Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [66]
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Well, it’s possible. I mean, maybe he’s got all this family pressure, and all this pressure from the girl, and maybe he just really needs somebody to talk to.”
“Greer,” I say, “you are in the right business. I have never met anybody so skilled at creating mountains out of molehills.”
Greer looks pleased with herself. “You’re not the only one with a bookcase full of advertising awards.”
“My name is Augusten, and I’m alcoholic,” I announce to the room. “And today I have ninety days.”
The alcoholics at the Perry Street meeting applaud. I’m sitting at the podium because today I have ninety days of sobriety and in order to “work my program” I need to “qualify.” I glance over at Hayden, who smiles at me.
I’m amazed by how nervous I am, how dry my throat suddenly is. Even though I make a living talking in front of people, presenting advertising campaigns to CEOs, I’m terrified and speechless. My hands are almost dripping with sweat. I can’t think of how to begin, what to say. My mind is filled with two-ply facial tissues. Yet, my mouth somehow switches to autopilot and words come out of me, like involuntary farts. I talk about how it was when I was drunk. I begin with the Fabergé egg exhibit, then being forced into rehab by my boss. I talk about rehab, and then coming back into my life, sober.
And I’m obsessed with a handsome, hairy-armed crack addict from my group therapy, I don’t say. I say I feel grateful for the people in my life, grateful for my sobriety, one day at a time, etcetera.
“You were spectacular,” Hayden tells me afterwards.
“How so?”
“You were so honest and substantive. Just no bullshit,” he says, slapping me on the back.
“Really? I seemed normal?” I ask.
“Of course. You were great.”
“What a relief. I had no idea what I was saying. I was actually thinking about how my chest hair is growing back after having shaved it all off.”
Hayden turns sharply, “What?”
“Well, I thought maybe of bleaching it for the summer. But then I thought how awful it would be to have roots. Chest hair roots. That would be really humiliating. The blond chest hair might look good and natural like I go to the Hamptons on the weekends. But as soon as the roots started to appear, it would be like, ‘Oh, that’s very sad, he’s obviously looking for something and just not finding it.’ ”
Hayden stares at me with mock horror. Or maybe it’s real horror. “You absolutely terrify me. The depth of your shallowness is staggering.”
“Let’s go get Indian,” I say.
At the restaurant on First Avenue and Seventh, I tell Hayden that I think asshole Rick from work is fucking with me.
“I thought your boss’s name was Elenor,” he says, biting into a vegetable samosa.
“Rick is her partner. They work together. Good cop, bad cop.”
“You said work was going well. I don’t understand.”
I tell him about how last week, I got into work and somebody had crammed beer ads from magazines in my desk drawer. I tell him about the sticky note.
Hayden is aghast. “That seems hostile,” he says.
“Rick’s a fuck. He’s a homophobic closet case and he hasn’t got an ounce of talent. He just hitched his wagon to Elenor years ago and she’s too busy to notice he’s as dumb as a box of hair.”
Hayden takes a long sip of water. “You have to keep an eye on this Rick person.”
I intend to.
• • •
“Come over to my apartment at six and we’ll walk to Group together,” Foster tells me on the phone.
I hurl my body into a cab and head uptown. Each block has tripled in size since the last time I was in a cab. I can’t get there fast enough.
He opens the door wearing a towel around his waist and half a beard of white shaving cream on his face. “C’mon in, I just have to finish shaving, then we can go.”
I stand in the doorway of his bathroom as he shaves; steam from the sink fogs the mirror. The towel is short enough that I can see the muscles in his legs flex each time he shifts the weight from one leg to the other. Thick muscles, covered with tan skin and black hair. He’s a hairy guy, circa 1970