Weekends were always busy at the car dealership. One Saturday, I showed up at work an hour late. I had missed the weekly sales meeting.
My boss called me into his office. “Engle, what the fuck is wrong with you? You look like something a bird left on a rock. And you smell like shit, too. Did you drink all the booze in town last night?”
I took the berating silently. I believed that he wouldn’t fire one of his best salesmen and that if I just took my punishment, I would be all right.
“I should send your ass home, but that would be too easy for you. Instead, you will stay here all day—outside on the lot. You will not take lunch. You will not speak to any customers. You’re a good salesman and I want you here, but this is your last chance. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
- - - -
Somehow, even with my escalating drinking and cocaine use, I was still running several times a week with a local running club. I had enough of an ego that I wanted to at least look good, and running was the most efficient way for me to keep my body lean and muscled. My chiropractor, Jay, was part of the group I ran with. He’d done several marathons and urged me to try one. He knew I was an addict. He thought a goal such as that might be just the motivation I needed to get clean.
A week before the Big Sur Marathon, I decided to enter. I’d run farther than ten miles only a few times in my life, but I figured it couldn’t be that difficult. I’d just keep my feet moving. Pam was incredulous but seemed pleased that as part of my “training” I’d stop drinking that week. Jay had told me not to run the day before the marathon. I heeded that advice, but that left me with nothing to do but sit around and feel anxious. I decided to go out for one beer, just to ease the tension a bit. Hours later, I was in the bathroom of a bar on Cannery Row, snorting lines, with my friend Mike.
“I’m running a marathon tomorrow,” I said to him as I dusted off my nose.
“The fuck you are.”
“Yup. I have to be in Carmel at five thirty to catch a bus to the start.”
He looked at his watch and his eyes got big.
I looked at my watch. “Shit.” It was 2:00 a.m.
I rushed home, showered, brushed my teeth twice, and splashed my neck and armpits with cologne. I downed several glasses of water and some aspirin and made it to Carmel in time to board the last bus to the Big Sur start. The twenty-six-mile ride along the hilly, twisting coastal road nearly killed me. My stomach was doing backflips, my left ankle was throbbing and purple—I must have wrenched it during the night—and I desperately had to pee. What was worse, the guy next to me insisted on making small talk all the way. It was all I could do not to vomit on him. When I finally stepped off the bus, wearing only a singlet and running shorts, I realized I was underdressed for the forty-degree morning air. Now I was nauseated, scared, intoxicated, and freezing.
Over the years, I had mastered the art of the strategic puke, and I decided that this was a good time to use my skills. I went into some bushes and let loose. I felt better and was able to force down a banana and some Gatorade at the snack table. I wandered around a little, then heard the national anthem being played over a loudspeaker. I joined the race workers around me standing at attention. As I was finishing a second cup of Gatorade, I heard a gunshot. On instinct, I ducked. But nobody was shooting at me. Apparently, the race had begun. I was nowhere near the start line.
I sprinted up the road and caught the slow-moving back of the three-thousand-runner pack. When the logjam of runners loosened, I picked up the pace. The sun broke through the fog as we emerged from the redwoods and headed out into the broad green hills. I could smell the booze on my skin and imagined everyone around me could, too. At mile nine, I crossed a long bridge, then started the two-mile ascent to Hurricane Point. Jay had warned me about this climb. The wind was blowing thirty-five, maybe forty miles per hour—right into my face—and my stomach was a hard-balled fist. I struggled up the long hill and crossed another bridge. When I reached the half-marathon mark, I stopped to barf again. A guy running by asked me if I was okay.
“No. I’m so hungover. Got a beer on you?”
He laughed.
“Highlands Inn. Mile twenty-three!” he yelled back, as he pulled away. “Always a party there.”
He thought I was joking about the beer, and I guess I had been, but by mile twenty-one, a cold beer was all I could think about. I started looking for the Highlands Inn. At last, I rounded a curve and spotted a group of about a dozen people sitting in lawn chairs, with coolers by their side.
“Three miles to go,” one of them yelled. “You might as well start drinking now.”
A few of the racers whooped and waved; most of them kept their eyes forward and ran by without acknowledging them.
I stopped. “Who’s got a beer for me?” I yelled.
Someone passed me a can and I tipped it back and drained in. The group cheered. I gave a small appreciative bow. I accepted another, drained that one, and belched. High fives all around. Then I ran again, and for the next mile I felt fantastic—better than I had felt all morning. The road was so beautiful—the rocky headlands, the twisted cypress trees, the long curves of dark sand. The Pacific was an exceptional blue all the way to the horizon, where it disappeared in a blurred bank of cotton-pale fog.
The road turned inland and I passed a band playing in front of a gas station. Groups of people were cheering and waving signs. Kids on the side of the road were smiling and holding out trays of sliced strawberries for the runners. I smelled the ripe berries and felt a sudden wave of nausea. My legs buckled and I lurched to the side of the road, doubled over, and my stomach let loose again. I stood up and took a few wobbly steps forward, wiping the mess from my chin. The kids stood staring at me with their mouths open. “Gross,” one of them said.
