by Tony O'Neill
Distracted with thoughts of Jeffrey and the tape, Randal walked down the marble staircase and found himself confronted with a most unwelcome sight. Harvey, his wife, Cheryl, and a jackass friend of Harvey’s from the program were sitting around the dining table, grinning at him like lobotomized fools. “Randal,” Harvey grinned, gesturing to his friend, “you remember Markie? My old sponsor?”
“Sure,” Randal said.
“Well, Markie has nearly thirty years under his belt. I thought it would be a good idea for you two to get acquainted. . . .”
Markie was a rotund ex-boozer who enjoyed getting in the faces of the newer members, puffing his chest out, and generally acting like the big man in the meeting rooms. His sponsorship of Harvey had lasted a few months before Harvey tired of Markie’s “in your face” persona and dumped him in favor of a more passive old-timer. And now here he was, like the lecherous husband-to-be at an arranged marriage, ready to take on the younger Earnest instead.
· · ·
“Sit down, kid,” Markie said.
Randal sat down.
“How ya feeling, kid?”
“Okay. You?”
Markie grinned. “One hundred fuckin’ percent better than you, I’d bet! I’m enjoying the fruits of my sobriety! Here—lemme show you something. . . .”
Markie pulled out his BlackBerry and started playing with it. Randal looked at his brother and rolled his eyes. Harvey gave him a look that said, “Sit still, and be nice, or there’s gonna be trouble.”
“Look at this,” Markie said. He shoved the BlackBerry into Randal’s hand. Randal was looking at a picture of a beach, with palm trees, white sand, and an endless horizon of crystal blue water.
“Nice,” Randal said, “you been on vacation?”
“No, kid. I own the fucking island.”
“Nice.” Randal handed the BlackBerry back to Markie.
“You look doubtful. You don’t think that you can share in the dream. You don’t think that you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make something of yourself. Well, I’m here to tell you, kid, you can. Thirty years ago I was a bum. A drunk. The only island I knew anything about was Rikers Island. It took the twelve steps to turn all of that around for me. You been working the steps inside?”
“Yeah. I have to do a fearless and searching moral inventory,” Randal deadpanned, “then I got eight more steps before I’m cured and I get that island. Cool, huh?”
Sensing tension, Cheryl cut in by saying, “I saw you on TV, Randal. On Detoxing America!”
“Oh, yeah. Fun episode. Did the brawl make the final cut?”
“Brawl? I don’t recall any brawl.”
“You mind if I see it? You got it on TiVo, right?”
“Well, sure . . . I mean, if you’re done here . . . ?”
“Oh, I’m done all right.” He turned to Markie. “Nice to see you again, man. Take care. Have fun on that beach.”
Markie smiled and said, “Yeah. I’ll be seeing you, kid.”
Randal moved to the TV room. His nephew, Alex, was in there watching some godawful reality show on MTV. It was rare to catch Alex anywhere outside of his bedroom, where he was usually sequestered, eating Cheetos and blasting shitty music. Alex was sixteen and his long bangs, dyed blue, covered one eye completely. He was wearing a My Chemical Romance hoodie and baggy jeans.
“Hi, baby!” Cheryl cooed. “What are you watching?”
“Goddamnit, Mom! I’m watching A Double Shot at Love! Get out of here!”
Randal looked over to the seventy-two-inch flat-screen television that dominated one wall. On-screen a girl in a bikini was licking tequila from the navel of another girl while a throng of fools hollered and cheered around them.
“I told you I don’t want you watching that trash, baby.”
Alex scowled but did not move.
“Baby, Uncle Randal wants to watch the TV.”
The kid did not move. When his mother grabbed the remote and flicked the TV off, Alex jumped to his feet and screamed, “You’re ruining my LIFE! You’re such a frickin’ bitch sometimes!” Then he flicked on his iPod, pulled the hoodie over his head, and glided out of the room on sneakers with wheels.
· · ·
“Sorry about that, Randal. . . .”
