After helplessly watching the spectacle for a few moments, I’d resort calmly to my old threat: “I’m going to call the men in white suits.”
“Go ahead! Do it! See if I care! Besides, it’s you who belong in the nuthouse, not me! You’re pitiful! A maggot! Not even half a man! Why don’t you crawl back into the hole I found you in, you creep!”
Sometimes, even then, we’d fuck, with a hatred that made fucking that much better….
Of course Livy eventually won the tug of war over her car; I had no choice but to surrender it. In order to get to my job now, I had to leave the apartment upward of two hours before my shift started, hop the bus on Bloomfield Avenue into Roseland, transfer
to another line that would take me into Livingston, then a third that would drop me across from the motel, and hope each would be on time—which of course they never were. My workday now ran anywhere between twelve and fourteen hours, but it was better than hearing Livy scream in my ear all night long….
“He was here,” she announced dreamily from the sofa when I dragged my ass in at three thirty
A.M.
On the floor was a glass of amber booze. The stereo was oozing the Bee Gees’ disco abortions. Livy was in a flimsy nightgown that had fallen open at the belly. Her arm was folded behind her head. She looked like the finest courtesan in a French cathouse.
“Who?” “Michael…. ”
I was still in the dark. My back ached. The soles of my feet felt as if they’d been pierced with slivers of glass. I was soaked through from the freezing rain. The day had been entirely too long to play guessing games.
“Michael who?”
“Michael Goldfarb. You remember.”
The jeweler she’d spread her legs for, the pudgy guy we saw out in the reservation.
“Well—what the hell was he doing here?”
“I don’t know. He found out my address somehow.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘he found out your address somehow'? The only way he could find out your address is if you
called him and told him your address! And besides, the last time I checked, it was my address, too!”
“Hah! Check your facts! The last time
I
looked, it was
me
who bought all the furniture in this place,
me
who painted it and stained the floors, and
me
whose name is on the lease! You’re sitting on
my
chairs and sleeping in
my
bed! I can kick you out of here anytime I want!”
“Every time I try to leave you, you threaten hara-kiri, you two-bit whore! Or has that memory conveniently slipped your mind?”
“Fuck you, Max!”
“I’d invite you to do the same, but you’ve probably been fucked already today, you greedy bitch!” “GO FUCK YOURSELF!” “Is that all you know how to say?”
We went at each other like a pair of bedlamites, until Livy stormed out, repeating her advice to me a few times for good measure before slamming the door.
I collapsed to the floor, my sanity once again slipping into foggy eclipse. It was four thirty in the goddamn morning and here I was twisted into a billion knots.
I’d lost my mind. And where the fuck had that bitch gone to at this time of night? To meet Michael Goldfarb? Donald Robinson? Basil? Maybe Fred? To walk the streets?
Why did I even care anymore?
I didn’t know the answer to that question. I didn’t know
anything.
I’d deteriorated beyond pain, beyond despair, beyond even madness into a state of scary numbness. Outside a ghostly wind had kicked up, lashing the rain against the windows like buckshot. Listening to the skeletons dance, I stared at the ceiling above my head and demanded of the invisible gods some explanation why I was unable to escape this hell I’d descended into when I
wasn’t looking. I could blame Livy for everything, but there was little doubt that every single accusation she’d leveled at me was essentially true. I was nothing but the lowest dog turd ever dropped on the face of the earth.
Wasn’t I?
My heart drummed as if I’d just run a marathon. My temples beat with anguish and exhaustion. There was a fifty-pound chunk of granite in my gut. I needed a drink. A
dozen
drinks. I needed an overdose of horse tranquilizer. At that moment, I had doubts—real doubts—whether I was going to make it through this infernal night. What made my fix even more absurd was that I couldn’t count the number of times I’d been down the same road already.
I pulled myself up, lit my fiftieth or sixtieth cancer stick of the day, and reeled into the kitchen. I opened the telephone directory and with trembling fingers riffled around until I located the listing I’d made a mental note of some weeks before.
SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINE—769–3000
REMEMBER: NO PROBLEM IS TOO BIG
BEFORE YOU GIVE UP ON LIFE,
GIVE US A CALL
COMPASSIONATE HELP AVAILABLE 24 HOURS
A DAY
I dragged deep on my Marlboro and dialed. It rang for a long time. This was the dead of night—where could they possibly
be?
Finally the tired voice of a tired lady spoke up.
“Suicide Prevention. This is Yvette. How can I help you?”
Suddenly I had stage fright. Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea after all.
“Sorry if I woke you. I don’t want to give my name, but…. ”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to identify yourself. Please. Don’t be shy. Talk to me.”
“Well, it’s like this. I—I think I’m going to either kill Livy or myself. Or both of us.”
She was quiet. I wondered if maybe she’d hung up.
“Who?” she asked after a few seconds.
“Forget it. I guess you don’t need to know her name.”
“But I do,” insisted the lady, suddenly alert and aware.
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re wrong. I
do
need to know her name, in case she’s in real danger.”
“But I’m the one who needs help. Remember? I’m the one who called.”
She didn’t say anything. In the silence I detected that she was a little confused, baffled even. Maybe she was even frightened by the deadly earnest tone of my voice.
“Well, can you do it, Yvette? Can you help me?”
I could hear her clearing her throat, stalling for time. “Now just hang on. If you tell me again … the truth about what you’re planning to do to this person, Livy, then yes, I might be able to help you…. ”
Another fiasco. What was the point? I was snakebit. Everything I tried to do to help myself ended up a rank failure. I looked at the receiver in my hand. I could try talking to Yvette again, try convincing her of my harmlessness. But I didn’t. Instead I hung up. I had the feeling it just wasn’t going to be my night.
I
paid off the balance on Livy’s engagement ring the day she landed a new job of her own. The Arch, a semiprivate welfare organization that aimed to rehab hard-core juicers and druggies
demonstrating a sincere effort to reenter mainstream society, took her on. A glorified halfway house, in other words. Livy would be writing grant proposals geared toward winning it more money from the government. This was a far cry from working the bars and restaurants. And ironic, too, since Livy and I needed professional help in the worst way ourselves….
With me doing nights and Livy days, we hardly saw each other. Whenever we did, it was only to play out another ugly scene. Occasionally I ended up on Bernie Monahan’s couch in Montfleur. But at least we had a new routine, and routines are what keep lives intact.
On weekends—if we were on speaking terms—I garnered bits and pieces of what Livy’s new job was like. She spent lots of time on the phone dunning various federal and state agencies for cash. When she wasn’t up to that, there were endless meetings about where the Arch was now and where it was headed in the future. From what I could make out, she did very little writing.
She dropped lots of new names. There was Pat Borders, the chief administrative assistant. Wonderful lady, maybe I’d get to meet her sometime. And Ed Blank, a top-notch substance abuse counselor, very friendly chap. There was Jack Brady, the brilliant genius—and former addict and drunk himself—who’d founded the Arch. Jack’s name was always uttered with a special reverence.
And there was Duke Johnston. He was the maintenance chief for the Arch facilities down in East Orange, Brady’s best friend, and a reformed fall-down lush and smack freak who’d done time for everything from simple possession to burglary to assault and battery and attempted murder. He owed his life to Jack Brady, and he’d do anything Brady asked him to do, including jump off the George Washington Bridge. His life consisted of attending daily meetings—known as “meetins"—of Alcoholics Anonymous,
replacing dead lightbulbs, and swabbing the decks of the Arch’s headquarters. If you couldn’t exactly call these folks
happy,
you certainly had to say they were a family. Booze and junk, as Livy had begun pointing out, were thicker than blood.
All this was quite fascinating to her. Our lives were downright boring and dull by comparison. And there were more where Duke Johnston and Jack Brady came from—real flesh-and-blood characters who’d had it tough in life, who knew personally what it was like to travel to hell and back. (Not like me. Not like me at all.) Livy realized and admitted that she’d had it wrong all these years. The salt of the earth were the ones to be admired, not the children of privilege, not the precious artists, not the rich and famous.
