by Nic Sheff
“That girl’s a pimp, yo, I’ll tell you what.”
I just laugh, not even really knowing what he’s talking about.
There’s a speaker at the meeting, but I don’t hear one word he says. Josh and Voltaire are vicious—judging everyone—relentless in their criticism. Still, they are hysterical and I have this intense desire to be accepted by them. Voltaire knows absolutely everybody in L.A. and whenever he goes to a meeting, he enters the speaker’s name into the IMDb, the Internet Movie Database, on his BlackBerry so we can all know just exactly how important the person is in the Hollywood entertainment industry. There does seem to be something sort of repulsive about how superficial this all is, but I try to ignore it.
After the meeting, we all go to Café 101. There’s actually a picture of Zelda when she was a little girl on the wall above one of the booths here. It’s a huge crowd and we have to push about five tables together. I feel, for the first time, really a part of the whole scene there. After all, I’m a film critic and I’m dating the ex-wife of a famous actor. Suddenly I seem to have gained a level of respectability in this group that almost borders on having my own celebrity status. I can compete with anybody here and the feeling makes me high and excited. I am as much a part of the elite as the rest of them. I’m sitting next to the male star of a famous sex tape and I’m not intimidated at all. In fact, I’m almost talking down to him. The experience of being me right now is exhilarating.
I order the milkshake to go and tell everybody, sighing, “Zelda wants me to bring it to her. I swear—all she eats is ice cream.” Everyone laughs as though they’re all too familiar with her eating habits.
People who never would have given a shit about me are now treating me like an equal. I mean, my old friends are still concerned with my behavior, but all these new people seem nothing but impressed with me. This movie star is talking to me about his struggles getting sober—asking me questions, which I’m answering like an expert. Everything I say seems so clever and I hold the entire audience at complete attention.
Honestly, I never want this feeling to go away.
I am, finally, somebody.
That may be shallow, but it is the truth.
After the dinner, I drive Zelda’s car back to the apartment. When I get inside, she is asleep—covered by a thick down comforter. The TV is on. I curl up next to her, watching some Marilyn Monroe movie with Cary Grant. She doesn’t wake up. Thinking about Spencer and everything he’s taught me, I thank God for Zelda, for my life—for everything that has happened. I’m twenty-two years old and the world lies at my fingertips for the taking. All I want is to grab hold of it—to become part of this incredible, exciting, glamorous thing called “Hollywood.” Nothing could be more satisfying.
I kiss Zelda’s hot forehead. She struggles awake.
“Hey, baby,” she says.
“Hey. You feeling better?”
“A little. Dr. E came over here and brought some medicine. He was so great to me. I wish you could’ve met him.”
“Me too,” I say. “What’d he bring you?”
She kisses my cheek and rolls over, facing the opposite wall. Before she can answer, she’s fallen back into unconsciousness. I watch the TV, feeling just so completely elated.
DAY 368
Zelda has been out of work for the past two weeks. Whatever medicine that doctor prescribed doesn’t seem to have helped her nausea. I go to the salon, but when I come home, Zelda is still in bed. She seems distant recently, but I don’t want to face that. I mean, we still make love every day. That hasn’t changed.
It’s a little after six when I wake up. I run for an hour, up and down Runyon Canyon. It is so stunning at the top. I climb this ridge that looks out over all of Hollywood, dodging the different dog walkers and hikers who crowd the path.
At work I can barely concentrate. I am now so uninterested in being there and I’m pretty sure my actions reflect that. After all, I’m practically a celebrity now because I’m dating Zelda. Why should I be a fucking receptionist at a hair salon?
I exchange text messages with Zelda all day long—just flirting. I want to be with her every second of every day.
Nothing seems more important than that.
I would die for her.
I would rather die than be away from her.
She is everything to me. She has given me a feeling of purpose, of completeness. It’s what I’ve always wanted. She is what I’ve always wanted—she is better than crystal meth. I mean, she is. I’ll do whatever it takes to never lose her.
