July 14th, 2021:
I have been 25 for about 12 hours, and I've been sober for almost three, which is approximately 17,229 hours less than last night. I didn't take the specific times into account when doing that math; only the days. I also don't know if I can count those
three towards my sobriety because I am still hungover, but technically, I haven't touched anything for three hours.
Last night, after I got off the phone with Siah, I kind of lost my mind. Something about forgetting my birthday seemed to set me off. I'd been waiting for the last straw for a while. I just didn't know when it would be—which is such an embarrassing
feeling.
I walked aimlessly through the halls of my house. I thought about all the things I have going on right now and quickly realized that list consists of almost nothing. I began to spiral, then, and my hallway walking became kitchen pacing (the worst kind). My thinking became incoherent. I didn't know what to do with myself. All that ran through my mind was the guilt I felt about things that don't matter anymore, and each time I made it
to the other side of my kitchen, something new and terrible invaded my mind, and there was no getting rid of it.
Finally, after about an hour, I just started to cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I couldn't feel anything anymore. I pulled at and stretched the skin on my face, trying to feel the tears so maybe they would make more sense to me, but they didn't.
That's when I remembered.
I remembered the bottle of Scotch that a cousin of mine had sent me. He doesn't know anything about my struggles with addiction. No one does. After the big incident—whose story is far too long to tell—my parents refused to get me rehab, or even therapy, and instead, they insisted on keeping it all a secret. To this day, a total of eight people know, my parents, my uncle, (I showed up to his New York apartment one night absolutely plastered when I was 18), Khloe, Siah, and two other friends from school.
When alcohol is sent to me as a gift, I always give it to Scotty. This situation was supposed to be no different, but like I said, something has been off with me. I assume any normal person who knows they have a problem would ship that bottle off the second they felt weird, but for some reason, I couldn't. I told myself I wanted to prove that I could be alone with a bottle of alcohol. Although, now, I don't think that is true. I think I wanted a back-up plan or something. I don't know why exactly I kept it. The point is that I drank it. All of it. When I realized I'd finished the entire thing, I drove out to buy more and then drove straight to Walker Bennett's house. It was about two or three in the morning by then.
Walker Bennett, or Benny, as we call her, is a girl I met in school. She was a year above the rest of us—Scotty, Khloe, Siah. and I. She actually was the R.A. of the dorm Khloe lived in, and that's how the two of them met, and then I was introduced to her by Khloe. I sat in her driveway for a few minutes, deciding what to do. All the lights were on, so I knew she was awake, but something felt wrong. I got out anyway, only I left the bottles I bought in the car. I didn't really want her knowing I'd relapsed yet.
I knocked on the door. No answer.
"Benny!" I called out, knocking a few more times.
I took a step back from the door and looked back out of my car. I forgot to turn it off and the headlights were still on. The knob rattled, and as I turned back to the house, the door swung open. There she was: Benny, in all her beauty. Her long, blonde hair was pinned back into some sort of low bun, and she had glasses on. I didn't even know she needed them. The frames were flat on the top and circular around the bottom. She was wearing sweatpants and an old band t-shirt that I think might have been mine at some point.
Her face dropped when she saw me. She pushed the glasses up the bridge of her up-turned nose and began to ask me questions, but with the way the yellow porchlight brought out the dark blue of her eyes. I couldn't focus.
She snapped in my face. I woke up.
"Hello?" She asked, "what are you doing?
"Uh—" I looked around behind me and our cars in the driveway. "I was just—you're wearing glasses."
"Blue-light." She said, flatly.
Then, she began to scold me. She leaned against the door frame. I forgot to listen and instead peered into her house, and she snapped in my face again.
"You can't be here."
"Why not?" I asked, and she shook her head at young, naive me the way everyone does when they know something they can't tell me. "I've been here a million times."
"I know you have." She said as if she was talking to a child, "but right now is not a good time."
I scoffed, pushed past her, and walked inside. She threw her hands up in sarcastic defeat and followed me in. Her house is really nice. It's one of those big, mediterranean-style ones. The inside is very open, and full of abstract, antique furniture and lamps that keep the place in dim lighting. I don't think she's used the overhead lights since she bought the house, which was only a couple years ago, but still.
Benny moved out to LA about two years after I did, but before then, she stayed in New Jersey working as a journalist. She wasn't making much money, but she stayed because Scotty and another one of our friends did. While in Jersey, she got stuck in a pretty bad situation with a guy she was dating, and the only way she saw herself getting out was to move to California with Siah and Khloe and me. So, she called, and I flew down that night to help her pack her stuff.
