by Joshua Lyon
“What if I get fired?” she said, near hysterics. “What if police show up here? I just got the corner office!”
“Just call,” I said and hung up. I wish I could say I was concerned for her—her future, her career—but I was pissed and panicked about where the hell we were going to get our pills now.
Emily didn’t call back until the end of the day.
“Sorry,” she said. “It took me a while to get up the courage. A woman answered and I said, ‘I just got a scary letter,’ and she said, ‘Did you order a prescription online?’ and I said yes. She said, ‘Don’t ever do that again.’ I asked if I had to make a court appearance, and she told me no, and to ignore the paperwork and just never do it again, because it means they have my name and they’ll be watching me.”
“Fuck,” I whispered. “What are we gonna do?”
I only had about thirty Norco left.
“Not order online,” she said. “One of us needs to start sleeping with a doctor.”
“Not it,” I called out, as if it was all just a game of tag, and hung up the phone. But her comment gave me an idea. I went onto Craigslist, under the M4M section, and searched “Doctor.” The Craigslist sex postings generally creeped me out, but they could be fun for a laugh or for free porn if I was alone and feeling uninspired, imagination-wise, since there were so many amateur pictures that came along with the posts. About fifteen posts came up. Most were from guys looking to play out doctor fantasies, but two were from supposed actual closeted doctors looking to hook up. I sat there staring at the computer for a long time, wondering how I could work out a trade for a prescription in exchange for something besides sex. Maybe I could start an email exchange until I discovered their identities. Hopefully, they would be married and I could blackmail them for pills. Or maybe I could even just threaten to expose their sex cruising to their hospital staff. Finally, thankfully, a little voice inside my head said, You are acting craaaaazy, and I quickly clicked off the page.
In the end the solution was much easier. I just posted a bulletin on my MySpace page, asking if anyone had any Vicodin they wanted to sell. By the next day I had three different offers.
I brought Emily along for the first deal. It was from a club promoter who threw parties I’d been going to for years. We met at a Starbucks near Union Square.
“I just bought this bottle off a friend,” he explained to me. “But I need money. I want to keep some for myself, though. I have to go visit my family soon, and I would never be able to do that without these.”
It was a bottle of sixty. We divided it up between the three of us in the Starbucks, then left to smoke cigarettes. We handed off the money while walking west on 13th Street, in front of a stretch of gorgeous brownstones, and parted ways on Sixth Avenue.
“That was easy,” said Emily as she swallowed two, dry. “But how often can we keep this up? This is only going to last me about three days.”
“I’ll keep working on it,” I said. I didn’t tell her I had two other deals already set up.
Emily and I were returning from an evening press screening of Shopgirl, both high, when my cell phone rang. It was my boss in LA, and I debated letting it go to voice mail for a second before answering. We were near the office anyway, so if it was an emergency I could get to it quickly.
I ducked into a doorway on 34th Street, motioning for Emily to wait for me. She was staring up at the Empire State Building, slowly exhaling smoke.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.
“Hey,” he said. “Sorry to call so late for you.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. I could hear it in his voice and racked my brain for something I might have forgotten to do, a deadline I might have missed.
“The magazine is folding,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Shit,” I said. “What happened?”
“It was a business decision on the company’s part. We’re going to put out one last issue,” he said. “I feel terrible for hiring you and then having this happen.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. And truthfully, I did feel fine. There was an uncomfortable thought trying to work its way into my mind about not having much money saved up, but the pills pushed that fact right back down. “What about all of you?” I asked. “How’s everyone taking it?” I asked.
“We’re all pretty upset,” he said. “But we don’t want to just slack off now, we want to go out strong, put out the best last issue we can.”
“Deal,” I said. He apologized some more, which was really sweet of him. I knew it wasn’t his fault. We agreed to talk more the next day and figure out an exit payment strategy.
I stepped out of the doorway and looked around for Emily. She was standing near the curb, still staring skyward.
“Claire Danes should, like, get an Oscar for that movie,” she said.
“I’m out of a job,” I said. “The magazine is folding.”
“Oh no!” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“Try and get my job at Jane back?” I offered.
It took two months, but that’s what happened.
I was still in contact with all my old friends from the magazine. When I told them I was out of a job, many of them recommended me to Brandon Holley, the new editor in chief.
I landed an interview with her, which I felt went well. She seemed grounded and down to earth. I had slowly tapered off taking as many pills as I had been, mainly out of fear of running out of money, so by the time we met I was pretty much sober. I hoarded what I had left for special occasions or stressful situations, one of which arose as I was leaving the new building Jane was located in. (It had recently been absorbed into Condé Nast and the offices had been moved to a much more corporate headquarters in midtown east.) I was feeling great about the interview and psyched about the possibility of working again with a group of people I adored. When I got out of the elevators on the ground floor, I was a little turned around and lost. It was already early evening and when I started down one hallway a large security guard appeared out of nowhere and told me that particular exit was closed.
“Sorry,” I said. “Can you tell me how to get out of here?”
“Follow me,” he said and we turned a corner. He pointed down another hallway and said, “Just follow that one.”
“Thanks,” I said and started walking away.
