Lights beat down from above, reds and greens and blues. Pulsating rhythms, a gyrating life form of its own. I sit and reach for the beer in front of me, and with its ingestion everything merges into a kaleidoscope of colors and noise that blots out everything that is real, and that is exactly what I want.

     My name is Tom and I am an alcoholic, or at least that is what I said yesterday when my girlfriend Serena and I ventured into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in a musty church basement. I must add that I’m not a real alcoholic; that Serena wanted to go to this meeting, and needed me to come for moral support. She said that she wanted to stop drinking for good; that after the last time she drank, which was the day before yesterday, she never wanted to touch the stuff again. Today, we are here at our favorite club, Captain Nemo’s, same as last week. I watch my lady as she struts across the dance floor. Serena never dances unless she is drunk.

     Serena has been my girl for what seems like forever. I am twenty-eight and she is thirty. We started dating at an age young enough that the two years’ difference between us was cause for contention. I was a lowly freshman and she was a junior. We met in a bar, of course. Or maybe not of course, it depends on whether you think Serena drinks too much; she’s pretty good at hiding her problem, because it was only when we started living together five years ago that I noticed any problem myself. She would hide liquor behind her drawer; I remember the time I came home to my bedroom reeking of alcohol and discovering a broken gin bottle by her cabinet. I cleaned it in such dazed shock that when I confronted her she not only denied putting it there but insisted she would never do such a thing, insisting with such vehemence that I began to question my own judgment. I found myself putting my nose to the floor, trying to see if I was going crazy, trying to find any remnants at all of the smell of stale gin which had allegedly assaulted my sense hours earlier. Perplexed, I went to the garbage can to see if I really had placed the remnants of the bottle there, only to find the can mysteriously empty, devoid even of its liner. It had been a Thursday. Garbage day was Sunday. And then I knew. I didn’t even have to hear the violent smashing of glass from outside as the bag was thrown behind the house, Serena nowhere to be found. I knew then that I was in love with an alcoholic.

     Not that any of this was new to me. Where I grew up outside of Albany, New York, alcoholism seemed as common as raising kids. It was like you were born, you tried to get a diploma, you got married, you got kids, you got alcoholism; not necessarily in that order. When I first heard that the most fatal ailment in America was heart failure, I wondered what kind of world existed outside my neighborhood. Where I lived, it seemed like alcohol was the number one killer, whether it was because of a drunk driving incident, because Old Man Joe passed out on his porch and froze to death, or like my grandfather’s heart giving out at the rip old age of forty-seven after a three week binge. The biggest businesses in my town were Minnie’s Tavern, The Pub Club, and Reynolds’ Funeral Home, the favorite place for family reunions. I met my cousins at Reynolds’, at a funeral for my grandmother. She’d slipped and cracked her head open. I was nine years old at the time, and hadn’t even known of the cousins’ existence until the previous day. I have seen them only once since then, and that was when my mother died sixteen years ago.

     I watch Serena on the dance floor, moving to the beat of TLC’s “Waterfalls”, jazzed up to be played in high style house. Her face is lit up in animation, the booze gives her no pain. I go to the bar and get another beer.

     Later on, I drive her home. It is nearly three o’clock in the morning, and I have to drive to Albany to meet with my academic adviser later today. I am crabby from all of the drinking and angry that I managed to get duped into going with her to begin with.

     I feel the sensation of her hair on my shoulders as I drive. She is like a sleeping child, and I am strongly protective of her. The perfect American couple is reflected in the rear view mirror of my car: her with the perfect blonde looks, her coloring contrasting my auburn hair and eyes with the face that everyone trusts, just because culture told them it was trustworthy. The perfect American couple, out on a date; a date that at once had gone completely awry and yet was strangely typical for them. For us.

When we get home, I carry her to our bedroom, undress her and put her under the covers like a child who has fallen asleep. Despite the coolness of the night, she sweats profusely and her skin is red, as though all the life is burning from her. I fall in next to her and feel her arm across me as she rolls towards me in her stupor. Soon I am asleep, and her beauty makes me forget the she has duped me again.

 

ONE

      I awake to a noise, and the gleaming sun of dawn beams on me radiation poisoning. Every bone of my body aches, and I feel heartburn rising in me like it is Mt. Saint Helens revisited. My ears strain wearily to find the noise that has disturbed me, and I hear raspiness in the direction of the toilet bowl. Suddenly alert, my body responds automatically as it has many times before, rushing to the bathroom to find my sweetheart making love to the toilet bowl. I watch in disdain as she heaves, oblivious of my presence, as the stench of vomit fills the room. It does not smell much differently from the bar we visited last night.

     When there is a lull during her attack, I go to her and embrace her. This is an unspoken ritual between us. In our early years, when the porcelain routine happened less frequently, I would watch her, unable even with all my experience with drunks to know what to do for her. She would cry and beg for me to hold her while I was busy of doing things like worrying about dehydration and replenishing fluids, unknowing of her physical need for me, forgetting until the next time. Eventually I got the pattern down. The increasing frequent of these episodes solidified it.

     She is sleeping again, her body collapsed where she had been in her throes. I carry her slender body back to bed. She is like a feather, and I am startled to notice her ribs protruding through her shirt, ashamed for not having noticed this dramatic a weight loss sooner. As soon as I set her down, I go to the freezer to get some ice. I have the ice trays for the smaller ice cubes, specially for times like these. I take a handful of ice cubes and put it in Serena’s favorite glass from the time we went to Busch Gardens in Florida together. I remember hearing the kids screaming as they went down King Kong. I never had a chance to go down it myself. We spent out day with the free beer instead.

     Six-ten. I need to be up by nine to get ready for my three-day trip to Albany. I am meeting my advisor for dinner at five, and I need to be spiffy and gauche for the occasion. I am being considered for a research grant for social history. If I receive this, it will procure me a position as an instructor at the university as well as full state benefits. The security of a real academic position and money seems like welcome relief after eleven years of odd jobs and intermittent unemployment. Eleven years is almost the entire length of my relationship with Serena.

     I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Sleep evades me though every atom in my body feels like lead. My ears ring and my head wants to implode on itself. In my panic over Serena, I have overlooked my own coppermouth. I lean over her body to grab the remaining ice, which is just about all of it, wile Serena sleeps away. The instant I put the ice in my mouth, I feel a stab of guilt, so sharp that my mind wonders for an instant if I have been physically attacked. I feel like a thief stealing gold.

     I look at Serena. My soul feels dark. A blonde bombshell at first meeting, now a pale ghost just a shade deeper than the white linens covering our bed. She seems to fade into the distance, soon to slip away, never to be seen again.  

TWO

 

I arrive at Albany five minutes before my preordained dinner meeting; despite the best of plans to arrive early and settle in. I didn’t get to sleep until nearly seven o’ clock because of Serena getting up and down all night, so when my alarm clock whined at nine o’clock, I inadvertently shut it off and never woke up until noon. Considering that I had to pack before I got here, luck was on my side as far as timing. I am nervous about this meeting, even though I am only meeting with my advisor today. He is supposed to be on my side, but somehow I don’t believe he really is.

     We meet for dinner at Garbalo’s restaurant in downtown Albany. I feel completely overdressed in my three pieced suit (the only thing I own that is more formal than jeans and a T-shirt) as I greet Dr. Scott C. Arbuckle, who is dressed neatly but casually in a tweed suit. Arbuckle gives me a once over that confirms my uneasiness as he shakes my hand. I make a mental note that when I return home I make trip to the mall, something long overdue.

     Arbuckle is a young guy, probably only eight or nine years older than I am, pretty young for a full professor. He’s got small eyes that are squinted constantly in thought, giving whoever who is at the receiving end of his gaze the feeling that they’re under a microscope. He is not intimidated by anything or anyone, not even someone like me, who works out just about every day and seemingly could take him out in one punch. In fact the first time I wrote a paper for him when I was in undergraduate school, he gave me a D. It had been the first D in my life. I went to his office to protest the grade, and he proceeded to laugh in my face, which really pissed me off. He told me that he didn’t like my attitude, that I thought I was so smart but I didn’t know anything. He was going to teach me humility. I told him I didn’t give a shit about humility, I just wanted a decent grade from him. He rebutted by saying that with my attitude, I was going to be a failure and I was a waste of his time. So I proceeded to spend the rest of the semester trying to prove him wrong. I guess I succeeded, because we wound up being friends after I graduated, and he offered to be my adviser for the duration of my postgraduate work. He said that I reminded him of himself. I have never quite figured out if that was an insult or a compliment.

     Our table isn’t ready when we arrive at the restaurant, so the host leads us to the bar. I feel a sense of relief at the smell of alcohol. I am keyed up and a drink sounds nice after the tension of today. Then I have a sudden vision of all those AA people who hounded me after that meeting, and I feel a sudden wave of disgust. I order a Coke. Arbuckle orders a pina colada.

     “So how is Serena?” he asks as soon as we dispense of formalities such as how was my trip up there.

     “She’s all right.” I am hesitant to bring up the AA meeting, though I tend to share everything else with my mentor. Arbuckle will probe me to find out why I went, when I don’t even know myself. I would rather forget the whole experience ever happened. “She’s still looking for a job.”

     “The ad agency never took her?”

     “They didn’t like her job history.” Serena’s job history is splotchy at best. In the eleven years I have known her she has worked maybe a total of four. The longest job she ever held lasted for six months, and she is always fired. This is not because she is stupid or lazy. Serena is a summa cum laude from Binghamton University. Her excuse is usually that the boss is an asshole and can’t appreciate her. One time she even alleged that a former boss sexually harassed her. The day she was fired, she was too drunk to make it to work. She even got a lawyer who was all gung-ho to take down the patriarchal corporate structure until it was discovered that the day Serena had allegedly been harassed she had most definitely not been at work. The lawyer told Serena in no uncertain terms to get out of her office and never come back. Serena, the summa cum laude, told this good officer of the court to kiss off, and not those words. Since that episode, when she is fired, the boss is just an asshole, not a sexist pig asshole.

     My hazy reverie is shattered by an insistent snapping in front of my eyes. I blink to find Arbuckle waving his hand by my face to snap me to attention. I return to him, albeit reluctantly. We are ready to be seated. Time to return to my life. I do not want to leave the world of my mind.

     Over a dinner of sausage and peppers we discuss the strategy for tomorrow’s interview. Although I don’t usually drink with dinner, I order a beer with my food to take the edge off my discomfort, AA meetings notwithstanding. After a couple of beers, the alcohol has dulled my appetite to the point where I cannot enjoy my food. I watch Arbuckle consume his linguini with clam sauce with gusto. Tinged with jealousy, I wish I could just enjoy life and forget about myself. My anxiety won’t even let me eat.

     “Reincroft is pig-headed,” he explained between mouthfuls of food. “He is also a big lush. That means he has a tremendous ego. A lot of us academicians do, but he more so than others. The world begins and ends with him. So as long as you remember to feed his ego, you’ll be all right.”

     Reincroft is my potential boss. He is the department head of history in Albany. He has a great reputation for speaking and is a brilliant essayist, but is a clinical manic-depressive. He drank to deal with his moods instead of taking his lithium, is what I heard. I wouldn’t have trouble believing it. I met him three years ago after he had given a lecture on the ills of capitalism. I had gone to thank him. His first words to me were, get the fuck away from me. Then he stormed off, leaving a stunned audience in his wake. I wondered if I’d eaten too much garlic or something.

     Arbuckle and I dispense with the business right after dinner. I am glad because I was nervous about dealing with Reincroft again. I’ve never been good with loud personalities. They make me very irritable. The more I think about Reincroft the more irritable I become. Arbuckle treats me to beers and pool with beer being the prize. I win six games and won as many beers. By the end of the night, I am not even thinking of Serena. At least temporarily.

     Arbuckle and I finish our evening at four in the morning. We close the bar down, do two rounds of last call before we leave. I stay at his house, which was closer than my hotel. I didn’t feel like driving for five miles after drinking all night.

     I have trouble adjusting to the settings of my room, given the state of mind I was in. I am not good about falling asleep in strange places, especially when I am half-drunk. I feel like running.

     After an hour of tossing and turning, I impulsively decide to call Serena. I want to see if she is okay, see if she is there, to hear that she loves me. I feel a hunger for her as I reach for the phone. I need her to feed me as she always has. I feel her slipping away.

     The phone rings its customary four rings. My voice comes on instructing me to leave a message and I would get back to me as soon as I could. A lie-- lately we have got back to no one. In fact, Serena hardly ever looks at the machine. Both our voices used to be on it. But no more. Hearing my solitary voice make me feel all the more empty.

     I doze off for an hour or so before Arbuckle wakes me up to drive me to my car. After finally nodding off to sleep, I do not wish to go anywhere, but I have to go to my hotel to change into something more decent. How ironic it was to call a jeans jacket and Dockers more decent than a three-pieced suit, but this suit looked like it had been through the wringer with James Bond, only I am not as suave as he. Besides I would be more comfortable, and I needed all the advantage I could, as nervous as I was, as much as about Serena as anything else. I wonder where she could be.

     I call my house once I got to my hotel, and still get no answer. I have no breakfast but coffee. On the way to the university all I can think of is Serena. I do not even think of the script I have rehearsed for this interview. In my reverie I drive down two one way roads on the wrong side of the road, becoming unable to extricate myself from the mess. I begin to lose my temper, the lack of sleep making me unable to deal with the situation. I almost turned around and gave up on the interview. The hell with getting a real job. Serena and I could be blissfully unemployed together. I made enough of a stipend as a TA. We’d always made it. I would just be a professional student. Hell, that was what I was anyway. Who cared if the neighbors thought we were a couple of hippies. I was sick of being ambitious just so I could prove that I could be, just so I could prove that I was better than what I had come from. I wish I could just throw in the towel. I remember the movie “Leaving Las Vegas,” and wish I could be like the Nicholas Cage character and have the guts to walk away from it all.

     But I didn’t, and by the force of sheer willpower make it to the famed interview. I am afraid that I have made a major faux pas by showing up ten minutes late until I find out from the secretary that Reincroft isn’t even at work yet. He shows up a half an hour later like a hurricane with his tie flying around him and papers strewn about as he wakes me up from a nice catnap. He yells at me to come in his office, and I suppose I have begun my interview with him. For the duration of an hour I heard how the evils of capitalism had destroyed the fabric of the everyday man, thus leading into a shortage of good people who loved history because everyone was taking business courses because everyone wanted to get rich quick. Being a staunch libertarian, I keep my mouth shut. He switches from ranting about the savings and loan scandal of the nineties to how he remembered me from his lecture, sorry he had to leave so soon. By the time he got to this subject I was used to his vast swings in trains of thought. I tell him that his lecture was wonderful. Then he tells me to show up for the job on the first of October. It is only then that I realize I have the job. Flabbergasted, I say that I have to get back to him. Apparently all I had to do to get this job was not kill the guy or walk out on him. The whole interview had been a test. It was the first time I walked out of an interview more confused than when I came in. I want to speak to Arbuckle about it but he is busy meeting with friends on campus today; I won’t see him until tomorrow after dinner. I want to talk to Serena, but it seems that she had deserted me for pastures greener than I.

     I returned to my hotel and drown myself in the indoor pool, trying to swim away my anxieties. Physical exercise has been one of the great boons of my sanity. Without it, I probably would have been certifiable by now. It was good to not have to deal with anyone. For the end of August, the pool is blissfully empty. There are no families with thirty kids ready to decorate the pool with yellow liquid. Serena wanted kids from the early on in the relationship. Sometimes I wonder if she just went to college to find a guy to marry her and have babies, because she never uses her wonderful degree for anything other than something to lord over her “illiterate high school educated family”, as she calls them. So far, the guy, me, has not acted to her standards, except once, and that was long ago. And so far, I have not given her the ring that she alternatively longs for and hates. I have not been the only ambivalent one about marriage in this relationship.

     I wonder if she has left me again. I am not sure why she would; it is not as though we have been fighting. Ever since the job prospect with Reincroft appeared, we have been getting along better than ever. Maybe we are both relieved that my college days are finally coming to an end; it has been a lot to keep up graduate school and a woman at the same time. The job offer means more financial security for us- my odd jobs never provided much. I know that Serena thinks that now things are settled, soon we will get married. Maybe she has left me after all, gone back to the family that raised and hated her, especially when she was with me.

     Serena’s family was never crazy about me. At the risk of sounding racist or ethnicist, they are Italian and I am a WASP, and my being Protestant does not go over terribly well in their world of plastic Madonnas and Sacred Heart of Jesuses. Realistically, I am an agnostic, and after talking with Serena’s father I am sure he is atheist, but in their circles, appearance is what counts, and I don’t fit into their appearance. That and the fact that I’m shacking up with their virgin (who isn’t) daughter. I really don’t care what they think about me, but sometimes I wonder if they even like Serena, or each other, for that matter. Every time I have been there, no one has a nice word for anyone else. In reality I might even be the best treated, because no one has any word for me. I am outsider shunned from their private world of insults. I suppose I should be hurt by their avoidance, but I am not.

     At eight o’ clock, I am kicked out of the pool. I go to my room I call home again, unable to resist the urge. Still no answer. I feel a surge of jealousy, wondering if Serena is with someone else. It wouldn’t be the first time. Trying to dispel it any way possible, I relent and call her family’s home. I would rather her there than other possibilities.

     “Hullo?” the drugged baritone of her perpetually unemployed thritysomething brother Joe drawls.

     I dispense of formalities. “It’s Tom. Is Serena there?”

     “Oh, you. What’s up.” There is chewing in my ear. I pray for patience from a God I don’t believe in.

     “Nothing’s up. Is Serena there?”

     He laughs like I have told him a great joke. I can see the food expelling from his mouth. I am not aware I have said anything funny. “Nah, she ain’t here. Hell, I haven’t spoken to the drunken slut in a couple of years. Why? Is she running around on you again?”

     “She’s not at home.” I avoid directly answering his question.

     I hear what sounds like a cross between a belch and a groan. “You gotta start tightening the reigns on that bitch and show her who’s boss. She runs circles around you. Like she does my dad. She kisses up to him when she needs something or when she’s in trouble then dumps him when she gets what she wants from him. Papa gets furious and swears he won’t talk to her again, but then she comes around batting the baby blues and he’s all mush again. She gonna do the same to you. And you gotta be careful this day and age. AIDS and all.”

     I do not care to discuss Serena’s infidelities with her brother. I make a conciliatory “Hmmm,” and say nothing more.

     “Well, I’ll see you. I always do.”

     “Yeah soon.” I hang up wondering if he was threatening me. With Serena’s family, who knew.

     I call a couple of other people with little luck. The best information I get is from our neighbor across the street who informs me Serena’s car is still in the driveway but that yesterday she saw someone pick her up in a tan Maxima. She couldn’t say that she knew if Serena was home now or if the driver of the Maxima was a man or a woman. She also sounded as though she had found a new tidbit of gossip about the young people, and I regretted having called her. I respectfully decline her offer to see if Serena is in the house now. I had enough problems already. I wonder why Serena hadn’t answered the telephone. That is, if she were home.

     I place together the facts I have: Tan Maxima, no answer all night, Serena gone since the day before. I try to place the car, if any of the three men that Serena has cheated on me with could even afford a car like that. Two were unemployed and one was a gas attendant at Shell (I have since then never graced the presence of a Shell station). Of course, over time things change. The last time was over two years ago. Maybe one of them won Lotto. Maybe someone got a real job. Or, there was the dark possibility that there might be someone new.

     My jealousy almost compels me to drive all the way back home again, despite the fact that tomorrow I had to be here to talk to Arbuckle about my interview. I find I do not care about work now that there seems to be no Serena. I almost go but exhaustion and extreme hunger halts me. I am so tired I almost fell asleep at the wheel, and my stomach angrily reminds me that it had not been fueled since last night’s Italian. A bar’s neon sign in the near distance signals the word “FOOD” to me, though it is haphazardly spelled “FO D”. I beckon to its calling unaware of the adventures that await me.

THREE

     When I get inside, the place is packed wall to wall. Confused, I look at my watch. It is past eight. I wonder what the attraction is here tonight. In tired frustration, I almost walk out when a host touched my arm and guided me to the bar. “Sorry,” she conceded. “Can’t give you a booth. Have to save them for two or more. Boss’ orders.”

     “Is it always this crowded on Monday night?” I ask.

     She nods, a bit perplexed. “Football.” I forgot. The host looks at me in disbelief, an enigma of a man who doesn’t know that the Buffalo Bills are playing tonight, Monday Night Football of all things, albeit preseason. I don’t care. I am too tired to feel embarrassed.

     I am seated between an obese man’s back and an attractive woman who appears at first glance to be too young to be at a bar. She is sipping a beer. There is no food in front of her. A menu is placed in front of me.

     “I wouldn’t eat the food here if I were you,” she volunteers, giving me an excuse to focus my full attention on her.

     She is casually dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, sufficiently tight enough to show off her curves, which were round in the right places despite her petite frame. She was probably as tall as I was, which was five-ten, but she was slender, like a model. She has attentive blue eyes that were too wise to be that of a young adult’s. Only they gave her age away as being somewhere in her thirties. Otherwise she had the appearance of a girl.

     “Do you come here a lot?” Even though it was the world’s most common pickup line, I seems like the natural extension to the conversation.

     She nods in reply. “Every Monday night. to watch the football. I’ve never seen you here before.”

     “I haven’t. I’m from Binghamton.”

     “Just passing through, huh?” She grabs some peanuts from the bar and gestures to the bartender. “Hey, Dave. Give me a refill. And this guy wants--what do you want?”

     “I’ll have a Coors,” I inform Dave.

     “One of them,” my companion says as she lays out the money for the drinks. She gestures with her hand to stop me as I go for my wallet. Despite her androgynous appearance and tastes, she moves with the grace of a dancer. I am intrigued, and I move a little closer to her. Our drinks arrive, and she pushes my beer towards me. “On me. A welcome drink for you.” She raises her glass. “Cheers.”

     “Cheers,” I reply as I accept her toast.

     Dave gives us a knowing smile.

     “Oh,” she indicates, sticking out her hand. “Carla Madison.”

     “Tom Hauser.” I take her hand, which is soft and warm. Her grip is hesitant at first but is firm in an instant. If I hadn’t been paying so much attention to her I wouldn’t have noticed these details about her.

     We spend the time talking, and as the beers pour down I seem to forget what is being said. I gather that she is a painter and is having her work exhibited in New York next week. I tell her I am a professor. I am sick of saying I am a college student. And technically I do teach, except I am only Arbuckle’s assistant. I do not feel guilty about exaggerating. And I do not feel guilty that the woman next to me is not Serena. I am mesmerized by her eyes. Lust at first sight.

     After what seems like days but are probably hours, she asks where I am staying. I tell her that I am staying at the Marriott right behind the bar. She is drunk. I ask if she needs a ride home. She says she can manage. I ask if she would like something to eat in my room. She accepts. I feel as though I am on a train ready to crash and I cannot get off. I am excited at the prospect.

