Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [95]
Male models, female models hugging each other.
Puppies scrambling in the grass.
A kite soaring up into the sky.
A man leaping into a water fountain, despite his dress shoes and suit pants.
A woman on a bicycle, arms and legs outstretched.
A bride in her wedding gown juggling lemons.
Over all of this, a song: uplifting and motivational. Product name mentioned within the first six seconds and repeated eight times. A catchy tune, designed to be permanently tattooed on the brain. A tumor that causes one to purchase. At the end, the singers sing the slogan: Germany in harmony. . . with America. Then the beer bottle appears with the slogan printed beneath it on the screen.
After the commercial plays through once, I push REWIND and say, “I’ll play it again for you.” I must have said this a thousand times in my career.
As the tape is rewinding, the room in darkness, Greer says, “Maybe I should check to see if he’s pushed the right button, sometimes he scares me.” She must have said this a thousand times.
After it rewinds, I push PLAY.
Just at the scene where the redheaded model opens her hands, setting the firefly free, the door to the conference room opens, a wedge of light spills into the room. My secretary closes the door again, heads toward me. I move to her. She cups her hand around my ear and whispers.
I walk over to Greer. “Come here,” I direct, as I pull her arm. I open the door and lead her outside.
“What?” she asks, whirling around toward me.
“It’s Pighead,” I say.
“Oh my God, what?”
“He’s in the hospital. He was taken there by ambulance.” Something’s rising in me. Dread, panic, confusion, I don’t know. Something’s either rising or falling, I can’t be sure.
“You should go now,” she says.
“But I can’t, the meet—”
“I’m not kidding, Augusten. Just leave. I’ll take care of things.”
I chomp on my thumbnail. “Shit, Greer. I’ve been so fucking consumed with this nut from my group therapy that I’ve totally ignored him. That and this stupid job. I didn’t even call him once during the shoot. And now he’s in the hospital.” I want a drink. Rubbing alcohol, even. That is my default, wanting a drink. And no amount of rehab, no AA meeting will ever be able to switch that default to, say, orange juice. I want a fucking drink. I don’t want to go to the hospital to see Pighead. I want to go to a bar.
“Go,” she says.
I seem to be frozen in place. I know I need to go. Now. But I can’t. My feet are getting along really well with this particular square of carpet.
“Augusten,” Greer begins, “you can’t run from this. Whatever this is. It might be nothing. It might be something. But whatever it is, you have to face it.”
“Now who sounds like a self-help book?” I say, stalling.
She doesn’t smile. She walks to the elevator bank and stabs the button. I join her. “Call me if you need anything. Do what you need to do.”
“Thanks, Greer,” I say.
The elevator arrives and I step inside. I go down.
RUNNING UNDERWATER
P
ighead?” I say softly as I open the door to his room.
“Fuckhead, is that you?” he wimpers, his voice cracking.
I walk into the room. Pighead is lying on a bed, feet elevated. The smell of bleach has soaked the air and something else, sickeningly sweet. Distinctively hospital. I walk to his bed and sit. I lean over to give him a hug.
“Watch the lines,” he says.
I pull away. It’s true, he looks like the back of my computer, connected everywhere to everything. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s just easy to get tangled up.” He sounds very tired. He looks awful.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, as if I need an answer. I’m stiff, almost formal.
“Oh, I’m just great,” he answers. “Never felt better.”
Last time I saw him, he looked like him. Now he looks like somebody who is very sick. His face is so thin. It’s that look. The AIDS look. As Seen on TV.
“Seriously,” he begins, “I’m not doing so well.”
I clear my throat. Blink hard. “Um, what’s going on exactly?”
He sighs and looks across the room at nothing. “Well, Sport, I don’t know exactly. And neither do they.” He waves his hand in the general direction