The Temptation of Adam

by Dave Connis

  “Got it. Just keep going.”

  “Abbey Road US was trashed and defaced by people angry with the verdict. The UK execs considered rebuilding, but the name was so tainted by the scandal they didn’t want to do any more damage to their brand so they never reopened. The building was bought in 1990, torn down, and rebuilt as another recording studio called Bridge Studios.”

  When she finishes all I can say is, “Damn.”

  How else do you respond to a story like that? That makes my story of addiction—heck, even Dez’s story of addiction—seem like an episode of Adventure Time.

  I stare at the picture in my hands. “I don’t—I don’t even know what to say.”

  “How is Mr. Cratcher still alive?” Dez asks. “How has he not died of heartache?”

  “Can we—can we just not talk about addiction, or porn, or death, or racism for a minute?”

  I feel such a heaviness that I, Adam Hawthorne, a man with a penis, want to scream and sob like an infant.

  “I feel like I’m being assaulted with adultness, and I’m not ready for it. We’re only sixteen.”

  “Can I just say one more thing?”

  I sigh. “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “The other night at Pritchett’s, you said Mr. Cratcher freaked out about not having the original album, right?”

  “Yeah, it was more of a meltdown and less of a freak-out.”

  “I’m guessing the album was either confiscated by the police or left at the studio. What if we tried to get it back for him? What if we drove to Nashville and tried to find it? If we did, we could finish the album for him. That’s something worth conquering.”

  “How would we even do that? The case was closed years ago. All of the stuff they confiscated is probably destroyed or something.”

  “Does it matter? What if we tried? What if we gathered the Knights of Vice and tried?”

  “Our parents would never let that happen. Besides, how would we even pay for it?”

  “Adam, do you not remember the Coulter Mansion of American Waste? Money isn’t a problem. I can just tell my dad some friends and I want to check out a college in Nashville and he might even charter a private jet for the occasion.”

  “What on earth does your dad do?”

  “Stock swindler.”

  “By that, do you mean stock trader?”

  “I mean stock swindler. It doesn’t matter what he does. We should do this. It would take our minds off everything. It could be like one big stand of justice. The trip where the Knights of Vice defeat their vices. The retrieval of a lost album in the memory of racial equality. Everything about it reeks of battle.”

  I pick around the idea for a while. It seems super improbable that parents of addicts would let their kids go on a soul-searching trip to Nashville. We live in Washington. Nashville is more than a million steps away. Also, my research shows that when addicts soul-search, they typically decide their souls are easier to manage with the relief of a vice.

  “I can’t just leave. I have all this suspension crap to do, and being at Mr. Cratcher’s every day is just a part of it. If I skip, I can be expelled from school. I want to go back to school, too. I miss being good at something without trying.”

  “Maybe we can talk to Mr. Cratcher. Get him to let you go as part of the punishment.”

  I laugh. “Yeah right. I’ll let you do that.”

  I look at the clock. It’s almost six-thirty and I haven’t eaten or taken a shower. Even though where I’m going is completely populated by dudes, I’d like not to smell myself and think, “Ass of grim reaper.”

  “Come on, Adam. What if we beat our addictions because of this trip? We could date, actually date for real.” She’s silent. It’s the silence that always comes before she says something that makes me want her more.

  “I—I really want to love you, like, a greater-than-kind-of love you.”

  Good. Ness.

  I want that, too, Dez.

  Soy bad.

  I really realljy wanoijt … youbei

  “You know I can’t say no to that, but I don’t—”

  “Just think about it, okay? Just think about how to make it happen. At least do that before you say no.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “You promise?”

  “Nah, I don’t really feel like promising things right now.”

  “Adam, I’m your wife. Stop being so annoying.”

  —

  Taking a shower proved to be the same amount of challenge as staring at my computer. I kept pushing porn away with thoughts about the trip. I replayed what Dez said about wanting to love me in a greater-than-addiction way over and over in my mind and that helped, too. I say all this like I was a victor in some giant mental fight, but my shower was only two minutes long.