I was wrecked, completely spent. But I was going to finish this damn thing. I walked, then forced myself to run again. My feet were on fire, my quads were screaming. I saw the MILE 25 sign. I passed a field with horses behind a barbed-wire fence and swaths of orange poppies bent nearly horizontal in the wind. I kept moving, up a short, steep hill, then across the Carmel River bridge. At last, I glimpsed the finish line. I willed myself to stand tall, lift my knees, pump my arms. Bring it in strong, Engle, with some style. Bring it in as if you are an athlete, not an asshole.
I crossed the finish line in just under three hours and thirty minutes. A race worker put a clay finisher’s medal around my neck. All around me, runners were whooping, pumping their fists, hugging friends. Some were crying. And I felt, what? Some satisfaction, yes. I had done it; I had shown Pam and my friends and myself that I could follow through on something. And relief, definitely, that I had finished the goddamned thing and would never have to do it again. But something else overshadowed the other feelings: crushing despair. I had just run 26.2 miles. A fucking marathon. I should have been flying. Where was my joy? Where was my runner’s high? As soon as I got home, I put in a call to my drug dealer.
- - - -
Several months after Pam and I moved into our new house, my father-in-law, Horace, came for a visit. He was a North Carolina country boy with a wonderfully corny sense of humor. He was warm and gregarious and I liked him a lot. Horace had been a heavy drinker, but he’d cut way back after he had a quadruple bypass. I decided not to drink or use drugs at all during his weeklong visit.
On his last night in town, Horace said he wanted to treat us to dinner at the Monterey Plaza Hotel, overlooking the bay. I had sold two cars that day and collected $200 in cash bonuses. Before I left work to meet Pam and Horace at the restaurant, one of my fellow salesmen who was also my drug connection mentioned he was “holding.” I did feel like celebrating, but . . . Horace was still here. I decided the smart thing to do was to buy some coke while I had the opportunity, but hold off dipping into it until after Horace went home.
Five minutes later, I pulled over on the way to
the restaurant and did two quick lines. Then in the parking lot, I did two more. By the time I walked in, I was wide-eyed and jabbering. I think Pam knew I was high, but she kept it to herself.
Cocaine is not an appetite enhancer but I forced myself to eat my dinner. I smiled at Horace, commented on the exquisite food, wiped my mouth delicately with the cloth napkin, agreed with Pam that the view of the bay was spectacular. I was aware of the clinking of glasses, the tonguelike flicker of the votive candles, and the murmur and laughter of the other diners. I wanted to scream, You are all fucking up my high!
“I’ll be right back,” I said when I couldn’t stand it one more second. “Men’s room.”
I headed toward the restrooms, then veered off to the bar, where I ordered a double shot of tequila. Once I was in the bathroom stall, I did a quick bump. I knew I could make it through dinner now, even if Pam and Horace ordered dessert.
When we got home, I made a big show of yawning and saying I was going to turn in early. I stared at the ceiling and waited for Pam to come to bed. She’d had her share of wine and fell asleep right away. When I heard her rhythmic breathing, I crept out the back door and walked toward a bowling alley about a mile away. That was the closest bar. I knew that I was screwing up badly. I could see myself on the road in the dark, going where I knew I should not be going, but I couldn’t stop it from happening. Drunks and addicts live like that; in their own shitty movie, they are both the star and the audience.
A little before 5:00 a.m., I staggered home, relieved that I had made it back before anyone would be up. When I got close to the front door, I was shocked to spot Pam and Horace sitting at the kitchen table. I detoured to our detached garage and slipped inside. I noticed a pile of my dirty running clothes next to the washing machine. Eureka. I stripped off my jeans and shirt and put on running shorts and a tank top. Then, I went to the sink and splashed water on my head and my shirt. I jogged in place for a few minutes until I was suitably winded, then went outside and walked into the kitchen from the back patio.
“Good morning!” I said with all the faux invigorated cheer I could muster. I grabbed a paper towel to mop my face and stood there, breathing hard.
Then I saw the way they were looking at me.
“We’ve been up since three waiting for you to come home,” Pam said evenly. “I told Dad everything.”
- - - -
In January 1991, I agreed to go to Beacon House, a rehab center in a rambling Victorian mansion on landscaped grounds not far from our house. I did it in part to appease Pam and my family, and in part because even I could admit that I would benefit from practicing a little moderation. I partied hard the night before I had to report for my twenty-eight-day stay. I stumbled up the front steps of the treatment center as Pam drove away. She had left my suitcase on the sidewalk.
After I filled out paperwork, I was sent to get a physical at a medical clinic a few blocks away. I walked to the clinic and sat in the waiting room surrounded by regular people—mothers with kids, elderly couples, a pregnant woman—feeling as if I had a big flashing sign over my head that said DOPE FIEND. I fidgeted in the chair, flipped through an old AARP magazine, and picked at my cuticles. Finally, my name was called and I was shown into an examination room.
