He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Anyway, I’d have to say that this has been the world’s most bizarre intervention. Yesterday I was in California, sitting in some boring convention, when I got this frantic call from the soon-to-be-late Dennis Maynard, who tells me about this gorgeous model who has a zillionaire husband on the verge of killing himself. Believe it or not, I actually balked at first, because of the distance, but then the Duchess of Bay Ridge got on the phone and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Next thing I know we’re on a private jet. And then we met you, which was the biggest trip of all.” He shrugged. “All I can say is that I wish you and your wife the best of luck. I hope you guys stay together. It would be a great ending to the story.”
The Glandular Case nodded in agreement. “You’re a good man, Jordan. Don’t ever forget that. Even if you bolt out the front door in ten minutes and go straight to a crack den, it still doesn’t change who you are. This is a fucked-up disease; it’s cunning and baffling. I walked out of three rehabs myself before I finally got it right. My family ended up finding me under a bridge; I was living as a beggar. And the real sick part is that after they finally got me into rehab, I escaped again and went back to the bridge. That’s the way this disease is.”
I let out a great sigh. “I’m not gonna bullshit you. Even when we were flying here today—and I was busy telling you all those hysterical stories and we were all laughing uncontrollably—I was stillthinking about drugs. It was burning in the back of my mind like a fucking blast furnace. I’m already thinking about calling my Quaalude dealer as soon as I get out of here. Maybe I can live without the cocaine, but not the Ludes. They’re too much a part of my life now.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” said fat-Brad, nodding. “In fact, I still feel the same way about coke. Not a day goes by when I don’t get the urge to do it. But I’ve managed to stay sober for more than thirteen years. And you know how I do it?”
I smiled. “Yeah, you fat bastard—one day at a time, right?”
“Ah,” said fat-Brad, “now you’re learning! There’s hope for you yet.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “let the healing begin.”
We climbed out of the car and walked down a short concrete path that led to the front entrance. Inside, the place was nothing like I’d imagined. It was gorgeous. It looked like a men’s smoking club, with very plush carpet, rich and reddish, and lots of mahogany and burled walnut and comfortable-looking sofas and love seats and club chairs. There was a large bookcase filled with antique-looking books. Just across from it was an oxblood leather club chair with a very high back. It looked unusually comfortable, so I headed straight for it and plopped myself down.
Ahhhhhh…how long had it been since I’d sat in a comfortable chair without cocaine and Quaaludes bubbling around inside my brain? I no longer had back pain or leg pain or hip pain or any other pain. There was nothing bothering me, no petty annoyances. I took a deep breath and let it out…. It was a nice, sober breath, part of a nice, sober moment. How long had it been for me? Almost nine years since I’d been sober. Nine fucking years of complete insanity! Holy shit—what a way to live.
And I was fucking starving! I desperately needed to eat something. Anything but Froot Loops.
Fat-Brad walked over to me and said, “Ya doing okay?”
“I’m starving,” I said. “I’d pay a hundred grand for a Big Mac right now.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Mike and I need to fill out a few forms. Then we’ll bring you in and get you something to eat.” He smiled and walked off.
I took another deep breath, except this one I held in for a good ten seconds. I was staring into the very heart of the bookcase when I finally let it out…and just like that, in that very instant, the compulsion left me. I was done. No more drugs. I knew it. Enough was enough. I no longer felt the urge. It was gone. Why, I would never know. All I knew was that I would never touch them again. Something had clicked inside my brain. Some sort of switch had been flipped and I just fucking knew it.
I rose from my chair and walked over to the other side of the waiting room, where fat-Brad and Mike the Glandular Case were filling out paperwork. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the sixty bucks. “Here,” I said to fat-Brad, “you can have your sixty back. I’m staying.”
He smiled and nodded his head knowingly. “Good for you, my friend.”
Right before they left, I said to them, “Don’t forget to call the Duchess of Bay Ridge and tell her to get in touch with the pilots. Or else they’ll be waiting there for weeks.”
“Well, here’s to the Duchess of Bay Ridge!” fat-Brad said, making a mock toast.
“To the Duchess of Bay Ridge!” we all said simultaneously.
Then we exchanged hugs—and promises to keep in touch. But I knew we never would. They had done their job, and it was time for them to move on to the next case. And it was time for me to get sober.
It was the next morning when a new type of insanity started: sober insanity. I woke up around nine a.m., feeling positively buoyant. No withdrawal symptoms, no hangover, and no compulsion to do drugs. I wasn’t in the actual rehab yet; that would come tomorrow. I was still in the detox unit. As I made my way to the cafeteria for breakfast, the only thing weighing on my mind was that I still hadn’t been able to get in touch with the Duchess, who seemed to have flown the coop. I had called the house in Old Brookville and spoken to Gwynne, who’d told me that Nadine had dropped out of sight. She had only called in once, to speak to the kids, and she hadn’t even mentioned my name. So I assumed my marriage was over.
After breakfast I was walking back to my room when a beefy-looking guy sporting a ferocious mullet and the look of the intensely paranoid waved me over. We met by the pay phones. “Hi,” I said, extending my head. “I’m Jordan. How’s it going?”
He shook my hand cautiously. “Shhh!” he said, darting his eyes around. “Follow me.”
I nodded and followed him back into the cafeteria, where we sat down at a square lunch table, out of earshot of other human beings. At this time of morning the cafeteria had only a handful of people in it, and most of them were staff, dressed in white lab coats. I had pegged my new friend as a complete loon. He was dressed like me, in jeans and a T-shirt.
“I’m Anthony,” he said, extending his hand for another shake. “Are you the guy who flew in on the private jet yesterday?”
Oh, Christ! I wanted to remain anonymous for once, not stick out like a sore thumb. “Yeah, that was me,” I said, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that quiet. I just want to blend in, okay?”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he muttered, “but good luck trying to keep anything secret in this place.”
That sounded a bit odd, a bit Orwellian, in fact. “Oh, really?” I said. “Why’s that?”
He looked around again. “Because this place is like fucking Auschwitz,” he whispered. Then he winked at me.
At this point, I realized the guy wasn’t completely crazy, perhaps just a bit off. “Why is it like Auschwitz?” I asked, smiling.
He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Because it’s fucking torture here, like a Nazi death camp. You see the staff over there?” He motioned with his head. “They’re the SS. Once the train drops you off in this place, you never leave. And there’s slave labor too.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I thought it was only a four-week program.”
He compressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. “Maybe it is for you, but not for the rest of us. I assume you’re not a doctor, right?”
“No, I’m a banker—although I’m pretty much retired now.”