     She stays the night, and she never has anything to eat in my room, and I have not eaten the meal that I set out to get. We settle for each other instead. I take her in my arms, ready to forget all that has passed in my life, ready to begin again. Carla is the first woman I have slept with since I began seeing Serena. I think about this as I caress her to pleasure. I wonder why men are always thought to be the cheating ones. Then I think of a tan Maxima. I think of how many times I have called and no answer. I think of Andrew, of Paul, of Mario, names that were thrown in my face in the dark times. Then I take Carla in my arms once again.

     When I wake up in the morning, Carla is gone. I search the hotel room for a note but there is none. If not for the rising bile in my throat, I would wonder if last night ever happened. As groggy sobriety descends, I think of AIDs and wonder what had happened; that after eleven years of monogamy I have resorted to picking up strange women at bars, but despite the fleetingness of the time together, Carla does not seem a stranger to me. I try to dismiss the incident as a fluke, and half-heartedly bring up the rationalizations that justify my fall last night. They do not seem to have as much weight this morning, the morning after. I wonder who the hell Carla Madison really is. I am wondering the same of myself.

     Nausea rising, I turn to the alarm clock to see the time. It reads eight thirty-seven in bright red numbers. I try to hold onto myself. I want to leave this room with its weird memories that I would rather forget. My mind vacillates between the woman I have loved all these years and the woman of last night, and I am struck how similar they are; both blonde, intelligent, strong on the exterior yet somehow truly fragile. I call my house again, maybe to take away the visions of the one so I can remember the other, but still receive no answer. I go to the bathroom where my guts outdo my willpower. I try to ignore the stench that surrounds me.

FOUR

     I go home tonight, after I have breakfast with Arbuckle. I have an hour to transform myself from a sodden drunkard to the 3.89 GPA doctoral student I am. Every move as I drag myself to the shower and attempt to dress like the intelligent person I am seems like lead.

     When I get to the diner, he acts like the old jackass he was when I was an undergraduate. He didn’t seem to care that Reincroft is in love with me. All he wanted to do was nag me about my dissertation, which to his credence I am very much procrastinating on. Probably his friends from Albany’s history department made fun of him for sending a doctoral student to Reincroft with no dissertation. Arbuckle is overly sensitive to people’s feelings.

     My dissertation is the only thing that is preventing me from becoming Dr. Thomas A Hauser, no relation to the great Doogie, I am afraid. I have more than enough credits to graduate. I keep putting off finalizing my dissertation. I have decided to write of the social impact of female alcoholics, of the inverse relationship their alcoholism has had upon society in the twentieth century and how society has treated them in their disease. All of the alcoholics in my life have been female-- Serena, my sister, my mother. Arbuckle doesn’t think I have enough emotional distance from the subject. But even though I can’t finalize a single chapter, I cannot think of anything else to write. I have been working on it for two years. I still do not have anything more than an outline and six notebooks of mess. Needless to say, Arbuckle is not pleased with my lack of progress. I am reminded of that as he greets me with a lecture. I tune it out until he finally stops talking. No point in arguing with someone who thinks he’s right.

      “What’s going on with you Hauser.” He says that after a dramatic pause yields no response from me. I guess I was supposed to be upset or something at his disapproval. I was long past that by now.

     “I’m just ruminating things in my head; don’t mind me.” I try to make light of the situation. It doesn’t work.

     “Look, you have to get into this. I don’t care if this reminds you of Serena, and neither does the advisory committee. They want a working outline with research. They won’t let you take the job with Reincroft without it, even with my divine influence. And you don’t even have that. And you’ve been working on this what two, three years now?” He gives me a look that read, don’t kid me, kid. “Where’s your cross-study? I thought you were going to give me a cross study. All you have is the inner city material. That’s warped, Hauser. You live in the suburbs. Must I comment on the psychological implications of this?”

     I do not feel like the 3.89 student that I am listening to Arbuckle. I think of Serena. Then I think of Carla. I do not want to be a scholar. I want to throw up like a common drunk. It seems like an easier life at this point. Imagine, I am envious of Serena, as I think of her lying drunk on our bathroom floor-

     “Hauser.”

     The voice of command has summoned me. “Yeah,” I reply.

     “You’re not with me. Were you up partying all night? I didn’t think breakfast at ten was an unreasonable time.” I could think of no reply, but I don’t care. My mouth feels dry and I just want Arbuckle to shut up so I can quench the thirst that tortures me. But of course, he doesn’t. “You know, Hauser, you always do this. You’re my star pupil, your mind is the sharpest I know. But when something big comes up, you get yourself plastered. And I get to deal with a hungover hobo who can’t think straight.”

     Arbuckle gets snotty like this sometimes; he’s pretty moody. His Albany friends must have really got to him this time. Even though I know he has his moments with an attitude like this, it annoys me nonetheless. Why does it matter if I’m hungover when I meet him? I show up, and never drunk, unless he’s the one buying beers, as he did just the night before last. Why did he treat me like his scapegoat? I am ready to lace into him, but he is already standing, throwing some money on the table. “You know, I think we’d better hold off on this until we get back home,” he suggested, pointing to the dissertation. “In the meantime, I think you should honestly think about whether you really want to pursue your doctorate. From the looks of it, I would say you’re not.”

     Then he was gone. I am pissed. I have no idea what had gotten into him. I wonder if he is going to report me to the dean, or tell Reincroft not to bother with me. To have this on top of Serena’s disappearance and my affair with Carla is too much for me. In the bright late August sunshine as I sit at this quaint outdoor cafe, I feel deathly insecure of myself.

     I contemplate about what I should do with myself now. I am finished here, so I could go home if I wanted to, but I do not want to anymore. I am afraid of what I will find there. I go back to the hotel room I wanted to escape before to find it seems a haven to me now, away from anyone I know. Instead of checking out like I intended, I remain there, not wanting to deal with anything related to reality. My mouth desperately wants something to drink, but I am too tired to attend to its needs. I crash on the bed, ready for oblivion, when I feel something nudge my back. I reach over to discover Carla’s bra. I sigh. Even when I try to run away, I always catch up with myself. Someone at the meeting said it. I sigh again. Me, the nonalcoholic at an AA meeting, identifying with a bunch of drunks.

     As I doze, a hazy sense of the meeting come back to me. Strange how it was only five days ago; it seemed like ages had passed since then. I felt afraid the whole time I was there, claustrophobic. I heard things there that my memory did not want to hear. They talked of horrors I had endured at the hands of my mother like it was everyday conversation, like the nights she didn’t come home and left Denise and me to fend for our prepubescent selves; how she threw up and passed out in the streets. Not only did they have the nerve to talk of things like this like it was small talk, they laughed at the things they did; laughing at actions that had tortured me for most of my life, like it was some great comedy that they wrecked the lives of people like me with their drunkenness. I did not find any of their stories funny, while they did. I Maybe that was why they were drunks and I was not. I still had a conscience.

     They’d been going around the circle talking with their can-you-top-this-drunk stories when they got to me and my Freudian slip. I hadn’t wanted to say anything, but they kept coaxing me to at least share my name, and because I heard it so much in the last hour, I wound up saying, I’m Tom and I’m an alcoholic. Then after the meeting all these guys came up to me and shoved little pieces of papers with their phone numbers written on them in my face. I looked for Serena to save me but she was getting the same thing except with all the women. I felt like the zombies were closing in.

      The meeting concept had been Serena’s fault. She had been picked up for shoplifting in a liquor store, and the storekeeper said he wouldn’t press charges if she went this AA meeting that met in the Presbyterian church on Thursdays. She came home with this story, scared out of her mind, and I had this vision of this big brute ready to assault her, and she asked me to go with her for moral support. I was nervous about her going to AA to begin with; from what I could tell it seemed like a cult with no guru and allowed you to go home to your wife at night. I once had an acquaintance at the university who went there for a couple of months and had to call this guy every day at eight o’ clock who was supposed to be some kind of sponsor, but I had no idea what he was sponsoring. Well one day, the sponsor got drunk, and told my friend to go to hell. Someone must have told the sponsor to go to hell too, because my friend never saw the guy at a meeting again. My friend saw him drunk on the street a few months later, and he got a phone call from his wife a year later, saying that the sponsor was dead. I see my friend at the university Rathskeller every so often, and he’s doing well. He swore he’d never get caught up with those alkie crazies again.

     But someone was ready to drag my Serena right into it. Damned if I would let it happen.

     I feel the fear again. Outside forces determining my fate, subjecting me to something I did not want to experience. I am twenty-eight, a man. I want to control my destiny. I didn’t want some esoteric force of people controlling my life. I had too much of that for one lifetime.

     I feel the fear again, compelling me to call Serena once more, and nothing greets me but the echo of silence. Her absence rings deeper than the desertion of infidelity. She is gone. Nothing left of her but my memories. It is like she was never there.

 

   

FIVE

 After killing a couple of unthinking hours at a diner drinking coffee to let the maid clean the debris of perfidy, I returned to my haven locked away from reality. I did not move from where I was for the rest of the day, grateful for clean pillows without the smell of booze, sex or Carla on them. I double-bolt the door to lock the real world out. I see no reason to go home. I think of this morning and of how I wanted to leave. I still didn’t want to be here, but the prospect of dealing with anyone at this point was worse. Then I see the blinking light on the phone. Nervously I call the front desk, wondering who the mystery message is from.

     There was not one mystery message, but two, according to the precise hotel clerk. The first was from Serena. There was no phone number, and the message was succinct and vague, only saying that she was somewhere safe and that I should not worry. That kind of message made me only worry more. I wonder if she is at safe at Mario’s house or whatever guy’s house has the Maxima. Next was a message from my sister Denise, an occurrence rare enough in itself. Her message indicated that I should call immediately, anytime. The receptionist relays this in a tone that implied that he thought I have something kinky going on. If only he knew. I wonder if the cleaning people procured Carla’s bra for his voyeuristic pleasure as well.

     I sift through my address book to find my sister’s number. I wonder if her calling has anything to do with Serena’s whereabouts. I sincerely doubt it; my sister and Serena, while more decent to each other than the Cisellis are with me, are hardly more than cordial to each other. Denise has always thought Serena to be a bad influence on me. This is coming from a woman who has been married three times before the age of thirty-five.

     On the second ring, Denise’s third husband, Nigel answers the telephone. “Hullo? comes his British pique. “Is this Tom?” he surprises me with his instant recognition of me.

     “Wow, you’re good.” I offer. It is rare that I am impressed with my brother-in-law.

     “Not that good. Denise has been waiting all day to hear from you. How are you? How was your interview?”

     “Good,” I offer suspiciously. “I start in October. How did you know about it?”

     “Serena told us.” At least I knew this was about Serena. Relief flooded me followed by a new anxiety. I wonder why she is with my family and not with hers. I hardly hear Nigel as he continues, “Listen, let me give you Denise. She’s nudging me. And old fellow, congratulations.”

     Good old Nigel, without a bad word for anyone. I never trust someone like that. “Thanks.”

     There was a pause featuring fumbling noises as the phone changed hands.

     “Tommy Boy!” Denise exclaims like we were long lost drinking buddies, which we are whenever she falls of her wagon. At present, she was on the wagon. That was why I had not heard from her lately. “You’re up in Albany! I hope you’re not getting yourself in any trouble.”

     “Now why would I do anything like that?” I banter with mock sincerity.

     “Well,” she quips, “we know the answer to that. But your secret’s safe with me.” I am left to wonder if she was joking or if she knows something I don’t, or something I did, for that matter.

     “Do you know something about Serena?” I want to get to the point, sick of pointed pleasantries.

     “Yes I do,” Denise turns matter-of-fact. Her MBA voice. “She called me. She needed help. So I got her and brought her back here. She decided to go to a detox.”

     “A detox?” I nearly scream, sure I have heard wrongly. “Detox? What happened? Is she okay?”

     “Calm down, calm down. She’s fine. She’s at Belmont U. She got in the night before last.”

     The night before last would be Sunday night. My thoughts race wildly. Last night, my lover was suffering withdrawal in a hospital and I was out getting laid. My throat constricts, and to my bafflement, I felt enraged.

     “I left several messages on your machine. Then Serena let me know today that you were in Albany. She said you had an interview. Poor girl, she was in such bad shape this was the first day that she was coherent.” There is a pause. I am perplexed by this guilt trip she is laying on me over someone she barely talks to. It must be the inexplicable bond of recovering drunks. “So how’d it go?”

     I am caught off guard. “How did what go?”

     “Your interview. How’d it go?”

     “Oh, good. I think I have the job. I have to get back to him.”

     “Great! So you’ll be living around here.” She suddenly sounded less than enthused.

     “Yeah, I will.” I wonder how she can make small talk at a time like this. Then again, it isn’t her lover. They haven’t been close. Which brought me back to wondering why Serena called Denise and not me. I thought I was her soulmate. “How is she?”

     “Like I said, today is the first day she’s been coherent, so she’s doing better. She was in bad shape when I got to your house, bottles lying everywhere. She was passed out on the couch. I was afraid she had poisoning, but she was okay. She seems to be coming out of it now.”

     I am silent, too numb to speak.

     “Listen, Tom, this isn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s probably good that she got a little scared. People don’t get sober when drinking makes them feel good.”

     Spoken like a true recovering alcoholic. I try to remain polite. “How are you doing with the drinking?”

     “Good. Three months yesterday,” she informs me like a five year old announcing her birthday. Last time she made it to eight months before she fell off the wagon. “Look,” she continues, “Serena’s going to be in the detox for three more days. She wants to go to a rehab afterwards. Do you think you’ll be able to visit the detox before she goes to the rehab?”

     Being that I was only half hour away, I would be a jerk if I didn’t go, even though the idea of visiting a detox gave me the creeps. I had visions of zombies walking around doing the Thorazine Shuffle. I think of Serena being amongst them. I shudder. “I’ll be down tomorrow. I’ll check in at the Owl Motor and swing by your house. When are you going to be there?”

     “Come by anytime. I’m on vacation. And, Tom, don’t go to Owl Motor. That place is such a dive it should be condemned. You could stay here on the couch. You know, sometimes I like to see you, too.”

     I smile into the phone, grateful that she couldn’t see. Despite our differences, I miss her too. She was my only family. “All right.”

     “Try to get here by eleven. The hours only run from twelve to two. No exceptions. Afterwards we’ll catch a bite to eat and up on each other. It’s been too long.” Too true to disagree over that one.

     I can’t sleep that night. I go to the university library at eleven, hoping I will stop thinking of Serena, and stay until it closes at two, trying to find the data for the suburbs that Arbuckle wanted. I am still wide awake. I go to an all-night drug store and buy a bottle of Ny-Quill. When I get to my hotel room, I guzzle the bottle, hoping it will kill the curse of insomnia. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I take the last drop. I look like a homeless lush from Penn Station. Disgusted, I throw down the bottle, and make it to my bed just before I collapse. Soon I am asleep, and I get to escape reality for awhile.

     SIX

     I arrive at my sister’s house ten minutes late, which is more because of a traffic jam than my hangover from my Ny-Quill binge. It took hitting the snooze button about fifteen times and a whole pot of coffee just to get myself out of bed, but I was fine once I got started.

     When I reach Denise’s house, all seems the same as the last time I was here three months ago, except for the offending tan Maxima of my suspicions. And to think that all this time I suspected it had taken my Serena to a lover. I just begin to feel myself sinking into shame when Denise’s bounding out of her house prevents the downfall; her dark shoulder length hair flowing around her like a young girl’s. Only a blind person could not see we are related, we look so similar. We are almost like fraternal twins, except she showed up five years earlier than me.

     I get out of the car and we face each other, awkward at what we should do. We settle on a handshake, and she bestows a quick kiss on my cheek. She leads me to her modular home, which is gently nestled into the landscape of the Adirondack foothills. At thirty-three, my sister has arrived.

     Actually, in terms of the house, it was more like twenty-nine. This was Denise’s home from her second marriage, and though her ex would say otherwise, I knew she paid for it with her own money. Even the judge thought it that way. She was the one with the job, not him. If I have given the impression that Denise is a backwards drunk going from man to man just to survive, then I have given the wrong impression. My sister graduated from SUNY Albany with an MBA. She is has been a buyer for Sears for the last eight years (I am a poet and I do not know it). She is a genius, but unfortunately has a short span for work and men, hence six jobs in nine years and three marriages in six years. Poor Nigel. I suspect he is too infatuated to know he is doomed.

     We drive immediately to the hospital. Neither of us say much. When Denise is dry, she talks less. It makes me wonder if underneath all her drama and wild antics she is really a shy person. Today I do not mind quiet. I am too nervous to really want to talk. The last thing I want to do was to see my girlfriend in a detox. But here I am.

     Unfortunately, when we get there, reality meets my worst expectations. We are searched before we go in, forced to go through a metal detector and a barricaded door before we even get to the reception area. There we had to show proof of who we were. I hear the sound of a human hyena coming through the walls. I had no idea that this was a flight deck, that Serena would voluntarily lock herself in one, or that my sister would let her do so. I give her a dirty look. She shrugs her shoulders. “They haven’t constructed a separate facility for the detox. It’ll be ready next year. Besides, they considered her a suicide watch because she almost poisoned herself to death.” Now she tells me.

     I am nauseous as we proceed down the hall. The antiseptic smell floods my brain. The hyena-like scream returns at a higher pitch. The puke blue walls made me feel like we are in a prison. Then I see bars on the windows, and I know I am in hell. How could Serena get well in something like this and not at our home?

The attendant gestures to a room adjacent to the reception area. At the doorway, my gaze confronts a wild eyed man with an IV. He stares me down, and bursts into laughter when he catches my eye. It chills me.

     I barely escape past him without touching him, but I do. The crazy man is led away by the attendant who brought me here and the door is closed behind him. It is quiet here, and it is the most pleasantly laid out of all the rooms so far. It looks like a youth room in camp, with mismatched couches and pillows lined up against the room. There were many large windows, the curtains billowing with the summer breeze. And by the one in the corner stands my Serena.

     She is dressed in sweats, smoking a cigarette. Immediately I panic, remembering that Serena quit two months earlier. I wonder what kind of sobriety this is that advocates dying of cancer over having a few drinks. I can’t believe my eyes. I want to yank her from here and take her home where I know she will be safe and not be brainwashed by psychobabble.

     My anger is interrupted by the warmth of her embrace. It melts the anxieties I have had for the last few days. She is real, she is here. I have a flash of Carla’s body; and I pull away from Serena. She sheepishly smiles, and puts out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

     “I thought you quit,” I couldn’t help commenting.

     She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I lied.”

     Denise jumps in, I suppose to fend off an argument. She asks of Serena’s progress, and they engage in a short conversation full of rehab lingo. I am anxious once again. I want to see Serena, yet I do not. She swears a lot as she speaks to my sister. Watching her light up her cigarette, I wonder who this woman is. She is a street tough unlike my girl. Sharp. Biting. One that has little qualms in lying to me. I suddenly regret coming here. It is at that instant that Denise decides to give us time together. I watch as the door closes behind her. Serena and I eye each other. She gestures to the couch behind her and we sit facing one another. I feel as though I am on a blind date.

     “How are you feeling?” I ask politely.

     She shrugs. “It’s a little crazy here. I’m looking forward to going to the rehab to get some real rest.”

     “How much is it going to cost?” From what I heard, these rehabs could be a real rip-off.

     “Oh, I’m not sure. It’s for six weeks. I checked it out on my Cobra, and they’ll cover it. So I’m paying only twenty percent. It’ll probably only be a couple of thousand dollars. It’ll be worth it. I’ll be a whole new woman.”

     From what I could see it wasn’t worth it. Besides, we were in debt. Did she think-- oh wait. A dark thought passes through my mind. Did she decide to pull this just as I was getting a real job? I wasn’t even married to her. They were ruining her here. Was her family paying for this? I sure didn’t want to. Not after all the years of hard work that it had taken for me to get where I was. I didn’t want to throw the first two months of my salary on this crap. An engagement ring sounded like a better investment to me.

     “Tom, I’m leaving for the rehab on the first. Could you come with me? Having you there is very important to me.” I am warmed as I hear the voice I have come to love. I hope that the chain-smoking woman I see before is just a bad apparition as I reach out to kiss the woman whom I once loved.

     She smiles at me nervously when we pull apart. I wonder if they have some kind of law that you’re not supposed to have physical contact here. I feel like I’m in high school.

     “I guess you’re wondering, what happened. To get me here.”

     I nod. Something crazy must have happened for her to want to stay at a place like this.

     She must have sensed my thoughts. “Actually, nothing dramatic happened, at least to an outside eye. It’s almost funny when I think of it. I ran out of money for beer.”

     I look at her, thinking I have heard wrong. “That’s it?”

     Serena nods her head resignedly, the way she does when her mind is made up and not in the mood to fight. “Yep, that’s it.”

     I sit, trying to figure this out. The girl had gone nuts calling my sister and landing herself in a psycho ward because she ran out of cash. I don’t understand. I feel like I’m in the middle of a bad joke. Maybe she did belong in a place like this. I wonder what that said about my integrity. Serena takes my hands in hers, and I look into her blue eyes. They show concern, compassion. I wonder why she thinks I need it.

     “I don’t know how to really convey what I went through so you can understand it. I know it sounds weird. I don’t really understand what happened to me either,” she began. “All day Sunday when you were gone, I drank. And the more I drank, the more I wanted it. I was like a maniac, consuming all I could. It didn’t even feel real. I felt like I was watching myself do these crazy things, ripping through the house just to find any money and alcohol that I could. I couldn’t stop myself even though I wanted to. I even went next door and banged on the door just so I could borrow money from them. Luckily, they weren’t home, but I didn’t think I was so lucky then. I almost put my fist through their window, I was so pissed that I wasn’t going to get more fuel to feed my fix. Somehow I got home. And I sat on the couch crying, thinking I should go down to the bar and have some guy buy me drinks.” I cringe, thinking of what I personally did the last time I bought drinks for a woman, or more exactly, she bought for me. Serena is seemingly oblivious to my reaction, continuing her monologue. “Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the book I got from AA, and I began to cry. It wasn’t so bad when I was drinking and didn’t want to stop. Now I wanted to stop and I couldn’t. I picked up the book and began reading it from the beginning. They mentioned that there is the phenomenon of craving that only occurs in alcoholics. It was what I just experienced. They said that a spiritual experience has to take place in order for me to overcome the urge to take that first drink, because once I took that drink, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I suddenly understood what they meant about being powerless over alcohol. That’s when I decided to call your sister.”

     “And when you decided to come here,” I finish. She nods in assent.

     A pregnant pause sits between us. Serena breaks its waters. I am unable to think of what to say. “How did your interview go?” she asks.

     Considering how anxious I was about this interview before it happened, I am really sick of everyone asking about it. “Good. I have the job if I want it.”

     Serena smiles, but her eyes close infinitesimally, as they do when she is sad. “Good for you, sweetie. You’re so smart. Unlike me.” I do not know what to make of this statement. I regard the pale, wan chain-smoking figure of my lover. Every aspect of her life has been shattered by drinking. Every aspect, except for our love. I am still here. But there was nothing else for her, while I had a future before me. I feel a stab of guilt, self-effacing at my repulsion when she said she wanted to go to rehab. “Do you think going to a rehab is going to make you happy, Serena?” That is all I want for her. Happiness.

