Memento of Excess
A figure returned to me, appearing like a ghost through the haze that was something o’clock. It had a face, but the features were mangled – a fusion mess of skin and hair. It leered down at me, mumbling and muffled. A sound rumbled through my ears – a familiar sound, a welcome sound.
Over the course of a few seconds, the sound manifested itself as a voice – vocal sounds fighting their way through the treacle thick air that surrounded my percussive skull. The face above me was making the noise, consciousness now gave me an insight into the features of the creature above.
Male.
Familiar.
It was Lee Holbrook.
I had sunk further into the rabbit hole, the barriers of reality had completely disappeared and time itself ceased to exist. I was sure that Lee could see that I wasn’t aware if he was old, young, or somewhere in between. But he did know I was alive – my decrepit disposition and resounding hangover reminded him of that.
Déjà vu struck as I recalled my last discussion with Lee. The blurring of the edges of reality, where it melded with fiction, prompted me to wonder: wasn’t the phone supposed to ring?
When did that happen? Did it ever happen?
I struggled to remember when, or if, I even spoke to Lee recently. But Lee knew it was two weeks ago.
“Get up you pathetic waste of skin!” Lee barked, trying to shake me from my chemical quasi-coma.
“Whhaaagghhhh?” This was my only possible contribution to what was undoubtedly going to become a one-sided conversation.
“You’re a useless shite Mick – have a fucking look at yourself! Lying in your own mess, pissed, stoned and God-knows what else at 11.30AM. It’s about time you sorted yourself out and I’m going to have to help you do it.”
Lee felt the sting of duplicity as I knew he remembered the many times, dozens probably, where I had sobered him up in the morning, or provided an alibi to whichever poor undeserving girlfriend he was cheating on. The countless times I had followed him from ‘having a quiet drink’, to a 10 hour binge finishing at 5 in the morning. And now he was berating me – how had it come to this?
Deep down, I knew the answer to this. And so too did Lee – it was why he was here.
If my voice and brain could have synchronised, I might have actually reminded Lee of the hypocrisy. But my sole contribution to the conversation (what there was of one) comprised solely of primordial grunts, vomit and tripping over the coffee table.
Then it all went black.
The Penny Dropped
Sometime later, Michael was wet – sitting naked on the floor of the shower with Lee on the floor of the bathroom next to him, making sure his best friend hadn’t collapsed and drowned in a half inch of water.
Sobriety ensued.
Lee could see the cathartic comprehension of his predicament had hit Michael full force – an emotional punch in the stomach that all addicts get. It was visceral, it was painful. The suddenness and the honesty that flowed immediately after this was always a watershed moment – a weight lifted. And it always carried the suffix ‘this time I mean it’.
“I’m fucked mate,” Michael blubbered, not knowing where the tears stopped and the water started. “It’s like I have this darkness that covers me and forces me down a one-way road…I can’t stop, there’s no return. Once I start partying, I can’t stop. I have to find ways to keep the darkness away, to keep it from choking me to death. I know I’ll die without this.”
Lee looked at his friend – Michael Forster the famous author. This slide was inevitable, he knew it. He felt sorry for Michael, he wanted Michael to be back to his old self. But he also knew that he never would be.
It used to be that Michael had always been there for Lee when he was younger, in his wild days when he jumped from girl to girl, bed to bed, drug to drug – all in the pursuit of happiness. Hedonism was Lee’s mantra, his religion. He had travelled the path that Michael was now trudging through, although Lee’s reasons were ingrained within his psyche. Michael was there through circumstance and opportunity.
In rare moments of introspection, Lee wondered what it was about Michael that made him maintain a close friendship with a disrespectful, wild, and loose cannon such as himself. Was it a character flaw in Michael Forster that bound them? Or a subconscious trait in Lee that drew Michael in? Or maybe a bit of both?
In recent times Lee’s rambunctious behavior had decelerated – the roles started to reverse between he and his best friend. Approaching mid-40s, Lee was beginning to slow down; his activities curtailed by a lagging libido. He still told Michael his exploits when they happened – only now more embellished and outrageous. He couldn’t face telling Mick that he was lucky to get an erection once a week without Cialis.
Lee didn’t want his failure to push Mick further down the hole. Lee had seen the effect of Tina on Michael and he knew how hard life had been for his friend lately. Lee’s hypocrisy made way for compassion – Michael had always been there for Lee in times of need. Now it was Lee’s turn.
Michael blubbered, the words disheveled. “Lee…I’m so sorry mate. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just can’t help it sometimes.”
Lee said nothing – he figured Michael wouldn’t remember anyway. He knew that drunks, like junkies, like any addicts, would say what you want to hear just so you will leave them alone to continue their path to self-destruction. He’d heard it from his mother – he’d heard it from his sister…and now his best mate was feeding him the same lines.
Michael’s eyes cleared, he wiped the water away and leaned towards Lee. The clarity returned, just for a moment. “Lee – I’m done. I’m over this once and for all. I’ll get this sorted out I swear. I know it’s going to kill me and I will stop…I really mean it.”
His wet hands meekly held onto Lee’s shirt as he pleaded for sincerity. Lee could see the truth – Michael meant it.
Right then…he meant it right then.
But Lee knew that in two hours, or ten hours, or ten days…that same old demon would be back to tap Michael on the shoulder once again and ask for a dance.
And the devil doesn’t take no for an answer.
Writing Crash Page 11