by Joe Clifford
Huge beer fermenters, obtrusive stainless steel tanks, occupied half the space, brewing pretentious craft beers they served with fruit wedges. I counted four men dressed like lumberjacks—flannels, suede work boots, with big, bushy beards but skinny as fuck—drinking these fruity craft beers. All four together didn’t weigh half as much as a genuine mountain man like Tom Gable. There was also one very sad-looking woman, who had to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties. I imagined her a former beauty queen in another life. If every face told a story, I didn’t want to know how hers ended.
The Blue Carousel still retained enough old-school cred that it wasn’t too far gone. Give it a few years. The saving grace was Stan the Magic Man. If I could choose one, true artistic talent, I’d pick a voice like that. Any time I tried to sing, I sounded like a seal getting clubbed by Gordon Gano.
I sat at the bar and ordered an IPA, wishing you could still smoke inside. Stan the Magic Man was cigarette-and-beer music. He launched into this old Tony Carey tune I hadn’t heard in forever, “A Fine, Fine Day.” When he got to the part about Uncle Sonny giving the cabbie twenty bucks to drive around Central Park, I got chills, choked up. I would’ve asked Stan the Magic Man what he was doing here if I didn’t hate Billy Joel so goddamn much.
A short while later, Alison walked in. I wasn’t imagining things. She’d taken the time to make herself look pretty. She was pretty anyway, but tonight she arrived the way a woman does a date. The subtle things—blush, lipstick reapplied, whatever they do to their hair to make your heart yearn. I felt like I was sixteen again.
I almost asked what she was drinking, before remembering the whole AA thing. I started feeling like an asshole for suggesting the place. I’d recalled the Blue Carousel as having more of an English pub vibe. But this was a straight-up bar, even if the addition of the piano was a nice touch.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We can go somewhere else.”
“Not that big a deal.” She nodded toward the Magic Man. “He’s pretty good.”
“Does it ever get to you?”
“What’s that?”
“That you can’t drink?”
“That’s what you don’t understand about recovery. It’s not that I can’t. It’s that I choose not to. Not drinking is a choice. Not drugging is a choice. My choice. I used to get high off the drug. Now I get high on the self-control. Does that make sense?”
I shrugged before taking a swig of beer.
“How’s your friend? Charlie?”
“Better. I think. He’s gung-ho about turning his life around. Says he’ll never touch a drop again. Sounds like he means it. I don’t know. I can be cynical.”
“No, really? You?”
“I want to believe him. He’ll die otherwise. It’s weird. Right now he’s confined to a hospital bed, they’re telling him he has to completely overhaul his life, and he seems happier than he has in years.”
“Floating on the pink cloud.”
“Pink cloud?”
“Do you really want to talk recovery?”
“Sure. Why not?” I didn’t say I just liked the sound of her voice, or that being near her was, clichés aside, intoxicating. I would’ve sat there listening to her read the day’s soup specials.
“When someone makes the decision to sober up, there’s a brief period where they do embrace a promising future. They are buoyed by the possibilities of what this new, sober life offers, the chances they’ll have. On some level we all know when we’re fucking up. By admitting we are powerless, we make a decision to take the first step, turn our lives over to something greater than ourselves, which makes us feel powerful. We are reclaiming what we’ve lost. This produces waves of euphoria, and you float high in the rosy sky with no worries, optimistic and hopeful.”
“Pink cloud. Got it.”
“The problem isn’t the first few days. It’s the long haul.”
I’d taken off my winter coat, and I saw her checking out my arms, which were covered in long sleeves to hide the bruises. “You look like you work out.”
I didn’t bother mentioning I hadn’t seen the inside of a gym since high school. Working outdoors, lifting heavy shit has its perks. I’d take the compliment.
