My Fair Junkie

by Amy Dresner

  And as we exit the elevator to the parking structure, two perfectly coiffed, flamboyant gay men cut in front of us and out of my mouth pops a rude “Yes, of course! Ladies first!”

  “Amy!” Linda clamps her hand over my mouth and pulls me toward the car.

  Linda works a lot. When she’s home, I kind of keep it together. We watch Intervention and eat cheap tacos, and she drives me to AA meetings. But when I’m alone in her little house, I quickly come unglued. My head starts talking to me, and it’s not good. That’s when I drink.

  I am really trying to embrace sobriety again, but the grief around the loss of my marriage and my life as I knew it is so exquisitely overwhelming that I turn to booze for a much needed but fatal reprieve.

  My new favorite poison is Four Loko. You can buy it at most gas stations and 7-Elevens. It’s malt liquor laced with caffeine. It has the highest alcohol content of any stuff they sell. It comes in different horrible fruity flavors, which makes it a little more palatable when it comes back up—which, I promise you, it will.

  One day, I drink a few of these bad boys and decide to go by my old place. I’m still drawn there like a sad homing pigeon. Clay is there. I have my engagement ring cleaned before I go by, a pitiful symbolic gesture.

  “Look how sparkly my ring is,” I say, smiling awkwardly.

  “Have you been drinking?” he asks me.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Amy, I can smell it.”

  I have the brazen coldness I get when I drink. I don’t give a fuck, and it’s such a relief. I’m normally so sensitive. Everything hurts: what you say, what you think, what I think you think. So, it’s an emotional oasis for me to not care, even temporarily. Other people, however, don’t enjoy it as much.

  I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, buzzed.

  “I just wanted you to love me the way I loved you, and you never could,” he says.

  I say nothing.

  Then he begins to weep. The weeping morphs into heavy sobbing. He is lying on his belly on the bed. I get up and begin to rub his back, a lame attempt to soothe him. But I feel numb, empty. Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe I’m dead inside. Neither of us says a word. The silence says everything.

  Eventually, he flips onto his back, wiping away his tears, embarrassed.

  “I’m gonna go,” I say.

  “Yeah, I think you should.”

  I leave. I need to get drunk. Really drunk. It is not a good idea, but it’s all I got. I really shouldn’t be drinking and driving Linda’s car anymore, so I get the ingenious idea to buy a bunch of Four Lokos and then drive to her work at Mr. Bigshot producer’s house.

  I park outside her boss’s ten-million-dollar mansion and just sit in her car and drink until six o’clock, when I am supposed to pick her up. I get out of the car to pee. There I am smoking, squatting, and crying on the dark, quiet, ritzy sidewalks of the Hollywood Hills.

  At 6:05, she walks out the big electronic gate. I am standing by her car, wobbly, a can of booze in my hand.

  “Oh, my God,” Linda says when she sees me.

  “YO!” I salute her. “You should probably drive.”

  “Uh, yeah.” She is irritated but concerned.

  “I had… a rough day,” I say. “I saw Clay. Wasn’t good.” I shake my head like a child. “Not good.”

  “Have you been driving my car… loaded?” she asks me.

  “Of course not. I parked and then I got loaded. Don’t worry. I was very…” I can’t think of the word.

  “Responsible?” she offers sarcastically.

  “Yes. Responsible!” I am very pleased with myself.

  Linda helps me into the car and begins driving us home.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” (Here comes the booze-induced honesty.)

  “Sure.”

  “Are you in love with me?”

  “No, Amy. Just because I’m bisexual doesn’t mean I’m in love with you.”

  “I mean it’s okay if you are. I’ve just never had a friend be this… devoted.”

  “I see you as the sister I never had.”

  “But you can be in love with your sister,” I slur.

  “No, Amy, I’m not in love with you.”

  “Well, that’s good.” I look out the window at the speeding cars. Everything is blurry. I am really fucked up.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” I say.

  She thrusts a plastic grocery bag at me, and I immediately begin to vomit into it. Violently.

  “Not good,” I gasp. “Four Loko… so… sweet.” I vomit some more. There is a hole in the bag, and the vomit leaks out onto my pants.

