Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [54]
Hayden’s waiting outside with two large cups of coffee. He hands one to me. “What happened?” he says, smiling, waiting.
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking the lid off the coffee, blowing some of the heat away.
“I don’t know,” he says. “You just look so happy.”
I laugh too hard. “I do?” Coffee sloshes over the edge of the cup onto my hand. “I don’t know, I guess it’s just the Pink Cloud. Wanna head inside?”
“I suppose. Oh, by the way,” he says casually as we’re taking our seats, “I never would have pegged you for a Stevie Nicks fan.”
I glare at him.
All through the meeting, I pay no attention to anything anyone says and instead sit there, silently concocting reasons to call Foster.
After Perry Street, we find a place around the corner from my apartment that has a Ping-Pong table, so we go there and play. We find a rhythm and actually keep the ball going for a good five minutes at a time.
Ping: Hayden thinks he’ll get some work from Carl Fisher.
Pong: I had a slow day at work.
Ping: Hayden went to the library and checked out some books.
Pong: I think I’m really attracted to a crack addict in my group therapy.
Dribble, dribble, dribble, the ball bounces off the table onto the floor. “What are you talking about, what crack addict?”
It seems best to play this casual. “It’s nothing,” I say, leaning over to retrieve the ball. “It’s just a feeling, you know. It’ll pass.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “You know better than this, Augusten,” he says, his British accent lending his words an extra helping of authority.
“I know, I know,” I say. “Nothing’s going to happen, it’s just this weird thing. He’s a mess, I would never get involved with him, besides there is NO WAY he would ever be attracted to me. He’s just friendly.”
We leave, head home.
“I’m going to keep my eye on you,” he warns.
When Hayden’s in the bathroom, I slip the number out of my pocket and stash it safely in my wallet. It gives me a little thrumming sensation in my chest knowing it’s there.
There’s a message on my machine. “Hi Augusten, it’s Greer. Listen, since tomorrow’s Friday and nothing’s going on at work, let’s just take the day off, a mental health day. Call me if that’s okay with you.”
Hayden and I spend the evening reading. He reads poetry. “God, I’m not sure reading Anne Sexton is such a good idea in early sobriety,” he comments.
I read a paperback novel, but must read each page twice because my mind won’t focus on the words. At ten, we turn off the lights and go to sleep. I lie awake for at least an hour, replaying the moment Foster handed me the phone number.
And then in a moment of shining epiphany, I realize I didn’t actually see him write the number down. Which means he must have written it down before Group. Which means at least once, he has thought about me outside of Group. Which means that whether consciously or subconsciously, this could have affected his choice of what to wear to Group. Which means that the tight white T-shirt could very well have been meant for me. Sometimes people compare gay men to teenage girls and they are correct, I realize. I think the reason is because gay men didn’t get to express their little crushes in high school. So that’s why we’re like this as adults, obsessing over who wore what white T-shirt and what it means, really.
“Are you asleep?” Hayden asks softly.
I mumble, as if I am half-asleep. Best to keep my obsessions to myself for now. Besides, nobody in rehab said there was anything wrong with having a little fantasy.
• • •
“I don’t know, I just feel lousy.”
I’m talking to Pighead on the phone. I called him to see if he wanted to do something since I have the day off. “Do you have a fever?”
He hiccups. “No, it’s just that these . . .” He hiccups again, midsentence. “Hiccups won’t go away.” Then he confesses, “I have a small fever, my head feels fuzzy.”
I’m at his house within fifteen minutes, and he looks awful. Pale and sweaty and the hiccups are almost constant. “I think you should call your doctor.”
“I already have,” he says. “She’s out of town, her message center is trying