“You know how hard it is exercising? Keeping up a routine. All those people at the gym the first day of the new year? The revolutionaries? By week three they are gone. Same with staying sober. Racing out of the gate is great. But it’s the turtle and the hare. Consistency is key. You need an answer to ‘why not’? When it is four thirty on a Tuesday afternoon and you suddenly find yourself with forty dollars in your pocket. Why not call the man, get high? Why not head down to the liquor store or bar? The same intensity and drive you put into getting high, you need to put into staying clean.”
I tried to pay attention but I’d drifted off, eyes glassing over, the way they do when your doctor tells you that you need to stop smoking.
“So what do you really want to talk about, Jay?”
I pointed at the bartender for another beer. “Were you having a dinner party?”
“It was a get-together. A few friends.” She anticipated what I was going to ask next, namely how she escaped. “I told Richard a friend was having a crisis.” When I didn’t get what she meant, she added, “In recovery, being of service to other addicts and alcoholics is part of the program. Crisis means a free pass to leave dinner parties, no questions asked.”
“So you lied?”
“Not exactly.”
I tried not to be too sensitive. How much of that was true, at least in her mind? Did she seriously see me as having a problem? I wasn’t asking that question. I’d already exposed myself more than I wanted to. I learned a long time ago that you never ask a question unless you are certain the answer is going to be in your favor.
“So Phillip Crowder’s two buddies who stopped by?” I said, priming the conversation. “Malcolm and Leone?”
If this kidnapping and recovery business didn’t pan out, Alison Rodgers had a real future in Texas Hold ’Em. She gave away nothing.
The bartender brought my beer. Alison ordered a club soda and lime. Stan the Magic Man was now covering Terry Reid, and I wanted to believe it would feel good to be back where I belonged. Soon as I figured out where that was.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Rough week. I know you can’t tell me if Malcolm and Leone are clients—”
“At this point, does it matter? No, they’re not. They were. Graduated a month ago. They’re good kids.”
“But they still work on the farm?”
“Service.”
“Right.”
“It’s not uncommon for graduates to stay on, become fulltime employees of whatever farm they’d been assigned during treatment.”
“They said they were Level Three.”
“That’s what we call it. A paid probationary period with the business, contingent on passing urine tests, making meetings, doing their steps. But for all practical purposes, they are on their own. They can leave grounds after work, drive to meetings, enjoy weekend passes, that kind of thing.”
“They’re friends with Phillip?”
Alison nodded.
“Kinda weird, no?”
“What’s that?”
“Phillip Crowder is the definition of silver spoon, born in a lap of luxury, and Malcolm and Leone struck me as more street.”
“I told you. Addiction does not discriminate. A drug is a drug is a drug. Rewrite takes all comers.”
“And you’re sure they weren’t sent by Richard.”
“They weren’t.”
“You’re the one who warned me to be on the lookout.”
“My husband would like you to stop interfering with our business. Now we have your local sheriff bugging us, Middlesex PD threatening injunctions. Richard wanted to deliver the message to back off. And he seems willing to make an example of you. It’s personal.”
“Why am I such a threat?”
I could feel her chee
ks blush.
“Come on, Alison, I can take it.”
“He thinks you have a thing for me.”
“A thing?”
“A crush.”
“That’s so cute. Like we’re in high school or something. Can I slip you a note, ask you to check off a box, see if you ‘like’ me, too?”
Alison found the clock on the wall. “I have to go.” She made ready to leave. “I know for a fact Richard didn’t send anyone to your place, okay? Whatever else you got going on, that’s on you.”
“Are you happy with him?”
“My husband? That’s none of your business.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is this what you do now? Your wife left you, so you go around trying to break up other marriages?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it then?”
“You seem . . . I don’t know. You’re right. It’s none of my business. I thought . . . never mind.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m married.”
She’d stood to go but hadn’t left yet.
I reached out and touched her sleeve. “Sorry. I crossed the line. Please stay. I want to talk about how to help Phillip.”
She had her sights fixed on the door but sat back down.