  “It’s on me,” I say, a little confused. “How is it on me?”

  “Oh, fuck,” Linda says. “Let me pull over.” She stops in front of a church. People are outside smoking. It is dark, but I can still make out the oversize glasses, asymmetrical haircuts, and cardigan sweaters.

  “Is that an AA meeting?” I ask, puzzled. “Hi!” I yell and wave. The sober hipsters look at me with disdain.

  “I need to take my pants off,” I announce.

  “No, Amy. Don’t.”

  “Yes! They are wet! Need to take pants off now.” I struggle with my wet, puke-covered corduroy pants.

  “Goddammit,” Linda says as she helps me yank them off.

  “Thank youuuuu,” I say. I put my boots back on, bracing myself on the hood of the car. I am now in transparent red net underwear and suede moccasin boots.

  “Get in the fucking car.”

  “Look! I don’t have any pants on!” I dance around like a puppet.

  “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  I comply, getting back in the car, half naked, wet, and drunk.

  “I think I drank too much,” I mumble.

  “Ya think?”

  I manage to stay sober for a month or so. Linda and I go to AA meetings on the East Side. She thinks they’re interesting and hilarious. I dread each and every one. Also, Clay and I are trying to reconcile. I promise to be a better wife: I’ll cook, I’ll clean, I’ll bring in money. We both pretend to believe me.

  It’s odd that even when you know a relationship isn’t right, it’s still hard to let go. I don’t want to admit that I failed at my first attempt at domesticity, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to admit that his third marriage has crashed and burned. And what the fuck would he do about that embarrassingly huge tattoo of me on his arm? Every time he gets out of the shower, his shoulder screams: “HI! REMEMBER THIS BITCH?!”

  Clay is returning from a business trip, and we arrange that I’ll grab him at the airport and we’ll spend a few hours together—you know, feel it out. However, as soon as I see him walk out of the arrivals gate with that dour expression on his face, I know I’m making a huge mistake.

  We drive home, making small talk, but it is awkward. He feels like a stranger. I can only imagine what I feel like to him.

  As I follow him into our condo, I can’t help but notice that it doesn’t feel welcoming. In fact, it doesn’t even feel familiar. Granted, none of my stuff is there anymore. Clay had put all my clothes and jewelry into garbage bags for Linda to pick up weeks earlier. I open the closet where my vintage hippie tops used to hang, and it’s packed tight with his button-down shirts and expensive jackets.

  “You didn’t waste any time, huh?” I mean to say it as a joke, but it comes off bitter. Looking into the seemingly sterile and corporate closet, I feel sadder than I expected.

  Clay flops down dramatically onto the bed.

  “Lie with me,” he urges.

  I crawl onto the bed and lay my head on his chest, but I quickly feel a deep anxiety building. I look at my hands. They’re trembling.

  “I feel… really weird,” I say.

  “Maybe you don’t love me anymore,” he says flatly.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I answer.

  I get off the bed and go out to the patio to smoke. I feel confused. I think I still love him. I want to stil
l love him. I feel self-hatred rising in my throat like bitter bile. Here is the only man aside from my father who has ever truly loved me or taken a chance on me, and I am about to throw it all away.

  I go back inside, quiet, somber.

  “It’s over, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “Yes, I think so,” I mumble, almost to myself.

  “I’ll walk you down.”

  As we wait for the valet to bring around Linda’s car, I hug him. His arms hang limply by his sides.

  “We can still be friends, right?” I offer lamely.

  He is mute. The only sounds are the rushing of traffic down La Cienega and the soft Spanish chattering of the valet guys.

  As I’m speeding back to Eagle Rock, chain-smoking, my phone rings. It’s Clay.

  My heart jumps in my throat, and I answer it with something vaguely resembling hope.

  “You just wanted to see if you could get me back, you sick bitch! You never really wanted to reconcile.”

  His anger is sudden and palpable.

  “Oh, my God, that is so not true.”

  “Yes it is. You’re so fucking manipulative.”

  “I swear that’s not true. I really wanted it to work, but when I saw you, I…”

  “What? You forgot what I looked like? You changed your mind?”