It didn't take long for her to get herself a spot writing for a TV show that one of my friends was directing. She made good money from that show and continued to land more and more jobs, and now she's here, in the beautiful house where she's okay with keeping the lights off.
I sat down on the couch, and she stood there in front of me with her arms crossed looking over the rest of the floor behind me. Every time I turned around to see what she was looking at, she would ask me another question to keep my attention.
"Are you going to tell me what you want?" She asked me. "You are the only person I know who shows up at my house this late"
"Not Scotty?" I asked, and she laughed. He has never been a person to wait for daytime.
"No," she said, "he calls."
I laughed too. "Oh, well, sure. I'm the only who shows up announced." She smiled, but it quickly went away.
I realized then, despite all her nagging, just how unwanted I really was. I rose, and a little too quickly for that matter. I stumbled. Once on my feet, the distance between us was small. I leaned side to side in some attempt to keep my balance, and I saw her face twist. She held me by my arm and put a hand on my chest to keep me upright. My eyes got stuck on her hand for a moment. She cleared her throat to wake me up. I looked up at her again.
"I'm going to go now." I said, very quietly.
She stared at me, her face still twisted with confusion. Then, it contorted with anger. She pushed me, and I fell back onto the couch with the force of her hands.
"Sit down," she said. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and began to type very vigorously.
"Do I have a choice?" I asked. She did not appreciate my tone.
"No."
I nodded. She took a deep breath.
"I should've known you relapsed." She muttered, "you only give me that look when you're drunk."
I knew exactly what look she was talking about, but I wanted to know if she was actually right, so I had to ask: "what look?"
She scoffed. "That one," she spit out, still typing on her phone. "Like I'm Taylor."
With that name, all the lovely drunkenness had been sucked out of me. I stared at her, incapable of speaking. She put her phone back in her pocket and crossed her arms again.
"Okay, I just texted Siah." She told me, "he should be here soon."
Behind me, I heard a faint voice. "What did you say?" It called out.
I knew her voice all too well. Benny's face dropped, and I could see the panic set in. Then, down the hallway came Taylor King. Taylor was the last close friend of mine that I had made in school. I met her as Khloe's roommate, and I left her as my ex-girlfriend. I shot to my feet, unable to take my eyes off of her. I hadn't seen her for almost four years, and yet, she looked exactly the same.
The way her long and wavy brown hair fell over her shoulders. The green of her eyes and the fullness of her lips. Her thin frame and tan skin. The freckles that dotted her refined nose. Everything about her—it was all the same. It was far too much for me, and, at the same time, it was not nearly enough.
"I'm—" My voice came out scratchy, and I barely recognized it. Taylor opened her mouth to say something, but I accidentally interrupted her. "I'm going to leave now."
I stepped around Benny, and headed for the door. She softly took a hold of my wrist.
"You really shouldn't drive." She said, cautiously. "Siah is on his way over anyway."
I jerked my arm back. "I'm not drunk, Walker," I snapped.
She jumped, and Taylor did too. That woke her from whatever daze she'd been in, and she left the room immediately. I continued towards the door, and I heard Benny take a deep breath behind me. As I walked out to my car, there was a ripping sensation at the back of my throat, and I knew it was just a matter of time before it became tears. I've never been much of a crier, but that trait often comes and goes on its own. Sometimes, I'll be on the verge of crying for days at a time and other times it's a foreign concept, and the only way I see to express myself is to just shut down.
Last night was one of the rare instances in which I was ready to give in to both. My headlights, still on, blinded me. I was drunk. So drunk, that as soon as I got into the car, I called my mom. Before last night, I hadn't talked to her or my father in several weeks.
Sitting behind the wheel, I turned in my seat and leaned back against the drivers-side door. I rolled down the window and laid my head back. The cool air was almost enough to calm me down.
Almost.
The rings of my mom's awaited answer almost felt soothing, but it was the sound of her voice on the line that began to bring out that urge to cry.
"Joel?" She asked, "It's almost three in the morning for you."
I heard my fathers voice in the background. I knew I couldn't cry with his voice in my ears. There was no vulnerability there, no ounce of empathy. There is only the idea of self-betterment and the act of getting one's self together. I hate that about him.
"I know," I said, "can I please talk to Dad?"
My voice was estranged and broken, but she didn't seem to notice too much.
"Is everything okay?"
I nodded and smiled—as if she was in the car with me. "Yeah, I'm doing fine." I told her, "I just don't have his number, and I wanted to ask him a question."
She told me she loved me, and passed the phone off.
"Yes, Joel?" My father said, harshly. I was wrong about the crying thing. It was going to happen either way.
"Are you alone?" I asked through a shaky voice.
