Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [103]
It burns going down.
My head is filled with fumes. I am more than mildly uncomfortable. But then I feel the warmth of it. As if Liquid Foster has come from behind and wrapped his arms around me. I honestly feel a sense of home. I feel safe.
I finish the pint and want more. I feel only slightly bad that I have done this. And I’m not sure that all of me believes I actually have. But then another part of me feels like it’s no big deal. Because there are certain facts that I need to begin grasping. Fact number one is that my best friend is not doing so well. Fact number two is that I didn’t see it coming because I was too busy doing absolutely nothing of any importance. Fact number three is that I don’t want to be sober anymore. I do not want front-row-center seats for the crucifixion. I would like to conveniently sidestep what is happening in my life at the moment.
The Boiler Room is packed when I get there a little after eleven. Packed with gay guys from the East Village wearing stiff G-Star denims and knit skullcaps. I am wearing frayed khakis that I bought years ago at the Gap, an Avid T-shirt I got free from an editing house and white sneakers that are closer to gray. I am the opposite of kewl and look completely out of place here. So naturally, a guy comes up to me immediately.
“Hey,” he says, gripping his Rolling Rock.
I nod, half-smile. “How’s it going?”
“It’s all right, man. My name’s Keith,” he says, offering up his hand.
“Augusten,” I say, shaking it. “You been here long?”
“Nah. Just got here ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.” He takes a sip of beer.
Keith is shorter than I am, about five-eight to my six-two. He has dark hair, dark eyes and good features. But best of all, he’s talking to me. “So what are you up to tonight?” he asks me.
“Getting shitfaced,” I tell him.
He grins. It’s the grin of someone who understands the concept of shitfaced. It’s the grin of someone who might want to join in on the fun. “Let’s drink,” I tell him and walk smoothly to the bar, like an expert pool player who is about to begin the national championships.
He follows.
And I realize this is exactly what I came here for. I came here for someone to follow me. I came here to be Alpha wolf.
We drink. He feels up my ass, I feel up his. We drink some more.
An odd thing happens. Instead of getting sloppy drunk, I get focused drunk. Far from wanting to lose myself in the lyrics to the theme song from The Brady Bunch, I have the clarity of mind to know that the reason I am drunk and in a dark bar with a strange guy is because I am desperate to control something. I want this man to drink when I tell him to. Laugh when I crack a joke. Blush slightly when I look at him just so. And leave when I say it’s time.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
“Sure,” he says. If he were a dog, his tail would be wagging, ears flopping in opposite directions. “Where to?”
“Your place. I don’t want to be in my apartment.”
He seems happy enough with this suggestion. We head for the door. He pauses. “Um,” he says, looking at me with tentative hope, “should we get some blow?”
“Excellent idea.” I slap him on the back and his smile broadens. I reach into my front pocket and withdraw a wad of twenties and fifties. “Here,” I say, jamming some of the bills into his hand. “Go get some.”
I stand by the door looking at the other guys who are themselves looking for other guys. The whole thing suddenly strikes me as beyond sad. All of this exposed loneliness. These raw nerves firing into the dark. I imagine the guy leaning against the pool table hooking up with the guy poking at the jukebox. They’re both good-looking and aloof. Maybe later, they’ll speak to each other.