[Friday, September 26]
I went to a meeting tonight and hung out with Henry afterward. I love flamboyant, witty Henry. He told me he used to own a restaurant and, waxing nostalgic, said, “Oh, the coke we used to do.”
“I waitressed my way through college and almost got caught in a sting operation,” I told him. “An undercover FBI agent tried to get me to line him up with some blow, said he’d turn me on, but the bartender didn’t have any that night, thank God. The next day I found out they busted a bunch of people at the bar down the street.”
“You should have partied at my restaurant,” Henry said. “We partied like rock stars. One night, there was a drug dealer in my place we didn’t like. We called the police on him while we were snorting big fat lines of his coke in a back room.”
Henry and I laughed hysterically.
“I walked into a police station tripping on mushrooms to report a hit-and-run to my car,” I said, still giggling. “My friends and I were at a Violent Femmes concert. We went to a punk bar afterward and a guy sideswiped my car right in front of the bar. I got his license plate number, went to the police station, and filled out a report while I was tripping my brains out. I was a waitress at the Playboy Club at the time,” I continued. “Did I tell you I used to be a bunny?”
“Really? You were a Playboy bunny?” Henry said, smiling, clearly impressed.
“Yeah. One night I got so drunk after work I couldn’t find my car. I thought someone had stolen it. So I’m walking down the street and this police car cruises by and I flag it down. I tell the cops I think my car’s been stolen. They tell me to hop in and they start driving up and down the streets looking for my car. I spot my car, right where I had parked it, and tell them, ‘Stop, there it is.’ I get out of the squad car and thank the officers profusely. ‘Drive safely,’ the cops tell me and drive away.”
Henry and I laughed hard again.
“How about this one,” Henry said. “One night, we got all coked up, closed the bar, and drove to the lake. I was driving. We were doing lines on a cookie tray while I was driving. All of a sudden, splash! I drive my car into the lake and all we’re worried about is snorting the rest of the coke before the car goes down.”
“I can’t top that one,” I laughed.
“Then there was the time I decided to go cliff diving,” Henry said. “Only I jumped and missed the water and went splat on the rocks. But I was so drunk and pliable I only got scratched.”
I love Henry. I drove home and called Sara to let her know I was back in the country. She sounded strange.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“A sixteen-year-old patient of mine OD’d,” she said. “Her mother found her in her bedroom this morning. She didn’t make it.”
“Wow,” I said, stunned. “Are you okay? How do you handle something like that?”
“You learn to detach,” she said, not sounding detached.
We got off the phone and I sat on the couch for a while feeling paralyzed. Why do some of us get to careen through life driving cars into lakes and jumping off cliffs while others die?
[Sunday, September 28]
Olivia might be getting kicked out of the women’s shelter she’s living at, for having a fling with another woman living there.
Olivia started coming to meetings recently. She’s a cute young blonde I’ve given rides to a few times. We were both at the same meeting tonight, and afterward, I gave her a ride back to the house she lives in.
“I grew up in an affluent suburb, I have a BA from Loyola, and I have a felony conviction for forgery because I’m a crack addict,” she said, shaking her head. “If I get kicked out of the shelter, I’m going to jail. And you know what’s weird? I won’t even mind going to jail as long as it makes me stay clean. That’s how desperate I am.
“I really screwed up,” Olivia continued. “I’m not even gay. I’m just needy. I had a fling with that woman because I needed someone to tell me how great I am, how beautiful I am. How sick is that?”
[Monday, September 29]
When Max got out of school this afternoon, I drove the kids into the city to buy a bike for Max’s birthday. I was set to drop a sizable chunk of change, and I was irritated by Max’s lack of appreciation and enthusiasm. Max wants a shrimpy trick bike. I want to buy him a mountain bike.