Randal watched the little shithead skate away to another part of the house. Elsewhere in the mansion Randal had counted a total of five flat-screen televisions, two bookshelves stuffed with cookbooks, self-help manuals, and the collected works of Tony Robbins, and abandoned last-year’s-model iPods lying on couches and tables like discarded gum wrappers. The Ben Shahn lithographs that had pride of place in the alcoves and on the dining room walls were a constant source of amusement for Harvey, who was always willing to wax lyrical about the fact that they were as ugly as shit but had an appraisal value that kept creeping ever upward. After being under Harvey’s roof for just over twenty-four hours, Randal remembered all of the things that had pushed him back into meth use following his last bout of sobriety. He actually found this lifestyle to be more soul-destroying than one spent waiting for death in by-the-hour motel rooms.
“Here we go!”
Randal sat alone, watching the show. First there was the “in case you missed it” montage of the celebrities turning up to their rehab, mostly drunk and stoned. A shot of the Nosebleeds guy pulling up in his Hummer and vomiting out of the passenger window was replayed several times. “America is sick,” the narrator announced, “ . . . but the doctor is IN!”
What followed was a total fiction—a reconstruction of reality, carefully put together by Dr. Mike and the show’s editors. The “Reunion Special” bore no resemblance to the events that Randal had witnessed firsthand only two weeks earlier. When the celebrities were finally shown in the dining room of Clean and Serene, the camera angle, and cutaways made it seem as if they were surrounded by the regular population. There was a second-long shot of Johnny D grinning and shoving French fries into his mouth. Then they showed an edited version of Dr. Mike’s speech in the cafeteria. At the moment that Running Deer fucked everything up they cut away to another scene, an “in house” meeting at Clean and Serene, filled with patients whom Randal had never seen before. The only familiar faces in the bunch were staff members who were posing as clients. Randal assumed that the rest were SAG-card-holding wannabe actors bussed in from two-bit Hollywood talent agencies for the day. The meeting had all of the false optimism and empty smiles of a self-help seminar, and Randal realized that this entire scene had been rigged to create the impression that the celebrities were now beacons of calmness, sobriety, and health. The final straw came when Sasha Jones smiled tearfully at the camera and said, “Thank you, Dr. Mike. Thank you for this experience, thank you for all of your hard work, and to you guys”—she gestured to the ringers in the meeting—“I wanted to thank you all for allowing me to share in your own journey. I now realize that an addict is an addict, whether they are an actress or . . . or a plumber. This disease does not differentiate. . . .”
Randal clicked off the TV, disgusted by the charade that Dr. Mike was engaged in. Over in the dining room, Harvey and Markie were no doubt discussing how best to keep Randal on the straight and narrow. He made a decision to start withdrawing money, a bit at a time, and squirreling it away in a separate bank account. One fuckup, and Harvey would have his credit cards canceled. He needed to start planning his escape.
It made him uneasy to think that the best hope he had for escaping his situation rested on a get-rich-quick scheme hatched inside of drug rehab with a junkie male prostitute whom he barely knew. When these niggling doubts surfaced he pushed them away. What is my alternative? his mind would demand. Stay clean? Jesus Christ, a long shot is better than no shot at all.
One way or another, Randal decided, while sitting there surrounded by the empty luxury his brother had amassed over the years, one way or another, I have to get the fuck out of this place.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“So . . . how
’s the manuscript coming along?”
“Manuscript?”
Dr. Mike looked around his office, grasping for information. He was distracted, and for a moment his agent’s words meant nothing to him. This was the third day in a row that his frantic calls to Champagne’s cell phone had gone unanswered. He had gone through the last few days on a kind of autopilot, his stomach fluttering, his thoughts always distractedly returning to her.
Was she okay? Was it over? Maybe it would be better if it were over.
He thought of the last time they spent together, in the hotel in Century City. He thought of her in her bathrobe, long dark hair plastered to her forehead, water dripping down the smooth skin of her neck, onto her chest. Whenever he thought of her, he would get a lightheaded feeling, a turn in the gut that was pleasantly nauseating. He thought of her smooth, hairless body. Her tits, her erect nipples. The thought made his cheeks flush red.
If you never see her again, it’s for the best. You can’t get hung up on someone like that.
“YOUR manuscript,” the agent, Bob Rosen, repeated patiently. “Teenage Wasteland: How Prescription Drugs Are Devastating Our Nation’s Youth. Have you spoken to the ghostwriter at all?”
