Part 11 (2/2)
”It's like I always say,” said Walter, ”does this make you bad people? No. You're going to make it through this. It's not the end of the world. You're good people. It doesn't excuse what you did, but you can't let it define you.”
Angelica hugged us before she left and invited everyone to visit her at the restaurant anytime. She and Gladys joked they were going to have a drink at the nearby pub. ”Join us after cla.s.s if you want.”
”So what's going on in the news?” asked Walter. ”Bernie Madoff's son committed suicide. Did you guys read about that? It's very sad.”
”Come on. You can't tell me he wasn't involved, too. He knew exactly what his dad was doing.”
”Of course he knew.”
”I don't care at all,” said Benton. ”I don't feel any compa.s.sion for him. Besides, he had everything he wanted in this life.”
Walter interrupted. ”It's sad that a person reaches the point of not being able to see a way out and thinks ending his life is the only way to get rid of the pain. That's why people get high, right? To numb the pain. It's why I got high.”
”You didn't tell us that, Walter. How long did you take drugs?”
”I was what you call a functional addict. I owned my own business, as you've heard me say. I lived in Van Nuys, hung out with actors and actresses, did the Sunset Strip scene. I was addicted to cocaine. Did half a million dollars in blow over fifteen years. I would quit cocaine and smoke weed. It was always something. I'd go several weeks but something inside me would snap and the urge would return. I'd find my dealer and before I knew it I was back on it. I liked it. Cocaine was my drug. I never liked alcohol much. I did everything else, though-except heroin. I never did heroin because I was afraid of needles. Back then you didn't smoke it.
”People always ask, 'What was it like growing up in the Sixties?' I tell them, 'If I remembered the Sixties, I'd tell you.' People have always wanted to get high. Charles is from Kenya. In Kenya, they sc.r.a.pe the bark off trees. We'll try anything to get high. Kids now are addicted to Ritalin. And nutmeg.”
”Nutmeg?” someone asked.
”It's got the same properties as speed. It's how kids get through school these days. That's how I got through college. Black beauties will keep you awake for three days, for G.o.d's sake.
”For me, I was able to get clean through 12-step programs. First, it was AA, then Cocaine Anonymous. Whether you're into a higher power or not, there's good that can come out of them. If you don't believe in a higher power, there's an atheist AA in Santa Monica. That's all a support group is-people working through it together, being there for each other. It's been two years since my last relapse.
”Why do we want to get high? Or drunk? Two reasons. It's an escape and it's pleasurable. It's an extension of your mood that day. If you were p.i.s.sed off during the day, you start drinking and before you know it you're looking for a fight. You get that buzz; it feels great and relaxes you. What happens? You want to feel that way all night, so what do you do?”
Courtney spoke up. ”Keep drinking.”
”It's like a bell curve. When you start drinking, you're at the bottom. Soon, the alcohol kicks in and you reach the high point in the middle; then your body starts metabolizing alcohol and you come down. I call it the Five Dwarves of Drinking, because you go through all the different emotions: happy, bashful, dopey, grumpy and sleepy.”
Chapter Seventeen.
I asked Jessie on the train that day, ”Who's your favorite artist?” Honestly, I know next to nothing about art. My favorites are the impressionists, which I'm told is an instant indicator someone is an art novice. I have four pieces on my walls: an Andy Warhol Double-Elvis painting, a Warhol Beethoven, a Monet copy (of course) I bought at the Getty center and a James Dean print hanging in my bedroom. They are reflective of me and my personality.
Her favorite was Fernando Botero, a Colombian artist I'd never heard of. When she told me, I made a mental note: ”Remember that. It could be useful someday.” She sent me an email link with some of her favorite Botero prints. He's known for oversized, obese characters, children with adult features and sympathetic size, which give his work a cartoonish but thought-provoking style. I dug up the email she'd sent, found a print online, chose the matting and frame and ordered it for her Christmas gift.
Though I was eager to see it, I didn't open it when it arrived. There was no way I'd be able to repack it tightly enough. I also didn't expect it to be so large. I'd already rented a hotel room, but still wasn't sure if I was going to drive or fly. I didn't want to drive; it was forecasted to rain all weekend from Los Angeles to the Bay Area. It would also be my last time driving for a while. My court date was set for the next week-an almost guaranteed 30-day suspension. I'd chosen gla.s.s instead of an acrylic glazing and now regretted it. Was I going to trust an airline worker with gla.s.s...during the holiday season? Not a chance. I decided to drive.
Before the trip, she asked, ”What would you think about meeting with Pastor Ken while you're here to talk about our relations.h.i.+p and get his opinion?”