“This is going to be your car until you can drive,” I told him, pointing to a black and silver Specialized model that had been wheeled out. “You’ll be riding to your friends’ houses, to school, around town. Remember how upset you got in Wisconsin when you had trouble keeping up with Seth because your bike was so much smaller? You’re going to be glad you didn’t get a little circus bike you have to pedal like mad.”
Max was not a daredevil. He was a cautious kid. If I thought his interest in trick riding would last longer than his two-week interest in his skateboard, I would have bought it for him, but I know better.
“Okay,” Max said, frowning and flipping his hand at the mountain bike. “I’ll take this one.”
It made my heart glad to buy Max a present he was so thrilled about.
I paid for the bike, wheeled it out of the store, and mounted it on the bike rack behind the Jeep. Max moped and got into the car.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” I asked him as we pulled away from the curb.
“Oh yeah, thanks Mom,” he said.
Part of me felt sad for not getting Max exactly what he wanted for his birthday, and part of me wanted to smack the little ingrate upside his head.
[Wednesday, October 1]
Today was Max’s eleventh birthday. I invited my parents over for dinner, and as soon as they walked through the door, my dad poured himself a stiff scotch on the rocks.
“After today, I’m quitting drinking,” he told Charlie, who was having a drink with him. “I’m quitting for a week to see if I can get in this study for a new cancer treatment. The doctor told me to lay off the booze because my liver enzymes are elevated.”
“Hey Papa,” Max interrupted. “Will you help me build a go-cart?” Max’s latest thing is he wants to build a go-cart with Papa because Charlie is as handy as I am.
“Sure, that sounds like a good idea,” my dad said. My dad can build or fix anything. “Do you know what you want it to look like?”
“I’ve already designed it,” Max said, handing my dad a drawing of a Cadillac Escalade.
“That looks pretty good,” my dad said, folding up Max’s drawing and putting it in his shirt pocket. “You’ll have to come over and we’ll measure it out and figure out what we need.”
“What you need to do is stop drinking, old man,” I muttered under my breath.
[Thursday, October 2]
“Can I ride my bike?” Max asked when he got home from school. “I want to go down the bike trail and see if there are any Cadillac parts for my go-cart.”
Our house is a two-minute bike ride to wooded trails. If you ride one way, you’ll pass a parking lot surrounded by warehouses where a local car dealership parks part of its inventory. There are some junk cars they use for parts, and one is a burned-out Cadillac.
“I don’t know,” I said, leery of letting Max ride the trail by himself. “I don’t want you out there alone.”
“Oh come on,” Max said. “The lot’s just five minutes away, maybe not even. I just want to look at the car and come back.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. Up until now, Max has only been allowed to ride his bike around the block. Most of his friends have been riding all over the neighborhood, but I’m paranoid. “Come right back,” I said. “Supper will be ready soon.”
“I will,” Max said and bounced out the back door.
Ten minutes later, Max slammed the door open and slammed it shut behind him. He sat at the kitchen table wheezing.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Did something bad happen?”
“Two men followed me,” Max wheezed. He grabbed his backpack, which he’d left sitting on the kitch
en table, pulled out his inhaler, and took two puffs.
“Two men followed you?” I gasped.
Max nodded gravely.
“What happened?”
Max jumped from one detail to the next, but the story was this: Max rode his bike down the trail and headed for the burned-out Cadillac. He rode past an old shed and noticed a homeless man on a bike.
“I nodded and said, ‘Hello,’ and kept going,” Max said. “The man looked at me really weird and unfriendly.”
Max said he got off his bike by the burned-out car and as he was examining it, he noticed the homeless man and another seedy-looking guy circling him on their bikes.
“The first man had brown hair, a brown jacket, and he was riding an old brown ten-speed,” Max said. “The second man had long gray-and-brown hair, real scraggly, and he was wearing a black jacket with white patches on the shoulders. His bike was an old yellow ten-speed with side baskets on the back that were full of junk. Both of them were white, around forty, I think.”
Max said he hopped on his bike and pedaled fast toward home and the men followed him.
