Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [86]
“Oh, that would be terrific, but I doubt you can.”
“I’ll call Ticket Master.”
Hayden’s going to work with a famous composer and I’m going to end up sitting in a parked cab on Eighth Avenue, waiting while my Banana Republic boyfriend buys crack from a teenage hustler. That is, assuming he’s still alive. I hate that I love him.
The intercom on the wall next to the door lets out a lame squawk. Hayden and I both look at it; we’ve never heard it before. Nobody ever visits me and I always pick up, never order in for delivery. I go over and push the TALK button. “Yeah?”
“Auggie, it’s me, Foster.”
“Brilliant!” Hayden says, excitedly rubbing his hands together. Hayden has never seen Foster before. Suddenly there is the possibility of drama.
I buzz him up. A few seconds later, he knocks on the door. I let him in.
“I had to see you.” And then he starts crying, grabbing ahold of me and sobbing against my neck. I look at Hayden who mouths, Crack. I mouth back, No shit.
“Foster, what’s going on? C’mon, pull yourself together and tell me what’s happened.”
He sniffs, wipes his nose on the shoulder of his T-shirt and says, “Hi, you must be Hayden. I’m Foster. Nice to meet you. Sorry for barging in like this, but—”
“Yes, that’s whom I assumed you were. Nice to meet you, too.”
“I picked up again, Auggie. Big time. I couldn’t stop myself. I’m out of control.”
“Where have you been?”
“The U.N. Plaza.”
“What? The U.N. Plaza? For two days?”
“The windows open so the smoke can get out. Anyway, I want to get better. I’m checking into rehab.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. I think I’ll go peruse Barnes & Noble for something to read on the plane. Something inspiring like Final Exit.”
“Thanks, Hayden. See you later. I’ll call Ticketmaster, see about Rent.”
“You guys are going to see Rent?” Foster asks. “I wanna go.”
“You wouldn’t like it. You can’t smoke inside the theater,” I tell him.
Hayden leaves and Foster takes my arm and pulls me over to the bed, where he sits.
“I’ve never seen where you live before. It’s . . . small.”
It occurs to me that no matter how rock-bottom Foster became, he would never be able to live in something as humble as my apartment. And my apartment is probably not too humble by ordinary standards. He’s completely spoiled. “Yeah, I know. Forget about the apartment. Listen, you better get to rehab. You’re a mess, a real train wreck.”
“I know, Auggie. Please, will you forgive me? I can’t help it. You know what that’s like, remember? You used to be a mess.”
“Yeah, I know,” I admit, “I do remember what it’s like to be out of control.” Odd that I say this in the past tense.
Foster gives me a small, sweet smile. “I do love you, you know. Even though I know I’m no great prize, I am your no great prize.”
“Why did I ever agree to group therapy?”
“No, Auggie. You got a lot out of it, you really did.”
“Like you?” I ask nastily.
He rolls me over on top of him. “Yeah, like me.”
After Rent, we walk over to Ninth Avenue and hail a cab to take us back downtown. “There’s really no reason to ever go above Fourteenth Street,” I say as we fly down Ninth, making all the lights. “Except for the brief excursion for live theater.”
“Are the meat samosas filled with lamb or beef?” Hayden asks the waiter at the Indian restaurant.
“They are filled with meat,” he replies proudly.
Hayden orders the vegetarian samosas.
“At least I can better understand your attraction to him now, after seeing him,” Hayden says, breaking off a piece of papadum. “He’s possibly the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life. He’s quite literally breathtaking. I no longer blame you at all for your shallowness and lack of judgment.”
I smirk. “Yeah . . . well.” I take a sip of Diet Coke, the Ketel One martini of those in recovery. I’m so sick of Diet fucking Coke.
“It’s almost like a male Liz Taylor thing.”
“How do you mean?” I ask him.
“You know, if she weren’t as beautiful as she is, people wouldn’t admire