Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [11]
The reason I know what we are to each other is because we fight freely and almost constantly, about even the smallest thing. In fact, once we didn’t speak for an entire week because he didn’t like the way I loaded his dishwasher.
“Augusten, it’s just common sense. You don’t put a heavy frying pan on the top rack next to the drinking glasses, they’ll break.”
I thought it was uncommonly considerate of me to load the fucking thing in the first place. “Well how the hell am I supposed to know these things? I don’t have a dishwasher, I use plastic.” I can’t decide if we’re exact opposites, or somehow exactly the same except for minor cosmetic differences. I do know that all of his friends hate me and all of my friends hate him. We drive each other crazy in ways that nobody else can even touch. We never bore each other. And we both realize what a rare thing this is. What amazes me is that I never drink around him and still we get along, or rather don’t get along, so perfectly.
Pighead is HIV-positive. Or, as he simply says, “I’m an AIDS baby.” He got this phrase from watching 20/20. Diane Sawyer was profiling babies in Africa who were born with the disease, born to infected mothers. We were both sitting on his white sofa drinking Ocean Spray cranberry juice as the parade of bony children flashed across the screen. It was grim and depressing. “That’s me,” Pighead said in his mock, pity-me tone of voice. “I’m an AIDS baby. Hold me?”
But because he’s been healthy and virtually symptom-free for six years, baffling his entourage of physicians, neither of us ever really thinks about it. Or talks about it. He’s completely normal and healthy in every way. In fact, I’m so accustomed to the dozens of bottles of prescription medicines on his kitchen counter that I don’t even notice them anymore. There must be fifty of them, all in a group. But all I ever see is counter space and Post-it notes. I don’t even see the hypodermic needles he uses to inject himself with white blood cell boosters.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“In three days.”
“For how long?”
“A month.”
“Did you tell the office yet?”
“Well, they’re sort of the ones making me go. Elenor said I have to get cleaned up or I’m outta there.”
“Lucky for you they didn’t just fire you. It’s nice of them to give you a chance. So what are you going to do to prepare?”
I see a book of matches on the table in front of me, matches that read CEDAR TAVERN, NEW YORK CITY.
“Drink,” I say.
“Guess what?”
“What?” Jim says, taking a sip of his drink.
“The office did an intervention thing on me. They’re making me go to rehab for thirty days.”
Jim explodes into a fit of laughter, coughing over his gin and tonic. A little spray lands on me.
I wipe my forehead with a napkin, grinning at his reaction. We’re in a dive bar on Avenue A in the East Village.
“You’re kidding!” he cries, choking. His face is red.
“I’m serious. I don’t have to go to work for thirty days. Plus the whole rest of this week.” I bum a cigarette from his pack on the table, light up.
“That’s fucking awesome, man,” he says. “Congratulations.”
I take a long sip from my martini. “I know. The more I think about it, the cooler it seems. At first, I was sort of horrified. But now, well.” Now I’m thinking rehab could turn out to be great. I’ll dry out for thirty days and it’ll be like going to a spa. When I come home, I’ll be able to drink more like a normal person drinks. Why was I so freaked out before? There is a certain glamour to rehab. I almost feel like, what’s wrong with me that I resisted in the first place?
And Jim is totally on the same page. “No, it’s great. Think of all the celebrities you’ll see. Plus, it’s just great material.” He polishes off the last of his drink and crunches some ice in his mouth. “I mean, we’ll be able to laugh about this for years.”
“Right,” I agree.
“So what’d your buddy Pighead say? You tell him yet?”
I signal the bartender to get us another round. “Yeah, I told him. He thinks it’s a good idea, actually. And