My Incredibly Wonderful, Miserable Life

by Adam Nimoy

  And now she doesn’t answer my e-mails. And I have to wonder, Why? Why? What happened? After two weeks of this nonsense, I think I’ve had enough, so I withdraw to protect myself. I’m really not sure what else to do, it’s been so long.

  The Emmy Awards. She stood me up for Bill Shatner’s big night at the Emmy Awards.

  THE SPACE TO CRY

  AS PART OF MY AA literature commitment, I’m supposed to bring directories to the Monday night meeting. The directories have schedules of all the AA meetings in town, and I think they’re really important for people who need to find another meeting. But I’m out of them and I didn’t have time this week to go to the central office to buy more. I have some directories stashed at Chris Kelton’s house for our Thursday night meeting, so I drive over to pick them up. I have Maddy in the car because I just picked her up from Becca’s house in Santa Monica.

  We pull up to Chris’s house. The old Lincoln and the older Chevy Malibu are in the driveway.

  “Maddy, are you coming in with me?”

  “I don’t know if I should. Is James there?”

  “Honey, I have no idea.”

  “I’m not sure whether or not I should come in.”

  “I’m just going in to pick up some books. I’ll be right back.”

  She stays in the car. I go inside and Chris is there and I dig through his closet and pull out the directories. As I’m about to leave, James appears.

  “Hey, James, how’s it going?”

  “All right.”

  “Good to see you. Gotta run. Chris, I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  I walk back to my car.

  “Was James there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you have him come out to say hi to me?”

  I didn’t see this coming, so I get a little defensive.

  “Maddy, I didn’t know you wanted him to come out to say hi.”

  Now she starts to lose it.

  “What do you think, Dad? You should have told him to come say hi to me.”

  Now she starts to cry.

  “Why didn’t you tell me to come in? Why didn’t you tell me, Dad? Why didn’t you?”

  “Maddy, honey, I didn’t know you wanted to come in that badly. I didn’t know James was going to be there. You’ve had this love-hate thing with him forever and I didn’t know.”

  “You should have told me to come in. You should have told him to come out.”

  Now she’s really a mess, and I’m at a total loss.

  “Maddy, if I had known, I would have asked him to come out. Why don’t we go back and I’ll take you inside.”

  The tears are streaming.

  “What’s the point, Dad? He’ll know we just came back so I could see him. I can’t believe you did that. I just can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t read your mind, honey. I want to do things for you, you know I do, but I can’t read your mind. I wish you had told me, I feel so bad. I don’t know what to do.”

  I know it’s not just about James. I mean, yes, it is about James. But it’s also about all the other things going on in her life: she just started school again and she has to go from Spanish to gym to English to math to history to chemistry and she’s just getting used to the schedule and she’s tired. And I know she’s crying because her parents are getting divorced, and I’m not around as much as I used to be because she still refuses to stay at my apartment. We used to make the best dinners together and while we were eating I’d always say, “Well, Maddy, we did it again.” Or at night, I’d sit nearby and read a book while she did her homework.

  I miss that so much. I ache for it.

  And now there’s absolutely nothing between my feelings and me—ever.

  Sometimes I hate feeling my feelings.

  It’s times like these when I think I’m just like them, I’m just like those mothers who get up at the meetings and talk about how their alcoholism and their addiction caused them to lose their children. I always used to think, Thank God that’s not me. But it’s times like these and when I go home alone at night, when I go home and my children aren’t there, when I can’t go in their rooms at the house while they’re asleep to just sit and look at them then get up and give them kisses that don’t wake them, it’s times like these that I feel like I’m just like those mothers, that I’ve lost my children.

  I know Maddy misses me and all the things I used to do for her and with her. I know it. And I know she’s crying because of all these things and still other things that go on with fifteen-year-old girls that I don’t even know about. And I know she’s crying because of James.

  So I let her cry. As I drive her back to the house, as we pass my old run-down house on Palms Boulevard, I just give her the space to cry.

  * * *

  The following week, I’m going to the Thursday night meeting. Maddy says she’s coming with me to watch The O.C. with James while we have the meeting. And everything goes beautifully. When I take her home, I turn to her and say, “I am so glad you got the chance to be with James and fix that little problem we had last week.”

  “Yep, so am I. It was really nice. It’s really nice just hanging out with him.”

  And then I do it again. While I’m driving, I reach over and squeeze her knee. And with the intensity of love, I say to her, gritting my teeth as I keep squeezing, “You’ve got knees, Maddy. You’ve got the knees in the family!”

  THE THIRTEENTH STEP

  BACK TO THE Monday night meeting: dirty white linoleum, oppressive fluorescents, uncomfortable brown fold-out chairs, bad coffee, cheap cookies. I’m ten minutes early, so I get a cup of tea and take a seat as the room starts to fill.

  Holly walks in and sits down next to me. Now that there’s trouble with Bianca, I’m having a hard time keeping my mind off Holly. The addict’s way: gotta fill that big black hole in my life with something other than drugs or alcohol, whether it’s sex or money or love or chocolate. Or recovery. I have to remind myself that trouble with Bianca does not equal sex with Holly.