     She sighs, a wry expression on her face. “I don’t know if happy has anything to do with it. I have no other choice. I can’t stop drinking.”

     I am silent. My world is unfamiliar to me now. Just four days ago, everything was as it had been for years, and now everything was in complete turmoil. I feel unsure of what to do. I did not know what to do with a lover who was signing herself into a mental facility.

     Serena puts her hand on my shoulder. “You look scared,” she says tenderly. “Are you?”

     “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “This is all pretty sudden.”

     “We’ll be all right,” she said confidently. “But I’m scared too. I’ve never been sober for any length of time, at least not since I was twelve. I don’t know what to expect out of a sober life. But it’s got to be better than how I have been living.” She pauses for a second as she turns her gaze to the window. “I don’t want to die,” she says quietly. She lights a cigarette as she muses.

      There is nothing left for me to say, so I watch her as she smokes, wondering what will come of us. When she stubs her butt out, I embrace her, feeling that as long as I can touch her, she is not a dream; she is real. Much time passes until I hear the low sound of a door being gently shut, and reluctantly break with Serena. Denise is there, watching. She smiles at us.

     “We have to go,” she quietly informs me. She goes to Serena, touching her hand. “We’ll see you soon.”

     “Yes,” Serena concedes. They hug each other goodbye. I notice an affection between them that I never saw before. Over the last few days, Denise has struck something in Serena that I seem to have never reached with her. I feel a twinge of jealousy, wondering where in eleven years I have gone wrong. I feel desperation as I kiss her goodbye, feeling my life irrevocably changing as the flight attendant locks the door behind my sister and me and escorts us back to the real world.

SEVEN

     After we leave the detox, Denise and I go to a diner to have something to eat. The restaurant is dark, with rich brown paneling that did not allow for much light through its windows. I feel like I am in a bar. The last time I visited Denise, this place was non-existent, in its place acres and acres of overgrown weeds. I muse how civilization destroys nature as I greedily order a bacon cheeseburger with mushrooms and fries with a cola; too early for beer, I decide. Denise orders fried chicken with a vanilla shake. She has never been the type of woman who is incessantly on a diet. Nor does she need one.

     “So, what do you think,” she begins as the server presents us with our beverages.

     “About what?” I ask, though I have a good idea of what she means.

     “About this whole rehab thing. Do you think it will be good for Serena?”

     I shrug. “You tell me. You’re the expert.”

     She gives me a level look over her drink, one that she reserves for disagreeable business clients and errant little brothers. “I’m no expert. I’m not God. I’m just a recovering drunk.”

     “You mean you’re not the president, just a client.”

     She doesn’t laugh.

     “Joke. Hah-hah,” I encourage.

     “Hah-hah,” she counters without a trace of humor. She is still waiting for an answer to her original question. I am still getting the disagreeable business client look. Or the errant little brother look, whichever.

     I shrug again. “I don’t know what to make of these rehab places. They seem like a big marketing ploy. I mean, look at you. You didn’t need to go to one. Do you think that Serena’s any worse off than you were?”

     Denise hesitates. “Honestly?” I am not sure if I want to hear ‘honestly’. I wonder if we are marching back into old battlegrounds of the Continuing Saga of the Ciselli-Hauser War. But I sense no animosity in Denise’s expression, so I let her continue. “I think she is. Serena is a depressive type of drunk. When she called me, she said she wanted to die.” I squirm. I remember going through binges like that with Serena, keeping a constant vigilance on her in case she decided to do something crazy. Denise seemingly mistakes my uncomfortability for alarm. “Don’t worry. She didn’t do anything to harm herself other than the binge drinking. What I meant was that her drinking has brought her to a deeper emotional low than I ever experienced. Maybe that’s why she’s going in of her own volition. I sure wouldn’t have if no one made me.” Denise’s original foray to AA was mandated by court when she got arrested for DUI. She and Nigel were driving back from their wedding reception, a strange omen for a marriage. Sometimes I wish it had been Nigel behind the wheel, because then maybe I wouldn’t be dealing with his snobbish London attitude. As Denise pauses, my mind drifts for a second. I imagine Nigel being behind those bars instead of Denise, and am startled when I realize the image matched that of my father’s. My father was a happy drunk, just like Nigel. My father used to bartend his major bashes, Nigel owns the establishment that he bartends for others’ bashes. I never quite made that connection before-Denise has married our father. I wonder if I have been sleeping with our mother.

     “I went to the grave the other day,” Denise says, uncannily picking up my vibes. This happens so frequently between us that it fails to shock me anymore.

     “Why did you do that?”

     Denise raises her eyebrows diffidently. “I guess I felt well enough to see them without wanting to kick Dad’s grave over.”

     “Or Mom’s,” I add.

     She gives an imperceptible nod. “I still hate them,” she admits.

     “They’re not even worth that. It gives them too much power.”

     She shrugs. “What can I say? They were my parents. I’ve always wanted to love them. But I can’t, so I hate them instead. It’s the opposite side of the coin, but at least it’s the same coin.”

     I say nothing. I have nothing to say. I hardly ever think of the con and coward that gave me life and my name. I don’t even think of them as Mom and Dad. That would imply there was some kind of parental love or responsibility, and I never knew that from them. Denise had been my mother, father and sister all wrapped in one. I wonder who took care of her. Maybe that is why she keeps switching men, looking for the perfect parent to take care of her. I gave up looking for anyone to take care of me a long time ago.

     I steer the conversation away from the likes of rehabs and morbidity. We speak of Reincroft and Arbuckle, my upcoming life. She tells me about her work, how Nigel is still pressuring her to have kids. She doesn’t want any. She says that her biological clock must have come with dead batteries. I know what she really means. She and I want to stop a lineage that shouldn’t have been in the first place.

     That night I sleep on the couch in Denise’s living room, a firm brown leather thing that has been a fixture of the house as long as she has been living here. Whenever I sleep on it, I feel as though I’m the proverbial patient in the psychiatrist’s office. I am tired, but have to wait for Nigel and Denise to vacate the area before I can get any sleep. Nigel keeps blabbing on and on about God knows what, and by nine-thirty I want to kill him. Just when I begin to regret not staying at Owl Motor, Nigel excuses himself and goes to his bedroom. Denise stays with me until Ally McBeal is over before she leaves as well, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead before she exits. Just like she did when I was a kid. Then she is gone. Finally, I have peace and quiet.

     I glance at my surroundings in the pale moonlit light. There are photographs everywhere, mostly of Nigel’s family. His family might be crazy, but not as crazy as mine, and at least they say that they love him every so often, which is more than you could have ever said about mine. I see several pictures of me, mostly without Serena, pictures of my graduation from high school and college, and a single photo of each of her ex-husbands, one of Jerome, her first husband, when they traveled around the country in a beat-up van, him with his Afro, she with hair down to her knees, back when Denise did everything to rebel against who she was. And one of Donald, the man I never met and never wanted to meet, because anyone who lay a hand on my sister was my enemy. Denise and I never spoke during that time. She fell into her worst drinking at that time, and she met Nigel soon after her second divorce at the bar he owned. At three years of marriage, Nigel has lasted the longest.

     There is only one picture of our parents. It is a picture of the wedding day in nineteen sixty-three. It seems so antiquated and unreal that it looks like a cartoon. How significant that analogy is, for their marriage certainly seemed like a joke to me.

     I remember little of my father other than the parties and the violence. My father would use any excuse to throw a wild party and invite everyone to get plastered at it. People came from all over the neighborhood to get drunk at my father’s parties. I never recall a moment’s peace in my household. I hated it, much for the noise itself as because of the fear of what would happen afterwards, once the party was over, when we would be alone with a father who had drank too much.

     I was ten when my life changed forever. Denise had just been emancipated by the courts at the tender age of sixteen; the legal system thought the big bad world was safer for my sister than my family. I was just about to go into the system myself, when the system came looking for me. One particular day at three in the morning, the doorbell rang. I was the one who answered it because my mother was passed out, I was the one who saw the blue uniforms with no one to protect me, I was the one who shook my mother to wake her, vainly looking to her for refuge but getting none, the last of times that I would be with her that way. She never woke up that night. The uniforms put her limp body in the back seat of the patrol car, and one of the cops gave up his seat in the front so I could be protected from seeing the mother that was about to be booked for child negligence. I was driven to the jail where my father, the original reason why the uniforms came to my home, was booked. And I saw my father, my drunken, violent father, the happy drunk gone sour, screaming through bars like a caged animal wanting desperately to be free, vainly pushing against them; angered at something that was not bending to his will on demand. I was grateful for the bars that separated us.

     I was later to learn that my father had been involved in a bar fight. Not the typical one that was cheerfully laughed of with a round of beers for all. No, this time my father had to go out and kill someone. My father, the murderer. He had done his son proud.

     I was placed with a local church family, the MacDonalds. The justice system deemed it fit that my father lose his freedom temporarily and that my mother should lose me permanently. Being sixteen and still in high school herself, Denise was considered to young to be my permanent guardian, so the MacDonalds retained custody of me, the Christian thing to do, I suppose. The whole trial was a joke. My mother was a pathetic slob, pleading not to send her husband to jail, her Charlie would never do anything like kill someone. And she was such a good mother. So what if she got a little drunk. Who wouldn’t drink if her daughter deserted her. Everyone in the town was out to get her. My mother’s antics disgusted me, even at the young age I was. I did not want her near me. The last time I saw her, I told her I hated her. I was eleven then. She cried, and never saw me again, and never tried to. She and my father were dead less than two years later. In an act of poetic justice, my father was killed in a jail brawl. My mother was obviously unable to live without the promise of his abusive love, for she killed herself two months later with a handgun bought to protect against intruder. The only intruder wound up being on the inside. She grieved more over her drunken murderer of a husband than the estrangement of her two children.

     Denise became my guardian after my parents died. She was almost nineteen then, legal to drink though she’d been at it for years. It was a relief to be with the one person I could trust. The MacDonalds were more than happy to get rid of me, for I had become a blemish to their Christian sanctified home. I was never beaten physically as I had been with my parents, but I never felt the love of the God that the MacDonalds were so bent on preaching to others. I felt like nothing more than a brownie point to Heaven. If that was what their God was about, I didn’t want any part of Him.

           I play a staring game with the wedding picture, anger burning more and more into me as the picture gains its edge on me. I finally knock it over with my foot, but it has been etched into my mind. False smiles, false dreams. I fall asleep remembering what I would rather forget.

EIGHT

     I made it to the third day before I had to go to Owl Motel. It was the day before Serena was making her great trek to the rehab. When I visited Serena, it seemed like Denise had more to say to her than I did. They were of a world that I knew nothing of, the two women who I thought I knew best. The walls were closing in on me, going to the rehab and hearing about the famous twelve steps, and coming back to Denise’s home where she existed in a culture that I did not understand, full of meetings and Higher Powers and strange phone calls in the middle of the night. I could deal with Denise better when she was drinking. When she was sober, I felt like I was an ant under a microscope, much as I did when I was with Arbuckle. So on the third day I left her house before anyone got up, and left a note saying that I would see them tomorrow at the rehab. Tell Serena I said hi. I felt like I was sending a salutation to a distant co-worker.

     The first few hours I am at the motel, I an happy. It isn’t the Waldorf, but it is functional; the place smells like an ashtray, and the sheets on the queen-sized bed are almost as yellow as the bedspread, but it is comfortable to lie in. There is a small dark brown desk with a matching chair that in its prime had a probably had a plush red cushion. Now it just has a red cushion. But it will do. It is quiet and peaceful, a relief after the claustrophobia from the last few days. I even get a working outline done for my dissertation. By the time I lift my head from my work, night has fallen hours earlier. The alarm clock reads eleven fifteen. I stand by the window, watching the still nothingness below me, hearing nothing but the buzzing neon hotel sign. The dark hole that had visited me a few days earlier when I realized Serena was missing comes back. I wanted peace to work, so I could think. Now that I could think, I do not have peace. The demons follow me everywhere.

     I hear a low rumble of laughter coming from somewhere on the ground floor. Startled, my eyes and ears pinpoint its source, recognizing the tavern that is adjacent to this place, which I had pointedly ignored up until then. It is a pretty run down place; gray from neglect, erosion and time feeding on it. Not a place worth remembering, but in my lonely state, it seems inviting. Besides, maybe a couple of beers would stimulate my thinking juices so I could pull an all-nighter and get Arbuckle off my back, and dispel the uneasiness that is growing in me. I take my notebook and go.

     When I arrive there, I happen upon a loud dart game in progress, owing to the noise I heard in my room. They barely notice me as I make my way to the bar. I sit at the far end, away from the game, and order a Michelob. The bar section itself is empty. Most people in here seem intent on gambling their paycheck on the dart game, except for one person besides me; a bearded fortysomething man, who is so ensconced in hair and flannel I can’t tell what his size and shape are, sitting several seats away from me. He gives me a cursory nod which I return. I scan the bar again. Much to my relief, there are no women. No trouble for yours truly to get into. I feel like I am in enough already. After a gulp of beer, I open my notebook, looking forward to a night of beer-drinking and work.

     I just begin writing notes when the Bearded Guy speaks. “You a writer?” He gestures to my notebook with his drink, which looks like a rum and coke from where I am sitting.

     “Nah,” I reply without looking at him directly. I go back to writing. Maybe he will take a hint and go away.

      He doesn’t. “Oh. Too bad. I thought I was meeting a celebrity. So, what are you? College student? Nah, you look too old. Though they go to college real late nowadays, right?”

     “Yep. No age barrier to go to college,” I say, sipping my beer, my eyes still riveted upon my work. I have no idea what the hell I am writing.

     “Yeah. Unlike construction.” He gulps his drink. I can hear it from where I am sitting, and I realize with all the noise this guy is making I am not going to get anything done. I sigh, putting down my pen. The bartender refills bearded guy’s glass with rum and coke. I congratulate myself on my earlier presumption of the guy’s drink. Maybe I could forget this whole thing with Reincroft and become a bartender on a tropical island, away from it all. Bearded Guy has gotten himself on a roll. “I just got laid off last week. After nineteen years, just like that.” He makes a feeble attempt at snapping his fingers. “Now I’m here. The whole rest of my fucking life ahead of me.” He snorts. It sounds like he is coughing up phlegm. I take another gulp of my beer, surprised when I notice that I have already reached the bottom of the glass. Bearded Guy notices my dilemma. “What are you drinking, sonny?” he asks.

     “Michelob,” I reply.

     “One Michelob for the gentleman,” he announces to the bartender, raising his glass, “on me. And give me a Coors while you’re at it. Can’t afford too many of these fancy drinks on an unemployment check.”

     “Thanks,” I say as the beer arrives, resigning myself to spending the rest of the evening with this guy.

     “Name’s Gary,” he says, reaching out a hairy hand.

     “Tom,” I introduce myself as I shake it.

     “Nice to meet you, Tom.” He gulps his beer. When he comes up for air, he says, “Don’t see you here too often, do I?”

     “No. Last time I was here was three years ago. For my sister’s wedding.”

     “Oh. You visiting again?”

     I nod. “I’m staying at Owl Motor.”

     “Oh. Three years. Don’t come around too often to see your sister, I take it.”

     “No.” I hope the plan isn’t to excavate my personal life. Luckily it isn’t. The conversation was just an excuse to get into his.

     “Family. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.” Gary shakes a hairy head. “My old lady took off with my kids last year. I’m not allowed to see them unless she’s there ‘cause of the courts, but I always get a bill from her. She says she’s afraid of me, but when it comes to money, she sure as hell ain’t scared.” I look at Gary and he looks at me, answering my unasked question. “Not that I ever hit her, mind you. I never hit her or the kids. Never got close. But she says they’re all scared. It’s because of this.” He raises his glass. “Loni says I become someone she don’t recognize when I drink. I can’t even see the kids if I drink. Not even one beer. They all smell my breath now when I visit.” He finishes off the brew. “I don’t get it. She and I met in a bar. We had all our dates in a bar. Fifteen years of marriage, she tended bar. Now all of the sudden, she don’t like me drinking. Doesn’t think it’s good influence on the kids. I say, big deal if they copy the old man. Loni and I were kids when we met, and we turned out okay. But no one listens to me anymore. I’m just the one paying the bills.” He scowls. A roar comes from the dart game. We both turn to look at it; some guy is slapping some other guy’s chest in a good-natured way. I’m not sure what they’re happy about, but I am glad someone is. Gary is looking at me, so I look back at him. “What about you, Tom? Do you have a family?”

     “I live with someone.”

     “Oh. Do you.” Gary nods. “You love her?”

     “Sure I do.”

     “I love Loni. Always have, always will. I’ll never love a girl the way I do my Loni.” He fixes a glassy glare on me. “We’re still married, you know.”

     “Really.” I polish off my beer. It is promptly refilled.

     “Yep. She still hasn’t filed for divorce. I keep thinking it’s because she still loves me. I mean, wouldn’t you think so?”

     “Yes,” I concede.

     “She wants me to stop drinking,” he laments into his glass, finishing it off.

     The empty glass is promptly refilled.

     I leave the bar at four-thirty in the morning. Gary and I are the last ones there. Rich the bartender stays after closing time and has a few drinks with us before kicking us out. He has to be back at eight to open, he explains, otherwise he would be glad to have us stay as long as we liked. He always likes customers like us.

     I can’t get to sleep when I return to my room, even though I am dead tired and my whole head feels like a cotton ball. I want to call Serena; then I remember I couldn’t call her where she was. I am angry at her for not being there for me, for being the recovering junkie she was becoming. She doesn’t even sound human anymore, as far as I was concerned. She spoke in rehab-speak. “First things first,” “keep it simple, stupid,” etc. She sounded stupid. Now she teamed up with some kind of sponsor to tell her what to do. She was so vulnerable, and this rehab cult marched right in and took her over. I am scared for her. I can’t get her out of my mind. I spend a sleepless night staring out at the neon sign, suddenly looking forward to eight o’clock when the bar opened again. It was strange, I forgot what the name of the place was, but I didn’t care. I needed a friend.

     Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes to the opening bell. I take a shower. A painful shower. I bump my head on the shower head twice, and the water pressure is so low it takes forever just to wet my head. I forgot to buy shampoo, and the Owl is too cheap a dive to provide shampoo, so I am stuck using soap. My head will itch all day all day now. Not something I want to deal with after getting no sleep, but I have no choice.

     I looked through my backpack for clean clothes. There are none. I feel like a disgusting bum as I put on clothes from two days earlier. Why hadn’t I washed my clothes at Denise’s house? Why had I been so disorganized? I see Serena smiling her rehab smile, telling me “first things first.” I tell her to fuck off.

     I go down to the bar wondering the whole time as I was going there why I was going so early to a bar. I hardly ever did anything like this. It was a beautiful day, the crisp dawn giving birth to a warm late summer day, the leaves showing just a hint of color, birds announcing the arrival of another day, but inside where I was falling apart, it all meant nothing to me. Rich is just unlocking the door when I get to it. I feel relief, like I am a desperate drunk. It makes me sick to be this way.

     “Oh, good thing you’re here,” Rich said. “You forgot your notebook here.” He goes behind the bar and hands it to me. I am relieved and embarrassed, toying with the decision of whether to have a beer or not. The smell of alcohol at this hour of the morning makes me nauseous, but maybe a beer will take the edge off of it. I got a Michelob and am surprised by a phlegm-like snort coming from next to me. I turn to see Gary. I say hello, but only get a grunt in return.

     “Surprised to see you here,” I begin, somewhat uneasy in the change of behavior from last night, sensing a fight. “I didn’t see you. I thought I was the only one here.”

     “Gary’s special,” Rich explained. “I always let him in as soon as I get to work. He’s always here. Right pal?”

     “Where the hell else would I be?” His speech is slurred. Even though I could take him down easily, he makes me feel nervous. I could see where his wife was coming from. “So you’re a fancy college boy, huh?”

     “Shut up. You’re drunk.” I snap.

     “Oh, fuck you Ivy League. Look at your smart-ass self. In here at eight in the morning sucking a beer like it’s your mother’s tit. Fuck yourself.”

     “Look,” I shove my face in his, anger rising. “You can be a fucking idiot if you want to be, but keep it to yourself. Shut your mouth. It isn’t my fault you’re an unemployed asshole.”

     “You’re an asshole!” Gary slams his beer down. “I worked fucking hard my whole life! Now you fucking kids with your fancy educations fucked me in the ass and put me on the street!” Just as he is ready to push me off my chair, I jump up and grab his arm. Rich springs out from behind the bar and wrestled Gary to his chair, admonishing him to keep quiet. I finish off my beer, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. I stick my finger in Gary’s chest, my heart flooding adrenaline through me like a rushing flood. “You’ve got a fucking problem,” I say.

     He returns my stare. I feel like his eyes are seeing right through me. “Look at yourself, Ivy League. Look at yourself.”

     I walk out of the bar only to be blinded by the morning sunlight. I hate this world.

NINE

     After the fiasco with Gary, I drive around in circles trying to regain my equilibrium and composure, debating whether I should stay here in Albany like the good lover I wasn’t and accompany Serena tomorrow to Rehab World, or go home to the only place that I could feel like myself. After about an hour of deliberation, my car seems to decide for me, heading away from Albany on I-90 instead of towards it. Away from Serena and Rehab World. Away from Denise and stark memories of the past that I would rather not remember. With much relief, I stumble into my home three hours later, barely recalling the drive. Sinking into my fifteen year old La-Z-Boy is a delight. I do not have to deal with amateur psychotherapists ready to poison the mind. I feel safe in my own space.

     I fall asleep for a few hours, only to be wakened up by the sound of the phone. Not wanting to bother with anyone I let the machine pick up the call. It is Denise at her nagging best, laced with the honey-sweet touch; no let’s all modulate: “I know the issue of Serena going to rehab is difficult for you because things will change, and maybe she’s making you take a look at yourself. But Serena loves you and she needs you with her. So try to get back up here if you can tomorrow. It’ll be worth it.” A little rehab and all of the sudden Denise and Serena are best friends. Well, my sister always liked it when people thought the same way as she did, and right now that wasn’t me. I shouldn’t be surprised about this new love of Serena.

     The sun reflects shadows in my apartment that I hadn’t remembered seeing earlier. The clock tells me it is five fifty, so I had managed to get about five and a half hours of sleep today. There is still time for me to get a good run in. I need to feel the rush of adrenaline that running gave me. It would also be nice to be somewhere where I couldn’t be reached.

     The feeling of fresh air is exhilarating, especially after the emotional claustrophobia of the last few days. When I was in high school, I was on the wrestling and track teams. It always seemed to get out the aggression I that was my life, and I was better able to deal with people without wanting to go for their throats. Once I got to college, and paradoxically, once I met Serena, my interest in sports almost instantly dissipated. Serena was my new drug. Now that Serena is not here, I am returning to my old vice.