“I don’t get you, Jay. You run around risking limb and neck to find this kid, are willing to get your ass kicked to get hold of him, and then soon as you get close, you’re doing a one-eighty? Last week, Rewrite Interventions was this evil corporation that had to be stopped at all costs, and now you’re on board, want to help?”
“A lot has changed since then. Starting with Joanne Crowder being dead.”
Alison sighed, shoulders slagged, the reaction you get when you’ve exhausted someone to resignation. How many times had I seen Jenny do the same? “I’ve already violated half a dozen principles. I might as well tell you that Phillip didn’t have a very good home life. People who resort to drugs seldom do.”
“Malcolm and Leone said that he’s scared of his father.”
“The worst thing that can happen is being released into his father’s custody. Phillip is seventeen—”
“I thought he was sixteen?”
“No, he’s seventeen. In a few more months he’s free of that man. I can’t betray confidence. I mean, I can’t get into specifics, but the things Ethan Crowder has done to that boy reserve a special place in hell. I assume you’ve researched online?”
“I read about domestic violence charges that never stuck.”
“Against men like him they never do.”
“What can we do?”
“We? Nothing. With Joanne dead, you’re right, Ethan will go to the courts. Joanne was the good parent. We didn’t have to ‘kidnap’ Phillip, as you put it. We were helping keep him safe.”
“So you treat addiction. And harbor refugees?”
“Phillip was smoking too much pot to deal with the stress. But, yes, sometimes lines aren’t so clear. Rehabs are confidential. Well, they’re supposed to be. We won’t have any sway to hold him against an injunction. And given Ethan’s political pull, I’m guessing we’ll see that court order sooner rather than later.” Alison collected her handbag and jacket. “I really have to get going.”
I stood up. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
“So do I. Listen, Jay. I’m not going to pretend. Okay? I’m not sending you home thinking you are fucked up and delusional. You’re not imagining it. But this isn’t a once-in-a-lifetime feeling. I’ve felt it before. I used to feel it with Richard, and I’m sure I’ll feel it with other men, too. It’s nice. An urge. It’s fleeting. No different than watching you drink those ice-cold beers, knowing how good they’d taste now, and how much they would cost me later. My life started getting better when I drew some lines, created boundaries for myself, and I began respecting them. I don’t cross these lines.” She took my hand. “Thank you for the heads-up. Take care of yourself.”
Alison Rodgers left me alone in the bar.
I sat down and ordered another beer.
Stan the Magic Man played the opening notes to Springsteen’s “The River.” Just the piano and voice, stripped-down, soulful, aching. In the bone-chill of winter, with silver flakes floating down, dancing in a shivery sheet, that story cut deeper than usual, and it always cut deep.
You could write an entire book and not capture what Springsteen conveys in a few short lines. It’s more than the tragedy of missed opportunity and wasted youth. Born into this life, cursed by a name from which there is no escape, you never had a chance. They’ll tell you you’re more than the subdivisions and street signs that box you in; that the world is bigger than the town limits that define you; that the ending isn’t already written. The Boss knows better. Highways bypass small towns for a reason.
Once he gets the girl pregnant, it’s all over. The joyless city hall ceremony, the soul-crushing job at the factory, the surrender to adult compromise. All that’s left is the waiting. Car crash. Cirrhosis. Old-folks home, eaten away by cancer, saddled with Alzheimer’s, whittling fucking sticks. What difference does it make?
Years later, when he’s too used up to give a shit anymore, when his wife won’t look him in the eye and he’s tired of the lies mistaken for dreams, he reflects on being young again and driving in his brother’s car, just him and his baby at the reservoir, lying on the shore, two naked bodies trembling in the moonlight. Like it really might’ve played out differently. These are the death knells. The ones that really hurt. The trust. The promise. The betrayal.