  “There’s just too much water under the bridge, now… it’s broken. I’m broken. We broke it… I don’t know.”

  “You fucking broke it! You just got what you needed, and once you were done with me, you threw me away. You’re a fucking user. You’re a piece of shit—”

  I hang up and throw the phone on the passenger seat. My entire body is trembling. He calls back, but I don’t pick up. He calls again and again. The phone rattles plaintively on the vinyl seat like a fish gasping for air, for anything.

  I’m in court, waiting to be sentenced. My chest is tight. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m on bad coke. The judge is an older woman, maybe late fifties, brunette, stern face, black robe. She’ll be on my side, I think. She’s a woman. She must have dated or married an asshole once in her judicial life. Besides, this was my first arrest ever. I’m sure I’ll just get probation or something…

  I have my blond hair in a messy bun, and I’m wearing a vintage India gauze blouse. I don’t have on a stitch of makeup. My intent is to look young, innocent, peace-loving—not like a psychotic, mentally ill drug addict who would try to stab her husband.

  “Amy Dresner, you are hereby sentenced to two hundred forty hours of community labor and one year of domestic violence and anger management class for a plea of ‘no contest’ to the charge of ‘misdemeanor assault and battery with a deadly weapon,’” the judge says.

  “I can’t believe this shit,” I say under my breath.

  “This sentence is to be completed in no more than fourteen months from this date. Understood?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say robotically. She raises an eyebrow at me. “Your Honor,” I add quickly.

  I look over at my lawyer in disbelief. He’s an old looking forty-something, thinning hair, nerd glasses. Granted, my soon-to-be ex-husband had hired him, paying half of his retainer back when we were still considering a reconciliation. I’d never really felt he was on my side. And he had not prepared me for this outcome.

  I just look at him, speechless.

  “Will I have a record? Am I on probation? I don’t—” I start.

  “Listen,” he cuts me off. “I’ve done way more than you paid me for. This is it. You are on your own now,” he says. And with that, he hands me a bunch of papers covered in scary legalese, grabs his briefcase, and is gone.

  It occurs to me that lawyers are just like prostitutes. They pretend to care, take your money, and then fuck you.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thanks to my little knife-pulling incident, the City of West Hollywood automatically slaps a restraining order on me. However, that doesn’t keep me and Clay from contacting each other occasionally, which, unsurprisingly, usually ends badly. Here’s an example of one memorable conversation I recall standing in Linda’s bathroom. I’m sure he remembers others.

  “You are a fucking sociopath and a pathetic piece of shit,” he yells through the receiver.

  “I need to get off the phone because I need to get drunk,” I say quietly.

  He keeps berating me. I start to cry.

  “I’m sorry. I really can’t listen to this anymore. You’re making me want to kill myself.”

  “Oh, don’t pull that borderline shit on me, Amy.”

  I hang up on him.

  Don’t drink, I think to myself. But then, suddenly, I am watching myself walking down to the liquor store, hippie moccasins scuffing along, leading me to the Promised Land of booze and cigarettes. At no time do I feel I can turn back. In fact, it feels like the right thing—the only thing—to do. My heart races as I get closer to the store. It’s that eager excitement you get right before you score—hands shaking, mouth watering, heart pounding. I can’t get back to Linda’s house fast enough and get the poison—the elixir—in me.

  I crack a can and chug greedily. I feel that sense of numbness and relief I craved. Ahhh. All too soon, though, that feeling is followed by desperation, entrapment, and remorse. I put on the song “Where Is Everybody,” by Nine Inch Nails, and play it over and over again. Trent Reznor’s words and music make me feel validated—vindicated, even—in my pursuit of total self-destruction. I drink and think and I drink and think some more, basking in my self-pity. As the booze rises to my demented brain, I begin the all too familiar and regrettable round of phone calls. The people I call are angry, perplexed, saddened, impotent. I walk into the kitchen and pick up a large chopping knife and plop back down onto the black sheets of Linda’s bed. I take another long swig from the can and began to cut: perfect, symmetrical, straight lines across my wrists. Blood oozes. I’ll show them, I think. I’ll prove to them how much pain I’m in and how unbearable it is to be me. In my drunken idiocy, I text photos of my slashed wrists to my friends and Clay. I can’t make it on this planet. Don’t any of you fucking get it?