  I walk into the kitchen and reach for the Cocoa Puffs. I grab a bowl from the cupboard below. I tip the box toward my bowl, looking over my shoulder to see if my dad’s in his office. The familiar patter of Cocoa Puffs falling into a ceramic bowl has changed into a swift woosh. I look down and see a bowl full of the gridded rectangles of Life.

  “Symbolic, Dad,” I say.

  A chuckle drifts out of his office. “What better way to start the day with a bowl full of Life? God knows we need it.”

  I sit down at the table. “I like your use of poetic analogy.”

  “I’ve always considered myself a poet.”

  After a lifetime of only ever eating Cocoa Puffs, I can’t tell if my first spoonful of Life is disgusting or revolutionary.

  “What would you think about me taking a trip to Nashville?” I ask like I’m asking if he wants to go to Pritchett’s later.

  He doesn’t respond, but I hear the rustle of him getting up from his chair. He walks over the kitchen table and sits down. “Why Nashville?”

  Though she doesn’t sit up and she can’t see me from her spot on the couch, Addy adds, “Yeah, why Nashville?”

  “It’s such a long story,” I say, shoving a spoonful of Life in my mouth. “Do I have to explain it to you?”

  “Yes,” Dad says, “you have to explain it to me.”

  “Yes,” Addy says, “you have to explain it to me.”

  I tell them about Mr. Cratcher’s meltdown about the unfinished song and finishing the history of the album. I explain what Dez found out about him online, her proposal about the trip and how maybe it would help the Knights of Vice beat addiction, being together. Belonging. After I finish, they both just look at me.

  “Dad?” I ask after, like, two minutes of silence.

  “I’ve been a miserable father since the divorce,” he says, looking over at Addy and then me. “I was probably one before the divorce. I realize I’ve never talked about Mom outside of my grand ideas to get her back. I’ve also never asked either of you about anything that might get my hands dirty, and I’m sorry. All that to say, I know I haven’t been around for you, Adam. I also know I don’t deserve an answer to what I’m about to ask, but I have to ask the questions, and my consideration of this trip hinges on the way you answer.”

  Why can’t things ever be easy? Why is everything always some giant battle?

  “Okay,” I say, feeling insanely uncomfortable. I stand up to wash off my spoon and bowl.

  “Are you addicted to pornography? And have you told anyone what really happened at school?”

  I look at Addy, who’s now sitting upright and staring at me over the back of the couch. Her eyes are wide. Did she tell him? God, I’m so sick of talking about this stuff: my feelings, porn, girls, hurt, pain, death, blah, blah, blah.

  I’m. So. Damn. Sick.

  I grab the keys off the counter, walk out the door, and get into Genevieve. As I pull out of the driveway, images of Dad sitting at the table waiting for an answer haunt me, and I want nothing more than not to care.

  CRY

  I walk into Mr. Cratcher’s living room and sit in the first available seat I see, which just so happens to be next to Mr. Cratcher. I can’t hel
p but stare at the guy. After finding out about all the BS he’s been through, I hate myself for calling him Mr. Crotcher. Even though I realize I’ve stopped doing that at some point in time, I still feel like a jerk.

  Great.

  More guilt.

  My phone vibrates. I know it’s Addy.

  That was incredibly mean, and stupid if you actually want to go to Nashville.

  I don’t answer.

  “Well, everyone,” Mr. Cratcher says. There’s a strange look on his face I can’t figure out. I know Trey and Elliot see it, too, because they keep looking at him as if he’s turning into an elk. “Before we start, I want to make sure you guys know why you are together …”

  Elliot, Trey, and I look at each other.

  Our look = WTF?

  “Humans are made to be together,” Mr. Cratcher says. “Throughout your lives, isolation will be your greatest enemy.”

