Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [84]
Hayden comes home, sees me standing in the middle of the room staring at the table beside my bed. “What’s the matter, is there a rat?” he asks with alarm.
“No, I was just thinking about how at one point, every decision I made in my life was somehow influenced by alcohol. And now, I feel so far away from alcohol that I can barely remember what I was like. Sometimes, I think ‘You must be in denial. You must want to drink so much and are so close to the bottle that you cannot even allow yourself to admit it.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Hayden says. “I think you’ve made a choice. I think the reason you’re sober and the reason it’s not difficult for you to remain sober is because you’re doing it for you.”
“Shit, do you think I could possibly be that healthy?”
“I think you’re healthy in certain ways, and I think you’re a pathetic disaster in others. Oh, speaking of which,” he adds, “Foster called while you were in Group, asked you to call him back.”
Foster answers on the first ring.
“I went to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and I got an interim sponsor. I just wanted you to know. Plus,” he continues, “I cleaned the entire apartment and called a real estate broker about maybe getting some small little thing on the coast, maybe even Providence. He’s also looking into bed-and-breakfasts for me to buy.”
I say nothing.
“Auggie, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m just . . . listening.”
“I want to make a fresh start . . . you really have no idea how powerful your influence was on me . . . and I really want to change my life . . . maybe even finally do some writing . . . maybe get a puppy . . . you’d love a puppy . . .”
“Don’t get me wrong here, Foster. I’m really glad you’re so . . . motivated . . . and everything, but you sound a little, I don’t know, hyper?”
He laughs into the phone. “Well, I must have had ten cups of coffee today. Plus a couple of Xanax.”
“You’re taking Xanax?”
“My mother’s a nurse, Auggie. She sends it to me.”
“Well, I’m really happy to hear all of this, but I have to run. I’m supposed to meet Pighead for dinner, and I’m already running late.”
I call Pighead. “Can I come over? Do you have any hot dogs?”
I’m at his apartment in ten minutes.
“Oh Sport, what are you doing hanging out with this man? He’s totally unstable. Hand me that spatula,” Pighead says.
“Why does he have to be so sweet and weird and handsome?”
He rolls the hot dogs around in the skillet; the butter crackles. “I’m sweet and weird and handsome. And I don’t see you banging down my door.”
“I know. But you don’t have enough psychological problems for me. I need somebody with more damage.”
“HIV isn’t damage enough for you?”
I hit him on the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
He turns and looks at me. “No, honestly, I don’t know what you mean.”
I look for the pepper. I ignore this comment.
“I think you’re obsessed with this guy and—well—you just deserve somebody who’s not addicted to deadly illegal narcotics. Grab a couple of plates.”
“Any more hiccups?”
“So far, nope.”
“And they still don’t know what caused them?”
“Not a clue.”
I walk into the dining room. “Where’s the remote?”
“Where it always is.”
“No it’s not.”
“Oh, okay. Maybe it’s on the—”
“Found it.”
As we sit at the table, watching TV and ignoring each other, I think, This is such an amazing relief. To just sit here and not have to talk somebody out of some criminal activity.
On the way home, I walk past a wine bar. It’s bright, with clean lines, modern and utterly appealing. It’s not