No one can tell me anything different—especially not Spencer. Really, you know, I’m just tired of listening to him. What is he, after all? A wannabe movie producer who lives in West L.A. in a nothing house, with a nothing wife. I don’t admire him anymore. How could I possibly take direction from him? He has nothing I want. I’ve just outgrown him.
Plus, he reminds me of where I was—pathetic, without a career, without a life, without a cent. Who wants to think about all that? Not me. And Spencer doesn’t let me forget. But I’m somebody now. Spencer is still a nobody. Besides, he is so discouraging about my relationship with Zelda. Not that Spencer hasn’t been good to me, but he just doesn’t understand the direction my life has taken. He can’t keep up.
I need a different sponsor. I’m sure of that. I mean, just two days ago I celebrated my one-year anniversary. I need to move on in my sobriety.
What I really want to do is ask Voltaire to sponsor me, so I call his cell phone when I go on my lunch break.
Voltaire has been a great sponsor to Josh. He’s a part of that whole Hollywood scene. Paris Hilton is on his speed dial. Need I say more? Voltaire is someone who can understand me. He knows about all this celebrity shit. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll introduce me to so many people. And Zelda knows him. Zelda has no idea who Spencer is.
Listening to Voltaire’s phone ring, I’m nervous about what the hell I’m gonna say to him. I’m scared he’ll say no, or he’ll laugh at me or something. I’m scared he won’t accept me.
He picks up on the fifth ring. “Haaalllloooo?”
“Voltaire, it’s, uh, Nic.” I stutter over my words.
“Nic Sheff—what can I do for you?”
We talk for a minute about everything that’s going on with me. He seems instantly empathetic. It’s like he anticipates every word I’m about to say.
“Nic, dog,” he says. “I’ve known Zelda for fucking ever, yo. If anyone can help you navigate through this bullshit, it’s me.”
I tell him how grateful I am for taking me in. He tells me to meet him after work at this place on Beverly called Café Sushi. He says we’ll talk about working the twelve steps together and that he’ll relate our work to my relationship with Zelda. I don’t tell Spencer. I’m scared of what he’ll say. Even at work, I feel guilty around Michelle—like I’m betraying her and Spencer. Still, it seems like this is the right thing to do.
I call Zelda around five, right when I’m about to get off work. I tell her that I just asked Voltaire to be my sponsor.
“Oh, baby,” she says. “That’s so great.”
“Yeah, I think it might really make a difference.”
“Good, lover.”
“So I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Of course.”
She asks me to bring her a vegetable tempura roll and seaweed salad. I say I will.
Spencer calls me on the way to meet Voltaire. I’m driving along Crescent Heights. My phone rings over and over. I don’t answer. I’m not sure what to do about our relationship. Surely we can still be friends.
Voltaire is already sitting down when I get to the restaurant. He is very thin and balding, with a thick mustache—but somehow he commands the attention of everyone there. All the waitresses know him. He even takes the liberty of ordering for me.
Talking with Voltaire is so different from my meetings with Spencer. Voltaire talks to me about how, basically, it doesn’t matter what I do, so long as I stay
sober and continue trying to pass the message on to newcomers in the twelve-step program. He even gives me a list of phone numbers—new people he’s met who he thinks I might be able to help. He has conditions in order for him to sponsor me. I have to call every day—without fail. I have to call one new person from the list every day and talk to them about how I’ve managed to stay sober this long. I have to work each of the twelve steps over with Voltaire, but, other than that, I’m on my own to do whatever I want. I don’t feel any of Spencer’s skepticism or his misgivings about this new life of mine. Doing the twelve-step program with Voltaire doesn’t seem anywhere near as strict and judgmental as it did with Spencer. I feel genuinely grateful to have changed sponsors.
When I get home, Zelda is lying down, watching some Brian De Palma movie on TV. She is still sick and is smoking cigarettes. We talk about our days, my meeting with Voltaire. She wonders aloud whether I should move in completely with her so we can save money on rent. I ask her if she’s serious.