”I think it's a great idea. Let's see if he can meet us on Sat.u.r.day.”
In the meantime, our other plans were ice skating (We'd decided to incorporate more physical exercise into our visits together and it sounded like a wintry, holiday thing to do), and a visit to her office and introduction to her co-workers, which I looked forward to.
I woke early and excited. As expected, it was raining heavily when I woke up (definitely the wettest season I remember in Southern California). I got ready, finished packing, went to get coffee and gas, checked my oil and got on the freeway. It was too early to text so I got a couple of hours into the drive before wis.h.i.+ng her good morning. She was in court that morning but leaving at noon and taking the rest of the day off. Taking Friday off was the best way to go, I realized. The downside-Sunday was cut short-but made worth it by the empty streets on Friday while others were working. I'd been writing a song for her and brought my guitar, wanting to play it for her.
She had sent me a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon a while back. In it, Hobbes (the tiger) says, ”I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can play together all night.”
Calvin (falling asleep) responds, ”Well, I'll see you in a few minutes, ol' buddy.”
”I'll be there,” Hobbes answers.
We liked the idea of being together in our dreams. ”What shall we do tonight?” I'd ask. ”Skiing in the Alps? Snorkeling in the Caribbean?”
”How about Paris at sunset?”
I imagined her wearing a s.e.xy red dress and us dancing the tango in a grand ballroom. Or as spies in Europe, or solving a mystery together. Or in the Swiss Alps, relaxing in a chalet on the mountains. The song, not surprisingly, was called ”In Dreams.” I'd rewritten it a dozen times already. I was never happy with it, but liked the idea I was working on at the moment. It had potential. Written in the key of C, my go-to key: In dreams I am an agent A war-torn Europe I call my home Tailored suits they fill my wardrobe A dozen languages I know (Here, I change to a minor chord to give it a more somber tone.) But a spy spends life in secret No one to share his secret thoughts And the closet is half-empty It makes me think...
(Bringing it back to a major chord to lift the mood.) That if they gave me a choice Between the dream and real life I'd choose real life And the grace I find with you It still needed a lot of work. The lyrics weren't done and I wasn't sure of the transition chords. Hopefully I'd have time to figure it out on the road.
Hearkening back to my traveling days, I stopped only for gas. The excitement was more than enough to compensate for tiredness or rain. I arrived at the hotel early, slightly north of noon. Best Western Alameda. I unloaded my car, put the Botero print against the wall by the bed, and tried to play through the song but couldn't figure out the transition chords. Jessie called. She'd finished in court early. My heart leapt.
”I can't wait to see you.”
”I've been excited all morning.”
”Hurry and get here. Drive safely, though.”
”Be there as soon as I can.”
I was too excited to stay in my room. I went to the end of the hall and stared out the window. My sister called while I was waiting. She was sorry I couldn't make it home for Christmas and asked if there was anything I wanted as a gift.
”Anything is fine, sis. Actually, I could use a sweater.”
She said she would send a gift card-it was easier-and asked me to please not send gifts to her and Jeff and the kids. ”We know it's hard for you right now.”
I appreciated her saying it but was still going to send them something. Jessie would be there any minute; I told Cathy I'd call next week when Mom and Dad were visiting, that I loved her and to say h.e.l.lo to everyone. Jessie texted seconds later. She was parked downstairs. I hadn't seen her car. How did I miss it? I sprinted down the flight of stairs. We never know how much we miss someone until we see them for the first time in a while.
”You shaved.”
”First thing I did this morning.”
”I like it. You get an extra kiss for that.”
We decided to exchange gifts then. She already knew what she was getting. We had played Twenty Questions earlier that week and she figured it out. (Patience is a virtue I'm still learning. Perhaps one day.) We went upstairs to open each other's gift. We had a hard time opening the box for the Botero print because of all the tape. She was pleased with it and thanked me with a kiss. I opened my gifts: a nice checkered s.h.i.+rt, which I had told her I needed, shaving cream and after shave balm. She was the only one I'd go clean-shaven for. I laughed, thanked her and tried the s.h.i.+rt on in front of her. It fit perfectly and I wore it under my cardigan.
We went to lunch, then to her office so I could meet Tina, her best friend at work, and some of her other co-workers. The office wasn't at all what I expected. The lobby looked more like a pediatrician's office than a law firm. Soft, yellow walls and large blocks for chairs. Each attorney's office door was decorated with a pocket-sized puppet supposed to bear resemblance to that person. Jessie had furnished her office with several photos (her teaching in Belize; several of her family members) and her first oil painting-a row of trees lining a disappearing road. Before we left, Tina said, ”It was good to finally meet you. You make her very happy.”
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