I heard him take a deep breath just like Benny did. His footsteps echoed over the phone, same with the sound of a sliding door opening and closing.
"What are you on this time?" He asked, flatly.
"Nothing. No drugs." I said, in between choking sobs. "Just alcohol."
He paused. "Well, alcohol won't kill you."
I rubbed my face with the heel of my hand, pulling at the corners of my eyes. I looked back at the house. Benny was standing on the porch, just watching. I pulled my head back into the car, and backed out of the driveway.
"I know," I said. "Can you just not tell her?"
"Your mother?" He asked. There is boredom in his voice. "I guess."
Between my house and Benny's there are only about two miles of distance. The drive is essentially one long, windy road. My dad kept talking to me, but I was too focused on the turns of the road. I rolled down all my windows and turned on the radio. I drove with one hand on the wheel, tapping along with whatever song was playing. I sat up straight, my back not touching the seat behind me.
The hopelessness I'd felt moments before had been replaced with the need to work. The need to do anything. I just wanted to keep moving so the sadness couldn't catch me again.
"Dad, I have to go now," I blurted out.
"Did you hear me?" He asked, harshly. "I said that you need to talk to Josiah."
"No, I know." I interrupted, "but you probably have to be getting to work or something, so I'm going to go."
"It's fine." He told me, "I have a while."
Finally, I was back at my house. I got out of the car and rushed up into the house, leaving the car door open, the car light on, and the radio playing.
"I was just calling because I didn't want you to be surprised in case something happens to me." I told him, clearly without thinking about what those words sounded like.
I paced around my house, looking for something to do—anything to keep myself busy. That something ended up being to reorganize my silverware drawer.
My dad went very quiet for a second. "What are you talking about?"
"What?" I asked, holding my phone to my ear with my shoulder. I took a handful of spoons out of the drawer, and they all crashed to the floor.
"Joel, what just happened?" He asked, and I remember there being a little bit of worry in his voice. "Why do you think something is going to happen to you?"
I knelt down to pick up the spoons, and dropped my phone. I could hear him ask more questions, but I didn't pick the phone back up until I had all the silverware in my hand.
"Sorry, I just dropped, like, 40 spoons." I said, cutting him off. "Don't worry about anything. I'll talk to Siah."
Then, I hung up.
For the rest of the night, I continued to bounce around my house that way, starting random projects and then abandoning them with the thought of starting another one until the place had been completely torn apart. My phone kept ringing during all of this. There were calls from my friends, both of my parents, and a couple from a number I recognized, but didn't know off the top of my head. I let it ring and buzz until it died, and when it did, I felt a small sense of relief.
Siah didn't show up at my house for a couple more hours, but by then, I'd already left and gone to Scotty's. It was around eight in the morning, and he was getting ready for work. He opened his door to me with a frown, quickly followed by a tired, morning grunt and the nod of his head inside.
Scotty makes good money too. He followed his parents in being a lawyer, but he chose to specialize in mergers and acquisitions, which means pretty much nothing to me, but he seems to really enjoy it.
His place is less mediterranean, and more contemporary. He's really into the "chic" and "modern" look. Personally, I don't know how the simplicity of it all doesn't drive him crazy. Granted, he works a lot and spends his free time with us, but still. I can't spend more than 10 minutes in his house without feeling dizzy.
His living room is full of basic, black furniture. Short couches, steel-legged armchairs, everything creepily symmetrical or circular. It just seems robotic, and as I sat there on one of his couches, watching him work his necktie in the reflection of a window, I wondered what sucked so much humanity out of him that it had to be expressed through his home. I hope it wasn't me.
"So," he began, and I knew I was in for a drastically passive preamble that would get absolutely nowhere. "Is there something you need?"
I stared at him. He sounded just like our fathers. A comparison that would've sickened him to his core five years ago—but I guess that's a rude thing to say. Five years is a long time, and everyone I know has made some type of major change in that time. Scotty, the man I still see as that boy I followed around through childhood, is no exception. It seems like everything about him now is different.
His nose used to be covered in freckles, but they faded with time. He wears thin-framed glasses. He was prescribed them as a kid, but didn't start wearing them until after we graduated college. He's clean and very put-together. He was never like this before, and I almost wish he hadn''t changed.
"No," I said, flatly.
I stood up—with great effort—and walked over to him. I leaned back against the window he faced. He used one hand to pull me towards him, and wiped the glass I touched with his sleeve.
"Then why are you here?" He asked me.
I shrugged and leaned against the window again just to spite him. His jaw clenched.
"You know," I said.
"You're drunk and have already been tossed aside by Khloe and Jo?"
I took a second to breathe and noticed he was still working on that tie. "No," I told him. I stood up and close to him, taking the tie in my hands. "I haven't spoken to either of them."