I’d heard the soft whimpers throughout the song, but caught up in the journey I hadn’t allowed them to infiltrate my consciousness. I drank my beer, listened to the mourning, wondered what I was doing with my life. In other words, a Tuesday night. Now these cries had morphed into uncontrollable wailing, impossible to ignore. We all heard it.
I turned. The whole bar turned. At the end of the counter, the sad-looking former beauty queen had broken down, lost it. I’m talking chest-heaving, unable-to-breathe, inconsolable sobbing.
She was bawling so loud, in such torment, Stan the Magic Man had no choice but to stop playing the song.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I WAS DOWN at the warehouse, readying the next load. Power back on, the damage wasn’t too bad. I still needed to get an inventory of what was missing. Never mind making a list for the cops. Tom would need one to file an insurance claim. In addition to the dressers and chests of drawers, we had plenty of expensive trinkets and baubles too. A pair of silver sconces could fetch as much as an eighteenth-century sleigh bed. I saw the sconces, which slipped inside a jacket easy enough, so that was good. But to know what was missing, I had to know what we had. I dealt with the day-to-day dirty work, the grunt labor; inventory was Tom’s department. There was no single, definitive hard copy. Far as I knew, Tom stored all that information in his head. And right now his brain had powered down and was having a tough time rebooting.
All things considered, I wasn’t feeling too bad. I’d long been at the mercy of my moods—good ones were pretty rare—but my day had started out with a surprise call from my son. Jenny got on the line and said Aiden had woken up insisting he talk to Daddy because he’d had a dream about me. Aiden tried to explain the dream, something about a ship on the lake. It was hard to understand. There was a hurricane and Indians, a witch, a cook, a church bell, y’know, a kid’s dream. Didn’t make sense. Didn’t matter—I was still on my boy’s mind. And it was nice hearing Jenny’s voice, too. Reminded me there were better parts of me out there.
Charlie also called. He was being discharged from the hospital.
“How you feeling?”
“Better than I’ve felt in ages,” Charlie said. “It was time to make some changes.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“The doctor gave me a list of AA meetings in the area. There’s like one every hour.”
I a
sked him if he needed a ride, but he said Fisher was picking him up, since he was still staying at his house.
“Don’t worry about me, Jay. I’m going to turn this thing around. I think I’m even going to start hitting the gym again. Start building some hurtin’ bombs. Remember how good I used to look in high school, Jay? I’m getting back to that. I mean it. Gonna drop the extra weight, get back in fighting shape. You know what else? I’m thinking of applying to the post office. That’d be a good gig for me. Government job, good benefits. Outside a lot. Walking around. I’d be good at it.”
After stopping for a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, I dug out my Springsteen Live in NYC disc. Smoking, listening to “The River” on my new stereo, tapping out a beat. When I got to the warehouse, I brought the double live album inside with me, blasting it out of a pair of Blaupunkts.
By noon, I’d picked up most of the mess, moving much faster than I’d anticipated. In lieu of a formal inventory, I eyeballed best I could. I didn’t see anything missing.
I did not think about Ethan Crowder, Vin Biscoglio, or Owen Eaton. I did not think about my dead brother, my dead parents, or my failed marriage. I did not think about Phillip or his mom. I thought about my son’s surprise phone call. And I thought about Alison Rodgers.
I was probably overanalyzing last night, reading more into what she’d said. You can see the good or bad in everything, depending on where you stand, on who you are. A lot of guys would’ve heard a strong, independent woman, firmly rooted in her recovery, someone who wasn’t jeopardizing her new life over a fling. All I heard: there’s a chance.
I hadn’t heard anyone rattling the gate, music cranked so loud. Which was why Turley had resorted to bleating the air horn to catch my attention. I met him at the roll-up.
“Been trying to call you for the last half hour.” Turley peered past my shoulder into the warehouse, Blaupunkt stereo on, shaking the walls. “Rocking out, eh?”
“What’s up?”
“Come on,” he said, suddenly turning stern. “Let’s go.”