Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  I explored the wound, then examined my blood-covered hand. Before passing out I had one final thought: perhaps I’d hit bottom.

  Chapter 83

  “Hi, I’m Nate and I’m an alcoholic.”

  There, I’d said it. No waffling this time. And yet my admission—and the entire scene, for that matter—seemed unreal.

  Me, a Jew, in church, admitting to being a drunk.

  “Hi, Nate” came the expected, but not unwelcome, response.

  In appreciation, and because confession was supposedly good for the soul, I continued mine.

  “It took me a while, but I’m finally ready to seek help. The reason is simple. I almost got my throat slit. And my face did get badly cut.”

  I fingered the dozen stitches decorating my cheek, a habit I’d picked up over the past week, maybe to remind me why I’d stopped drinking.

  “Anyway,” I said, “a guy walks into a bar …”

  And so began my tale of the pimp, the prostitute and a putz named Nate. After relating the story in gruesome detail, I finished with, “So I figured if I kept on drinking, sooner or later someone would cut my throat, or I’d save them the trouble by slitting my wrists.”

  This last possibility, I admit, was a bit melodramatic, meaning improbable, since I grew faint at the sight of a paper cut.

  After the Serenity Prayer I skipped the usual internal debate and strolled to the back of the room to search out my old buddy, Merv. I spotted him easily enough, standing alone for once while flaunting a bright-red turtleneck, probably visible from outer space. He offered a broad smile and an extended hand.

  What next, rain falling up?

  “Welcome aboard,” Merv said as we shook. He cupped my chin and studied my zippered wound. “Nasty.”

  “Yes.”

  “But apparently life-changing.”

  “Also yes.”

  He gave me one of his knowing looks. “Good thing I’m not one to say I told you so.”

  “Yeah, good thing.”

  “Buy you a cup?”

  “Sure.”

  While Merv poured, I mused on how long my “recovery” might take, then reminded myself: one day at a time.

  Merv handed me the coffee and sipped his own. “Nice weather we’re having.”

  The week had been damp and drizzly, but I played along. “Couldn’t ask for better.”

  “Well,” Merv said, “now that we’ve disposed of the important stuff, anything else you wanna talk about?”

  “Um, yes. I want … I mean, I know you said I’m a bright boy, and you don’t, you know … but I was wondering if—

  “Yes, I’ll be your sponsor, now that you’re out of denial. I said I didn’t take on bright boys, but what I didn’t say is that occasionally I do. In your case, I will because you remind me of me.” Another smile. “Also, I like a challenge.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked being called a challenge and, in fact, I wasn’t certain I wanted this guy as a sponsor. I’d had reservations as soon as I decided to get one, but who else was I going to ask? Steve? He was the only other person I knew here, and frankly I thought he needed a sponsor himself if he didn’t already have one. Anyway, since I didn’t meet people easily, Merv was it for me, at least for now.

  So the least I could do was thank him. Which I did.

  He kept his eyes on me while sipping his coffee. “Don’t thank me just yet. You’ve acknowledged the problem, and that’s essential to recovery. But it’s just the beginning. You’ve got a rough road ahead of you.”

  There he went again, saying things off the top of his well-polished head.

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked.

  “I meant what I said about bright boys being hard cases.”

  “And about me being one of them.”

  “Yes, and about you being one of them. But hey, let’s not get wrapped up in whys and wherefores just yet. You asked me to be your sponsor and I’ve agreed. Let’s let it go at that for now.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and removed a business card, or whatever you called those things, and handed it to me. In cursive black letters on a white background it said:

  Merv M

  (313) 281-8423

  “I like to keep things simple,” he said. “I hope you’ll do the same.”

  Simple. The word had a nice ring to it, but I couldn’t recall having a simple moment in my entire life. Well, maybe one. Tops.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “Don’t try. Do.”

  Was this how it would go? I’d make a statement and he’d counter it with some quasi-Confucius shit? How could you do something without trying to?