     I return at eight o’clock. Night has already fallen; I must have lost the sense of light as I ran. I avoid the phone the rest of the night, though it rings several times. I make a pretense of working; my own ruse surprising me when I finish a chapter from my notes in less than three hours. After the third time of the phone ringing, I turn the radio loud enough so I cannot hear it.

     My earlier nap makes me unable to sleep that evening. Considering that I only slept five hours in the last two days, I am wide awake. At midnight, my stomach reminds me that it has not been fed anything but beer and peanuts for the last thirty hours. After surveying my empty refrigerator, I decide to head down to the local diner and get a hamburger.

     Though ordinarily I would have a lot to choose from, being this is a college town, the 24-hour diner, bar, and gas stations are the only things open at this hour. Even the fast food joints are sleeping. I drive to one of the gas stations to buy a magazine, so hungry that I almost buy one of the overheated cheeseburgers sitting in its incubator, but I manage to restrain myself with an appetizer of potato chips. I buy a TIME magazine and head for the diner across the street.

     It is quiet at the diner. The overhead TV announces the final score of the football game, Colts over the Bears, 38-14. I think of what I’d been doing last Monday when the football scores came in. I dismiss the memory and sit at the counter. A server who I’d never seen before hands me a menu. There’s always a big turnover here. Nothing seems to stay the same.

     “Hauser?” a familiar male voice calls behind me. “Hauser? That you, loser?”

     I turn to see my friend Mark Graham sitting at a booth. He is my oldest friend, next to Serena. He and I were college roommates as freshmen. In our sophomore year, he decided that he wanted to go to Hollywood and become a famous actor. Three years later he came back with a pregnant girlfriend. They got married, and I was the best man. Now he was divorced and making at a canning plant. I haven’t seen him for weeks.

     “Hey, Graham, how are you doing, buddy,” I greet him with a manly hug.

     “Sit over here dude. Don’t be a stranger.” He indicates to the seat opposite him. I comply, much to the annoyance of my original server, who lost me to the other server. There is stiff competition for tips at this time of night. I am surprised they even have two of them there. The new server wastes no time in staking out her territory. I’ve never seen her before either.

     “What will you have honey,” she coos with chocolate silk.

     “I’ll start with the chowder and some Coke.”

     “My name is Marcy if you need anything,” she says with a wink. She makes her way to the kitchen, swinging her hips as she goes. Anything for a tip, I suppose.

     “How come you’re not having anything?” I ask Mark, seeing only the coffee cup before him.

     “Ate already. I’m here on lunch break.”

     “Lunch break? Since when do you work the graveyard shift?”

     “Since I took a second job,” he states, motioning to the counter server with his coffee cup for a refill.

     “Wait for Marcy,” she says sarcastically. Mark shrugs and returns his attention to me.

     “What’s this about a second job?” I ask. One thing Mark Graham isn’t is a workaholic.

     “Michelle’s in kindergarten,” Mark said. “She’s more expensive now. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” He gives a slight shrug of his head. Marcy reappears with his refill and looks at me questioningly. I shake my head to inform her that I am not ready to order dinner yet.

     “So what kind of work are you doing?” I ask when she leaves.

     “Security guard. I still work the afternoon shift at the factory, then I come here for dinner, and then I work from one to seven at the dorms, six days a week.”

     “Wow. How long has this been going on?”

     “Since June. That’s why you haven’t seen much of me. Too busy earning a living.” Mark downed his coffee before continuing. “I’ll tell you, Tom, you have it made. Don’t get married. Just live with the girl. Maybe if I didn’t have to settle down, I’d really be somewhere today. Like you.” I think of my undone dissertation and grimace. Mark does not seem to take notice. “I go by the dorms where we used to live. Remember the parties there? I remember when you and Serena got together then. You guys were blown out of your minds. You’d just met each other that day, remember? She was so shy of you in the beginning, but by the end of the night--” He let out a low whistle. I find myself giving a small smile at the memory. “How is the mistress, anyway? I didn’t know she let you out at this hour of the night by your lonesome.”

     I am about to answer when Marcy reappears with my soup and soda. Mark got more coffee and began flirting with her. As the two bantered back and forth, I fix my attention on Marcy. She was very young, nineteen at the most. This was true of most of the girls who were here. If Marcy was lucky, she was a college student trying to make ends meet, but if she was like some of the young women here, she wasn’t; she’d married too young, had children too young, had too many children, and maybe was working now just so the electric wasn’t cut off, or she was working so she could achieve some sense of financial stability so she could leave her husband, or because she was the only one around to provide any support. Serena was one of the lucky ones. Her intelligence helped her escape this road to hell; she’d gotten a scholarship to attend university, God knows her family would have rather kept her down. But now, at thirty, instead of being the best she could be, she was stuck in a psycho ward. I am envious of Marcy whether she is a student or a wife, for her man would hold her tonight when she came home. Suddenly a hand waves in front of me. I snap out of my musings to find myself gawking at Marcy. She gives me a quizzical look, and I apologize. I quickly change the subject by ordering a cheeseburger and fries. I watch as she goes back to the kitchen.

     “Little young for you, isn’t she?” Mark asks. I am disorientated. It takes me a moment to refocus. Mark gives me a look like I was from outer space. “Jeez, what’s the matter with you tonight? You’re acting like somebody hijacked your brain.”

     “Not enough sleep,” I inform him.

     “You and Serena fighting again?”

     “Not really. We’re just having a difference of opinion.”

     He looks at me like I am an idiot. “Isn’t that what fighting is?”

     I shake my head, not in disagreement, but resignation. “Let’s put it this way. Serena put herself in a rehab, and I don’t think she should be there.”

     “A what? A rehab? You mean like a wino rehab?” I nod. “Oh, man. She doesn’t belong in one of those. Hell, if she does then you and I should be permanently locked away in a nuthouse.”

     “She was in one of those.”

     “Excuse me?” Mark exclaims in either sheer confusion, disbelief or both. I empathize with his bafflement.

     “That’s where she was. In a nuthouse. She went to a detox first, and they didn’t have a separate facility in Belmont U.”

     “Where the hell is that?”

     “Albany. Near my sister.”

     I am being regarded like a lunatic. “How’d she get up there?”

     “She called my sister while I was away on business.”

     Mark shakes his head. “I can’t believe you let Serena go to a nuthouse.”

     I feel a pang of guilt. I still feel as though I could have talked Serena out of this rehab bullshit somehow. I don’t need Mark to rub it in. “What control did I have? She’s an adult. Besides, I told you, she did all this when I was away on business for an interview. By the time I found out, she’d been in the rehab for two days.”

     “What are you interviewing for?” Mark seems relieved to find an out to change the subject.

     “Research. It’s at SUNY Albany. It’s mine if I want it.”

     “Oh.” I saw the despondency in his face. Mark was smart, smarter than me, even, but his whole life had come to a halt when he fathered Michelle. I felt strange talking of my success to a man who was on a midnight lunch break between two jobs. “Is Serena moving with you?”

     “That was the plan. Now I don’t know.”

     He shakes his head. “Women wreak havoc in a man’s life. Just be glad you’re not married. Imagine if she pulled this rehab scheme on you if she was married? What a bill you’d have. You’re not paying for it, are you?” he belatedly inquired.

     I thought of Serena’s cobra bills and chronic unemployment. I was suddenly glad that I was single. “No, I’m not.”

     “Be grateful for that. Hey look. I have to get going. Are you free Saturday night? I have this weekend off. We should get together since you’re lady’s gone. It’s been awhile.”

     I hesitate. Visiting hours at the rehab were on the weekend. Denise made sure I knew that. But I really don’t want to be bothered. “Sure, I’m free,” the words came out. My true subconscious had spoken.

     “Great. Why don’t you meet me at McKay’s?”

     “Sure.” I am suddenly looking forward to a bachelor’s night out. “How about ten?”

     “Sounds good.” Mark stands and shakes my hand. Marcy arrives with my burger.

     “Here you go, sweetie pie,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. Mark gives me a wink as he walks out the door.

     That Friday, I begin work at my regular job as Arbuckle’s TA. He still wasn’t talking to me after our little incident in Albany. I didn’t care. I was glad to have somewhere to come to so as not to think of my problems at home. I was relieved that I would be getting regular money. Ever since my summer teaching session ended in early August I’ve been bankrupt.

     But once work finishes, my head begins to spin. I still hadn’t heard from Serena. It was beginning to bother me. Even though I didn’t want to talk to her, I still was mad that she hadn’t at least tried to call me. I felt like she was messing with my head. Even when we’d broken up and she was with other men she stayed in touch with me. So why wasn’t she calling me now? Shouldn’t be the one trying to call me? But I had left her. Maybe I was the one who should be calling her. I sit in my couch, flipping aimlessly through bad TV, going back and forth in my mind, blaming her, blaming me, wondering if I should sacrifice my Saturday so I could hear the joys of hey, man, recovery. I can’t stand to be in my own head. If someone offered to trade his or her brain for mine at that moment, I would have jumped at the chance.

     I was driving myself crazy. I wind up going to McKay’s, staying until three in the morning, trying to drive Serena from my mind. It doesn’t even work. I can’t get drunk, no matter how many screwdrivers I down. This happens to me, usually when I need to get drunk the most. My feelings don’t let me squelch them no matter how much I want them to die.

     I can’t get to sleep that night, despite my exhaustion. I am in a state of bleary-eyed obsessiveness over Serena’s desertion. When I needed her most, she wasn’t there. I still can’t believe she hadn’t called to tell me how she was. She knew how I needed her. We always could sense what the other one needed before all this. But maybe she didn’t care anymore. This newest realization sticks in my head like a knife in my gut that I couldn’t extract. I cursed, taking my cordless phone and smashing it against the wall, thinking of Serena. I watched as the phone splatters against the wall, dismembered plastic everywhere, the phone’s battery dangling in a dismembered fashion, lifeblood shattered on the ground. I feel a deep satisfaction in its destruction. Something got to pay for my misery.

     Later on, in the midst of Saturday morning cartoons, the phone rings from my bedroom. The machine informed me it was Serena. She tells me that she is looking forward to seeing me later on that day. I smile, knowing that vengeance is mine. For I am not going.

     I raised the volume on the TV to drown out her voice.

 

TEN

I leave my house at about eleven thirty that morning in search of solace. Being in the same house that I had shared with Serena for the last six years was really getting to me. My conscience constantly reminds me of her, our commitment to one another, and where I should be if I really loved her. But she had changed. I didn’t want to sacrifice any of myself for someone I didn’t know anymore. But, my conscience whispers, that someone, albeit altered, was still Serena. I hope a change of scene would still the disquiet in me. Something has to.

     I drive around aimlessly for some time, only half aware of my surroundings in my sleepless state, driving on the highway, getting off, getting on again. I wind up giving the finger to a few people who cut me off, the last one being a Harley-Davidson looking guy who’d me a good run if we got into a fight. Lucky for me, all he did was give me the finger back and call me certain words that should not be said in polite company. I had to get off the road. I am aggravated and overtired. I seek the nearest refuge that I can find, which unfortunately was the lake where Serena and I spent much of our summers. I am so tired that I don’t care. Maybe I could get a good nap on the beach; the sun always made me drowsy. The idea was very appealing to me, even with the Labor Day crowd.

     Serena and I spent every summer here for as long as I could remember. The first year we were together, we’d sneak here after it was closed and make crazed love in the darkness, the mad passion of new lovers. Serena was still living at home, and even though I lived on campus, Mark took over our room practically night with loud parties. Serena and I were like a married couple with kids trying to sneak in as much alone time as possible. The lake worked well for us until we got caught. We’d been so drunk that night that we didn’t even see the night watchman until he was directly above us shining a flashlight in our faces. Our night escapades became all the more exciting after that.

     After college, Serena started to come here by herself. I discovered her here after a fight, one of those insanely trivial fights that are fought for reasons so important at the time but are forgotten the next day. Serena left our home, and feeling bereft, I drove around looking for her. I found her at the lake drinking beer with a guy that looked just like a model for Michelangelo. I remember feeling more betrayed at her coming to our place without me than her flirtation. The lake lost its magic for me. It just became a place to go when there was nothing else for us to do, to act like the nineties family we were trying to be, having a weekend together. I have no idea how much Serena comes here on her own now. I stopped checking.

     There is a couple about the same age as Serena and me, playing with a toddler. I watch as the child gleefully scampers about in the sand, the man chasing him about in a game of tag and the woman putting the final touches on a sand castle that the child presumably made. All three are cheery and happy. They could have easily been a Norman Rockwell painting. They also could have just as easily gone to high school with me. I wonder what the hell went wrong with my life that the simple joy of taking my child to the beach with my life partner isn’t mine.

     Serena and I never discussed getting married, at least not in a serious way. Once, about three years ago, Serena brought home a bridal magazine and left in on the coffee table, a vague hint that I should broach the subject, which I never did, and that was the last time a magazine like that ventured into our home. Sometimes we would discuss it like it was some kind of “what if” game: what if we had been married all these years, what if we had kids. Serena always asked this last question. I would cringe when I heard it. It was one of those morbid forays into a past that couldn’t be changed, and I never wanted to go there with her. It usually was preceded by the fatal, “Do you know Alex would have started kindergarten this year?”

     I knew and didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to call “him” Alex. I didn’t want to attach a name to a ghost.

     Serena had been twenty-four at the time. We were not planning a family yet, nor did we know we would have had one until it was too late. We had been at a friend’s engagement party when we got into an argument. Serena nagged me that I was drinking too much, and I yelled at her to shut up. She stormed out and left the party. On the way home, she rear-ended a truck. She would have been fine, except she hadn’t worn a seatbelt, so she slammed against the dashboard and bruised her head. She began to bleed vaginally, which was totally out of sync with her other injuries. She had such cramps that I thought she was bleeding internally. When we got to the hospital, we found out that Serena had a miscarriage. We estimated she had been about three months pregnant. With Serena never being regular with her menstruation, we never even suspected. After the miscarriage, Serena insisted on having a memorial service for it. The baby was named Alex Ciselli-Hauser. Serena always called it “he” even though we never knew if it was a boy or a girl. And “he” would have been five years old, this ghost that I created but never met.

     Soon after the miscarriage, Serena was living with me officially instead of the four days a week that she was doing. It was never discussed; one day, I was living by myself, the next, Serena was there with me. I came home to find her crawled into a ball by my doorstep with a suitcase next to her. Her father had found out she had a miscarriage somehow, how he found out, I never knew, and threw her out of the house. Even I, the consummate bachelor, could not turn her way, and she has been with me, more or less, ever since then. Until now, that is.

     I am alone again. I could comfort myself that I could have my freedom once again. I could chase Serena down that rivers of her new journey, but I knew that where her travels were taking her would was not where I wanted to go.

     I drift off, wondering what it is that I am fighting for.

ELEVEN

     When I wake up, it is pitch dark. I have lost my bearings, unsure of where I am. I realize I am still at the lake, and a familiar adrenaline rushes through me; it was as though Serena was right by my side again, the two of us rebels with a cause of hormones. But she is not, and I feel empty. I remember that I am supposed to meet Mark, and look at my watch. I am startled when I read ten-twelve. I have been asleep for nine hours. Even if I went straight to the bar I would be late. I am astonished how long I have been here and that I have not been caught. I wish for Serena to be by my side to have experienced this long solitude.

     When I get to the bar, it is ten fifty. Mark is already there, and from the level of slurring in his voice, had been there for awhile.

     “Oh, there you are,” he grumbles. “Just called you a few minutes ago. Thought you weren’t coming. I thought maybe Serena convinced you to join her in the nuthouse. Loony Lust.” He laughs at his own joke.

     I don’t laugh. I am irritated at hearing Serena’s name. I came here to forget her, not talk about her all night. “Haven’t joined her yet. How was your day?”

     “Good, pal. You visit the wench today?”

     I shake my head no. He gives me such a look of surprise that I feel embarrassed.

     “Why the hell not?” he demands in a loud tone. Several people stare at us, and I feel all the more embarrassed. I look at his drink and want to gulp it down. “You dumping her or what?”

     “No,” I am steaming, as much at Mac the bartender for flirting with the ladies at the other end instead of serving me as at Mark for being such an idiot.

     “Man, the lady’s going to be pissed,” he volunteers. It is the last straw for me.

     “Shut up,” I say pointedly, knowing I am on dangerous ground, knowing Mark is one person who could probably take me in a fight.

     “Say what?” Mark regards me with incredulity.

     “I said, shut the fuck up. I don’t want to talk about Serena, or any fucking woman for that matter. Shut the fuck up.”

     Mark gives me a dark look; something deep inside me buzzes. If it is fear, I do not recognize it, nor would I even be inclined to listen to it even if I knew what it was telling me. But the moment of blackness soon passes; Mark gives me his affable grin. “You need a good stiff drink.. Forget that piss you drink, you need more than that. Let me get you an Iced Tea. Take it from me, your pal.” A friendly clap on the back, and all is well again.

     I take his advice (which he was happy to assist me with) and lay off the soft stuff. A few iced teas, some rum and vodka, and Serena Ciselli seems little more than a figment of my imagination. The last time I’d gotten blown away on hard liquor was when Denise married her hubby Nigel. I don’t remember one iota of that evening; apparently I was the life of the party dancing with all the women on the floor and on all the tables. Serena was all too happy to report this to me the next day in her hungover rage; she made me promise that as long as she was in my life that I was never to touch hard liquor again. And so I had, until ten-fifty tonight. Besides, I didn’t feel like I was with her anymore, anyway. What promise had I broken?

     Time seems to jump from my downing a shot of tequila on a dare to lying in the backseat of a familiar moving car. It takes me a minute before I figured out that it is Mark’s car. Somehow I must have fallen asleep and Mark decided to drive me home. I look at my watch: it reads two twenty eight. I had gotten stinking drunk in less than four hours. I have no recollection of the evening save for a few hazy moments. I wonder where it went. But then I am glad that it is gone.

     I spend the rest of Labor Day weekend at Mark’s apartment. I’d forgotten how much fun he was. Serena never liked Mark; she thought he was too much of a bad influence on me. Well, I laughed more with him in twenty-four hours than I had with Serena for months. The time I spent with Mark reminded me how free I had been before I knew Serena. We watched football on Sunday, watching the Bills clobber the Steelers 35-10. We played cards at his co-worker’s house, and we drank this dark rum that someone bought from St. Thomas. It was the best stuff. I even won seventy-eight dollars at blackjack so the weekend cost me nothing at all.

     Monday night came, along with the realization that I had to go to work the next day, which was disheartening. I figured that I would leave at eight so I wouldn’t be tempted to stay for the game. But then Mark got a bet going with some people and I wound up putting some money on the Giants and the dark rum appeared again. I didn’t go anywhere.

     It is nearly one o’clock before I leave. It takes all the power I can muster so as not to pass out behind the wheel. My vision was so blurry I feel like I am legally blind. The four miles to my house seem to take years. I, the staunch agnostic, give thanks to God, or whoever it is that thinks (s)he is in charge, when I drive into my driveway without incident, telling him (her) that I’d never get drunk again like that if I had to drive. Maybe if (s)he was really up there, (s)he’d help me.

     The house feels strange when I enter, like a mausoleum. It does not feel like my home. I see the answering machine angrily blinking its red light, telling me that I have six messages. In morbid curiosity, I play them back.

     First message, Saturday, one-thirty. Mark, sober. “Hi, buddy. Just checking to see if you plan on showing up tonight. Guess you’re hanging out at the psycho ward. Okay. If you get in before nine, call me. If not, I’ll see you later, hopefully. See ya.”

.         Second message, Saturday, four fifteen. Serena. My heart drops instantly at the sound of her old sweet voice. “Tom, where are you? I’m worried about you.” Pause. “Tom are you there?” Pause. “I hope you’re on your way. Please call the nurses’ station if you’re not coming.” She suddenly sound like a telemarketer. So much for a sweet Serena. I could have been speaking to the hospital receptionist for all that last sentence was worth.

     Third message, Saturday, five-thirty. Serena. “Tom, are you there.” Sharp. Insistent. The rehab-bitch is back. “Tom, pick the fuck up.” Pause. “If you’re not here by six o’clock, don’t bother coming. Ever.” A loud noise; the phone being slammed down.

     Fourth message, Saturday, ten-forty. Mark, drunk with much noise in the background. “Dude, it’s ten-forty. You coming? The bitch kidnap you or what?” Drunken snorting. “All right. See ya.”

     Fifth message, Sunday seven a.m. A piercing dial tome. I wince and hold my ears as I skip to number six.

     The sixth message was Denise. I feel my heart in my mouth. “Tom, where are you? Serena was expecting you this weekend and you never came. If you were too busy partying to come and visit, the least you could have done is call her.” There was a pause. “No wonder why I married so many assholes. Look at the men I have to look up to.” The phone slammed down, the loud dial tome in my ear once more.

     I went to bed with its sound resonating in my hear.

TWELVE

     The next day at work is a day from hell. It is an ad/drop day; all the students I saw the first day of classes were leaving and whole new unfamiliar load was coming. Arbuckle puts me in charge of the influx, which meant I spend most of the day signing kids in and out of classes. The mass indecision I was witnessing was appalling. Most of the classes were three-hundred levels, which meant that most of these kids were juniors and seniors. I couldn’t believe their immaturity. When I was their age, a mere six years ago, I didn’t remember people being so confused as these kids. I certainly wasn’t. I knew who I was and where I was going. I guess that isn’t true anymore for the children of the next generation.

     On top of the blizzard of lemmings marching to and fro, Arbuckle is called into a departmental meeting at three, which meant I had to take over his three o’clock class. I have a headache to begin with from last night’s partying, but by the time three o’clock rolls around I felt like a hand grenade ready to explode. I want to kill Arbuckle for sticking me with his class. I have no idea what was going on. It was only the second time the class had met, so I just went over the syllabus. Half the kids had just added into the class anyway. I missed going over the structure of the women’s movement, which was what Arbuckle had scheduled. Screw him. He should have cancelled the class. I ended the class in thirty-five minutes.

     Little did I know that it wasn’t the end of this wonderful day’s antics.

     When I come home, there is a familiar car parked in my driveway. A tan Maxima, to be exact. My sister, who else. She is sitting on my porch; but at my approach she stands up and storms towards my car. I swear loud enough that I hope she hears, ready to hit reverse and pull away, but she has already grabbed my door handle to my car and swings the door open before I could even change gears.

     “What is wrong with you?” she screams in my face. “Are you some kind of asshole or something?”

     “Hey look, fuck you--”

     “Don’t talk to me that way.”

     “What, it’s okay to call me an asshole but I have to treat you like you’re queen? Screw this.” I grab the door from her and am ready to slam it shut when Denise blocks me.

     “All right, all right. I’m sorry. I overreacted,” she concedes, “but we have to talk. Can we do that?”

     “Sure,” I accedes, not wanting to seem too ungracious of her driving three hours just to tell me off. “Just don’t kill me and we’ll both be happy.”

     She sits down at my kitchen table once we get inside. I look through the fridge for something nonalcoholic, hoping that Denise won’t notice all the beer. If she does, she doesn’t say anything. Luckily for me, I find two spare sodas.

