Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [88]
Because I don’t know what to do, I sit at my desk. And amazingly, the alcohol fumes are only more intense. I can only sit there like I am meat marinating.
A moment later, Elenor passes by my office saying a casual “Hi there” as she passes by. Then she reappears, standing in my doorway, nose upturned. A look of alarm passes across her face. She steps inside, sniffing. “Augusten,” she says, “what’s going on in here?” She looks around. I don’t know what she is looking for. A party?
“I haven’t been drinking, Elenor, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She eyes me suspiciously. My credibility is stretched to the breaking point due to the obvious olfactory situation at hand.
“It smells like a distillery in here.”
“I noticed,” I say.
She leans around and looks in my trash can, glances under my desk. “Any idea why your office smells like this?”
One word comes to mind. “Rick.” I stare at her. “He poured a bottle of scotch in here. It’s probably his idea of funny.”
She stares back at me blankly. “I don’t think Rick would do that,” she says. Then she crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a little smile like I’m some child who is lying about the toothpaste all over the hairbrush. “So everything’s going okay with you? You know, in terms of your . . . situation?”
I can’t believe this. I want to grab her and shake her, scream, I DIDN’T FUCKING DRINK! DON’T YOU REMEMBER THAT ASSHOLE WAS LOOKING THROUGH MY BACKPACK? DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND HE HAS IT IN FOR ME??!! Instead, I get up from behind my desk and grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. “I’m fine, Elenor. Thank you for asking. And I think you’re wrong about Rick. I think this is exactly the kind of thing he would do.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, turning.
I let out my air and look at her like, You just don’t get it. “To a keg party, Elenor,” I say.
Walking down the sidewalk, I fume. I shoulder my way through the throngs of workers, clutching their Starbucks cups, Wall Street Journals, briefcases. The sounds of traffic, which I normally don’t even hear, are deafening, oppressive. I pass a building super hosing down the sidewalk and there’s a rainbow in the mist. I step on the rainbow, soaking my shoes.
I can’t call Foster, can’t depend on him. And Pighead has enough to worry about without worrying about me. Hayden is probably sleeping off his jet lag. That’s my sober network. It’s a very short list. I walk quickly, imagine not stopping. Could I walk all the way to California?
If I had gotten a sponsor in AA like I was supposed to, I could call him. And he could tell me, “Let go and let God,” and I could think, Bullshit.
I could go to a meeting now and just vent. I could.
On the corner I spot an Irish pub. It’s open, even at ten-thirty in the morning. Pathetic, I think. The kind of place you’d have to be a hard-core alcoholic to step foot in.
I go inside.
That smell. Stale beer, cigarette smoke, wood, gin. There’s no other smell like it. It’s bar smell. And at once, I feel like I have come home.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to dim light. I make my way to the bar and sit on one of the stools. I set my bag on the bar and my hands are shaking. I can’t do this. I can’t be here. It’s not worth it.
“What’ll it be?” the weathered old bartender asks in a gravelly voice, the skin around his eyes creased, his mustache yellowed from years of exhaling Marlboros.
And I am torn. I am split down the middle. Anxiety spreads through me, as if whatever had been containing it cracked, burst. My heart races in my chest. Just one shot. I could order just one shot. I need to take the edge off. The edge is too sharp. I’m cutting myself with this edge.
“A Diet Coke,” I say after a long pause.
The bartender looks at me for just an instant longer. It’s as if he has been able to read my mind, knows what’s going on inside of me. And it occurs to me that he’s probably seen this many times before: the demons wrestling.
When he sets my Diet Coke on the bar he says, “Enjoy.”
I suck through the thin straw. I suck until only the ice is left.