  Stop kvetching, Nate. Don’t be poking holes in things. Go with the flow. You want to stop drinking and Merv wants to help you.

  And he can.

  You hope.

  Chapter 84

  Halfway through the year things were going well, or as well as things ever went for me. No, I didn’t have a job yet—but I hadn’t had a drink in two months and I’d attended AA meetings twice a week, come hell or high water, though the meetings were usually more hell than high water. I still had nothing in common with other members except a desire to quit drinking, and I wasn’t sure we shared even that goal, since many of them looked eager to tie one on. Or maybe I was projecting.

  I consulted Merv about this at one of our periodic get-togethers over coffee or breakfast or whatever and he claimed that yes, I was projecting. He did point out, though, that recovery was difficult at best, for everyone, and that many members “slipped” before they fully embraced sobriety. He was less helpful with my feelings of estrangement from my AA-mates, calling me a snob, an egotist and a few other things I won’t mention. In addition to the name-calling, one of the things I liked least about our sessions was Merv’s insistence that I follow the Twelve Steps and read the Big Book, neither of which I’d done because of, yes, all that God shit.

  Still, no matter how crappy I felt or how much abuse I took from my sponsor, I stayed away from alcohol.

  And it was in this newly sober state that I finally started my novel, the one I’d vowed to write a century ago but was always too tired or shitfaced at day’s end to work on. With more time on my hands and zero alcohol in my system, I wrote an outline last month and the first chapter this week. The story, in case you’re interested, is about an alcoholic wannabe-author who finally gets sober and turns out a novel. Well, they say write what you know.

  What I didn’t know, what in fact puzzled the hell out of me, was why I hadn’t called Amanda Fontaine as promised. True, I was a natural-born dawdler, but she was the woman I loved, whose friend I wanted to be, since she lacked interest in anything else. Was that it? At bottom I was a typical guy who, if he couldn’t have a woman in bed, didn’t want her at all? No, I decided. I definitely wanted a friendship with Amanda, because, simply put, I didn’t want to lose her again. Maybe I’d delayed calling her because I was in a bad place even though sober. Or maybe I was in a bad place because I was sober.

  Who the hell knew?

  Maybe things weren’t going as well as I thought.

  Chapter 85

  Sunday, July 23, 1967.

  Following breakfast I grabbed a second cup of coffee and planted myself in front of the TV, despite knowing that in ten minutes I’d tire of all the blather. But instead of expensively dressed, bromide-spouting politicians meeting the press and facing the nation, I saw something even more disturbing. Detroit going up in flames. Angry mobs were setting the city afire, in addition to throwing bricks, looting stores and shooting at police.

  Surely this was a Twilight Zone rerun I hadn’t seen before, substituted at the last minute because the boring guest had failed to show up. A talking head kept insisting this was a filmed recording of the actual scene, taken by helicopter, but he could have been an actor and the episode a knockoff of the 1938 radio broadcast of War of the Worlds, the one that convinced millions of listeners Martians had invaded Earth. To test this hyp
othesis I tried the other two networks, but unfortunately they carried the same frightful images and recited the same macabre details as the first channel. All three outlets agreed I was watching a riot, begun in the early morning hours when police raided a “blind pig” and forced about eighty customers into the street for reasons that remained obscure. A swarm of people gathered outside to watch, and one of them threw a bottle at the cops while someone else whipped up the crowd. Not long after, things spiraled out of control.

  Adding to my near-disbelief, the turbulence began, and much of it was taking place, in my former stomping ground, the Twelfth Street area. That unlicensed bar was located at Twelfth and Clairmont. Newscasters were already dubbing this the Twelfth Street Riot, though the violence had spread to other parts of the city, namely Woodward Avenue, Grand River, Michigan Avenue, East Grand Boulevard, and Trumbull near Tiger Stadium.