     “How’s Serena?” I ask, hoping that will cut to whatever point Denise wants to make so we can get it over with. I doubt my sister drove three hours to come over and curse at me just so she could say hello.

     “Adjusting. It’s a different life, the sober life. Everything is new for her.” She takes a sip of her soda. “If you really want to know how she is doing, then you should see her yourself.”

     “Does she even miss me?”

     “You’re not her first problem. But she misses you. She wonders why you’re not there. She feels that you liked her better drunk, and that hurts her.” I wince at the subconscious truth that Denise has touched upon. I am not ready for her next question. “Are you cheating on Serena?”

     My body feels as though it was weighted with lead. “Why do you ask that?”

     “A friend of mine mentioned that she had a one night stand with someone recently. It sounded like it could have been with you.”

     I try to act puzzled, but I know I probably sound defensive. “What did she say?”

     “So I guess the answer is yes.”

     “I didn’t say yes or no. I just wanted to know what kind of stories people are saying about me.”

     “I don’t think she knows you well enough to mess with you on a personal level. She said the affair was with someone she never met before. I just figured it was you. Her name is Carla. She lives outside of Albany. A couple of weeks ago she stayed in the city, and picked up a guy who was from Vestal, who was at the university for an interview, so I figured--” she shrugs as she sips her soda. I hear my heart thundering in my chest, like I am about to be buried alive. “Oh, and she said his name was Tom Hauser. She even wanted to know if we were related.” she calmly hammers the last nail into my coffin. “If it makes you feel any better, I said we were related through Adam and Eve.” She nudges me affectionately. I manage a smile.

 Denise’s expression turns soft; she takes my hands in hers. “Look, sweetie, you forget that I’ve known you for twenty-eight years. I can read you the way you read me. I’m sorry if I’ve come off like a self-righteous asshole. I’m worried about you, and getting yourself mixed up with Carla. It’s not that I’ve excused Serena’s past because she’s a woman and that I’m coming down on cheating on her because you’re a man. I’m always on your side. It’s just that I know how much time you have invested in this relationship and how much she means to you. And I do like Serena. She’s the best woman you ever dated that I’ve seen; you have a lot in common. Besides, Carla is extremely mixed up. Her husband is violent.”

     I jolt upright. “Husband?”

     “Yes. She’s unofficially separated.”

     “How unofficial is unofficial?”

     “Unofficial enough that her husband doesn’t think that they are.”

     I feel my blood drop.

     “You are drinking more, aren’t you,” she said. I go cold again. I pull my hands from hers. She does not relent. “Your eyes are glazed over like you’ve been partying all weekend.”

     “I had a hard day at work,” I counter defensively. She gives me a look that makes me feel like an errant child.

     “Sweetie, you have so much going for you. Even if you and Serena don’t work out together, you have a great future. You have a brain that I could only admire. Don’t throw it away on account of booze.”

     “You’re saying I’m a drunk?” I am only half-kidding.

     She sighs, and I knew she would never answer that directly. It was the great prime directive of her fellowship not to label anyone else an alcoholic. I wish she would just cut the shit and tell me her honest opinion, because I know it already.

     “Look, Denise. I appreciate your concern. But everything in my life is fine. So I get a little tight on the weekend. A lot of guys that I know do.”

     “Like Mark?”

     I shrug. I do not want to get into how I spent all weekend with him.

     “Besides, Tom, with all the education you have, you of all people ought to know that you don’t have to be a homeless beggar to have a problem. It never starts out that way. Even Mom and Dad weren’t that bad all the time.”

     Our parents. I do not particularly appreciate being compared to them.

Especially by someone who was a drunk herself.

     “I didn’t say you were exactly like they were,” Denise says, apparently reading my mind. “But you know the statistics. Everyone in our family has had a problem with drinking. Chances are you do, too.”

     Alcoholic. I hate that word. I think of my bleary eyed mother slurring her words, yelling at space creatures who were not there. Vague impressions of my father throwing furniture across the room, his red face looking like it was ready to explode, blood vessels protruding from every corner of his head. I shiver in disgust.

     “Where do you know Carla from?” I ask. Anything to get off the subject of our parents.

     “Just a friend.” I knew what that code meant. Carla was one of her recovering drunk friends. Except when I saw her, she wasn’t recovering from shit. I as much said that to Denise.

     “Tom, it’s a disease.” Denise informs me. “Just because she had a relapse doesn’t mean that she isn’t trying to recover.”

     I hate this crap about alcoholism being a disease. It was a bullshit excuse for lack of willpower and AA meetings were just a drug to replace it with. People let themselves go and drank because they didn’t have enough fight in them. Denise knew I disagreed. I wasn’t in the mood to argue with her, though.

     “Life’s been stressful, huh,” Denise says. I wondered if she is empathizing or mocking me. I remain silent. “You must have liked Carla.”

     “She seems like a nice person.”

     “You’re not the type to sleep around. She must have appealed to you in some way.”

     “What about her? Is she the type who sleeps around?”

     “She has her problems.” Which I suppose means yes, and I am angry.

     “What did he do to her?”

     “He’s a cocaine addict,” she says quickly. I have a dark feeling that she is hiding something from me. I decide I hate Carla’s husband already.

     “Are you seeing Serena this weekend?”

     “I don’t know,” I respond truthfully.

     “You have to tell her how you are feeling. If you’re thinking of breaking up with her, you at least owe her an explanation. Don’t you think? After all this time?”

     I nod. Except I don’t know what I will tell her. All I can think of was the piercing headache I have, and the more I think about Serena the worse it is getting. And I wouldn’t have been out partying all weekend getting this headache if she had been home, and my sister wouldn’t be here giving me the third degree. It is her fault everything is so crazy. How can it be seen any other way?

     I invite Denise to dinner, and she thankfully takes it as a tacit agreement to close the subject. My headache disappears miraculously, and I find it very easy to hate Serena then for leaving me.

THIRTEEN

     I meet with Arbuckle early the next day about my dissertation. He reviewed it last night so he could discuss it with the advisory committee today. I think of all the creative impulses I have had over the last few weeks since Serena has left, and I am proud of all that I have gotten done. I even have the cross-studies he wanted. I am sure that Arbuckle and the rest of them will be impressed.

If the rest of them are impressed, Arbuckle isn’t. He wears a scowl on his face like a bad jack-o’-lantern when he walks into my office. I vainly hope that the negative look is because he caught something in his eye and has nothing to do with my work. “Come in my office,” he bellows. Well, so much for the having-something-stuck-in-your-eye-theory. I pass Melissa, Arbuckle’s secretary. We exchange knowing looks. This is not going to be fun, I think as I venture into his office.

     “Close the door,” he barks. I wonder what his problem is. I have given him what he has asked for. I shut the door.

     He does not invite me to sit down. “What is this shit?” he asks, throwing my dissertation down on his desk. Only it doesn’t look like my dissertation. It looks like a pre-schooler’s scribbling book. This must be some kind of joke. Then I recognize something I have written, and am baffled. I never remember writing like that. I can barely make out the words myself. I look to Arbuckle my mentor for help. Icebergs stare back at me.

     “You have embarrassed me enough, Hauser,” he says levelly. The room is swimming. I hold onto the desk for support. Suddenly I get a horrid stench of alcohol in my nose that knocks me back. I look at Arbuckle, thinking it is coming from him. He points at the book, a sardonic gleam in his expression.

     “That’s what you expected me to hand to the board.” He says flatly. “I didn’t even bother. I canceled the meeting, and they want to meet with you, nine-thirty sharp.” I pull away. Arbuckle is a stranger to me. “Now get the hell out of my office. I don’t want to see you all day. Why don’t you get some real work done. Without the beer bash.” He grimaces at the notebook. I take it and leave, avoiding Melissa’s questioning eyes as I pass her desk.

     I try to work on the ad-drops for several hours, each minute going by like it is a century. I feel like an overeducated secretary. Last semester at this time, Arbuckle and I were going over syllabi together. This year, high school clerical work. Arbuckle really had a real complex about me this year. I don’t know what his problem is. After several hours of this menial crap, I decide to have it in with him, but his door is locked. Melissa is gone as well. He was probably taking the divorcee out on the town. And I always thought Melissa had the crush on me. I sigh and head out for lunch break. There are visions of beer bottles dancing through my head. I certainly can use one right now.

     I head for a little steakhouse that is known for its prime rib and serving my favorite brand by the bottle for a buck. The place is packed. I feel a little strange walking into the restaurant by myself in the middle of the lunch crowd, though I am not sure why I would. I feel eyes staring at me even though I can’t pin anyone in particular. When the host asks me how many are in my party, I say two. I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea.

     My server comes over to me as soon as I am seated and introduces herself as Sherry. Her name makes me salivate. She asks if I want a drink while I wait for my companion. The way she says “companion”, I wonder if she is on to my ruse. I am on the spot, my palms becoming sweaty. Sherry is waiting for an answer, looking at me directly. Then a thought comes to me that I can get really plastered if I don’t eat. I could just sit here and drink and drink under the guise of waiting for my companion. The idea of oblivion seems comforting to me. I order the first of many beers.

     The next time I glance at the clock, it is one fifteen. Over an hour has passed. In a blink, it has zapped by. There are no plates in front of me to indicate that I have eaten at all, but there are several glasses with melting ice. I feel lightheaded. Terry, no Sherry, like the wine, asks if I want another rum and coke. I had no idea I was drinking that all this time. I tell her that I want a beer.

     “Looks like your companion finally showed up,” she says, writing on her pad. I am confused. My eyes go to the person behind her, a dark haired bearded bespectacled guy. He looks like he is in his late thirties, the same age as Arbuckle. I wonder if Arbuckle sicced him on me; he is wearing a grin on his face that I don’t like. He has a bit of a paunch, and I decide that if I have to I can take him down fairly easily. But I have met him before- something about his person seems familiar. Sherry departs, and I have a sudden pit hollowing my stomach. The guy sticks out his hand. To be polite, I take it.

     “Doesn’t seem like you remember me.” His handshake is strong and firm. “I’m Artie. I met you a couple of weeks ago at United Presbyterian.”

     It takes me a couple of seconds to figure out what he is referring to. Then I feel my heart drop. Artie is one of the weirdos from the AA meeting. I vaguely remember him shoving a piece of paper with his phone number in my face. I glance at the empty glasses in front of me. He follows my gaze. This is not going to be fun.

     “Can I sit down?” He points to the seat across from me. I do not know how to get out of the situation, so I tip my head in assent. “Thanks,” he gestures. Sherry comes back with my beer and asks Artie what he would like. “Prime rib, medium well, baked potato, string beans, ranch on the salad, and a cola,” Artie rattles off in five seconds. Sherry nods as she jots this down. She turns her attention to me. I am sick of her bothering me so I order a prime rib as well, even though the idea of food at this point makes me sick. She takes this down with a smile.

     “So you do eat. I was beginning to wonder.”

     Wonderful last words as I am now stuck with a recovering wino. Artie is smiling again, not as slyly. I trust this even less. I begin to reach for my beer, but my hand flinches like it is on fire. I was annoyed that at twenty-eight I was allowing someone to bug me when I was just trying to enjoy myself. just like, so glad it was okay with him.

     “Go ahead, drink it. I don’t care,” he insists.

     I stop at first but then take a good gulp just to see his reaction. He still has the ain’t-it-grand-we’re-all-friends look on his face. Mr. Zombie.

     “So do you come here often?”

     My hand stops in mid-air. Wasn’t that a pick-up line? Was this guy gay? I sit back further in my seat as I say, “Sometimes.”

     He nods matter-of-factly. “I used to come here a lot when I was drinking. Always got the prime rib but never got around to eating it. Filled up on beer instead. Bottles still cheap here?”

     “A dollar,” I answer warily.

     “Then it’s gone up some. When I was here it was only seventy-five cents.”

     “It hasn’t been seventy-five cents for over five years.”

     “Really? I guess that makes sense. I stopped drinking eight years ago, so I’ve lost track of the price of booze.”

     I am irritated to hear his bragging about how long it is since his last drink. All the drunks at the meeting were big on this. Half the time they clapped for each other. I wonder if this dude expected me to clap too. It seemed like a pathetic thing to be going around bragging about the last time you drank. I was like normal people. I didn’t keep track of stupid things like that. It’s like those psychological tests that ask how often you defecate. They consider you a mental case if you can actually answer that. Running around telling people when the last time you drank pretty much fell into the same category as far as I’m concerned. But I try to be diplomatic.

     “Eight years is a long time. You must be very proud of yourself.”

     “Couldn’t have done it without the Program and the Higher Power,” Artie points to the ceiling. “I thank God every day for my sobriety.”

     I feel like belting out Amazing Grace at the top of my drunken lungs. This is nuts. I try to be nice and give this bum an ego trip, and all he does is spout religious bullshit. I can tell that this guy is really an arrogant son-of-a-bitch at heart. He has this glint in his eye and a smirk that I want to wipe off his face with a good punch. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but I’m not interested in your AA bullshit. You want to eat with me, fine. You’re stuck here already. But don’t bother trying to recruit me. Bad enough you got my girlfriend.” The last sentence just slips out. I instantly regret it: fresh ammo for this guy.

     “Your girlfriend was the woman with you at the meeting?” Artie chats along like we are the best of friends.

     “Yes,” I relent. Without thinking, I gulp down my beer. Artie is watching, sending shame running through me quicker than the alcohol. I am angry at my self-chagrin. There is no reason for it. I am acting like I have to answer to this guy somehow. I don’t even feel this way around Arbuckle, and I do have to answer to him. I hate this guy even more.

     “Are you guys having problems?” he asks.

     I hope the look that I give him is making him scared. Is he nuts? What business of his is my sex life? And yet I answer, “We’re drifting apart. Since she went to rehab we don’t have anything in common. All she does is talk to me about AA shit, and I really don’t want to hear it.”

     “Why not?” Artie is playing devil’s advocate, I can see. My blood is boiling. He doesn’t seem to notice or care. “If she’s your girlfriend, wouldn’t you want to know what was going on with her? I would.”

     I tap my finger. I am ready to snap.

     “I mean, it’s none of my business—“

     “That’s right, it isn’t.”

     “But it strikes me as curious. I would think that you either don’t love her anymore or she’s saying things you don’t want to hear. Or both.”

     I don’t reply. If I do, I might wind up in jail in the long run.

     “Just to give you some food for thought. You seem like an intelligent guy; I’m sure you can handle it.”

     I am not sure if this is a compliment or pure sarcasm. Luckily our food arrives and changes my train of thought. I wonder if I can eat this and keep it down. I decide to make a pretense of eating and opt for a doggie bag.

     “So what do you do for a living?” Artie asks between bites- his bites.

     “I’m a postgraduate researcher,” I exaggerate. Hopefully in two weeks I won’t be exaggerating. I’m sick of being a student.

     “Oh? I know a lot of professors. Who do you work for?”

     I am trapped. Or maybe he was just screwing with my head. “Scott Arbuckle,” I reply.

     “Hmmmm. I never knew he had a researcher.”

     What the hell is this? Is Arbuckle spying on me? “Right now I’m just assisting him.” Hopefully that will shut him up. I wonder how he knows Arbuckle. “What do you do?” I cut in while I have a chance.

     “I’m an author.”

     I wonder if he’s pulling the same big shot bullshit game I just did. Maybe he wrote a college dissertation and he wants to sound hot. I act politely as I have in these cocktail hour-type discussions, though I would do anything to get my hands around his neck and tell him to get lost. “What have you written?”

     “History, mostly. I’m a big World War II buff. My dad was a lieutenant in the Navy. He fought in the Pacific. Because of him I grew up on a lot of war stories, and I got interested in the war myself. I started writing in college, and I was published soon after graduation. I’ve even tried my hand at writing novels, but I prefer the nonfiction so I’ve done that for a few years. Scott Arbuckle was someone I’ve dealt with for interviews. Don’t worry. I don’t know him that well.”

I am worried. I wonder if I know this guy. “What name do you write under?” I ask.

     “A. T. Buckingham. I have a new book coming out. I should have a signing soon; my publicist still hasn’t given me a schedule.”

     I heard of this guy. From what I remembered about him, he’d written about seven books. I even read a couple. He was pretty smart. That is, if he was really A.T. Buckingham. “So why’d you become an alcoholic if you’re so smart?” My mouth is dry. I take a swig of my beer.

     “I don’t think I became an alcoholic. I believe I always was one. Once I drank, I couldn’t stop. I needed outside help. It took me a long time to accept that. I drank for over seventeen years; I didn’t stop until I was thirty-one.”

     Fourteen was when I started drinking too. I remember that, my first year of high school. I started drinking because I wanted to impress the upperclassmen and shake the geeky image I had in elementary school, and to dull the pain of being an unwanted orphan. I wondered what Artie’s story was.

     I was not destined to know that day. With a swift glance at his watch, Artie announces that he has to meet some media guy to give an interview. He insists on picking up the tab, and I don’t have the heart to argue. Then he is gone.

     I am totally drunk, yet my conversation with Artie, mister A.T. Buckingham, stays in my mind no matter how many beers I drink. And no matter how much I drink, I can’t get rid of the knot that is in the pit of my stomach, the whole reason why I came here in the first place. I decide to call it a day. It is four-thirty. Arbuckle won’t even know the difference, I bet. Let him confer with Artie.

     I get home, grateful to collapse on my own bed. My body aches, but not as much as my head does. I feel sick, and the idea of the leftover rum in my cabinet sounds good now. So I go to it, and it is strong enough to numb out my pain. I don’t want to think anymore.

 

The last time I look at the clock, its digital numbers read 6:47. The sun is getting ready to set, and as I watch the day’s dying rays seeping through the shades. I realize it is the end of a nice day outside and I hadn’t noticed it at all. A fleeting pang of sadness joins the thought, and I take another swig of the rum. And I do not feel a thing now.

FOURTEEN

     After what seems like a couple of hours, I wake up to the shrill ringing of my telephone. It pisses me off, especially when I see the clock- 10:05. Who was bothering me at this hour on a Tuesday? Some people have to work for a living. I have a splitting headache. I am ready to reach though the phone and kill whoever is calling me.

     I reach for the phone, ready to pounce. I catch a glimpse of the outside through the closed blinds. It is light outside. I am in dazed confusion at the lost time when the machine speaks to me.

     “Hauser, where the hell are you? The committee is waiting for you. You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.” Arbuckle. I freeze. I totally forgot about the meeting. “Hauser, I can only hold them off for another half hour. Then they’re putting you on probation. And I’ll let them. You’re making me look like a fool, buddy. If you don’t show up, you can forget about having me as your advisor. They didn’t teach me how to baby-sit drunks in graduate school.” And then the phone crashing into its cradle.

     I am doomed. It will take me exactly a half hour on a good day with no traffic to get to the university, park my car, and get to the office. As it is, I smell like booze, and one look in the mirror tells me I look no better than a street bum. It would be more disastrous for my career if I showed up like this than if I didn’t show up at all. It would confirm Arbuckle’s accusation of my being a drunk. I didn’t want to do that.

     I decide to call in sick. The great thing about having a brain like mine is that I could think of solutions in a second. I put a call through Arbuckle’s office, knowing that he won’t be there but Mel will be; she was always such a sweetie to me, I know she will cover for me. She doesn’t like Arbuckle any more than I do.

     She picks up on the third ring. “Professor Arbuckle’s office,” she lulls.

     “Mel?”

     “Tom?” A small gasp. “Tom? Is that you? Scott’s been going crazy looking for you. Is everything all right?”

     “I’m not feeling my best.”

     “Really? Aw, poor baby. What’s wrong?”

     “I don’t know. I think it’s some kind of stomach bug. I was sick half the night.” I can’t believe I’m lying to sweet Mel. It’s not like I haven’s done it before, but I always feel bad when I do.

     “Oh, sweetie. I know a couple of people who have the same thing.” Why do I feel like she is lying, too.

     “Scott just called me. He woke me up.”

     “You were supposed to be here at nine-thirty, right?”

     Accuracy, a plus. “Yup.”

     “Well let’s see. Scott went down at nine-twenty.” An interminable pause. “I’ll just tell him that you called at nine twenty-five.”

     Which won’t explain why I didn’t pick up at nine fifty, but I can always say I was visiting the bathroom or some other ill-like activity. I feel relief already, though my head is still pounding. Nerves. It must be nerves. Arbuckle has that kind of effect on me. Jerk. “Thanks, Mel. I really owe you.”

     “You sure do. Just be glad I can’t stand the bastard.”

     “How about I take you to dinner this weekend? Your choice.”

     “That sounds nice. My daughter is going to her father’s. Let me get back to you, okay honey?”

     “Sure. And Mel?”

     “Yes?”

     “Thanks.”

     “I gotta go. Scott’s here.”

     “Okay, bye.” I am speaking to a dial tone.

     I sit in a daze for a time, not knowing what to do with myself. I wonder if Arbuckle will call me. I escape to the library to get away from myself, try to work. Instead I find a Jonathan Kellerman novel that I read two years ago. I don’t remember a word. I take it home with me, paranoid that someone will relay to Arbuckle that they saw me goofing off in the public library. My home feels like a ghost town as I enter it, empty without my lover being there. Though she has been gone for some time, it is as though I am only feeling her loss now; like I am on some kind of time delay. Despondency eats at me, my heart becoming a weight under its power. I keep reading, hoping that the irrelevant words will magically take my pain away, but Serena steals my thoughts even more. I close my novel and surrender to the images she gives me, wallowing in morbid loneliness.

     I miss her. I miss her laugh, with her pearly gems flashing a golden smile. I miss the hours we spent laughing and talking, hours well into the night, so much more than physical; though the more I thought of her, the more I feel the raw need for her. Two weeks; it had been two weeks without her, but a lifetime to me. I keep denying my need for her, but in the end, without her, there was only this darkness waiting for me. I had been drinking more since she’d left; usually I limited myself to weekends because I knew what damage drinking could do. I wondered if my accelerated drinking had anything to do with the emptiness I wanted to escape without her with me.

     I have to stop drinking during the week. If today is any indication, drinking is catching up to me, and I didn’t want it to ruin my career. I had a lot of work to get done if I wanted to advance, and I couldn’t drink the way I was doing successfully complete it. I have to make a resolution and stick to it: no drinking until my date with Mel, three days from now, forever from now, it suddenly seemed. I feel the vastness of time stretch before me. I have to do something to fill the time; I don’t have classes until late tomorrow. Serena haunts me. Thirty hours of dead time; what to do with them, and how do I remain sober when it seems illogical to be that way; life seems more enjoyable in a fog. I am still thinking of Serena as I ponder my quandary. I have enough time to get there and see her. It is a crazy idea. But I am always crazy when it came to Serena. And, I have to be sober to show support for her. It wouldn’t be right otherwise.

     I arrive at Albany at four-thirty-five, barely aware of the last six and a half hours except for getting a hamburger at a drive thru, even though I am evidently showered, shaved and prettied up for the occasion. But now that I am here in the rehab parking lot, I don’t know what the hell I should be doing. Suddenly this feels like the dumbest idea in the world, for me to be here. I should go home. What am I doing here? To sing the Twelve Steps of AA to the tune of Kumbaya? The stuffiness I felt when I last visited here returns, suffocating me. For crying out lout, I didn’t even know if they had visiting hours on Tuesday. I am just about ready to start the car when I see her.