The young nurse was pleasant enough while she asked me questions and checked my vital signs. I was relieved that it seemed I was going to get through this without a lecture. When it was over, I thanked her and turned for the door.
She grabbed me by the arm and spun me toward her. “You know you could quit if you really wanted to. You’re just weak and you lack character.”
So there they were: the very words I had said to myself a thousand times. It was as if she had heard them through her stethoscope while she listened to my heart. I had suspected I was deficient; now I had confirmation from a medical professional. I bolted from the exam room and out the clinic door, blind with shame.
I had been told to return immediately to Beacon House. But I felt the lure of the beach a few blocks the other way—and the pull of a windowless dive bar called Segovia’s, where I’d spent many hours. A walk along the water, one beer—I needed those things now.
But I knew that taking off would be a colossal mistake. Pam and my boss would be furious. They had both made it clear that if I didn’t follow the treatment-center rules and complete the full twenty-eight-day rehab stint, I would not be welcomed back. I had to do my time even if I was, as the nurse had made clear, a lost cause. I trudged back up the hill to Beacon House.
Now I had to get through detox. I was used to stopping cold turkey—I’d done it many times before. I knew what to expect—the shakes, the anxiety, the agitation, the sweating, the brain fog—and a part of me welcomed it all. I deserved it. I spent the weekend lying in bed, pacing, or paging through The Big Book of AA—which had been left on a table in my room. I emerged only for meals, and I attacked them with strange gusto, stuffing myself with stews and rolls and cookies as if somehow food could tamp down the pain.
On Monday, I had my first counseling session. I had never talked to a therapist in my life and I dreaded it. I walked into his office, a high-ceilinged, wood-paneled room in the front of the house. Sunlight streamed in from the big windows that looked out on the green half-moon front lawn, planted with lantana and pines. My counselor was a thirtysomething, clean-cut guy in glasses and a button-down shirt. He introduced himself as John and I shook his hand. He was wearing one earring, a brown stone set in gold that looked very much like an eye. I sat down on a couch opposite him, poured myself a glass of water out of a pitcher, and downed it.
“So, a little about me,” he said. “I’ve been sober more than five years. I got started with drinking and drugs as a kid. Spun out of control in college. DUIs, dealt, all that.”
I was surprised he offered me this information. I had assumed I’d be required to do all the talking. I relaxed a little and said, “Sounds familiar.”
We talked about where I was from and what I did for a living, and how long I had been using.
“Do you think you are an addict?” John asked.
“I’m not sure. I know that when I start drinking, I can’t stop.”
“Do you want to be sober?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because I know I need to change if I want to save my marriage and keep my job.”
“Okay, but do you want to be sober? For you? Forget marriage or jobs.”
“I like to drink and I like how I feel when I do cocaine. But lately, I need to drink more and do more drugs to get to the same place. I’m worried. It takes more for me to escape.”
“Escape what?”
“I have no idea.” I laughed nervously.
He waited for me to go on.
“People always tell me what a great life I have. I have a wife who loves me and a job that I’m good at. But I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel anything. It’s like I’m trying to be what other people think I should be, checking boxes to meet some requirement.”
“What do other people think you should be?”
“Someone better than I am.”
“Who thinks that?”
“Everyone. My dad. My wife. Me.”
“Are there things that make you happy?” John asked.
“I don’t think I know what happy is.”
“Do you feel happy when you sell more cars than anyone else?”
“No, not really. I just feel relieved.”
“About what?”
“That I have been able to continue the charade. I have put off for another day people discovering the real truth about me.”
“Which is?”
“What?”
“What is the real truth about you?”
“That I see people crying or laughing or filled with joy—and I think, ‘Why don’t I ever feel like t
hat?’ I don’t have feelings. I only pretend to have them. I take cues from how people look on the outside to figure out how I should feel on the inside.”
John smiled at me.
“Fucked up, isn’t it?” I said.
“No, not at all. That’s pretty much what every addict thinks.”
“Really?”
“So, we manufacture feelings with drugs and alcohol.”
I felt a flood of relief and gratitude. “Yes, exactly. I do that, for sure.”
“What’s the closest you think you come to having authentic feelings?”
I thought for a minute. “I would say it’s when I’m running.”
“Tell me about that—how you feel when you are running.”
“It’s like I’m scraping out my brain and my guts. Things settle down. My mind stops wandering. I can focus, you know? Just tune out the bullshit.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“Yeah.”
“So you feel happy when you are running?”
“Happy? I don’t know. I guess so. I feel strong. More in control.”
“And you like feeling that way? Strong? In control?”
“Yeah, I mean I almost never experience that in the rest of my life. I feel like I’m weak, just unbelievably weak, with no backbone, you know? If I was strong, I could quit drinking, quit everything.”
“This isn’t about some flaw in your character,” John said.
“It absolutely is.”
“No. It’s not. You have to know that. Addiction is a disease. It’s not all your fault but now that you know that, what happens next is up to you.”
I looked him in the eyes. No one had ever said that to me. That I was not entirely to blame.
- - - -
Running Man Page 4