Well, thank God,
I told her,
that you’ve finally seen the error of your ways.
From time to time I received brief letters from the literary agency asking me to remain patient, as my novel was still in circulation and getting the book to the right editors for a thorough read generally took a great deal of time. Not to worry, the notes assured me, things were happening. Quite courteous of them, I thought. I could hang on all right as long as things were happening….
As for Olivia Aphrodite, she was a new woman. The names of her coworkers were all I ever heard around the apartment now. It was the Arch this, the Arch that—nothing else held the least interest for her.
Even more time passed with no word on
The Old Cossack.
Up and down Bloomfield Avenue the gaudy dressings of Christmas began to appear. The world was entirely red and green and silver.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
banners were wrapped around the streetlamps and draped over the telephone lines. For displaced souls like me, the pressure created by the birthday of Jesus Christ was too much. Here I was, barely making it, and now I was supposed to run out and buy gifts for everyone I knew. It was ridiculous. All I wanted—all I’d ever wanted—was to be left alone in a room with my manuscripts and guitar and cigarettes, and once in a while a good bottle. Holidays and the like brought out the worst
in the losers and the lost, which was why the season always left me feeling morbidly depressed. I would have preferred to hit the road, but in my beat-up, dejected state of mind, I wasn’t up to it, especially without a wad of cash or a car, neither of which I had.
There was going to be a big holiday party, Livy announced, and I was invited through the generosity of the good folks at the Arch.
This came as a major surprise. “Sure you want me there? I wouldn’t want to invade your turf, you know.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care what you do. If you want to come, then come. If you don’t, forget about it. I’m not going to beg you to do anything.”
Part of me was curious. The festivities were held in the gymnasium of an old public schoolhouse where the Arch was headquartered. There were streamers billowing from the rafters and tables brimming with appetizers like miniature hot dogs, wedges of cheese, and dried-out shrimp. The centerpiece of the room was a huge Douglas fir tree decked out in blinking lights, dangling ornamental balls, and shiny tinsel. In every corner stood clusters of men and women sipping the nonalcoholic punch. As always, Livy was dressed for the kill, tonight in a whorehouse-lavender sarong that squeezed her tight and like-colored pumps. She introduced me to a couple of people, then disappeared into the crowd.
I mumbled a few words, but the conversation was awkward and stilted. I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable suspicion that these people knew a lot more about me than they were letting on.
The absence of booze made me jittery. I’d filled a flask with Cutty and tucked it into the deep inside pocket of my peacoat before leaving the apartment, but I hadn’t cracked into it yet. You never want to be stranded at a social function of any kind without alcohol—it’s like being on a beach without sand. But for these
disciples of the Program, alcohol was poison, out of the question, and you weren’t going to find a drop within miles. Shit—you couldn’t even
joke
about the stuff.
I was slouching by myself in a corner when I heard a gruff “You must be Max.”
The voice was a dead monotone. I turned. He was big, 215, 225, dirty blond. Seedy-looking. A deep, angry scar that had been badly sutured ran in a jagged crescent from his Adam’s apple to the lobe of his right ear. He sported an unevenly trimmed mustache and a pair of gray overalls.
“Okay, I admit it. What did I do, officer?”
He didn’t laugh. Either he didn’t get the joke or he had no sense of humor.
“I’m Duke Johnston.”
“Oh, yeah? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
His dull blue eyes showed a flash of life. “No kiddin'?”
“No kidding.”
That was pretty much all he had to say. He didn’t stick his mitt out to shake. Instead, he grunted and stood there gawking at me like a tranquilized gorilla. After a few clumsy seconds, he lumbered away.
Ten minutes later he reappeared on the floor dressed as Santa Claus and handed out gifts to the kiddies. At that point I decided I’d had enough—Johnston had to be the saddest Old Saint Nick I’d ever laid eyes on. I went outside, leaned against the building in the frosty December air, screwed the top off my flask, and waited for Livy.