     She is walking with another woman when both stop short. I feel Serena’s eyes upon mine though she is yards away. She says something to her companion, who nods and leaves. I am alone with Serena.

     My heart pounds as I go to her; it stops as it reaches her. Serena regards me coolly. I run cold. For years, she was the one who needed me. I sense that things have reversed. In the last couple of weeks she has changed. I do not know how to need this new woman, though I need her desperately to feel whole again.

     “What are you doing here?” I feel she is looking at me like I am a bad joke from the past. I can hear the anger simmering under a veneer of serenity. “I mean, considering that you haven’t been around for the last couple of weeks, I’m just curious.”

     I take a deep breath. “Because I missed you. I wanted to see you.”

     “You wanted to see me. So where have you been for the last two weeks? My boyfriend’s sister visits me, her husband comes to visit me, but where the hell is he? It’s embarrassing. I get all excited to see you, tell my friends all about you, then you don’t show up. I feel like an asshole. I thought you loved me.” I see the tears shimmering in her eyes. She is trying to fight them off. I cannot look her in the eyes.

     “I do love you. I’m sorry. I’m the asshole, not you.”

     “So where the hell have you been? Out drinking?”

     My head shoots up, all compassion instantly dissipating, a sharp anger replacing it. “What the hell do they teach you in this place? How to stick your nose in everyone else’s business? I thought you were the drunk.”

     “I am a drunk. But I’m not drinking. I’m doing something about it. What are you doing with yourself?”

     I am ready to flare. Serena heads me off. “Look. I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect to see you. Let’s start over. Walk with me.”

     I do not want to start over. She started it, calling me a drunk. I just wanted to finish it. But Serena had already started to walk away. I may as well go along with it. So now I was a drunk who wasn’t doing anything about it. Nice to know. Well, I knew how to be civil even though other people didn’t. “What are you doing out? I thought they keep you here under lock and key.”

     “It isn’t jail,” I victoriously see that I have gotten under her skin. I then wonder what is wrong with me that I have driven a hundred and fifty miles just to watch someone squirm. “After you’ve been here for two weeks they give you passes to go out in the daytime. I might be getting one this weekend. Should I bother to come home or not?’

     “What is that supposed to mean?”

     “It means, can you hold off the partying for one weekend. I need a safe place to rest.”

     Safe place? Since when was our apartment dangerous? “I can stop drinking for two days. I’m not out of control,” I said. “Do you want me to pick you up on Saturday?”

     “Yeah, that would be nice.” I feel like was offering a new co-worker a lift to the office. God, things had changed.

     “So you think this place has helped you?” I ask, anything to help keep a lagging conversation alive.

     “I needed to get away. I wasn’t able to get sober any other way at home.”

     I do not like the underlying message she is handing me, that I am a bad influence. Poor little victim, her boyfriend made her drink. I am struggling to maintain my composure. “It doesn’t seem like you tried awfully hard.”

She stops in her tracks, forcing me to halt and looke directly at her, wrath enveloping her delicate features. “What the hell does that mean?” she yells. A couple of passerby give us strange looks. They can screw themselves. What could they do? Throw an AA meeting list at me?

“It means that you only went to AA for two weeks before you signed yourself into this psychobabble hole. Maybe you didn’t give that program enough of a chance. You’re looking for the easy way out, and running to this shithole and blaming me for your drinking is a great way to make yourself the little victim.”

     “What the hell do you know about my trying to stop? Obviously all these years you’ve been so busy worrying about yourself that you haven’t even taken the time to notice what’s been going on with me, as long as I look worse than you do. It’s been hell for me to stop. Sitting on my hands at work, snapping off at people just because five o’clock happy hour hasn’t rolled around yet. Hating being nice to people who expect it just so they don’t think I’m a drunk, but willing to kill people just so I can be left alone to drink. Going to your snobbish academic parties and having to stop after two because oh my lord,” she raises her voice to a high pitch-“ what will all the professors’ wives think?’ I put my arms out to restrain her speech, but she pushes me away. Her voice drops an octave. Luckily it drops in decibels as well. I hate when she screams. “Then you shove drinks down my throat so you can run my life. Do you know what I think?” she shoves her finger under my nose, and I have the deep urge to slap it away, a domestic charge the only thing that was stopping me from going berserk, “do you know what I think? I think you don’t like me sober. Because you can’t run my life anymore. You liked me better drunk. You certainly paid me more attention when I was.”

     I am filled with disgust, at her and my violent urges. This whole thing was one fucking mistake. I feel like the last eleven years have been as well. “You know Serena, you’re right. I did like you better when you were drinking. You were nicer. And if this is your idea of the new sober you, don’t bother coming back home. You’re not welcome there.” Her defiant smirk is gone, and tears were welling up instead. They had no effect on me. I was sick of the sassy little missy act. “I always loved you and cared for you. And to hear you throw it back at me, saying I forced you to drink,” I raise my hands in frustrated surrender. Serena cowers, and her fear only disgusts me further. I never raised a hand to her in my life. “This shit that I’m a drunk you can just shove. I’m not the one who can’t get a job, who never has money because I spent it on booze. I’m not the one who smokes, snorts, and pinches because it’s around. I’m not the one who constantly sleeps around because I’m too drunk to know what I’m doing.” Carla barely registered as I sense the kill; Serena crumples into a little ball at the insinuations of her promiscuity. Miss High and Mighty. I guess if she drank tonight, she’d say I made her. Nothing like taking responsibility for her own life.

     I leave her that way, ignoring the shocked stares of those who had witnessed the fight. I feel, as I walk away, a great weight lifting from me. I am free, free to live my own life now.

FIFTEEN

     My sweet victory soon leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like somehow I was tricked into swallowing a raw poison. I am in my car, sitting in a strip mall across from Serena’s rehab, drinking a soda. It is incredulous that I have thrown her away. I wonder, one the one hand, if somehow I can take back what has happened, but yet another part of me, a more vocal part, recoiling at the idea of having her in my life. In her words, I had forced her to drink. That was what eleven years had added up to in her mind. And yet, even as I am convinced that I am better off without her, I cannot seem to rid myself of the hollow place in my gut. No amount of reassurance or pep talks reasons it away. I need the company of another human being, just so I am not alone with these demons. I think of Denise, and though she is on the same list of favorites as Arbuckle is at the moment, is still another human being. I decide to give Denise a call.

     Nigel picks up the phone on the third ring. I forgot that he took Tuesdays off from his restaurants. “Hallo?” His British lilt rings out.

     I take a deep breath, hoping to mask the darkness in me. “Nigel! Guess who?”

     “Tommy Boy! To what do we owe this honor?”

     “Guess where I am?”

     A slight questioning pause. “Don’t tell me, you’re in Albany?”

     “Yep. I’m just getting on the I-90.”

     “Business or pleasure?”

     I hesitate slightly before coming up with a conservative answer. “A little of both. I was wondering if it was okay if I stopped by.”

     “Of course! You’re always welcome, you know that. Denise had to stop and help a friend of hers, so she isn’t home yet. She’ll be glad to see you. Come over and we’ll go out to dinner.”

     “Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”

     I hang up the phone and head to her home, keeping the radio tuned to a metal station good and loud so I don’t have to think. It takes me twenty minutes to get to Denise’s house, and as I wonder where we will go for dinner, I realize I am famished. It is incredible how this day has run past me like a big blur.

     Denise is not home yet, even though it is six o’clock. I am uneasy about being alone with Nigel. I don’t know quite what to make of him. Nobody is always happy-go-lucky like that all of the time, at least not with an agenda. I sometimes get the feeling that behind the cheery smile, Nigel is scrutinizing the other person very carefully. He hardly ever drinks himself, even though he owns two bars, and is married to a supposed alcoholic. Sometimes I wonder if he owns the establishments just to get a rise out of watching the drunks slobber themselves. I don’t know if I would like to discover his motivation for marrying my sister.

     Nigel is already standing outside on his porch holding a newspaper when I arrive. I couldn’t gotten away if I tried. I put a big smile on. Hoping I look good.

     My efforts at chicanery fail. “Say old chap. You look like hell. Had a rough day, eh?’

     “You could say that,” I admit.

     He points his newspaper at one of the empty sears on the porch. “Please, sit down. What can I get you to drink?”

     “Whatever soda you have would be nice.” I am not thirsty, but am looking for any way possible to kill the time I have alone with this man.

     “Absolutely. Be back in a jiffy.”

     I allow myself to bask drowsily in the late afternoon sun while he is gone. I still feel hungover from this morning. I doze off, thinking of rum and cokes, and then see Serena give me a haunting look, and I call to her but she turns away. Then there is a loud noise and then I realize I am dreaming.

     “Sorry for waking you, old fellow,” Nigel says as he puts down a tray with a pitcher of cola on it. “Guess you weren’t kidding when you said you had a rough day. What time did you arrive in Albany?”

     “About two o’clock, “ I exaggerate. I don’t want to make it too obvious how brief my encounter with Serena was.

     “Checking up on the job or the old lady?”

     “A little of both,” I exaggerate again.

     “Hmm,” Nigel smiles as he poured both of us Cokes. “Have you looked for an apartment around here yet?’

     Getting an apartment. My mind is far removed form such trivial-seeming matters such as my future. My life feels like a bad joke. The idea of the job seemed like a rotten punchline. But I’d be an idiot to express this to Nigel. To his question, I simply shake my head.

     “I think I can help you. One of my customers is looking for a tenant. He’s looking to rent the top floor of his Victorian for four hundred dollars, heat included. Would you be interested?”

     I feign interest in the temporarily uninteresting. “Sure.”

     “Great. How long are you out here?” 

     “I have to be back by tomorrow morning.”

     “Oh.” I sense the bafflement in his voice, and it amuses me. “Strange day for a long drive, eh?” he asks.

     “I missed Serena.” Where the hell is Denise?

     “How is she doing? I haven’t gotten to see her in the last week or so. They don’t like having non-relatives visiting especially when they’re not alkies going to the AA meetings. Too bad you guys aren’t married. Then I could get under the wire with brother-in-law status.”

     I take a deep breath, realizing I was going to have to break the news somehow. Better that he hear it from me than Serena the Rehab Think.

     “Serena and I decided to give each other space. I thought it was best for the situation.” Close enough to the truth.

     Nigel gave a big sigh. “Well I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. What with Carla and all.”

     My anger rises. I knew Nigel wasn’t as nice as he looked. “Denise told you about Carla.”

     Nigel gives me a flat look. “No, Carla told me about Carla. She is a good friend of mine as well. Stop thinking there is a big conspiracy out to get you. There are more important things in this world than you, my friend. Besides, if you hadn’t done anything to get yourself in trouble, you wouldn’t be worrying about what people were saying about you now, would you?”

     You never knew when the evil side of someone would strike at you. A fight was brewing, I was ready to stir it when the sound of a car door slamming got my attention. Denise is home, but she isn’t alone, and I almost choke on my soda when I saw who she was with. Speak of the devil, Carla Madison is here.

     If I wanted to scream conspiracy, I don’t know if I could. My voice seems to have escaped to the Caribbean and I wish I could have gone with it. All four of us are staring at each other like gaping holes. Finally, Nigel the quintessential host breaks the ice.

     “Carla, fancy seeing you here. I thought you were doing a showing in New York.”

     “I did. Plans changed,” she replies, keeping her eyes on me. My breath shortens, my blood warms. I sense the same transition in her. True lust never dies. She abruptly looks away, and I turn my attention to Denise, who is giving me a dark stare.

     Nigel clears his throat. “Carla, come in the house, freshen up. It’s always good to see you.” Nigel puts a gentlemanly arm around her shoulder and whisks her into the house, the Secret Serviceman protecting the president’s daughter. I watch her until she disappears, my heart throbbing with desire, anxiety and adrenaline. I hadn’t been totally out of my mind that fateful night with Carla. There was some validity to the lust.

     “Strange how life turns out, isn’t it,” Denise muses. I cannot reply. I feel like I have been caught in a dirty act and now it has been revealed for all to see.

     “Where did you see her?” I finally manage.

     “She showed up at my job today. She had an exhibit in New York but she had to cut it short. Her husband came down and threatened her, told her that if she didn’t come back, he’d burn down her studio. He beat her up on the way back.” There was a silence. My emotions for Carla entwine with anger and anguish for her. What kind of asshole would treat her like that? She is so vulnerable and delicate. Then I think of my night with her, and I realize I am little better; she’d been little more than a diversion to me. I wonder what she thinks of me. This is getting too much for me.

     “Maybe I’d better go,” hoping that Denise would fight me. I want to have an excuse to see Carla once more.

     “If your conscience bothers you that much, then go,” is her cool reply.

     Resentment seeps from her. It hangs on her like a lei. I wonder about her indifference, and think of the strange way I was treated by Nigel. And all because of Serena, a woman who over the years neither one trusted but now that she was all rehab-happy she is their best friend. I wonder what happened to blood being thicker than water. Then I remember that in the Hauser family and its satellites, normal things like that arenn’t true. What was I expecting.

     Screw it. If Nigel and Denise didn’t care about me then I didn’t care about them. Besides I wanted a free meal. And I wanted to see Carla. To hell with them all. I march to the house with renewed purpose.

     The three of them are sitting around the kitchen table sipping sodas when I enter. Carla’s hands shake as she tries to hold her plastic cup. I receive startled looks from all, like an important conversation had been interrupted by my entrance. Was I the topic? I wonder.

     “So you decided to join us after all,” Nigel cheerfully greets me. Cheerio, mate.

     “Mmm,” I counter, taking the last empty seat at the table. I am right next to Carla.

     “Nigel, come with me,” Denise suddenly perks up. “You have to help me find my wallet. I think it’s in the bedroom.” I wonder what has sparked her change of heart that she suddenly trusts me to be alone with her friend. I wonder, with a leap in my heart, if Carla also wants to be with me. My heart thuds in anticipation of requitedness.

     Nigel plays with my mind. Denise has already left, but he is still sitting at the table. “I’ll be there in a second, honey. Just as soon as I finish my soda.” He then proceeds to spend what seems like two hours to drink six ounces of liquid. I want to scream. I keep my eyes riveted to the table so my anger will not be apparent to him, and my desire not so apparent to Carla. Finally Nigel gets up, excuses himself, and leaves. I am finally alone with Carla.

     I am still unable to look at her. A fantasy turned reality is terrifying. My heart races, my blood boils. Carla is playing with a ring on her right hand. It is her wedding band. I hadn’t noticed it the first night I met her, either on her right or left hand.

     “So you’re Denise’s famous brother,” I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. “I’ve always been known to attract the psychos.” Color drains from my face. My anticipation freezes into dread. Then she looks at me and says, “Joke.”

 I wonder if it is. I wonder what these women have been saying about me.

“Sorry that I left you like I did,” she is saying. “I was going to leave a note but—“ her voice trails off and she finishes with a shrug.

“Why did you leave? I thought we had a good time.” I have finally found my tongue. I face her, and I notice how pale she is. My insides fall in despair for her.

She gives me a dry look. “Come on. You aren’t going to tell me that you’ve never pulled that stunt on a woman yourself, are you?”

     I have not- there is a first time for everything. Carla seems to recognize the truth when she sees it, though she could not see a lie for what it was, for that was what I had been that day. She cringes, getting up from the table and clutching the stove, bowing her head. She is hidden from me. I walk behind her, touching her hand like the rare silk it is, compassion mixed with eroticism. Her body relaxes for an instant against mine, but only for an instant. She jumps from me as though I am a raging fire.

     “Don’t touch me! I don’t need your fucking sympathy!” She screams, causing me to jump back. I imagine Denise and Nigel barreling in with the infantry, disturbing my solitude with Carla. But all remains silent in the house, and I go to Carla again. She weeps silently, then looks at me with her luminous blue eyes. Her tears have washed away some of her makeup, enough so I see the bruises they hide. I gasp, then catch myself , but not before Carla realizes my discovery of her secret. She turns away, head hanging, sobs escaping louder and stronger. I gently reach for her. She does not refuse my touch. Anger inflaming the desire that I have for her, rage erupting; that someone could ever think to beat this waif-like creature so horrendously. I take her into my arms, and she melts into me like ice in summer. I clench my teeth, emotions running through me in a torrent.

     I do not know how much time passes in our embrace. When we part, she bumps her hand into mine and our skin meets imperceptibly; it burns me more than sheer passion. She is still looking down, not meeting my eyes. I gently press her chin upwards so her gaze meets mine. She is only a couple of inches shorter than me but she seems much smaller to me now. She looks into my eyes with the knowing terror of a doe meeting her predator. I gently touch my lips to hers to silence her fears. She whispers that she needs to leave, and she disappears from the room. I feel her loss immediately. This is not the first time I this black hole visited me. Somehow I knew that it would not be the last, either.

SIXTEEN

     We have dinner at the diner where Denise and I went just two weeks earlier. I hardly eat at all, wondering if Serena was going to come up as a topic, or a discussion of what Carla and I planned to do with each other would ensue. Neither issue comes up, of which I am glad. I want to be with Carla, hoping she will come home with me.

     And she does, under extreme duress. Denise wants Carla to stay around and go to meetings with her. Carla is better off alone, she insists, like she has ever been a poster child for celibacy. Happily, Carla wants me. She’d go to meetings in my town, she promises Denise. She insists that she doesn’t want to lose the week of sobriety she has. Maybe she’d even drag me to one; she jokes to Denise. I don’t think it funny. Neither does Denise, apparently. She doesn’t laugh at all.

     I easily forget about the confrontation, Carla’s previous abandonment, and my own infidelity as soon as she enters the car. Funny how I can so easily forgive her and not Serena. Carla was easier to love than Serena; she was softer, easier to touch both physically and psychically. I am fascinated by her. She is thirty-five, originally from a small town near Pittsburgh. He dad took off on her mom when she was three, and her mom moved her and her siblings to Albany where there were aunts and uncles to help out. Carla hated it all. She never could fit in with the small town life; her brain was too smart and dreams too big for their expectations for a little girl who was supposed to grow up, marry and have babies. She was verbally and physically tormented by her mother and older brother. There was no one to protect her. She found drawing, the doodles she made during school growing on her. Art became her refuge. There was no one else for her.

     She met her husband when she was fifteen when he came to teach an oil painting class at her school. His name was Gerald Forsythe; at the time he was thirty-six, married, and a respected adjunct art professor at several colleges. I had heard of him. I had no idea he was into statutory rape as a hobby. At the time, he was the white knight that she was looking for. It didn’t matter that she had to throw away her education and her youth away to be with him. School meant nothing and she felt old anyway. So she lived in his shadow, living in an apartment that he paid for. He wouldn’t let her work, and she could only leave when he said so. He paid her so much attention he hardly seemed like he was abusive. He was better than what she had.

     They married five years ago, when his first wife finally died. She thought once she was his wife and not the other woman, things would change and he would respect her. But it didn’t. She told me of his outbursts, how he would inflict pain upon her, of the last time it happened when the bruises that were upon her were given. He hit her the whole time, even before they were married. No one ever told her it was wrong. There hadn’t been anyone to care if she was prepared for life or not. Carla hadn’t spoke to her family in years. She didn’t know if they were dead or alive.

     She still loved her husband. She kept thinking that he’d change. She loved his dynamism, his zany enthusiasm for life, his sense of fun. Carla said he was a nice guy when he didn’t use drugs. Unfortunately that did little to compensate for his shortcomings. He’d been to jail four times for cocaine possession and assault. For the last three years, he had been unemployed, this coinciding perfectly with Carla beginning to flap her wings; she’d gotten a diploma, started to show her work. He was envious; trying to sabotage her at every move, like he did with her last exhibit. A bird with broken wings couldn’t fly.

     I listen to her with the detached rage of a secret lover who watches his beloved being consumed by flames as she insists that the fire is there just for warmth. I wonder if my whisking her away with me is my way of trying to save her from the flames, trying to compensate for what I have done to her broken soul already.

     We make love in the bed that once belonged to the love of Serena and me. She falls asleep in my arms afterwards. I look about the room, reminding myself of the woman that once was mine. Reminders of Serena are everywhere; knickknacks that she had collected over the years like little glass bears, Victorian ladies with bashful expressions, ceramic horses of brown, black and silver are evidence that she is more than a memory. I bought many of them for her, mostly at the different flea markets the village had over the years. Sometimes we went to the glass factory together on the weekends, back when we were happier and life seemed simpler. I tried to think of the last time we had gone to a market or a factory together, and I realized it had been at least four years. I wonder where the time went.

     But soon, all these will be part of memories. Serena would come for what was hers, and eleven years would disappear forever. Even as I surrender in rapture with Carla, a hollowness invades me. My life is leaving me, and nothing replaces it. Even though I had been the one to tell her to go, I still feel abandoned.

     For the next two days, I call in sick. Carla does not go to the promised meetings; she is soon drinking as much as I am. Denise leaves accusing messages on my machine. Serena has called her in pain; Carla is vulnerable, and I am the monster that has wrecked their lives. Denise calls frequently, leaving angry messages on the machine; accusing me of taking advantage of indefensible women. She doesn’t believe that Carla is going to meetings even though she insists that she does. She is right. We spend time drinking and making love, and I am in heaven. Work doesn’t matter, family doesn’t matter, just Carla and me, our love for one another. I begin hearing from Mel Calhoun more and more. She is worried about me, each message she leaves on the machine incrementally increasing in anxiety, but I don’t pick up to allay her fears. She is still successfully staving off Arbuckle, and that’s good enough for me.

     Perhaps that is what precipitates her surprise visit. She shows up at my house on Thursday. I have a party going, at least a semblance of one. Mark has come over, bearing six packs and rum. He approves of Carla; but he never liked Serena so who knows how deep his admiration goes. The evening starts off fine, but as the evening drags on, I am remember how easily Carla had been lured into my bed. Except this time, this night, she is with Mark. Carla laughs at everything Mark says, and one time when she cracks up at his jokes, she is all over him, hugging him, and drunkenly collapses on him. From that point on they constantly touch; a tap on a shoulder here, leaning in more to speak there. I am ready to lose my temper. I just fucked Carla before Mark came over, and now here she is all over my best friend. Who the hell does this bitch think she is? The doorbell interrupts my angry thoughts. I see a red Ford Escort outside, and I am not sure who it is. I wonder if it is a cop, and think I should hide. I almost leave when I hear Mel’s voice outside.

     “Tom? Tom?” Her voice is almost frantic. “Are you in there?”

     “Who the fuck is that?” Mark bellows from the living room. “Tell them to keep it the fuck down. We’re trying to have a party in here.”

     Carla giggles. I wonder where her hands are. Mel calls to me again. I am tempted to lace into Carla. Something wins out over the violence in me and I open the door.

     Melissa’s hand is half in motion as though ready to knock again. She sees me, and takes me into her arms, nearly crushing me to death. “There you are, you stupid fool. I was so worried about you.”

