Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [85]
The nasty German client finally bought a campaign. It was our least favorite campaign, of course. Unoriginal, uninspired. It is, what we call in advertising, a “montage” commercial. Instead of a concept, it contains only happy shots of attractive people leading active lives. There is a puppy in one shot. And of course, nobody actually sips the beer, as this is illegal to show. He felt it would be “more than satisfactory.” He especially liked that we didn’t have to fly to Germany to shoot it, but could spend a hundred thousand dollars less and shoot it in LA.
“It’ll be a relief to get away,” I tell Greer.
“I know. Let’s try to eat healthy,” she says. “Let’s treat it like going to a spa. I really don’t want to end up hanging around the set eating all those M&Ms and corn chips all day.”
Basically, this is what commercial production is all about. The director shoots the commercial, the client dresses “casual Friday,” worries constantly and pesters the agency, and the agency ignores the client and hangs out at the craft service table gorging on cocktail weenies and cookies. The craft service table is a magic, magnetic thing.
“We’ll take the fat pills,” I reassure Greer.
“Thank God for chitosan,” she says.
Both of us swallow fat-absorb pills with religious fervor. Greer owns stock in the company that manufactures them.
“I need to get out of New York,” I tell her. “Too much stress.”
“I’ll bring along some books. Seven Spiritual Laws of Success for me and . . .” She thinks. “A Setback Is a Setup for a Comeback for you.”
Two days go by without a word from Foster. I will not let myself go to his apartment again. When he’s good, he’s so good. He makes me laugh harder than I ever laughed when I was drinking. He’s so warm and loving and attentive and sensitive. But then all of a sudden, he’s gone. Missing in action. It really is like he’s seeing somebody else. How can I compete with crack?
Why would I want to?
He told me, I love you. Then he called me all manic saying how much I’d changed his life. And now, nothing. So I’m going up and down, my mood completely dependent upon his sobriety or lack of. He’s like this incredibly beautiful Van Gogh painting with slashes all through it. True, it’s a Van Gogh. But look at those slashes.
I can see the person he could be, the person he almost is. And I want that person. I want to love that person. I want that to be the person who tells me I’m hogging all the covers. I can’t stand one minute looking at the stars out the sunroof and the next minute wondering, does he have a broken bottle pressed against his neck?
And here’s the part I don’t admit to anybody, even Hayden: part of me wants to see him using. I want to know what he’s like. I want to know all sides of him. I want to see if he looks more content when he’s with me or his crack.
When Hayden walks in the door, he looks suspicious. Guilty. I immediately think, You’ve relapsed. “Augusten, we need to have a talk.”
Here it comes.
“I’m going back to London.”
Because this is the last thing I expected him to say, I make him tell me again.
“It’s time for me to get back to London. I’ve been here for more than six months. And there’s a project waiting for me there.”
I feel as if I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I should be relieved, I suppose. To have the apartment all to myself, the inconvenience of stepping over suitcases gone. But instead, I feel like I’m being abandoned.
“When are you leaving?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“When did you decide this?” I can’t believe it’s so sudden.
“Today, when I got the call about the project in London. It’s a famous composer. I’d be insane not to take it.” He lights a Silk Cut.
I have to be happy for him. I can’t be selfish for me. He can’t stay forever, no matter how much I want