“No, no, I haven’t. Not recently.”
“Hm. Well, I’ll shake the tree a little. See if I can put a rocket up his ass. He’s good, but he’s a lazy motherfucker. He did a good job on your last book.”
“Yeah, I heard. I haven’t read it yet. . . .”
Occasionally other, more troubling thoughts would surface. Thoughts that would threaten to disrupt his veneer of professional calm altogether.
He thought of her splayed on the king-size bed. He thought of her full lips tightening around the stem, moving from the crack pipe to his cock with practiced efficiency. The Viagra had made his penis painfully erect, and he brutalized her asshole with it, the room heavy with the stench of sex and amyl nitrate. Both of them lost in separate worlds: Champagne in the throes of a crack- and Xanax-induced haze, and the doctor pumping into her with a chemically induced hard-on, holding the little bottle of poppers to his nose, huffing and snorting, his eyes rolling back into his skull, the glasses bouncing up and down on the bridge of his nose in time with every thrust. She was cursing and squirming underneath him, “Motherfucker! Ugh! Oh fucking CHRIST it feels so GOOD!” as she frantically jerked her own dick in time with his movements. All they had, the only point of connection, was his cock and her ass, the rest of it was all taking place entirely in the chemical cocoon of their minds.
He started in easy with the dirty talk: “You BITCH! You like it rough, you fucking WHORE!” When she responded by gasping, “YES!” he thrust into her even harder, grabbing her by the hair and twisting her face around a little, screaming into it, “You fucking CUNT! You fucking PIECE of TRASH!” as he pistoned into her. “You fucking FREAK of NATURE! You DIRTY FAGGOT SISSYBOY FUCK HOLE! You VILE JUNKIE CUM RECEPTACLE!” He felt her stiffen up as he screamed this, but he was too close to stop now. He saw a troubled look flicker across her face, and rather than disrupt his rhythm he just pushed her face back down into the pillow so he wouldn’t have to look at it.
“You make me SICK, you PATHETIC fucking MONSTER! You HALF a fucking PERSON! You piece of SCUM—fucking HUMAN GARBAGE!!!” Uh—uh—he was close—uh—he huffed and huffed the amyl fumes—his vision breaking up into a thousand fractured points of light—and she was struggling now—no longer touching her own penis anymore—instead aware of an ache—not only the building ache in her bowels—but another ache—one that she usually only felt when she was alone and with no drugs—a terrible, empty feeling inside—“You WEAK PATHETIC FAGGOT JUNKIE CUNT OH JESUS FUCKING GOD I’M CUUU-HHMMMMIIINNNGGG—UH!—UH!—UH!”
The doctor fell back on the bed, naked apart from his socks and his glasses, slick with sweat, the full condom still on his raging hard-on. . . . He twisted the cap back onto the poppers, and let the bottle fall to the floor. He gulped back the air, and his vision started to clear a little. Next to him Champagne was still, breathing softly, facedown. After a few moments he touched her buttock, still slick with lube, and said, “Was that good for you?”
· · ·
There were a few moments of silence. Then Champagne said, quietly, “Do I really make you sick?”
“Huh?”
Dr. Mike caught his breath. Was she . . . crying?
“You said that I make you sick. Is that true?”
“No! Not SICK! Not at all. . . . That was just . . . talk. I was just in the moment. I was just into it. Into YOU. That’s all.”
Champagne sat up and looked at the doctor. Her nose and eyes were wet, and she was sniffling. When Dr. Mike saw her like that it sent a shiver through him. She reminded him of his own wife for one horrible moment. Crying, drunk, saying, “You don’t love me the way you used to!” whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. This image cut through the effects of the Viagra, and he felt himself getting soft. He was about to comfort her, but stopped himself, fearing that it would set a dangerous precedent.
“You think that I’m a freak!” Champagne sobbed.
“No,” the doctor said in a neutral tone. He put his arm around her, awkwardly. “Not at all. I mean, just to be clear, I could never be seen with you in public for many, uh, obvious reasons . . . but I do really enjoy having sex with you, and, uh, I want to continue to do it. And, uh, well, I was going to do this later . . . but I have a present for you. . . .”
He got up and started rummaging around in his briefcase. He started tossing pill bottles toward her, yelling the names out as he did so.