  Not twenty minutes later, I hear sirens in the distance, and I know they are coming for me. Déjà bloody vu. And then there is that ominous knock. I open the door to two cops. I’ve put on a long-sleeved sweatshirt to cover the fresh wounds on my wrists, and I attempt to compose myself and keep from slurring. I’ll talk my way out of this, I think. I might be lacking in many life skills, but I certainly have the gift of the gab. Within minutes, they handcuff me “for (my) own protection,” and, in the process, they see the gashes on my wrists. Shit. I’m fucked.

  I am taken to the hospital against my will: 5150ed. (For those of you who don’t have a hobby of suicide attempts, a 5150 is a seventy-two-hour involuntary commitment to a psychiatric ward when a person is considered a threat to themselves or others.) This is my fourth 5150 in eight years. I am beginning to be a pro.

  After I put in a few drunken, sobbing hours in the Glendale Adventist ER, I am escorted into the lockdown psychiatric wing of the hospital. It is decorated in early institutional: putty-beige walls and cold linoleum floors. People in green gowns pace the hallways. Others are methodically doing puzzles. One old woman weeps softly as she rolls slowly along in her wheelchair.

  I plop down on the hard plastic mattress in my room, dazed. The air is cold and empty, except when it’s interrupted by low moans, bedeviled murmurings, and the buzz of the nurse’s intercom. I curl up in the fetal position, puzzled by that haunting question, “How did I get here again?”

  For the first two days, I don’t eat or shower. I don’t leave my bed. It occurs to me how odd it is that they send depressed people to the psych ward when the psych ward is, if nothing else, incredibly depressing.

  On the third day, I pull myself together and join the rest of the constituents. As I’m heading off to chow, I am almost run over by Rick, a man with a bandaged arm who never speaks but is constantly, furiously pacing the hallway.


  “Whoa, dude. Watch it,” I say crankily.

  “Rick, we need to change your dressing,” an orderly says to him.

  “Okay, how about Thousand Island?” he responds. It is the only time I ever hear Rick speak—gallows humor at its best.

  The psych ward used to be all about coffee and cigarettes, but the days of psych patients chain-smoking and mumbling in the yard are over… at least at this facility. If you tick off the smoker’s box on the intake form, they slap a nicotine patch on you. Caffeine is also in short supply. We get a tiny Styrofoam cup of atrocious coffee at seven in the morning. In the afternoon, I see some regular patients (“returnees,” I call them) make instant coffee with tap water. I pass. I dream about Starbucks, cigarettes, and freedom.

  A short Greek man with extraordinarily long nose hairs is battling a depression so severe he is undergoing electroconvulsive therapy (AKA electric shock therapy… yeah, they still do that). I never see him change his clothes. He wears the same navy blue food-smeared hoodie every day.

  “I can’t believe there’s no Internet here,” he grumbles. “I’m really into porn.”

  A four-hundred-pound biker chick with tattoos and missing teeth pushes her walker over to us. She bends down, her cleavage sagging with sadness.

  “Corn?” she says. “They have corn here. It’s very good… I used to be in your room,” she continues, addressing me.

  “Yes, you broke the bed in nicely,” I counter. My comment is lost on her. I take my small plastic dining knife and pretend to slit my wrists. The orderlies try not to laugh, unsuccessfully.

  “I’ve been here so many times, I know the pay phone number by heart,” she says. She recites the number and then adds, “That’s how many times I’ve been here. That I know the pay phone number. So if you ever want the number, I know it. By heart.”

  Kind of her, but I didn’t want or need her help. The number is written in chalk on a board directly over the pay phone. Also, I am not in the psych ward to make friends. I am in here to do my time and get the fuck out.

  There is one slim brunette girl, maybe mid twenties, who has the scariest blank stare. She has large, dark-brown eyes that look like something out of an anime, but with a much more confused but also somewhat sinister look. Occasionally, she puts her fingers in her ears to drown out other patients’ conversations and rocks back and forth.