“Yes, sweetheart. You know, I love you more than anything. I’m so thankful you came into my life.”
“Me too,” I say, almost choking up. I am so in love.
It’s around eleven thirty when she gets a call from her friend Yakuza. I’ve never met Yakuza before, but I’ve heard all about her. She is thirty-seven and the heiress to a ten-billion-dollar fortune. She just got married for the fifth time, to a twenty-five-year-old guy named Justin. Apparently, based on her phone call, he has started shooting coke again after over a year of sobriety in a twelve-step program. Yakuza says she needs help. Without hesitating, Zelda gets up and we dress quickly. Driving west on Sunset, I look back to see the lights from downtown and Hollywood reflecting off the low-hanging darkness.
Yakuza lives in Brentwood, in a house that was passed down to her as part of her trust. Zelda only became friends with her maybe two months ago, but she’s already helped Zelda out financially a lot—letting her borrow various sums of money. They met at a benefit for the Musicians’ Assistance Program, where Yakuza used to be on the board. Zelda tells me as we speed through the Sunset Strip that she and Yakuza have been talking about starting a clothing design business. Zelda does a lot of styling for commercials.
Yakuza’s house is right off Manderville Canyon. The place is closed in with a whitewashed picket fence. The house itself is like a fairy-tale cottage. It’s two stories with a shingled roof and a big yard out back.
Inside, it smells like dog shit. There’s paintings and books and strange odds and ends all over the place. It’s actually Justin who opens the door. He’s definitely a very handsome kid. He’s got dyed black hair that’s long on top and shaved around the sides. He’s got a square chiseled face with some scruff around the edges. The way he talks, at least when he’s strung-out, is really pained—like it’s all he can do to spit the words out through his clenched jaw.
“Are you the police?”
“Uh, no,” I say. “I’m Nic.”
“And I’m Zelda. Where’s Kuza?”
“Uh, upstairs.”
Zelda goes up and I stay with Justin, trying to talk to him. He keeps getting up all abruptly and shit—looking out the blinds.
“Justin,” I say. “Relax. No one’s coming to get you.”
A little while later Yakuza comes down. She’s got chopped dyed blond hair and is wearing overalls beneath a heavy wool sweater. I get up and shake her hand. From that moment on, well, she just doesn’t stop talking. And, the thing of it is, I can’t understand one word she’s saying. I mean, she’s speaking English, but her thoughts jump around so much, I can’t even begin to follow her. Zelda sits next to me and I hold her close. We exchange glances. Yakuza keeps talking and Justin is catatonic. Eventually he excuses himself and goes upstairs.
“Oh my God,” says Yakuza once he’s gone. “He’s shooting up in that bathroom. He’s gonna die. His sister died of a cocaine overdose. I can’t handle this. I’ll get a fucking annulment. You have to help him. Nic, you’re his age—help him, please.”
I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but I hike the stairs to the bathroom.
The feeling comes out of nowhere as I’m walking up there—but suddenly, I want to use real bad. I mean, I’m kinda hoping he’ll have some coke I can shoot. The thought doesn’t even scare me. I know how much I have to lose, but I just block that out. It’s like I’ve switched into automatic pilot. But thankfully, when I open the bathroom door, Justin is flushing a large plastic bag of coke and two rigs down the toilet.
“It’s okay,” he says, looking up. “I’m not doing this shit anymore. You can go tell Kuza it’s all gone. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You want to come downstairs with me?” I ask.
“Sure, sure, man. What was your name again?”
I tell him.
“Right on, right on. Kuza called you?”
“She called my girlfriend.”
“Wow,” he says, standing. “I’m so fucked up. Are the cops here yet?”
“No. Nobody called the cops. You’re gonna be all right now, okay?”
“Thank you.”
We go back downstairs. I tell Yakuza that Justin just got rid of all his coke and everything. She traps me in another barrage of monologue that makes no sense. I smile and nod, taking Zelda’s hand in mine.