  Then there’s the fact that she’s still with the guy she stood me up for back in July.

  “I broke up with that guy.”

  “Steven? I thought you were going to try to work through your issues with him.”

  “Yeah, well, it just wasn’t working out. He’s too distracted by his kids and his job, and he’s really just a nerd who knows nothing about music and never took drugs, and it just seems so hard to find someone who has a background in music and is solid but still has a spark.”

  “You mean like me?”

  “Yes, Adam, like you.”

  Holly squeezes my arm and laughs. I can’t help but smile back at her as the room starts to fill up.

  “Anyway, I just wasn’t a priority. I mean, I’d call him and he wouldn’t call back right away and that just drives me nuts.”

  “Like, how long would he take to call back?”

  “Sometimes he’d call me the next day and that was too hard for me. I have too many needs, and when he’s not with his kids I expect him to be with me all the time, but he runs a business and has other things on his mind. And sometimes, when I’m with him, I have no idea where his mind is. I don’t know . . . Enough about me. What about you? How are you doing?”

  “Well, I may be breaking up with someone tonight.”

  “Really? I didn’t know you found someone. You said you weren’t ready.”

  “No, Holly, I said you weren’t ready because you were a newcomer and you still are.”

  “I know. You’re right.”

  “And, you stood me up on July third.”

  “Oh, my God, Adam, that again? You mean we should’ve taken that hotel room in Malibu?”

  “Yeah, if you hadn’t blown me off for Steven, things might be different.”

  “I wasn’t with Steven.”

  “Yes, you were, Holly. You told me yourself. You told me he, quote, ‘whisked you away up the coast for the day.’ ”

  “Oh, yeah. I remembe
r. How long have you been seeing this girl?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “Does she have kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’d you meet her, PTA?”

  “No, but that’s very funny. Blind date.”

  “And how’s the sex?”

  This girl is killing me. I mean, I love it that she’s so forward because no woman I know talks like that and it’s a total turn-on, as are her tight brown corduroys and her low-cut orange sweater. She’s sexy and provocative—in a good way—and she doesn’t seem to care that it’s close to meeting time and the place is filling up. There’s Aaron, who likes to put his leg around Holly when he hugs her hello, and there’s Ryan, who told her he’d crawl a mile on his hands and knees “just to get a peek.” Just to get a peek. Such dogs. But so am I because her low-cut sweater keeps screaming for my eyes. I have to fight to keep from looking down. She has gorgeous long red hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail.

  I’ve never been with a redhead.

  “So how is it with her?”

  “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “There are certain things I want to know right away. So how is it?”

  “Oh, God, Holly, I don’t know, the sex is, it’s . . . it’s good. I mean, what can I say, she’s a little bit conservative, as are most of the women I’ve been with, but I still really enjoy being with her. I bet you’re not terribly inhibited.”

  “No way. I get crazy. Sometimes it gets to be too much, but I draw the line at animals.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “So what happened with this girl?”

  “Oh, her attitude started to change and suddenly I became a low priority in her busy world.”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar. So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not really sure. I’ve got to call her tonight and deal with it.”

  “If it doesn’t work out, will you call me?”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean it. I mean, I did, but I want it to work out for you. I mean, I don’t. I mean, I do want you to be happy, you know that.”

  “I know and I want the same for you.”

  “So, then, will you call me?”

  “You’ll be my rebound girl.”

  “We can be each other’s rebound.”

  “My sponsor would kill me. He’s sitting right behind you, you know.”

  She turns around to look. Mitchell’s back there: big, burly, black glasses, always looks like he needs a shave. He’s sitting back there with Justin. Justin’s with a pretty brunette I don’t recognize. The two boys beam funny smiles and wave at us.

  “Him? He’s the guy who told you not to have sex with me?”

  “Him and Justin and a half dozen other people. Holly, it’s the thirteenth step: No dating newcomers. You’ve only been sober what, four months?”

  “Five.”

  “Five months is good but it’s not very long, and you talk about your sober sex life, but you’re really still in withdrawal and you’re substituting sex for drugs.”

  “Oh, really? And what about you?”

  “I’ve been sober for two years, and I’m still in withdrawal and I’m substituting sex for drugs.”

  ALL I WANT IS THE TRUTH

  I CALLED BIANCA that night and I was right: It’s over. I haven’t been dumped in a long time but now I remember: It doesn’t feel good.

  I have to come up with something to read at Beyond Baroque in Venice for the end of this cycle in my writer’s workshop. All the classes come together and everyone gets a chance to read, but because there are so many of us, we each have only two minutes. After two minutes Jack blows the fart whistle, and if there isn’t an immediate wrap-up, the water pistols come out. I want to write something about Bianca without laying too much blame. As per Mitchell, I’ve got to take my own inventory to see what role I played in this latest crash and burn. I’ve been writing the Bianca piece all week, paring it down line by line, word by word, trying to squeeze it into the allotted time.

  When I get to Beyond Baroque, a lot of people are there to read and I sign up for the tenth spot of about fifty people. The place is packed. This is going to be a big show: Justin’s there with Lana, yet another addition to his parade of women.