“Hey,” he yelled after me.
I turned around and he came right up to me, so close that I could smell the sharp, rancid scent of his aftershave.
“Do you mess around?” he asked, under his breath.
“What?” I asked, totally confused.
“Do you fool around?” he repeated, and stepped even closer.
“Oh, um, no, thanks,” I stammered, then ducked around him and practically ran down the hallway.
I know there are guys out there in the world who probably jerk off to fantasies like that. Or more likely, would have taken the guy up on his offer. I’m not one of them. I just felt creeped out. That night I laughed about the incident to my friends. But I’d been feeling so excited about the idea of getting my professional life back, and something about the interaction was bringing up a dark feeling in the pit of my heart. I felt like I was six years old and I’d just wet my pants during class. I felt ashamed.
I dipped back into Clover that night before starting to work on my story pitch ideas for Brandon.
Everett had been nothing but supportive since I’d lost my job. Every trace of his arrogance was gone and most nights we slept face-to-face, with Ollie on top of one or both of our heads. He loved Ollie as much as I did, which made me trust him even more. We hadn’t slept a single night apart in months, and my bedroom was filled with his clothes and $5,000 samples from his company’s clothing line. I was going on different job interviews while waiting to hear back from Brandon, and for the first time in my life, thanks to Everett, I looked the part of a real magazine editor. I knew I had great experience, but I’d never really cared about clothes. Everett taught me how to dress. He
threw out most of my closet and replaced it with a small fortune in shirts, pants, shoes, jeans, and coats from his work.
The one thing bothering me about our relationship was that we’d been together long enough that condoms had totally gone by the wayside. I get tested for HIV religiously, but he still hadn’t been tested since we’d met. But he was healthy, we were monogamous, and most of the time I was too high on pills to really care if either of us was wearing anything. I had a hard enough time finishing as it was because of all the pills I was on, and the last thing I wanted to deal with was another barrier between us. But I trusted Everett. For the first time in forever I felt protected, taken care of.
On Valentine’s Day we met at Moto, our favorite Brooklyn restaurant, directly underneath the elevated JMZ subway line. They had a prix fixe Valentine’s Day dinner that I’d made a reservation for. I was in a particularly good mood because I’d just scored a huge bottle of hydrocodone from a MySpace friend. Everett and I exchanged gifts over the table. He bought me a T-shirt from Opening Ceremony. I bought him a Smythson of Bond Street foldout photo case with room for two small pictures inside. I didn’t have any good photos of us to use, so I’d drawn pictures of each of us inside on small pieces of paper.
The first course was a single, cooked quail heart pierced by a spear on a plate. I should have taken that as a warning.
We polished off a bottle of wine, ordered more, and by the end of dinner had decided to find our own place and move in together.
I was ecstatic. I’d never officially lived with a boyfriend before. It was a new step toward adulthood, and I knew it was just a matter of time before I found a new job. With his urging, I even agreed to stay in Brooklyn and give up my Manhattan apartment.
We spent all the next day emailing each other listings of apartments in Williamsburg, and found a large one-bedroom with room for a home office right next to McCarren Park. I called the Realtor and made an appointment for us to look at it together the next day.
Everett called around six.
“I’ve got to go out to dinner with the boss and some clients,” he said. “We’re going to be out late, you probably shouldn’t wait up.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’re on for 9:00 A.M. with the Realtor though, so don’t get too drunk!”
“I won’t,” he laughed. “And don’t you take too many pills! I love you.”
“Love you too,” I answered.
I watched TV for a while and started to get sleepy, but I was horny with excitement about the next day. Since I wasn’t going to get laid that night, I decided to take care of things myself. I’d taken two pills earlier and was having a hard time getting my body to work properly on its own, so I flipped open my laptop to look at some porn. Everything I could find was too clean-cut, too muscled and hairless for my taste, so I went to the Craigslist postings for some real-people shots. I clicked on anything that said it had a picture attached. That’s when I saw Everett.
The flash of the camera he was holding out toward a mirror obscured his face, but his tattoo and the bracelet he always wore were clearly shown. He was standing up, his jeans and underwear pulled down to his thighs, his cock out and shirt lifted with his other hand.
I stared and stared, not wanting to believe.
I read the post.
“5'11', 145. Bottom but love it all, mild to wild. Need to travel during day. Meatpacking District, Chelsea or West Village is best.”
I felt a scream rising up inside me. My entire body was trembling and I couldn’t breathe. All of those neighborhoods were within easy travel distance of his office. I realized a low moan was escaping from my mouth. I tried to stand but quickly had to sit back down because the room was spinning.
Trust. It is all there is to believe in. Not love, but trust. At times you can temporarily fall out of love with your partner. It’s normal. You work through it. But without trust, there’s nothing.
I fumbled for Clover and swallowed four more pills. They did nothing to stop my racing heart. Adrenaline coursed through me, and in a blind fury I grabbed everything I could find that belonged to him and threw it into a huge pile in one corner. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I stopped and sat down on the bed, hyperventilating.
My phone rang. It was Everett.
I answered it and said, “I know everything.”
“Huh?”
“Craigslist. I saw it.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, but I could hear panic in his voice.