He avoided my eyes as I fixed his tie.
"They've been calling," he said.
I finished his tie, took a step back, and nodded with a small smile. The slight pulling at one corner of my mouth was all I could manage to force.
"I know."
He scoffed, then turned away. He walked down a hallway lit by the distant light of faroff windows. I followed him through the hall and into a cold, boring room he liked to call his kitchen I sat down on a stool at the counter, and he stood on the other side. He slid me a glass of water.
"I don't need your help tying my tie." He said, staring at the glass.
That stare meant I either drink the water or it's given to me through an IV. I picked up the glass and chugged half of it.
"No, you don't." I retorted, but you wanted it to look perfect, and you were taking too long to get that result."
"I'm still going to fix it in the car after vou leave." He said.
I drank the rest of the water. "It won't be because it doesn't look right." I replied.
This I knew for a fact. Scotty and I have been competing in small, meaningless ways like this for years. The biggest difference between him and I is that he takes it personally. He knows I don't actually care about how his tie looks, and for some reason, I think that upsets him.
He looked me up and down, and said, "you're still in your suit from last night."
I looked down at what I was wearing. I didn't even notice. Against my team's wishes, I didn't wear anything crazy to the event last night. My publicity team had buffed up the premiere by acknowledging in the press that the film was the 10th one I'd written and the fourth I'd directed in hopes that it would also draw attention to what I wore. Since I only wore a black suit and red tie, it was one of those nights where I was begged to lose the tie and undo a couple of buttons.
He cleared his throat. I woke up.
"You left Benny's around 2:45 last night," he said matter-of-factly. "What time did you go to sleep?"
I never went to sleep.
"Not long after." I told him, "maybe about 3:30. He nodded, and then, in his lawyer voice, he said: "what time did you really go to sleep?"
I stood from the stool as if I was offended.
"I just told you." I said, aggressively. Then, because he automatically assumed I was lying, I actually did feel offended. I hate being this way. I want so desperately to be someone else. "3:30."
He smiled in that lawyer-like way—how they smile when they think they've caught you. In this case, he did, but I'll never let him know that.
"Okay, 3:30." He agreed. "When are you going to stop this whole routine? You, getting high and sleeping with Walker or drinking yourself sick and falling asleep in your car somewhere."
I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to come up with something to say.
"I'm just asking, does it ever end?" He continued, "Siah is going to get sick of doing this dance with you, and I'm not seeing Khloe wanting to stick around for it either—"
"Why are you being like this?" I asked him, and he stared at me like he didn't know either. "You used to be the biggest drunk in school."
Still, he'd rather die than agree with me.
He looked down at his shoes with that stupid lawyer-smile and walked around the counter. He stopped in front of me, and his fake smile faded with the meeting of our eyes.
"Used to be." He emphasized. He walked down the hallway again. I followed him.
"Biggest drunk." I retorted. "Also, I didn't get high, and I didn't sleep with her."
"Would that have anything to do with the fact that Taylor was there?" He asked, looking over his shoulder to catch my reaction. They all love to see my reaction.
One of the biggest parts of my relationship with Taylor is that we didn't tell anyone we were dating until after we broke up. Even then, she was the one to tell them—not me. She broke up with me for more than one reason, but I think the main factor was my moving to California. I begged her to stay with me, but she was unwilling to do the distance thing. I was going through changes of my own, and we were losing what made us so good together. She knew that, and I didn't, so I was really torn up about it for a while. I guess I still am, but I'm used to the feeling now.
Anyway, the whole point is that our friends couldn't stand that we didn't tell them, and they can't stand that I won't get over it, so they like to torture me with her. I think it's out of love though.
"No, I didn't sleep with her because there is no routine." I explain, "I left after seeing Taylor because I have been avoiding her for the last four years, and I figured she wasn't in the mood to chat after watching me relapse."
The two of us walked through the front door and out to the yard, where I stood as he got in and started his car.
"Please," he said, snobbishly. "You left to go drink some more."
"I am an alcoholic, so—"
He slammed the car door and rolled his window down. He stared at me for a couple seconds before saying anything else.
"Go home, shower, and sober up." He told me, and that lawyer tone had finally left his voice. He sounded a little bit like how he used to. "And for the love of God, please go to sleep."
I nodded.
"If even a single person tells me they saw you in that office of yours today, I assure you my wrath will be felt."
I smiled a little. His use of a silly word reminded me of when we were kids. He always used to talk like that. Now, he's too serious and barely says anything at all.
"Your wrath?"
He just laughed, rolled his window up, and drove off, leaving me alone. Again.