  I focused on the images of Twelfth Street, straining to see if the fires had reached Marty’s or Dandy Randy’s. From what I could tell, they hadn’t. I tried calling Sheldon and Wonderman at home, since their stores were closed on Sunday, but the lines were busy. I dialed several more times within the hour and got the same result. I considered driving over to Twelfth Street and checking things out firsthand, but then I recalled the periodic bulletins that kept warning people to stay out of the area because of the combat-zone conditions, and since I was no war correspondent I scrapped the idea.

  Then I thought of Amanda. Most of the rioters were black, and her neighbors needed little excuse, even on a good day, to do her harm. I should call to see how they were behaving on this riotous day. Yet I hesitated, concerned with the reception I’d receive, and with looking stupid calling her now of all times. But in the end I decided a true friend would call at exactly this time, and my concern with looking stupid at a time like this was stupid.

  I dialed her number, my finger pausing only twice.

  “Hello.”

  Good. She was alive.

  “It’s me.”

  “Me? Me who?”

  “Nate.”

  “Nate? Who’s … oh, it’s you. You’re calling me now, with all that’s going on?”

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  “I wanted to see how you were, I mean to make sure you were all right.”

  She hesitated. “I’m all right. I live in a nice, safe honky neighborhood.”

  Sarcasm.

  Nothing gets by me these days.

  “I was worried, you know, that your neighbors might do something.”

  “So far they haven’t done anything, but the day is still young.”

  I wavered but managed to get out, “You want some … I don’t know … protection?”

  “Protection? What kind of protection? And from who? You?”

  That really hurt. “Never mind,” I said, “forget it.”

  An awkward moment passed. “Hey, it’s nice of you to offer,” Amanda said, “but I’m a little on edge as you might imagine. So I better go now.”

  That was it? She better go now? But I didn’t want her to go, now that I’d finally called.

  “I … I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I mean, like I promised I would last time—”

  “You said you’d call? When was that? Never mind. Look, I really have to go. See what’s happening on the TV, maybe make some phone calls myself.”

  The click put a period on her rushed goodbye. I hung up and returned to the tube. Things hadn’t changed much since the last time I looked. Flames were still shooting skyward and mobs were still running amok.

  And Rod Serling still hadn’t welcomed me to the Twilight Zone.

  #

  Things got even more surreal as the week progressed. Governor Romney and President Johnson sent state police, national guardsmen and federal troops into the city, treating onlookers to the sight of tanks rolling through the streets and combat troops returning sniper fire.

  It took the entire week for things to settle down and the military to withdraw, leaving the city looking less like a war zone. Yet the newspapers’ summary of the rioting read like a war had indeed taken place: estimated rioters—10,000; dead—40; stores looted—2,000; buildings burned to the ground—400; total damage—$60 million.

  Naturally city leaders and local politicians debated the reasons for the uprising and the steps needed to prevent a repeat. Mayor Cavanagh bragged about all he’d done for blacks in the past and promised to do even more in the future, though he failed to specify exactly what he’d done and what he planned to do.

  What amazed me about this nightmare, besides all that destruction, was how quickly people recovered from it, outside the war zone at least. Most went about their business as if nothing had happened. I’m guessing that, like Alaskans after the Good Friday quake, many Detroiters visited a local pub and got pie-eyed while recounting where they’d been, what they’d seen and what they’d done during the riot. Two months ago I might have joined them, but now I viewed the disaster as, among other things, a sobriety test.

  Which, I’m happy to say, I passed.

  Chapter 86

  “Nu, what’s new?”

  Mom laid a platter of her world-famous brisket on the table and returned to the kitchen for bowls of succotash and mashed potatoes.

  “See, I made a play with words,” she said over her shoulder. “Like my son the writer.”

  “Answer her,” Dad instructed from across the table. “We haven’t seen you for … what? … two, three months, you’ve been such a busy man.”