“Xanax . . . Dilaudid . . . diazepam . . . temazepam . . . !”
“Thank you . . . ,” Champagne sniffed.
“Just be careful with all of that. Go easy. There’s more where that came from. . . .”
The doctor crept over to her and finally removed the condom. He stood in front of her, naked, taking in her red, puffy eyes as she appraised the bottles on the bed. He looked at her nude body again, hoping that he wouldn’t have to cut this one loose too soon. She stood and put her arms around him, almost touching his lips with hers. He stopped her and reminded her that he didn’t like to be kissed on the mouth. Instead, he pushed her back onto the bed and positioned his half-hard cock in front of her face.
“Why don’t you kiss that, instead?” he suggested, helpfully.
The intercom buzzed. “Excuse me,” the doctor said, jerking out of his thoughts. He picked up the phone and said, “Yes?”
“Dr. Mike, there’s a Mr. Lang on the line for you.”
The name was unfamiliar, and the doctor said, “No calls right now, I’m in a meeting. Take a message.”
“You seem tense,” Rosen said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I’m just so . . . busy right now. Juggling plates.”
“Shit,” Rosen laughed, “tell me about it. This is good! You’re hot right now. We have to take advantage of every opportunity that comes along. I think we’re close to a deal on season three. Oh—I meant to run something past you. I had this great idea . . . instead of doing the same thing next season, I thought that we could do a follow-up show called ‘Out Patient.’ See how some of the cast from season one are doing, maybe have you meet with them once a week. You know, I got a call from Terri Starr’s people, and she’s back on heroin. About to lose her apartment. I figured if we could get some cameras down there, get the whole thing on tape . . . I mean—this is a big story. It would create a lot of interest.”
The intercom buzzed again.
“Damnit!” the doctor spat. “Hold that thought, okay? Yes?”
“Dr. Mike? So sorry to interrupt again. But Lang is still on the line and—”
“I told you—NO CALLS. Take a message, for goodness sake!”
“But, sir, Detective Lang insists that he speak to you right away. He says that it’s an urgent matter.”
Dr. Mike held the phone very close to his ear for a moment. His agent looked a
t him, noticing the whiteness spreading around his knuckles as the doctor’s grip became tighter and tighter. All of the emotion drained from his face, and for a second Rosen thought that his client was about to faint. Then the doctor cleared his throat and said, “Oh. Well . . . I see. I suppose you’d better put him through then.”
The doctor covered the mouthpiece and said, “Hey . . . I have to take this. Do you mind if I, uh, call you later?”
Rosen furrowed his brow and said, “Is everything okay?”
Dr. Mike just looked straight ahead and said, “I don’t know. I’ll call you, okay?”
Rosen stood, and said, “ ‘Out Patient.’ ” He tapped his forehead with a finger. “Think about it. Terri’s already relapsed. I heard that David Seaborne is about to lose it, too. If we could get them on camera . . . I’m thinking an Emmy, Mike. Let it percolate, okay?”
And with that, the agent was gone. The doctor stared at the door for a moment after it closed. Then, from somewhere inside of his head he became aware of a voice saying, “Dr. Mike, are you there? Dr. Mike, this is Detective Lang, LAPD. . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the weeks since he had last seen Jeffrey, the idea of selling the sex tape had been needling away at Randal. It was what got him through the drudgery of his day-to-day life inside of the treatment center; it had gotten him through every pointless, airless meeting with counselors and life coaches. The tape itself had become infused with a talismanic power in his mind: it represented a chance for Randal to finally walk away from the wreckage of his life in Hollywood and start over somewhere else.
Since Randal’s release, Harvey had taken it upon himself to be his younger brother’s shadow. He accompanied him to meetings, to restaurants, even forcing him to the clinic for an AIDS/Hep C screening. Each successive AA meeting on the outside made the idea of the tape seem more and more urgent. The same wan, drunken faces, the same parade of misery and religiosity, the same shitty coffee and uncomfortable metal chairs in cold church basements. The longer Harvey had been sober, the more bitter, cynical, and unbearable he seemed to have become. If this was the kind of asshole that you turned into after experiencing a spiritual awakening, then Randal figured that God could keep that shit for Himself.