mom said.

  “Danke.” In a rare display of affection, he bent over and kissed her forehead.

  I thought of helping clear the table, but instead remained seated while my hangover—my very first—continued.

  That first I could do without.

  Chapter 31

  Sheldon laughed hysterically.

  Day was slipping into night as we lounged on the front steps of my family’s new home, with its trim green lawn bifurcated by a concrete path and surrounded by, natch, a white picket fence.

  I waited patiently for my friend to finish his hysterics.

  I hadn’t seen Sheldon in more than a week following my drunken escapade, and I’d invited him over to offer a face-to-face account. What I expected from this get-together I wasn’t sure, but Sheldon’s merriment rankled so obviously that wasn’t it.

  After finally catching his breath he said, “You, Mr. Straight Arrow, you got drunk?”

  “Yes, I got drunk. What’s the big deal?”

  I knew damn well what the big deal was, but to ease my guilt I’d tried dismissing my intemperance as trivial. Sheldon’s convulsions didn’t help any, and as if they weren’t unsettling enough, three neighbors’ kids playing tag next door kept laughing like kids. Meaning like hyenas.

  “You’re right, no big thing,” the big guy said, though I doubted he meant it.

  So I attempted to verify. “You really mean it?”

  He grabbed a twig from the bottom step and began peeling its bark “Yes, I really mean it. In fact, it was bound to happen sooner or later, even to Mr. Straight Arrow. I just thought you’d get screwed before you got smashed.”

  He seemed to think this was funny. I didn’t, of course not only for the obvious reason but because I was in a pissy mood. Three days ago my parents had meted out the punishment for my debauchery: no television for a month. Offhand this might seem like a small price to pay, but not when you considered that TV was my favorite sedative, without which I bore the full brunt of being me.

  As if depriving me of my tranquilizer weren’t penalty enough, Dad had begun shadowing me around the house, periodically—and sneakily—smelling my breath, presumably to detect any signs of my backsliding.

  When I told Sheldon about this covert operation, he contorted his face to keep from convulsing again.

  “You think that’s funny?” I said. “Do you know what it’s like having your father stalking you all the time?”

  He threw the shorn twig away. “You’re being too serious about this, man, the way you are about everything. Face it, parents are a pain, but you gotta put up with them till you move out. Then you can drink all you want without worrying about your breath betraying you.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to what?”

  “Drink a lot.”

  “Don’t get picky. I’m just saying that after you get your own place you can partake in peace. You are gonna drink again, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Bullshit. Tell me you didn’t like the buzz, that fuck-it-screw-it-all feeling you get. Go ahead, tell me.”

  I couldn’t, because I loved that feeling. After several rounds of beer, I felt lighter, less guarded, more carefree. In addition to regaling Rachel with my opinions, I told stupid knock-knock jokes, laughed at nothing in particular and said whatever came to mind without caring whether it sounded strange or offended someone. The hangover was unpleasant, sure, but headaches weren’t so bad once you got over them. Truth be told, I couldn’t wait to drink again, though I’d never admit that to anyone. So I told Sheldon yes, I liked the high, then steered the conversation in another direction. “You drink, right? I mean alcohol.”

  “I didn’t think you meant chocolate milk.” He slapped at a mosquito feeding off his arm. “Yeah, of course I drink. Arlene and me sometimes had a few belts before doing it.” He flicked the bloodsucker away.

  “What’d you drink? How much? Where’d you get it?”

  “Jesus, you sound like a reporter.” He chuckled, either at his own so-called humor or at the memory of drinking surreptitiously.

  “Whiskey,” he said. “We’d sneak it from the liquor cabinet.” He paused in his reminiscence, then added. “We just took a few sips apiece.”

  My parents didn’t have a liquor cabinet, but they kept a bottle of schnapps in the kitchen cupboard.

  Hmmm.

  “Couldn’t they tell some of it was missing?”

  “Nah. They stored several bottles there, so we drank a little from each. My parents never noticed any of it was gone.”

  And there went that idea. Anything missing from our single bottle of schnapps would arouse suspicion, especially with Dad on high alert.

  Sheldon’s answers to my questions had been less than helpful, but I gave him one last chance to say something I could use. “You ever get sick or headachy from drinking?”

  “Of course. Goes with the territory.”

  “What’d you do, you know, to cope?”

  “There’s nothing much you can do except ride it out. Food sometimes helps, but you gotta eat beforehand or while you’re drinking, rather than after. Never get drunk on an empty stomach.”

  Before I could thank him for this one useful piece of advice, he posed a question of his own. “Why’d you ask, seeing as you’re never gonna drink again?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Hell no.”

  I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t believe
me ether.

  Chapter 32

  The only sound more grating than a catfight was the silence between two colleagues not on speaking terms. I discovered this when Rachel and I stopped talking to each other after my performance at Sal’s, each of us no doubt for different reasons. She was probably pissed at me for getting drunk and passing out in front of her, and for my upchucking in her car when she was kind enough to drive me home. I didn’t particularly care for these things either, but I was more embarrassed than anything, and afraid of her response if I spoke to her.

  Then after two weeks of silence Rachel spoke to me. I was sitting at one of the Royals flipping through my notes on the library’s new Audubon collection when I sensed her presence. “Can we talk?” she said. “I don’t like what’s going on between us.”

  I looked up to see two solemn eyes and an earnest expression. “Me neither. When?”

  “Now, if you’ve got a moment.”

  I stood. “Interview room?”

  “Fine.”

  Rachel led the way, her buttocks straining against a tight lemon skirt. Not for the first time I wondered if I was a pervert. I mean, did other guys fixate on women’s asses as much as I did? I had no answer by the time we entered the interview room.

  Rachel locked the door and sat on the edge of the desk while I took the chair in front of it. Perversely, my eyes wandered to her knees, showing below the hem of her skirt. Yes, I was definitely a pervert, one who fixated on all female body parts. To get my mind off sex, but also because I meant it, I told Rachel I was sorry for my transgressions that night at Sal’s.

  “I know, Nate.” Her tone was surprisingly sympathetic. “You’re a good person at heart, but …” Have I told you lately how much I hated buts? No good ever came of them, ever. And Rachel proceeded to bear this out. “… I can’t stand drunken behavior. I just can’t, you know? Still, I couldn’t just leave you there. I had to make sure you got home safely.”

  I took this opportunity to show my appreciation, however belated. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that … to tell you how grateful I am.”

  Rachel ignored my gratitude. “The point I’m trying to make is, I was so angry and disappointed I couldn’t look you in the eye for a while. But now I’ve grown uncomfortable with the silence, you know what I mean?” I did, but before I could say so she went on, her cheeks coloring a bit. “You must think I’m a Puritan or something. Either that or nuts. I mean, people get drunk all the time. It’s just that I can’t … well, you know, I’ve already said it.”