“I got up to Fourth Street and there were a lot of people around,” Max panted. “I raced across Fourth and when I looked back, the men were gone.”
“The people probably scared them off,” I said shakily, but trying to appear calm. “I’m calling the police.”
Moments later, Max repeated his story to the cops.
“From now on, no riding down the bike trail without an adult, ever,” I told Max. “Stick to residential streets around the neighborhood. Got that?”
Max nodded. I hugged him and squeezed him tight.
The first time I let Max ride his bike further than around the block, I let him go down a wooded bike trail peopled with homeless pedophiles.
[Friday, October 3]
I took Max to see the movie The School of Rock. While we were watching the scene where Jack Black takes the uptight Joan Cusack character to a bar, plies her with beer, and watches her let her hair down, I began missing being buzzed. I miss that warm happy feeling of not giving a shit and getting crazy.
[Saturday, October 4]
Max wanted a paintball shoot-’em-up party for his birthday, so that’s what he got today. I sent invitations to a handful of his friends and after I dropped them in the mailbox, I called my friend, Fay, who is neurotically overly protective of her son, Walter.
“I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but Max wants a paintball party for his birthday,” I told Fay’s answering machine. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up on the invitation because I just put it in the mail.”
The last time Walter was at our house, Max asked, “Can Walter and I walk around the block with my walkie-talkies?” Max was wearing his police vest and badge. He was holding a note pad and pencil. They wanted to do some surveillance.
“I guess so,” I said. “But just on our street. I want you guys back here in fifteen minutes.”
Max ran upstairs to tell Walter. Minutes later, Walter appeared.
“I can’t go,” Walter said. “My mother would kill me.”
“My mom said we could go,” Max said. “Your mom doesn’t have to know.”
“No,” I said. “If Walter’s mom doesn’t want him walking around the neighborhood, you’re not doing it. I think it’s great that Walter is honest and honoring his mother’s wishes.”
“But you said we could,” Max whined.
“Now I say you can’t,” I said.
“Come on Walter,” Max said disgustedly and stalked off.
In the almost ten years that Walter has been alive, Fay has not spent one night away from him. Walter has never had a babysitter other than Fay’s mother, who is not even allowed to have him overnight. And Fay bailed on an Oktoberfest party one Saturday night because Walter had been stung by a bee that morning and she needed to continue observing him for a possible allergic reaction.
After I left Fay the message about Max’s paintball party, I went out to run errands and pick up Max from school. When I returned home, there was a message from Fay.
“I guess you think I’m a big weenie,” she said. “I’ll have you know there’s a boy over here who is over the moon and can’t wait for Max’s party.”
I was shocked.
“Miss Fay is letting Walter come to my party?” Max asked excitedly. “Yippee!”
I drove Max and a carload of his friends, with the exception of Walter, who is coming with his mother, to an outdoor paintball park. Max and his buddies excitedly pulled on camouflage jumpsuits and protective face masks, and a slump-shouldered pimply teenager handed them paintball guns. After giving them a pep talk about the rules, the teenager stood them in line outside a caged Mad Max–inspired industrial wasteland where two teams of boys were already nailing each other with paintballs.
Max and his buddies squirmed with excitement as they watched the boys currently in the cage, except for Kevin. Kevin was standing by himself in a corner swiping at tears, snot dripping from his nose.
“Are you okay, Kevin?” I asked softly.
He nodded.
“Are you sure?”
Kevin nodded again.
“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to, you know.”
“I’m fine, really,” he said, sounding irritated.
“Okay,” I said. “But if you change your mind, you can just shoot at targets. There’s a target range.”
I found a napkin and handed it to Kevin. He blew his nose, dried his tears, and the two of us walked back to the group. The referee inside the cage motioned for Max’s group to enter. Max and his friends gleefully ran in, all except Kevin, who was shaking and shuffled in last. The referee checked their face masks and signaled for them to start shooting. The boys ran for cover and hid. No one fired.