“The pictures, the posting.”
“Someone must have stolen a picture of me,” he stammered. “It’s not me.”
I started laughing loudly, scarily, then abruptly stopped. “Don’t,” I said.
“Let me explain,” he said, and I could hear him crying. “I love you. I never did anything.”
I hung up.
He called back about four times. I let them all go to voice mail.
I paced. I ran up and down the stairs four times. I still couldn’t breathe, so I sat down on the edge of my bed and tried to focus on air going in and out of my lungs. There was no anger, just an actual pain in my heart. I was itching from pills. Convinced I had caught crabs from him, I ran into the bathroom and pulled down my pants and furiously combed through my pubic hair until my back hurt from leaning forward. There was nothing there. In the back of my head I knew that crabs were the least of my worries, but I suppressed that thought. Beat it down. I dropped to my knees and tried to throw up but nothing happened.
As manic as I was, though, there was a rational voice inside me that knew my reaction to his betrayal had to do with more than just our relationship. This was a grief brought on by the fallibility of humans, particularly men. They (we) cheat. And I hated myself for thinking that. Half the time now I was so high on pills I passed out before Everett and I could have sex at night. Even through my shock, I didn’t blame him for looking elsewhere. I just couldn’t understand why he had wanted to move in with me. I guess because then he could have it all. He could fuck who he wanted and then always have someone to come home to and hold at night. How many other halves of couples did the same thing?
That night I drank. I met some other friends in the city at a bar and got blind wasted. They dutifully offered support, but in situations like this, everyone involved knows that nothing can change the hopelessness, that feeling of being so desperately alone. I appreciated the effort but I was still in shock. The only thing that could get through to me was the sharp, medicinal taste of rotgut, bottom-shelf whiskey on my tongue. It helped to just maintain at least one of my senses.
Three days went by. On the second night I think I came close to overdosing. I don’t even remember how many pills I took, I just remember lying on one of my roommates’ beds with a hoodie over my face. He had a friend over and we were listening to Type O Negative, and every time I put my head down I would black out for a few seconds, then come to as a different guitar chord or key change ripped through the room.
Everett had been calling and texting several times a day. I still had the mountain of his clothing sitting on my bedroom floor, and I wanted it out so I finally texted him back, telling him to come by and pick up his stuff.
When he arrived, he texted me to let me know he was outside the Tunnel of Terror. I told him to just use his set of keys to let himself in. I curled up in bed and braced myself.
But when he entered the room, I couldn’t even look him in the eye. He had two enormous, army-sized duffel bags with him. He dropped them to the floor and sat down at the foot of my bed.
“I never did anything,” he said.
“Right,” I answered.
“It was fantasy,” he said. “I’d get pictures from guys. I just liked the thrill. I’d delete them immediately.”
It sounded like bullshit, but I understood it. I’d been looking at the pictures myself just for the thrill. It’s how we’d gotten here in the first place.
I sat up and looked at him. “If that was true,” I asked, “
why post in New York? Why be so specific in your wording about needing to ‘travel during the day’? Why choose neighborhoods that are right where you work? If you just wanted naked pictures of strangers or had some sort of exhibitionist thing going on, you could have posted in any other city and gotten the same responses.”
“I don’t know,” he said and he started to cry. “I love you, I never would have done anything.”
I wanted to believe him but I didn’t, couldn’t. I lay back down and hugged a pillow, Ollie nestled up against me.
“We didn’t use condoms,” I said.
“That was your idea,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I trusted you. I’m a fucking idiot.”
He started crying again. “What can I do?” he asked. “This can’t be over.”
“Go get tested,” I said. “Bring me the results, printed on paper. Then we’ll talk.”
He packed up his things in silence, but his mood had seemed to improve. “I’ll go tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”
I could tell he was excited, and it was unfair of me to give him false hope. I knew that no matter what the results ended up being, we were through.
He texted me the next morning to tell me that he had a three thirty appointment at a testing center that would give results back in twenty minutes. He promised to call as soon as he got out.
Five o’clock came and went. I’d been tested for HIV enough times to know that the waiting lines were ridiculously long and you usually had to wait at least an hour before you even got in to see someone. I finally called him around six to check in. The call went straight to voice mail.
I called Emily. “Everett isn’t calling me back,” I told her.
“He probably didn’t even go,” she said. “I bet he chickened out and is too scared to tell you because he knows how pissed you’d be.”
By eight o’clock I was in a frenzy, calling and texting Everett every three minutes. I called his best friend to see if he knew where he was, but those calls went to voice mail too.
It didn’t feel real. I’d spent my entire life being so careful. But I should have known better. My younger sister’s lifelong best friend, Katie, had been in a committed, monogamous relationship for years, when one day out of the blue she got a phone call from the police, telling her that her boyfriend had tried to rob a KFC at gunpoint and was in jail. Two days later Katie got a call from a strange girl who just said, “You’d better go get tested.” It turned out that her boyfriend had been HIV-positive the entire time they’d been together and he’d never told her. He was monogamous, but still knowingly passed the virus to her, as well as to the mysterious caller, who had been his girlfriend before Katie.