  The show finally starts, and after nine readers, it’s finally my turn. I know people have been going over the alloted time but thankfully, Jack has kept the water pistols holstered. I thank Sarah, the previous reader, and then I start in.

  “Adam Nimoy. ‘All I Want Is the Truth.’ ”

  “She had beautiful long black hair and freckles. And a killer smile. And then, she dumped me.

  “I just love it when a girl invites you to her house on the second date, jumps you on her couch and starts making out with you, then invites you back night after night for more of the same. And a week or so later, she’s leading you into her bedroom and night after night it’s white sheets and votive candles and lace curtains. And you start to think to yourself, ‘Wow, this could really go long-term.’ Then, out of nowhere, she’s canceling on you at the last minute for the most ridiculous reasons. And instead of ‘I’d really like to see you tonight’ she’s now saying: ‘You can come over if you want.’ And when you call her on it, she promises to make time for you, but in your gut, you know something is horribly wrong, you know that what she really means is, ‘This isn’t working out and it’s over.’ And when you confront her, she finally gives you a glib excuse like, ‘Your life is so unsettled right now.’ And you know that’s total bullshit, you know what she really means is that you said or did something that turned her off, or the sex wasn’t as good for her as you thought, or she met someone new, or she simply isn’t ready for a serious relationship right now. In the acting profession, they call that ‘subtext,’ where a person says one thing but really means something entirely different, usually the exact opposite. In recovery, we call it ‘lying.’ And this girl is a terrible liar. And I should know because I’m a terrific liar. Because most alcoholics and addicts are terrific liars, so terrific that we start to believe our own bullshit.

  “But I need to let go of that girl because in the end, it’s over. She gave me some of the most incredible memories of my life, and for that, I love her. I would even go so far as to say I love all the women I’ve had the pleasure to know, including the ones who dumped me. And I’m pretty sure that’s not a lie.

  “And I try not to lie to them. I try not to lie. Like when I want to break up with a girl, I focus on a reason that’s big enough to justify the breakup. I don’t tell her about the petty stuff that’s bothering me because I really don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’ll tell her something that puts the blame squarely on me. I’ll tell her something that is totally valid and I sincerely believe. I’ll say something like, ‘I’m just not sure I’m ready for this relationship because . . . my life is so unsettled right now.’ ”

  THE BEST APOLOGY

  JUSTIN’S BEEN PISSING me off lately. We make plans for dinner or to go to a meeting together and he doesn’t show or forgets or doesn’t call or whatever. Now I’m just annoyed. So I finally call him on it. I usually don’t call people on stuff, not now anyway. Now I just let it go and try to move on. Because when most people are called on their stuff, they just deny it or rationalize it or change the subject or counterattack about something you did to them, like, ten years ago. When that happened in the past, I would just give up and harbor my resentment and go smoke a fatty to make it all go away. But there are no fatties in AA. So anyway, with Justin, I ignore the usual rule and I call him up and tell him he’s been flaking on me quite a bit and it hasn’t been that much fun. He says he’s sorry, which makes me feel better. The next day I get this e-mail:

  Dude:

  Have you ever noticed Helena [his psycho ex-girlfriend] resembles a Klingon? I’m no Trekkie. I think Trekkies are lame. I mean, I’m glad they’ve got a place to go and a thing t
o do like when drunks go to AA. And Star Trek—I’ve never been a Star Trek fan. The only time I got any use out of Star Trek was when I was a junkie in the early nineties and all we got was local programming and they’d show it at eleven pm on channel 6 and you’d sit there and escape for an hour. Other than that, fuck Star Trek. And then compounded by the ups and downs you’ve been through with your pops, every time I see anything related to the Enterprise or Ohura or Sulu or Kirk or you-know-who, I think to myself, “Fucking Phonies.”

  Fabian, in his infinite Austrian observational wisdom, has had the opportunity to perform as waitperson for both Shatner and Nimoy at the legendary Tiber restaurant in Hollywood. Of the two, Fabian comments, “They’re both a pain in the ass, but you can tell Shatner is an idiot. At least Nimoy, you can tell he’s smart.”

  Now with all my bashing of Star Trek and attempting to prove to you that I could care less whose Hollywood Star’s kid you are, I’ll tell you the following semi-funny story:

  Fabian, as you know, got cable last month to watch World Cup soccer, so I’ve been lazing around in my off time, channel surfing. Last Friday afternoon, I happened to settle down for a Taco Bell food coma con cable and caught, from almost the beginning, Star Trek 10 (or whatever) The Frantic Search for Spock and I thought to myself, “Christ, this fucking show haunts me.” (I once told Helena she looked like Spock because of her eyebrows. She wasn’t too happy.) So I decided to sit through The Frantic Search even if your dad’s prosthetic eyebrows were to remind me of my crazy ex-bitch.

  And what do you know? There’s that scene where McCoy is channeling Spock in Spock’s quarters and saying, “Why did you leave me on Genesis? Jim, why did you leave me on Genesis? I am and will be your (special) friend.”