Justin doesn’t even try to talk. In fact, he passes out a few minutes later. How anyone could fall asleep after shooting that much coke is a mystery to me. Yakuza thanks us all over the place for helping. She says if we want to get married, she’ll get us wedding bands and an engagement ring. Her sister’s a jewelry designer, so she can get them wholesale.
“I know Zelda would like that, Nic. I know she would. You two are perfect for each other.”
I blush. “Zelda,” I say, “is that something you’ve been thinking about—I mean, marrying me?”
“If you want to.”
“Baby, I want that more than anything in the whole world.”
We kiss and Yakuza tells us how fucking cute we are.
“So, is it settled then?” Yakuza asks.
“Okay,” I say.
“Great. You guys will have to come over tomorrow and I’ll get some rings over here for you to try on.”
Zelda giggles.
Driving home, I ask her again if she’s serious.
“Absolutely. I can’t wait to tell my dad.”
“Will he be okay with it?”
“Are you kidding, he’ll be so excited. What do you think your parents will say?”
“Oh,” I say, turning to look out the window at the thick growth of trees. “I’m sure they’ll be really happy.”
Of course, I know that’s not true.
I swallow hard, something catching in my throat. How can I possibly tell them about any of this? I can already hear the horrible silence that will follow the conversation I’m going to have with my father. I’ve always just wanted him to be proud of me, but I can’t let that influence my decisions. He’s just going to have to deal with it. Everyone will. I love Zelda and I want to commit myself completely to her. Nothing can come between the connection that we have together. I will marry her and I will be with her till we’re both old, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer. With time, I’m sure, both my mom and dad will come to accept her.
Still, I’m terrified of having to tell them—terrified.
Zelda puts a cigarette in her mouth and I watch her take a few drags.
“You think I could have one of those?” I ask.
“Of course, baby.” She hands me a Parliament and watches me light it. She laughs.
“I know I shouldn’t say this, my love, but I’m excited to see you smoking.”
“Really?”
“It makes me feel more, you know, together with you.”
“Yeah—me too.”
It’s been over a year since I smoked a cigarette, but sitting there in the car, it seems like I never missed a day. It’s so natural and I’m not even
sure how I ended up with this thing in my hand. I swear, I’m so goddamn impulsive. But, well, it feels good smoking again. I know I’m just so cool, sitting here with my fiancée, smoking a cigarette, and driving out to Hollywood at two o’clock in the morning.
DAY 396
I’ve given my landlord notice and it only took me about two days to move all my stuff over to Zelda’s. She quit her job in Beverly Hills and has started working temporarily as a wardrobe assistant for a deodorant ad. The job seems like a much better fit for her. She comes home each day, late—full of all this energy. I fall asleep in our bed, but as I wake up throughout the night, I notice that Zelda has closed herself in the bathroom. If I call out her name I hear the lock on the door click. She’ll emerge a few minutes later and come out to give me a kiss, but then she immediately locks herself up in the bathroom again.
It seems like she’s not sleeping nights anymore and, honestly, I’m a little suspicious. I scan her bare arms for track marks but never see any, so I guess she’s not using. Still, her behavior is erratic, to say the least. I’m not sure what to think.
When I question her, she says she’s been having really bad asthma attacks. She has to breathe through this machine called a nebulizer. It makes a lot of noise and she says she doesn’t want to keep me up. She says she used to have to go to the emergency room all the time, but now, since she got the machine, she just uses that instead. The stuff she has to breathe in has all these steroids in it, so she gets all this nervous energy and has to paint her toenails, or whatever.
At work, Fawn told me her three-year-old daughter has to go through the same asthma treatments and she has a similar reaction—being charged with this crazy energy that makes her run all over the house. All this leads me to believe Zelda and not question her too much.
Anyway, I finally talked to Spencer about changing sponsors. He said that he’d support me, no matter what decision I made regarding how I want to work the twelve-step program. He didn’t seem hurt or angry or anything. I was surprised. He told me that, no matter what, he will always be my friend and, well, I feel good about everything.