  I think of my Deception Pass dreams. Being alone in the Puget Sound. The crushing darkness.

  “Despite what culture says, all humans are weak. Men are not exempt from this. Everybody has their own share of pain. You three have already seen death and will certainly see more. To survive the heaviness of the world, you need to experience it with others. If you can do that, you teach each other to see the beauty in chaos. That is why you’ve come together. Why you drive here every Monday and Friday night. You need each other to live. Don’t ever forget that.”

  The silence in the room is daunting. It’s like his statement is a final warning to us.

  “Now,” he says, “who’s going to share first?”

  Me. I am. I need to. Otherwise I may turn into a black hole.

  “I prided myself on feeling nothing, like, a month or so ago, but right now, it seems like I feel everything. There are so many things to think about, questions to ask, so much hurt, everywhere, all the time. I feel like I’m going to be swallowed whole by everything, not just porn. I don’t know how to make any of it stop or where I start. The only times I find relief are in moments when I’m with Dez, and the other night, when we were all together at the diner.”

  I pause.

  “I felt that, too,” Elliot says.

  “Yeah,” Trey adds.

  Their confessions shock me. We were all feeling the same thing.

  I continue. “There are these moments where, like, I see hope in her face, well, in everyone, like, it’s a part of who we are. Even though everyone is as messed up as me, they’re a hallelujah. I love those moments, and I want to believe they aren’t limited to a few seconds a day. I want those kinds of moments for hours. I just don’t know how to get them. I keep trying to figure out how it happened with us at the diner because maybe then I could do it again.”

  I don’t know what else to say, so I just stare at the other guys, hoping someone will say something that will make me stop whining like a toddler.

  Adam Hawthorne, toddler, looking for a parent with backpack leash.

  Elliot shakes his head like I said something he can’t believe. “That was fucking beautiful, brother. You were just a hallelujah to me.”

  Trey smiles. “Maybe all it takes is just telling each other the truth, man.”

  Mr. Cratcher shifts in his seat. A tear slides off his cheek and disappears into the carpet. He looks in pain, but as usual, I can’t tell what kind it is.

  “Excuse me, boys,” he says, lifting himself off the chair with a substantial effort involved.

  “I’ve never thought about it before,” Trey says. “Being together is a way of seeing beauty. Man, all this stuff seems like it’s over my head, but it kind of lessens the idea of addiction, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “It’s like, deciding to see a thing as pretty cheapens addiction. Like, if I saw a chick with huge boobs.” He holds his hands in front of him to show how huge he’s thinking. “I’d normally want to do her, right? Well, if you think about the beauty of her, the … whatever you said, the hallelujah, it makes banging seem less like just a thing and more like love.”

  Both Elliot and I laugh.

  “And you want to date my sister?” I say.

  “You were almost there, Trey,” Elliot says. “Almost.”

  Trey laughs, too. “Maybe I’ll get it eventually if I keep hanging with you guys.”

  Suddenly, there’s a crash somewhere in the house.

  Trey, Elliot, and I look at each other.

  “Mr. Cratcher!” I stand and run into the kitchen with the guys right behind me.

  Through an empty doorframe, by the refrigerator, I see Mr. Cratcher, collapsed on the floor in the bathroom.

  No.

  Mr. Cratcher = my first blaze of light.

  Mr. Cratcher = wisdom and hope.

  Mr. Cratcher cannot = death.

  Mark already = death.

  I don’t need any more = death.

  Dear God, please let Mr. Cratcher not = death.

  —

  Elliot, Trey, my dad, Addy, and I sit in the waiting room in Seattle’s Overlake Hospital waiting for some word about what’s going on.

  I called Dez. After I told her what happened, we were silent for ten minutes before she said, “I’m on my way.”

  He knew. Mr. Cratcher knew. That’s why he gave us that speech before we started the Knights of Vice. He felt this coming. I think back to all the times I asked him questions about the album and his response was, “I’m not sure if that will be my decision.”