     I laugh uncomfortably as she releases me. Even a twelve pack isn’t numbing out this confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting tomorrow.”

     “I had to come,” she brushes a pesky wisp of hair from her face. She gazes in my eyes, and I see the sadness in them. “Look at you,” she says, gently touching my cheek, “what are you doing to yourself?’

     My heart is racing nervously, not knowing what to make of this. “Nothing. I’m just having a party.”

     “I thought you were sick,” she counters. The radio is suddenly blasting from my living room, and I hear a loud whoop of laughter come from Mark. God knows what Carla is doing. Mel touches my arm. “Let’s go to my car and talk. It’ll probably be quieter in there.” I look back, uneasy to leave Mark and Carla together alone, but Mel is already heading to her car. I follow her, not wanting to hurt her feelings. She has never been anything but nice to me.

     We sit in silence in her car for a moment. She reaches over and turns on the radio to some jazz station I hardly listen to. Mark pops his head out, ostensibly to see what is going on. I wave him back in. He disappears, and I am left here in a strange state of mind.

     “I came here to warn you before you came to work tomorrow,” she begins. “Arbuckle has recommended you academic suspension to the committee. I overheard him talking with a couple of the history professors. He feels he has a good case against you, and he’ll probably get what he’s asking.”

     I feel my heart sink, wondering if I have heard wrong. I look at Mel, hoping that I have misunderstood. Her grave expression tells me that I have not. I knew that Arbuckle was out to get me. I knew it all along. I think of my botched meeting with the committee this week. I wonder if that has anything to do with it. In the eleventh hour, I am being cut short. I cannot believe it. So much for working with the great Reincroft. I am unemployed.

     “How long would it affect me?” I can barely find my voice.

     “A semester. You’d be on probation until you got your degree, probably.”

     I can’t believe this is happening to me. After working so hard-

     “Come in tomorrow,” Mel is earnest with me. “You might have a chance if you speak with Scott. He’s really a nice guy underneath the gruff exterior. And I know he cares about you. He wants to help you.”

     “Help me? Who the fuck is he that he says I need help?” She jumps back, startled. I am at first sorry, then pissed. Did this bitch think I was going to hit her? What the hell had I said to scare her?

     She has regained her composure. I have not. “Maybe I’d better talk to you when you’re sober—“ she turns on the engine. I am furious.

     “No, we’ll talk now!” I grab her hand. She vehemently flings me away.

     “Don’t touch me like that! Get out of my car, now!”

     “Well, fuck you. You’re the one who came here and gave me news that wrecks my life—“

     “Tom, I’m sorry,” Mel is quiet now. “I’m just worried about you. You’ve shown up drunk to work so many times or not at all that everyone talks about you. You’ve been warned by Scott and the committee many times, and Scott can’t cover for you anymore. He’s risking his career doing so. And he doesn’t believe you’ve been sick this week. He thinks you’ve been drunk. So do I.”

     I feel my eyes flare anger, but I am frozen. Everyone knows what I have been doing. I feel like there is some conspiracy against me bigger than the X-Files. Why is everyone so hung up on what I do? I’m just trying to enjoy myself.

“Tom, please stop drinking. It’s hurting me to see you wrecking your life. If you can’t stop on your own, maybe you should get help.”

     I am floored by her words. They sober even someone as drunk as me. She reaches over and kisses my cheek.

     “My little brother was just like you. He was brilliant, funny, good looking. He was a few months away from getting married and just made partner in the law firm he worked for. He had the whole world in the palm of his hand. But he’s dead, Tom. Dead. From alcohol only. He never did drugs. He was thirty-two years old. He passed out one night and choked on his own vomit.” He voice was shaking. In the moonlight, I could see tears forming at the edge of her eyes. “I don’t want the same to happen to you.” She is looking down at the steering wheel. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Please come. And please think about what I have said.”

     I move numbly from her car and watch as she disappears, feeling empty when she is gone. I think of Christopher Hawkins. I had met him once. He was a charismatic person, able to garner the attention of everyone in his presence and make them laugh. A tall, broad shouldered man that made every woman’s head turn. I knew he’d passed away last year, but Mel would never say why. I thought it was some kind of accident. I can’t imagine the man I met lying dead in his own vomit. It sounded like a bad joke.

     I look at my house. I can’t deal with Carla and Mark now; I don’t care if they screw till next year. I don’t know why I am suddenly so affected by the death of a man I met only once. But I can’t get his face out of my head.

     I aimlessly walk down the street, unable to shake my dark mood. The thought comes to me to head over to the bar, so I could get drunk and be lost in my thoughts without the distraction of Carla and Mark. It occurs to me that I was in that state where no matter how much I drank I wouldn’t get drunk. I don’t care. The bar was the only place I could think to go to.

     I spend what seems like hours at the bar, thinking, drinking, thinking; talking to no one. Nothing is happening to me, as I had predicted, so I am debate the possibility of leaving with myself. I check the clock— ten-thirty, only a little more than an hour since Mel left. The bar is at least two miles from my house, so that shaved off a half an hour. By the look of how much money Jack the bartender had taken from my twenty, I had six beers since I got here. Six beers in half an hour. Eighteen beers total in five hours. I barely feel a buzz from it all. When I needed alcohol the most, it wasn’t there for me. Kind of like Serena, and most of the people in my life. I order a shot of rum before I leave, hoping it will give me good luck. But it doesn’t; I walk out of the bar straight as my sexuality, and Christopher Hawkins still haunts me.

     Speaking of sexuality, I wonder what Mark and Carla doing, a welcome diversion from thoughts of the dead. I stumble my way in the direction of home, green monsters of jealousy consuming me. The air is oppressively hot; more so than before I went into the bar; feeding my anger even more. I think of Arbuckle, wondering what the hell was his beef with me that he was screwing me over. I should have known from his attitude when I first met him that he was out to get me. The thought came to me that Christopher Hawkins might have thought like this in his last drunken moments; maybe an angry tirade against his boss cost him his life with one bad binge. The thought came through clearly, like a channel from God. I was too tired to care if the Divine was trying to reach me. Fuck God, fuck Carla, fuck Arbuckle, fuck Hawkins, fuck them all. I didn’t care about anything anymore.

     I sense motion behind me, turning just in time to see a car pulling up alongside me on the wrong side of the road, radio blasting. I jump back startled, ready for a fight. It is Mark and Carla in his red sports car. The fight drains from me, but I am wary for any hint of sexual play between them as Mark rolls down his window.

     “Hey buddy, where the fuck you’ve been? Your girlfriend here was worried about you.” Mark is barely speaking coherent English. His face is so red it looked like he was going to have a stroke. Carla is lolling around in the front passenger seat. There is no seatbelt on her, and her eyes keep rolling to the back of her head like she is in a zombie state straddling the world of the dead and of the living, unsure of which holds more appeal to her. A half-drunk case of beer sits between them, cans everywhere, the stench of alcohol worse than a bottle of cough syrup. I am nauseous; the heat almost prompts me to vomit.

     “Buddy, get in the back. I’d let you get in the front, but someone’s had a little too much to drink.” Mark reaches over and shakes Carla’s shoulder.

     Carla titters.

     I look at them. A sensation like a black cloud passes over them. I try to pinpoint where the feeling is coming from, wondering if my suspicions of indiscretions were right. Try as I might, I cannot detect anything but innocent flirtation between them. The more I think, the more the whole thing drains me, and I am tired of thinking. I am tired, period. The interior of the car feels cool and refreshing, unlike the heat that I am standing in. Sick of the heat, walking and thinking, I get in. I can’t wait to go home and get some sleep. Home seemed so far from here.

     “How long have you guys been looking for me?” I yell over the radio.

     “Say wah?” Mark tries to look at me in the rear-view mirror, nearly veering off the road as he does so. I brace myself, and put my seatbelt on in paranoia as he resumes his course.

     “Buddy, watch the road. You almost killed me,” I sputter.

     “Ah,” Mark dismisses me with a wave of his hand, almost losing the car again. “You such a wimp. I tell ya, spending all that time with those books, you have a coronary when there’s a little excitement. Maybe I am better off then you.”

     “Fuck you,” I say, inexplicably nervous.

     “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too. You know what? I like this gal you picked up here. Good choice. Better than that Serena broad. Hey, you know, she called when you left.”

     “Oh?” I am sunk before I even hear what transpired.

     “Yeah. It was fucked up. Carla answers, ‘hello’, you know, all sweet like. I don’t think she knows she’s talking to the bitch from hell yet. Then she gets all high-pitched and bitchy like. ‘who the hell are you don’t call here anymore bitch’ whatever. So then I get on the phone and save your ass like usual. I tell Serena that Carla is my girlfriend. But Serena’s too high a bitch to believe an asshole like me. She starts cursing and yelling at me. She called me a fucking lowlife scumbag. You believe that shit? The bitch is in a rehab and she’s calling me a lowlife scumbag. So I tell her to suck a cock and take a bottle of Prozac and call me in the morning. Then I hang up on her. Can you believe that bitch? You know, I can’t fucking stand angry women. Think they’re so macho. What the hell can she do? Sic a shrink on me?” He chortles so hard he coughs up phlegm. The car veers as he opens the window to spit it out, and most of it lands on the window anyway as he rolls it back up again. I stare at the splotch like it is a bullet hole. I want to get out, and I yell to Mark, but he only turns the radio louder. Carla howls to the music. Mark is conversing through the rear view mirror, but I barely see his mouth, only his reddened eyes, eyes of the possessed. They make me shudder. We enter the main road before my house, and I breathe relief. Soon I could go to sleep in my own b—

     I hear a screech. Mark had shifted to high gear and floored the gas. The g-force shoves me deep into the back seat. I see the speedometer creeping past seventy, eighty. I scream at Mark. Carla yowls. Kashmir by Led Zeppelin is on the radio, and I wonder if whatever demon that infested John Bonham is present with us now. No one seems cognizant of what is happening but me, and I was screaming with no voice. A traffic light looms, the last traffic light before home. It is green, and I thank the God that I didn’t believe in for strange miracles. But suddenly it is yellow, a ball growing larger and larger and we go faster and faster, eight-five, ninety. A luminous red glows before me. But we are not stopping. I silently scream as a thud subverts me completely.

 

 

SEVENTEEN

     Sirens deafen me, red lights blind me. I scream at them to go away, but they don’t. Men who I have never seen before reach for me. I am in the front seat of a car- but wasn’t I in the back, and I look back and there was either no more front seat or no more back seat, and my neck feels like it is going to snap. I am removed from the car. I try to walk but fall down at the first step. Policemen approach me like a scene out of a movie; we found the bad guy, I think they will say. But they say that I am the bad guy. My hands are shoved behind me. A click and I am unable to move them. Glass, blood everywhere. I see Mark with three other blue suits. He is shoved in the back of a car. I am escorted to an ambulance. I wonder where Mark is going. Black bags on stretchers go by me. I wonder who died. One of the blue suits calls me an asshole as he closes the ambulance door behind me.

     I look out of the window as the scene becomes smaller and smaller. I am screaming. There must be some mistake, I am not a criminal, I scream. I am not my father. A blue suit makes fun of me, thinking I am calling for my father. He calls me a pansy. I tell him to fuck off. I feel a smack in the face, and a protest from a medic, but it is too late, I am made to be silent.

     I wake up in a hospital bed. My head is throbbing; there is little light. A doctor with glasses leans over me. I scream, and there is a distinct hissing in my ear; my blue suit friend is by my side. Intense cold throbs against my head, and gentle patting. I am told I will live. The doctor leaves, and blue suit tells me I am an asshole. I want to kill the motherfucker.

     Suddenly I am no longer in the hospital bed; time has jumped from archway to archway. I am now on a small cot. Bars in front of me. A woman outside of the bars wearing a blue suit, watching me. She smokes a cigarette like she is Marlene Dietrich. She sees I am awake and blows smoke in my face. I want to kill, and I throw myself against the bars. She laughs, casually shakes her head, and nonchalantly goes to the corner of the room to get coffee before turning to watch me again. I am her personal freak show. My head throbs, and I slump onto the cot, defeated. There is a small hole in the corner of my cell. I sit and stare at it. Time is meaningless now.

     I am moved from the cell to a small room, escorted by my new girlfriend. She ignores my sexual comments, which infuriates me further. In the small room there is a skinny man in a suit drinking coffee, waiting for me. I could break him with my pinky. I want to.

     The woman shoves me into a seat. I give her the finger. She smacks me hard on the side that already hurts. I feel buzzing in my ear. She gives no apology; she looks at me like I am dirt.

     A phone is placed before me. Skinny points to it. He says something about bail. I have no idea why I am to be bailed. He shakes his head, and the receiver is shoved into my hand. I do not know if I speak to someone, or if I don’t. I don’t remember calling anyone.

     Time has jumped again. I am back in the cell. The Dietrich wannabe harasses me, calling me a killer. I feel murder in me, and wish I could take myself into oblivion. I am not my father, I yell. You are and worse, she says. She knows who my father is. At least he killed a man in a fair fight. You killed a woman. Two women, one a mother. Her child too. Fear drowns my confusion, turns to rage. I tell the cop to go to hell; I tell her that I will kill her too. I scream and scream, but she is no longer there to scream at. A young man sits there instead, younger than me. I sense green blood, and demand that he tell me why I am here. He looks at me quizzically. An extension of the freak show. But if he were in my place, he would act just like me. Would he? I don’t know why I’m here. I killed—a woman? What woman? I yell at the little boy to give me answers. He looks at me like I am a crazy man. I call him an asshole. I only wanted an answer to my question.

     The little boy and two bigger blues come for me some time later. I taste rum in my mouth, wishing I could have some now. I flounder in their grasp, wondering where I am going. Soon I am in a courtroom; bail will be set for me. I still don’t know for what.

     I feel like I am watching someone else, part of some courtroom drama on TV. Herds of people are there, street thugs, druggies and some people who like me look like they don’t belong here. I see Denise in the audience. She looks at me as though I do not exist. I wonder how she got here, and baffled by the coldness I receive from her. The judge begins to call names. Soon enough, I will be up there. If this were not really happening, I would be laughing. But I am afraid of what is happening. I wish I could just disappear.

     A, B, C, D, E, F, G—I am next. The alphabet never held such an eerie quality before this moment. I let myself fall into a numb state, nearly catatonic. Then I hear a name, not mine, but one I know; Graham--and I watch as Mark goes up to the bench, and a rushed whisper flows in the court, the judge must silence the masses. The hissing continues nonetheless.

     Mark Graham. Three counts of vehicular manslaughter in the first degree. A desperate hiss from the audience, followed by the piercing cry of a child. I follow the voice, and it comes from Michelle, Mark’s daughter. I wonder if she knows what just happened or if it was the cry of the innocent who knows she is no longer protected. Mark stands by himself, says he is not guilty. The hiss is louder, and the audience is admonished. This is what I am part of. Mark is led away.

     When my name is called, a burly man with a suitcase pushes his way up with me. I never recall speaking to this man but he tells the judge that he is my lawyer. I wonder where he came from. He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief as he speaks. I hear the judgement from the bench: Failure to report a homicide, open container, intoxicated in vehicle, resisting arrest. No readings of murder. The audience seems unaware that I am tied in any way with Mark Graham. I thank God. And I am not a murderer. The fat guy says I’m not guilty, and the judge sets bail at five thousand. The fat lawyer says we can pay it. I look at Denise to give her my thanks. She looks through me as though I am not there.

     I look around the courtroom for Carla. She is nowhere to be found, and I wonder if she has somehow gotten off scot free. Her name is going to be coming up soon. I stand transfixed, looking for her. I would like to hold her again—

     The lawyer nudges my arm, and it stings from the impact.

     “Come on,” he bellows. “You’re free.”

     I follow him, dazed. The lawyer reminds me of the court date that I never heard. October first. I tell the lawyer I can’t be here, I have to leave for a new job. He looks strangely at me then laughs as though I told a good joke. “You gotta stay here, sonny until this clears up.” We head towards Denise.

     “Where’s Carla Madison?” I ask. I don’t want to ask my sister.

     “Carla Madison?” I may as well asked him about little green men. “Carla Madison. Boy you’re out of it. The judge just mentioned her.”

     “He did? How?”

     “Carla Madison’s dead. She was thrown through the windshield. Your buddy’s being indicted on manslaughter for her. He also hit a family. He killed a man’s wife and only child. You sure pick the winners, boy.”

     Carla Madison is dead. She sat in my seat, the seat that I usually rode in. I should have been there instead. I close my eyes, my inside numb. I wish I were dead right along with her.

EIGHTEEN

     Denise and Nigel drive me home afterwards. Neither speak to me. I catch Nigel’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. His jaw is set, there is a tic in his eyelid. He glowers at me briefly, his eyes blue glasses of menace. For the first time I am afraid of him; I have caught the Nigel who would punch someone on his ass for disrupting his bar. I cower, and I catch myself in the mirror again. I look pathetic. I hear soft sniffles in Denise’s direction. I am too ashamed to look at her, but my periphery betrays me by photographing an image of tears streaming down her swollen face. I want to die.

     When we get to my home, they do not offer to come in or buy me dinner. They do not even say goodbye. I go to hug my sister but she flinches from my touch. Nigel glares at me to leave. I want to be angry at him, but he is the one with control over me now. My vision blurs with tears as I step away so I do not even get to see them leave. I stand there for a long time, desperately willing them to come back to me. But they do not.

     I enter my home. It is cold, empty. Half of it is missing, I soon discover. Anything that was Serena’s is gone; a hutch of china dolls, chintz pillows, the stereo system that her brother Joe gave her in one of his better moods. The sofa bed is gone as well as half the end tables. The knickknacks that covered the rest of them are gone as well. Half the books were gone from the shelves; what remained were toppled on their sides like skyscrapers in the aftermath of an earthquake.

     I go to my bedroom. Serena’s nighttable is the only furniture missing. Mine is still there. I remember finding the half-finished gin behind hers; there is no evidence either ever existed. The one remaining drawer sticks out like a mutated blotch, bereft of its partner. The two drawers were like twins; they even came in a set of two. There is only a gaping hole now. I feel lost in its gravity. I don’t even look at the closets. Serena used to own everything in them.

     I go to the refrigerator. I need something to calm me down. I discover to my horror that all the beer I had is gone. Either Mark stole all of it or Serena poured it down the sink in one of her rehab fits. I curse and kick the refrigerator, making an ugly imprint. It grows larger and larger as I stare at it, and I think of my mother hallucinating pineapples. I curse again, and search for money in any crevice I can find to buy a new supply.

     Yesterday’s newspaper sits before me. I am on page four. Mark, of course, received most of the press, but a picture of me stares back at me. It is from Nigel and Denise’s wedding, as I posed to look like the good usher boy I was not. I wonder if it was Serena or Denise who gave it to them. Probably Denise, since she was next of kin. I hate her. She betrayed me. Wasn’t she supposed to help someone like me in her program, not fuck them over?

     The ghost of Carla Madison past stares back at me, the rising artist’s life shamelessly shattered in her prime. There is a picture of her husband Gerald Forsythe as well, crying on the shoulder of a reporter in the bright sunlight. I wonder how many people thought over the years that Gerald Forsythe would be the one to take her life in his rages. Instead, I did. Gerald Forsythe would get to grieve with dignity.

     I comb the house for alcohol, money, anything to temper the panic I am chained to. My search yields seventeen dollars in singles and silver. The hell with beer; I am sick of pain. The liquor store is opened until seven. I don’t even care if I run into the jackass that got Serena into AA. He can spout AA shit all he wants; I am not going to become one of those psychos. Besides I am sick of life and of living. There is no point in convincing me otherwise.

     The AA guru is not in his shop, and I am disappointed. I was up for an argument. There is a bottle of black rum for eleven and a cheap red wine for eight. I settle on the rum, thinking that I will go to the deli afterwards to spend the rest of the money on beer. The cashier gives me a funny look as I pay for the rum. I think there is something wrong with the money I gave him, but he says nothing. I wonder if he recognizes me from the paper. I feel myself boiling, He catches my eye looks away quickly. Ordinary people are afraid of me now. I never make it to the deli.

     The silence in my home nearly drives me crazy. I think of better times when Serena was here and Denise would come over. They have deserted me. I wonder what I have done to deserve their animosity. I didn’t kill Carla. And besides, how many times had I forgiven Serena and forgot about the whole thing? Didn’t I deserve the same respect? Obviously not. She probably was screwing some AA saint—give me your body and I shall impart the wisdom of the ages upon you. I nurse the bottle into oblivion.

     I am dreaming that I am on fire. Loud engines come and overtake me. Out come the hoses; I am burning and drowning, burning and drowning—

     I am startled awake. The rum and beer are gone. The phone is ringing. The clock reads three-fifty. I do not know if it is three-fifty in the morning or afternoon; the shades are down. There is a commercial on TV—one of those all night infomercials? I cannot tell. The machine kicks on; it is the lawyer. I’ve been talked down to probation because I’ve been such a good boy my whole life. If I stay out of trouble for six months, everything will be as it was. I see a vision of Carla. It will never be as it was for her again. I feel a murderous urge for the bottle to take me under again. A mad search of the house yields a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. I remember I have six dollars left for a six pack. I am an addict that has just injected his poison. As I inhale the potion, I feel free. And soon, I know nothing once more.

     The phone wakes me up again, and I am greeted with a dank smell that I cannot place. The clock reads eleven- oh- one. Seven hours have passed, at least I initially think so. But when the answering machine kicks in and I hear phones in the background, I am confused. As I look behind my shade, there is bright sunlight. Jerry Springer is on TV. My legs feel wet as I walk, and I’m not sure why, it’s not hot at all. It still smells. I haven’t been paying attention to the voice. A female voice calling my name. I rush to see if it is Denise, and am disappointed to hear that it is Mel instead. I play the message back. “Tom, are you there? Tom? Tom?” Pause. “I heard what happened. I hope you’re okay. It’s terrible something like this had to happen to you. I’ve always admired you.” I choke on laughter. For some reason I find this funny. But the last part of the message is no joke. “I hope to see you again.”

     I jumped. What the hell was she talking about? Of course I was coming back to work. I was going to go in tomorrow. Actually I was going to go in today but I forgot today was Monday. What the hell did Arbuckle do now? I have a mind to take his ass down good. It gives me incentive to march to the shower. I don’t remember when the last time I washed was.

     Taking a shower is difficult. The soap keeps dropping, I can’t seem to get my hair wet. I want to take the hose and rip it out of its socket. Finally I give up. I am a tad cleaner than before. Besides, what was I going to do, dress up for Arbuckle? I couldn’t wait to report him to the advisory board. He couldn’t fire me without them. And then I’d become one hell of a pain for him, he’d wished he never met me.

     I get out of the shower. My clothes sit in a heap before me. That is when I see the wet stain in the crotch of my jeans. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach and do not make it to the john. My clothes are not littered in piss and puke. I can’t deal with this shit. I collapse into a ball. I hear loud sounds and realize they are coming from me. Naked, with piss on my clothes and tears and vomit on my body, I am no longer a man. Except no mommy is there to comfort me.