  True, they hadn’t seen me for that length of time, mainly because I didn’t want to be seen—at least not by them—given the condition of my face after Switch redecorated it. So I’d devised a string of excuses for missing Sunday dinner and called a few times, including last week, to make sure the rioting hadn’t spread to northwest Detroit, which it hadn’t (nor, by the way, had it touched the portion of Twelfth Street where Marty’s and Dandy Randy’s were located). A few shops on Livernois near Seven Mile Road had been burglarized, but the cops couldn’t determine if the crimes were riot-related.

  There was something besides my unsightly punem, though, that kept me away from my parents, at least for the past month. The prospect of Dad trotting out the schnapps to celebrate Israel’s victory in the Middle East in June—the Six-Day War, they were calling it. And knowing me, I might be tempted to join the celebration.

  Mom returned to the table, set the bowls down and loaded our plates. Then she set herself down. “So,” she said, “tell us already. What’s new?”

  “You can start with that,” my dad said, pointing at my cheek. “You look like Scarface.”

  Mom leaned toward me and squinted. “Yes. I wasn’t going to say anything, because I figured your face was your business, but since your father brought it up, that … whatever it is … looks terrible, if you want to know the truth.”

  Good thing she hadn’t seen the whatever-it-is in its heyday. After Dr. Grossman removed the stitches, it was raw, garish and not a little scary. By now it had grown into a sliver that paled next to the knife-wielder’s scar. Some might even call it dashing, like a pirate’s eye patch. But not my mom.

  My biggest concern at the moment was how much to reveal about the wound’s origins. AA encouraged honesty in all things, but vigorously opposed acts of cruelty. This probably ruled out informing my parents that a pimp had sliced me up after I decked one of his whores.

  I settled on, “There was an incident in a bar while I was very drunk. I learned something from it.”

  “And what might that be?” Dad asked.

  “It made me realize I’m … that I’m … ”

  I hesitated because a candid admission in front of other drunks at an AA meeting was one thing. In front of my parents at the dinner table was quite another.

  Still, I eked out, “I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Well,” Dad said, “I don’t know if I’d go that far. You—”

  “Sorry, but I am,” I insisted. “I
get plotzed too often, and bad things happen when I do.”

  “Then don’t drink so much. Be a little more moderate.”

  Now why didn’t I think of that?

  “I wish I could,” I said with admirable restraint. “I’ve tried, but I can’t. I don’t know why.”

  “Well, what’s all that mean? You’re never going to drink again?”

  “I’m not sure. I hope not.”

  “I just don’t see why you have to go from one extreme to the other, from drinking too much to not drinking at all. Doesn’t seem healthy to me.”

  Nor to me, but what could I do? Abstinence seemed the only way I could stay out of trouble. Certainly Merv thought so and kept going on—and on and on—about its necessity.

  “Look, not drinking is healthy for me,” I said with moderate conviction.

  “Well, at least you won’t go into bars and come out disfigured,” Dad managed to say through a mouthful of brisket. “And you’ll avoid ending up like your Uncle Marvin. As you know, we were worried about that. So congratulations on not drinking. Still, a little schnapps now and then—”

  “Dad, let it go. Staying away from booze is the only cure for what I’ve got. It’s an illness.”

  In truth, I didn’t know what I had—an illness, a disease, an obsession, an addiction, or a really bad habit. AAers called alcoholism a lot of things, including, sometimes, alcoholism. Three months ago I was concerned about what to label my whatchamacallit. Now that was the least of my worries. The biggest was resisting a thirst that begged to be quenched, and dealing with nerves that pleaded for mercy. But the Big Book, which by now I’d read just to satisfy Merv, stressed the perils of a single drink, as did the meetings I now attended once a week. And of course Merv himself could sermonize forever on the subject. So I fought the thirst again and again and again. And then again.

  Mom, who apparently hadn’t told Dad about my night of incarceration, gave my arm a pat. “Well then, it’s best you not drink at all.” To my dad she said, “And don’t you tempt him.”