  He either knew he was dying or he felt it coming.

  Suddenly, I know that whatever the doctor says will ruin us.

  The elevator dings. I look and see Dez behind the doors as they slide open. I stand to go to her just as a doctor turns into the waiting room.

  “Are you friends and family of Colin Cratcher?” he asks. None of us say yes, but the look of dread that washes over our faces must answer for us.

  “Did he ever speak to any of you about his lung cancer?”

  More silence.

  “I suspected as much. Mr. Cratcher was a frequent patient here. We’ve known about his cancer for at least a year now. Around Halloween, fluid started building in his lungs. We pumped them, and after some observation, released him. Before he left, he told me, ‘This will be the last time I’ll see you. Thanks for all you’ve done.’ I personally thought he would have shown up in this state much sooner. With all that said, we’ve drained his lungs again, and he’s starting to recover. However, regardless of his recovery, he only has about two weeks left. Three weeks max. You can visit him in a few hours, but I’m sorry to tell you he will not be communicative.”

  I can tell the doctor’s done this before. He has a formula for it. A deep look in my eyes when he says specific words, but not long enough to be uncomfortable. He uses a gentle, but brutal, honesty. His tone is perfectly honed and shaped in rooms filled with awkward silence.

  “I’m sorry I have to give you this news. I have to check on my other patients, but if you have any questions, just head over to the nurses’ station and have them page me. I’ll do the best I can to answer them. Again, I’m very sorry.”

  The doctor waits a few seconds before walking away, and his absence reveals Dez. She stands with a hand over her mouth. I walk over to her and pull her into me. The hurtful kind of pain explodes, and the only thing either of us can think to do is cry.

  GO DO STUFF THAT ISN’T PORN

  The Knights of Vice and Dez and Addy all sit in the living room at my house. None of us talk. We just stare at the floor, but we don’t want to leave each other. I haven’t let go of Dez’s hand since we left the hospital three hours ago.

  I don’t understand how I can go from experiencing no deaths to one and a half of them in a matter of months. As soon as I started thinking, as soon as I started asking questions, it happened. Pain came. Now, even if I wanted to make myself stop asking questions, I don’t think I could. I have no idea how I avoided it before. Chaos seems so present now. I feel like I’d have to be a
moron not to notice.

  The doorbell rings. I hear my dad say thanks, and then he appears with four pizza boxes in hand.

  “I’m not sure if you guys are hungry.” He puts the boxes on the coffee table. “I was, and I figured pizza never hurt anyone’s feelings.”

  He grabs a few pieces, and the Knights of Vice attempt some pitiful thank-yous as he walks out of the room.

  As I watch him leave, I feel an overwhelming urge to answer his questions. The ones he asked a day before. It’s as though now that Mr. Cratcher isn’t going to be around, I need someone else smarter than me to know what’s going on. I need someone else willing to ask questions that piss me off, like “What are you?”

  I stand, letting go of Dez’s hand. She immediately uses her newfound freedom to grab a slice of pizza.

  I follow my dad out of the living room and into his office.

  “I’ve looked at porn since I was twelve, but I wasn’t addicted to it until The Woman left.”

  Dad turns around, giving me every bit of attention he has.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing in my room,” I say.

  God, this is so hard. I feel like the words can’t fit through my mouth, like square pegs trying to escape through circular holes. Just like when I first started talking with Addy. Luckily, he already knows why I was suspended, so I don’t have to spill that on him, too.

  “Hours and hours. I didn’t know I was addicted until Mr. Cratcher told me. Until I met Dez. This will be a shock, but I’ve never had sex. I wanted to, bad. Everything that’s happened is because I wanted to have sex more than anything, but I wasn’t ever close enough to anyone to get it. I didn’t want to be close to anyone. The Woman made me not care about other people. I figured if you could love someone as hard as you loved her and have it not matter, then why care? Why not just use people before they used you?”