     I never get to the university that day.

NINETEEN

     Day passes into night into day again. This time I wake up ready to haul Arbuckle’s ass. I have been sober for the last twenty-four hours. I am geared up and fired. The clock reads eleven-ten. I wear my best Gap clothes and drink strong coffee that I take black because the milk is bad. I am prepped.

     The doorbell rings just as I drink the last of my caffeine. I freeze, wondering who it is. I peek through the shade and see the letter carrier looking for my signature. I tell him as I sign for the letter that I hope I won the lottery. He gives me an obliging smile, thinking I have told a joke. I am not joking. I need all the luck that I can get.

     But it isn’t from the lottery. It is from the university, postdated the day after the accident, September 23. Maybe the board has finally approved my dissertation work. If they have, this is my weapon against Arbuckle. I can’t wait to take him down—

     I am cold as I read the letter. The board has not approved my dissertation. In fact, they do not even approve of me. I have been suspended for four months, at which time I have to go back to the board to see if I am to be reapproved. The bastards. I was nearly a perfect student. But I tainted their virginal image. They didn’t want drunks in their program involved in fatal car crashes. What the hell would the neighbors think. Not in my back yard. To them, I was nothing but white trash, like my father. All the work I had put into making a better life for myself and it was gone.

     I thought of the crash. A thirty year old mother, a seven year old, gone. A man driving with his family having it vanish in one second. And Carla. I remember the warmth of her body; she is cold now. I should have been sitting in the seat where she was. I should have died, not Carla. I cry, barely ashamed at my tears, jealous of her, because she is somewhere that I would rather be. Even cold in the ground would be better than the existence I was living now. God in His Asshole wisdom had given me His own prison sentence—I was still alive.

 

TWENTY

     A month has gone by since the accident, and I am surviving, doing well, at least for someone whose sister said she never wanted to speak to him again, whose girlfriend’s brother told him to fuck off and die, and whose best friend in prison refused to see him when he went out of my way to visit him. I am doing great financially for someone who was promised a thirty-five grand a year job and had it yanked away. I work at K-Mart as a cashier for five-fifteen an hour, four-ten after taxes. My boss is a skinny eighteen year old kid who cracks gum and looks like she needs a nose job. She wants me, but she can’t have me.

     I have heard from the venerable A.T. Buckingham, Artie for short. He called me to inform me that he is having a book signing in Binghamton in December. What an asshole, rubbing his success in my face when he read in the paper about me. Went out of his way to find me, in the phone book. I make a call to the phone company to take my name out of it. I don’t know why Artie thought I would ever want to be bothered with him.

     I stop going to McKays on account of all the dirty looks. Like any of them are model citizens, driving home drunk and all. I go to Dunley’s in Endicott now. They do shots for two dollars. Someone gave me a line of coke there. It wasn’t that bad; it helped me drink longer. I’m not hooked on it, it’s too expensive anyway. I was put in touch with a person who could give me weed for seventy-five dollars a half-ounce. She showed it to me, it looked like a lot. I like it better than coke. The last time I smoked pot was in high school. It was still as good as I remembered it.

     I met a girl at K-Mart that I hang out with. Going out isn’t a good word because all we do is hang around and get laid and high together. Her name is Mandy and she says she’s twenty but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sixteen. She doesn’t go to school so that’s majority enough for me. Her parents kicked her out a year ago because she broke into a house with her ex-boyfriend to steal drugs, so she isn’t bothered about my history. She’s a nice person. I don’t have to deal with a demanding sister or the arrogance of academia or a girl that saps all my energy and runs around on me. For all that I lived through this past month, life is pretty good.

 

     TWENTY-ONE

It is November twelfth now, Serena’s birthday. She is thirty-one. I wonder what she is doing with herself now. I wonder if she is thinking of me, but she does not call. Whatever plans she has are without me.

     Mandy is sleeping at my house as usual. I leave her, and wonder how I feel anything for this girl. I don’t know anything about her but her last name and where she works. I am sleeping with strangers. The door closes and I feel hollow. I need something stronger to anchor to.

     I stop at the Ciselli home, parking incognito by some overgrowth to see if Serena is there. I watch for several hours with no activity coming or going. To think, I came to this house every day for five years and many times after that. It seems like a ghost town now. I wonder where everyone is. I drive into town and call Denise, wanting to hear her voice even though she hates me, but no one is there either. It is like everyone went to a party that I wasn’t invited to. I go numb, I have never felt so alone.

     When I get home Mandy is gone. She has left a note telling me to fuck off and die. I don’t care. She was like mobile furniture that had been sent back to the Salvation Army. So am I. Except I don’t know where to put myself.

     Thanksgiving is in two weeks, the twenty-sixth. I keep waiting for the phone to ring, but it doesn’t. Serena and I always spent holidays together, usually only the two of us. But at least we had one another. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nigel and Denise invited her instead of me. Jolly sober buddies running to Rochester with the merry in-laws from Liverpool.

       On the twentieth, Mark has his hearing for a trial date, which I go to because there is nothing better to do. I have never seen so many news vans in my town ever. Artie was right; they have forgotten about me. Even Mark has. He gives me a look as though I set him up. Feeling his contempt, I am glad he is in jail. But as the date is set for February and Mark is led away, I see the doors close on an eleven year friendship, just like that.

     I am drinking now just because I don’t know what else to do. I hate what I have become. Because I had a few drinks at the wrong time, my whole life had been taken away. I want my life back, I want Serena back. I don’t care if she worships the porcelain goddess or the AA guru. My life was so good with her in it. I want my sanity back. I find myself praying even though I don’t know who I’m praying to. Anything is better than this desperation. Anything.

TWENTY-TWO

     It is the day before Thanksgiving. Mandy is gone from my life completely by then, she’d taken off with some guy from K-Mart the day after Serena’s birthday and I hadn’t seen her since then, so she isn’t an option. The stupid store isn’t even open, on a day that I could really use the distraction. The idea occurs to me that I should work on my dissertation before I realize this is a moot point. I am really living in a dream world now.

     I settle on a little party crashing in Troy, hoping that they haven’t taken off to Rochester; sometimes they leave on Friday after Thanksgiving. But as I drive I wonder if is a good idea. Traffic is unbearable. You’d think I lived in Queens and not upstate New York for all the congestion I endured. I brought a joint for relaxation and start to smoke it to calm down as soon as I am on I-86. I’ve sworn of booze. My tolerance to alcohol has gotten lower, I think, or maybe I’m just drinking a lot more, I don’t know anymore. A joint will calm me down without wiping me out. As I smoke I feel eyes on me. I wonder if I am paranoid again, because I have been getting that way, but there is a child in the back of a station wagon looking right through me. She has a mound of gold curls and a big round face. I feel like an angel of God has been appointed to hand me the guilt trip. The child gives me a look of alarm then disappears. I cover the joint with a random tissue and put it in an ashtray. The joint didn’t even calm me down.

     It is nearly four o’clock when I get to Troy. The city is like a ghost town when I reach it. It is like an omen for when I reach Denise’s empty house and find the tan Maxima gone. I still go to the house and ring the doorbell anyway; I don’t know what I’m expecting. Once, twice it rings, and then I kick the door for good measure. I should go to Rochester. But I am just about ready to fall asleep. I may as well go to Owl Motor. Fuck it, I may as well as get good and stinking drunk now. There is no reason for me to stay sober now.

     I spend the rest of the afternoon nursing a six-pack in the Owl Motor. I have the best room in the house, which is a dilapidated king bed but at least it doesn’t have cigarette burns. No one else is here; everyone wants to blow the joint for the holidays, and here I am. When the beer is gone, I have nothing to do. The bar beckons to me, and I am tempted, but I know I can’t afford it on my meager salary. But hell, I can’t afford being here either, so I may as well enjoy what little I had before me. Maybe I’d run into that asshole Gary. I could use a good fight.

     But he isn’t there. Hardly anyone is, except for a couple of glazed over old men watching obscure soccer teams and Quick Draw lottery. Even the bartender looked like a dinosaur relic. I smelled mold and I felt sick to my stomach. But I had nowhere else to go. I spent the rest of the night drinking to nurse my wounds. They hurt just as much when I was done, which is when I ran out of money.

     It was cold when I left, so cold that my bones felt frozen. Winter was coming, but for me winter had arrived a long time ago.

     I drove around the next day, with no particular place to go. It didn’t feel like a holiday at all. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing to celebrate. Denise still wasn’t home. It must be nice to have family, now that she was too good to hang out with her own brother.

     My meandering takes me to a graveyard. It looks vaguely familiar to me, and then I recognize it—I had seen it in the newspaper the other day. This is where Carla was buried. I see her face again in my head and I run cold inside. A real man would at least go to her grave now. I do not. I drive away as fast as I can.

     I need a beer. But I have run out of cash. There is about eighty-five dollars in my savings account. It was never terribly high but now it is really running on empty. So I have made a promise to myself to not access it until I get more money. But this one time won’t hurt. Besides it is the holidays. And I need the beer really badly.

     I buy a six-pack and drive to a park, a Beaver Cleaver job with swingsets and a baseball diamond occupied with little boys and their gleeful parents. It was so squeaky clean I wanted to puke. All it needed were some violins playing in the background and the scene would be complete.

     I get out of my car to stretch my legs, blinded by the sun. I hate when it’s too bright. Then in the distance, I hear a familiar voice. I walk in the direction of the voice, unable to place it. I see a bearded fortysomething man with reddish hair. Where have I seen him before? He is vaguely familiar. His hands slip around a buxom fortyish blonde. A boy of eight runs to him and the man twirls him in the air. The three of them laugh together. I am close enough to hear the woman say to the man, “I’m so glad you’re back, Gary.”

     So that who it was. Gary from the gin mill. But he looks different. Happy. With someone who was glad to have him back. His wife? I thought she dumped him. It was like I made up the Gary that I remembered and this was someone else.

     Like radar, our eyes met. I start to walk away but he was already waving at me.

     “Tom!”

     “Hey! Gary, right?” Play stupid so he won’t think I’d been spying him. I was just Joe Average out for a holiday walk. (Right.)

     “Yeah, that’s right. Whatya doing out here, visiting your sister for the holidays?”

     “Yeah,” I lied. “How’s your holidays?”

     “Great!” He motioned to the woman behind him. “Loni, come and meet my friend. Tom, this is my wife Loni, Loni, this is Tom.”

     “Hello,” Loni warmly extended her hand with a shy smile. She had a firm grip. A tiger hiding under the kitty.

     “How do you do.”

     “And those two monsters running around are my sons, Eric and Sam. They don’t have enough manners to meet a friend.” Gary cajoled warmly as the two boys tackled each other in the distance.

     “I’d better keep an eye on them before they kill each other. It’ll give you two men a chance to catch up. It was nice meeting you,” Loni intones towards me.

     “Nice meeting you.” I reply. She kisses Gary on the cheek. He watches her as she reaches the boys. “Your wife seems like a nice person,” I compliment him.

     “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” Gary beamed, his eyes still on her.

     “So you’re definitely together again?”

     “Yeah. I moved back about two weeks ago. Just in time for the holidays.”

     “She lets you drink now?”

     “No way. I haven’t been drinking. I stopped drinking a couple of weeks after I met you. September twenty-fourth, to be exact.”

     I feel cold inside. Another sober junkie. Drones falling for the bait. “Great. Good for you.” Even I can hear the sarcasm in my voice.

     So can Gary, it seems. “Nah, you don’t mean that. When I was drinking I hated it when one of my cronies stopped drinking. Nothing’s more threatening than a reformed drunk to someone who’s still drinking.”

     I feel the beer churning in me. “How’d you stop?”

     “AA did it for me. One day I looked in the mirror and I saw my whole life in front of me, what I had become and what I had done to my family because of booze. I tried to stop on my own but I couldn’t even get through one day without drinking. I called AA, started to go to meetings, and I’ve been sober since. I haven’t been sober this long since I was twelve years old. Wasn’t exactly last year, you know. Calling AA was the best decision of my life.”

     “John must miss you at the bar,” I joked.

     “Are you kidding? He kept telling me to straighten my act and get back with my family. Funny thing is that I thought no one knew how much I drank. Truth is, everyone knew but me.”

     Everyone knew but me. Where had I heard that before. “So what about me? You said I had a problem back then. Still believe that?”

     “Can’t really be the judge of that, son. Besides I barely know you. But I reckon that not too many social drinkers have to ask a question like that.”

     I look at this man, remember the downtrodden bum I knew in comparison to the clean cut family man before me. I wonder what Serena looks like now. She must be beautiful.

     “Hey Tom. Come over for lunch at my house tomorrow. I live right near a lake, and the trout are still biting. We can catch some for the family. What do you say?”

     I am conscious of the beer on my breath, feel rancid. I don’t belong with them, though I ache for the decent company of these people. I can almost see the fish jumping. But I say, “Thanks anyway but I have to go to my sister’s. Out of town company and stuff.”

     “Okay, sorry to hear that, but I know, holidays. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Oh hey, I started my own little contracting company. Not much right now, but people are willing to hire me, aren’t afraid I’m going to steal from me. It’s a small miracle. But I meant to say, I’ll give you my business card. You can call me anytime. By the way,” he said as he fished through his wallet, “I meant to apologize for my conduct that morning in the bar. I was a real jerk.”

     “Oh. It’s all right,” I say, taking the card. “you were drunk.”

     “Well, it’s good to clear the conscience. I like to travel light today.” He smiles and extends his hand. “Take care of yourself.” I watch him as he goes to his family. I feel so alone.

     I go to my car. There is still half a can of beer waiting for me. Disgusted, I pour it on the ground. It seeps into the soil and disappears, and somewhere inside I feel I have taken a new turn.

 

     TWENTY-THREE

I have come up with a new regimen to keep me away from booze. Even the pot was flushed down the toilet. Every waking minute is planned with something to do. My work schedule has ballooned to seventy hours and I am actually bringing in a significant check from K-Mart. The rest of the time I sit in the library reading, up to five books a week. One day as I am reading a Jonathan Kellerman novel I realize I haven’t drank for twelve days. It had been the most difficult twelve days in my life, but I had done it. I feel like a new man.

     But I am lonely. No one has called me. I have even called Denise a few times but she hasn’t returned my calls—so much for being a forgiving loving sister. I feel strange calling Gary; I don’t really know him and maybe he is just trying to be polite in giving the invitation. The only person to see is Melissa. On my fourteenth day of sobriety I go to see her, strategically dodging Arbuckle by showing up while he had a ten-forty class. But when I get to his office, instead of Melissa there is an unfamiliar woman in her twenties sitting in her place. I hadn’t expected her not to be here. The loneliness that fills me is so painful that it is hard to be polite to this person.

     “May I help you?” she queries.

     “I was looking for Melissa Calhoun,” I reply.

     “She’s off this week. On vacation in Aruba. Lucky wench, wish I were there,” I saw the warm humor of this woman. I wish I knew her better so I could pour my heart out to her. “But she’ll be back on Monday. Can I say who stopped by?”

     I shake my head. The woman gives me a curious look before nodding and saying, “All right. Well you have a good weekend now,” before going back to her typing. I have been unceremoniously dismissed from a place that was my second home, and unrecognized stranger. It is all a bad dream that I can’t wake up from.

     I go back outside. It is warm for early December at nearly sixty degrees. Everybody is out for the last gasp of warm air. Students walk past me in clusters. Some recognize me, I can tell by their hushed whispers and stares at me. At least someone remembers me

     Then I finally relent and call Gary. Loni answers, says he’s out on the field, she’d have him call me, it was so nice meeting you the other day. I sigh in depression as I hang up the phone. Everyone is busy having a life except for me. Mel was busy sunning herself in the Caribbean, Gary was making a living, Denise and Nigel had too much class to deal with scum like me. And A.T. Buckingham, Artie for short, running around to book signings and whatnot. I don’t want to deal with him anyway with his smug attitude. I could see him giving me that smirk saying, “I told you so.” And of course, my Serena. She had always been my confidante, which I was missing now. Without her I was falling apart. I always thought she was the weak one. Were things different now, boy.

     I want a drink to calm down. Just one. And no hard liquor, just beer. I had never gotten in trouble with just beer. Then I think of all the reasons why I shouldn’t drink. Fourteen days would be gone. My family, who was ashamed of me, the career that had been shattered because of who my drinking led me too. The ghost of Carla, who would never let me forget that last night. And Serena, the love of my life, who I threw away because drinking was more important than she was. It was like I had been afraid of her getting better because maybe then she’d wake up and realize what a jerk she’d been with all this time. So I jumped the gun and did it myself. She deserved better than a scumbag like me.

     All these were reasons why I should not drink. But the counter-reasoning was just as strong. After fourteen days of sobriety, my family still wasn’t talking to me, Serena was just as gone, my career was just as over and Carla was just as dead as when I was drinking. So what was the use. Beer sounded fun. I don’t know why I got myself tied up with that other hard stuff to begin with. It always got me nuts.

     The next thing I knew, it was dark and I wasn’t at the bar. A cop was dragging me off some guy, cuffing my hands behind my back. The guy was yelling obscenities at me and I was yelling back. And then as I was stuffed into the cop car I thought, I’m fucked. I was supposed to stay out of trouble for six months and I hadn’t even lasted three. Now I was to lose my freedom on top of everything else. I had become my father.

     To my astonished relief, I was dropped off by my home. “You were lucky,” the cop in the passenger seat told me as he unshackled me, “the guy didn’t want to press charges. Neither did the owner. We just tied you up so you’d stay away from the guy.”

     “I was involved in a fight?”

     The cop gives me a blank look. “You mean you don’t remember? Boy you need help,” he shook his head. “Well, you didn’t kill anyone this time. Maybe you should lay off the Michelob. Doesn’t seem to agree with you.”

     “Where was I?”

     “You got to Binghamton somehow. I have no idea how.”

     “What day is it?” disbelieving how much has happened without my awareness.

     “Monday night.” The cop must really think I’m crazy now. “You started beating someone up after the game because he said the Giants sucked.” He smiled. “Lucky for you, you got two Giants fans here,” he indicated to the direction of his partner. “Well, night. Don’t drink too much Michelob.” With a cursory wave he is gone.

     I am left to wonder where the days of my life went.

 

     TWENTY-FOUR

I want to drink. There is beer in the refrigerator. but I am scared to touch another drop after what I have been through. I can’t believe I have lost three days. Maybe it is even longer, over a week. I can’t remember when the Giants were supposed to play on Monday night. December something. I keep looking at the beer. Three days gone. I wonder what I have done. Five messages, maybe would give me an idea of what I did.

     Well, I didn’t kill anyone with my car, that was for sure. It was at the University Rathskeller ready to be towed. The message was on Friday. No dead bodies lying in the middle of the street on account of me. Gary’s voice came on, twice. I wished I called him, filled with regret. I want to puke so badly. Melissa came next. She was back from vacation. The temp had described me well enough for her to figure out it was me. She said she was thinking and praying for me. A touch of the ice within me melted. I could call anytime. I thought about it as Artie came on the phone, reminding me that his book signing was tomorrow, meaning nineteen hours from now. I couldn’t wait. I didn’t care about his attiude anymore. I was sick of being who I was. And obviously he was doing something right and I was doing something wrong. I couldn’t even see Artie drunk. Beer called me again. And somehow my fingers began calling Melissa. It seemingly happened without my volition.

     She was over in twenty minutes, immediately dumping the beer. I panic as she does this even though I didn’t want to drink. It was amazing how even in defeat I am pulled towards my conqueror. After she dumped the beer, she reads from the Bible and some other AA books that she brought with her. I have no conscious memory of her words, but her voice soothes me to sleep. She stays with me, the next day giving me soup and coffee. My nerves cannot stop shaking. I never remember feeling this bad in my life. I couldn’t wait to see Artie that night. Mel tells me that there was a meeting at nine o’clock. I felt relived that help was on the way.

     Seventeen hours seems like forever even with my sleeping through half of it, but I survive. I sit in the back of the room where Artie was having his signing, ready to jump from my seat. If Mel wasn’t holding my hand I would have bolted and left. Artie was genuinely surprised to see me afterwards. “I thought you didn’t like me,” he greeted me.

     “I don’t. But maybe I’ll change my mind.” He grins. It was the first time that day that I cracked a smile as well.

     Artie gives me a copy of his book for free. He signs it, “Here’s to many sober years.” I certainly hoped so.

     We go to the nine o’clock meeting. I never thought I’d be so happy to be sitting in a church basement. They went around in a circle taking turns talking. When they got around to me, I said, “My name is Tom and I’m an alcoholic.”

     They all said hello and I knew then that I belonged.

     CONCLUSION

I can’t believe how great I feel. It is a glorious day in May, the sun is shining, life is grand. I am three months sober today. I know, I came into the program last November. I had a two day binge in February because I was feeling sorry for myself. I’ve been sober ever since my twenty-ninth birthday, February eighteenth. I am driving to a meeting where I am the feature speaker, the first time for me. Seven months ago I would have never been excited over something like this. But life certainly has changed for me.

     I have just come from a meeting with the academic committee, and I have been officially re-entered into the program; I start again over the summer. Artie vouched for my sobriety; I never realized what an influential person he was. When I got sober the first time he got me a job in the bookstore where he had his signing; I was glad to be out of K-Mart, to be back in my element. But it was weird doing it without a drink. It was like I had to relearn things all over again. Now I will be back with Arbuckle, back in academia, which is a scary thought in itself. I have a new spin on the dissertation. Instead of focusing on women’s alcoholism in society, I am looking at how people viewed alcoholism over the years. My former dissertation was reminiscent of the days when I looked at Denise’s and Serena’s drinking. Now I look at my own.

     Speaking of the women in my life, I am on very amicable terms with Denise now. She is coming to hear me speak, and she is staying over with me. The woman who didn’t want to bother with me will be staying in my house. I am grateful for this small thing. Family get-togethers might be routine for most people, but when something like that is lost, once it is back it is not something to be taken for granted, much like many things in my life nowadays that I never even bothered to notice, like sunrises and even the very fact that I have lived another day.

     Serena sent me a Christmas card. She is living somewhere in Cobleskill, is still single, going to art school for painting, still sober. I miss her. We send each other letters every week. I would like to see her again, but there has been a lot of hurt on both ends. It is like neither of us is willing to make the first move, so I called and left a message, saying I was speaking. The crazy thing is that if we ever got together again it would be like a totally different relationship; we never knew each other sober. It certainly would be a new experience. Artie yells at me, says I’m not ready to get back with Serena, that I should wait at least a few more months. He’s right; I’m not ready. Today I’m not willing to drink over her or anyone else, my life is too important.

     I’m on a lunch break right now, in between classes. You know, I still can’t get over the novelty of actually eating lunch at lunch time instead of liquid fare. Many everyday things that I either didn’t bother with or ignored are taking on significance for me. I am learning to live again even as an adult. Maybe I had never learned in the first place. Regardless, I have loved wrongly, but can love rightly now. I have fallen, yet returned once again. Nothing is more important than this moment now. I am grateful for finding the clarity to learn that.

Copyright © by Jessica Kuzmier