“I think you guys need to move around and try to find each other if you want to shoot some paintballs,” I shouted into the cage. “Time’s ticking. They’re going to kick you out when your time’s up.”
The boys hesitantly began to inch away from their hiding spots and dart behind others. One of the boys tripped over his feet, left the enclosure, and lifted his face mask. It was Kevin. He was hyperventilating. Tears were running down his cheeks and gooey boogers were dangling from his nostrils.
“Hey Kev,” I said. “Let’s just watch for a while. The guys will come out pretty soon, and there’ll be more chances to try it if you want to.”
Kevin nodded.
“Oh,” Fay groaned. “He got hit on the hand.” Fay was staring at Walter through the fence.
I looked at Walter. His arm was held out slightly in front of him and hot-pink paint was dripping from his fingers. A whistle blew and the boys filed out of the cage. I grabbed Walter as he walked by and looked at his hand. A big red welt was rising on the back of it.
“I think we should get some ice,” Fay said, her voice quivering. “You need to put some ice on that Walter. Here, sit down.” She wrapped her arms around him and sat him at a picnic table. Walter squirmed out of her arms.
“Mom, I’m fine,” he shouted angrily. “I’m fine! Just leave me alone!”
“Here,” I said taking Walter’s hand. “My freezing fingers are as good as ice.” I placed my frigid fingers on the back of Walter’s hand and began massaging the welt. After a few minutes, the bruising and swelling went down and Walter walked off to join his friends.
“Mikey got hit in the face,” Fay said, her voice quivering. “He’s bleeding.”
I walked over to Mikey. He had a small spatter-shaped welt on his cheek. A pinprick of blood was next to it.
“You okay?” I asked Mikey.
“I got hit through the mask,” he said.
“You what!” I said. “How did that happen? Did you take your mask off in there?”
The referee had warned the boys repeatedly not to move their masks once they were inside the cage. If they did, they’d get kicked out.
“Some paint went th
rough the part where you breathe,” Mikey said and showed me his mask. His mask had a huge hot-pink paint splat across the eyes.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he laughed. “I just need a new mask.” Mikey sauntered off to the paintball desk to get another mask.
Fay walked over. “You know Kim, Kim the acute-care doctor?” she asked. “She said she sees lots of paintball injuries. A lot of them.”
I pictured Fay agonizing over this party for weeks, complaining to anyone who would listen. I looked at Max and his friends. Everyone, including Kevin, was swaggering, acting tough, and feeling like a big shot.
When it was our group’s turn to enter the cage again, everyone went in except Kevin. Kevin watched his friends play for a while, then pulled down his face mask and ran in. He scurried behind a huge macaroni-shaped metal air duct, ran and dove behind a metal gate, and ran back out.
“You want to shoot at targets?” I asked Kevin nonchalantly. Kevin nodded and I walked with him to the shooting range. I walked back to the cage and saw Walter fiddling with his gun behind a barricade. Ty ran by, saw Walter, and popped Walter in the knee. Walter started crying and shaking his gun in frustration.
Fay looked horrified. The ref blew the whistle and the boys exited the cage.
“I think Walter’s more frustrated at his gun jamming than being hurt,” I told Fay.
“No, he’s really hurt,” Fay said and ran over to Walter. She began pulling up Walter’s pant leg and he wrestled with her and pulled it back down.
“Mom!” Walter growled. “Leave me alone! I’m fine!”
Fay yanked his pant leg up and pointed to a paintball-sized bruise on Walter’s knee. Walter squirmed, yanked his pant leg down, and jumped in line with the rest of his friends for round three. The boys excitedly bantered about their last shooting spree, and Fay looked like she was going to be sick.
“Do you really want to play again?” Fay asked Walter. “You really don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Walter looked at her angrily. “I want to,” he growled.
“How’s your hand?” she asked him.
“It’s fine,” Walter snapped.
Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife Page 24
