Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Eleven

"Lots of Barry Manilow, just like we agreed," a voice from behind bellowed. I turned away from my heap of sheet music and saw Max standing with a bottled water and a huge grin.

"How about some Captain and Tennille to boot. You pay, I play, baby." I got up and we did one of those bear hugs that guys do, the kind that includes an automatic back slap.

Max and I have known each other since the fourth grade. I was the new kid at Benjamin Franklin grade school. He introduced himself by knocking the shit out of me in a game of smear the queer. Naturally, I reciprocated with an elbow to the balls. Needless to say, we became fast friends after that. As a matter of fact, we were joined at the hip until his wife took my place a couple years ago. I was his best man and played a song I wrote called "Are You Sure?" for their first dance.

Max was in charge of something like special events and benefits for the Museum of Contemporary Art. A bored art history major, Max promoted and managed rock bands all through college. Music was his first love. He played stand-up bass for a while, and we dreamed of having a jazz trio, but he hated to practice and became too preoccupied with other commitments, such as drugs, alcohol, and women.

After a while he found the rock 'n' roll lifestyle not too agreeable. Several years after graduation, he went through a terrible bout with drugs and alcohol, and eventually ran his car off the road while drunk. Fortunately, the only thing that got hurt was his ego. After that, he asked for my help and we spent several months getting him through treatment.

I always wondered, if treatment had been popular when my father was alive and a drunk, if he would've sought help. Probably not a snowball's chance in hell would he have gotten close to anything that even smelled like treatment. According to him, booze was his treatment.

Denial of Max's situation overwhelmed me until his car crash. I think we both faced it at the same time. When I got the call about the accident, it hit me like a steamer trunk falling on my head from twenty flights. In one sense, it reminded me just how fucked up my father was, and, consequentially, how dangerously close I was to becoming just like him. At the same time, I looked at how far I had come and realized I had an opportunity to help Max like I couldn't help my father.

Ironically, while Max was drying out he met Tracy, his wife-to-be. Although Tracy was not in the program, her brother James was. James Koker (a good name for a drug addict) was a star tight end for some professional football team. He and Max became fast friends. They both loved music and bingo, and promised to open a bingo parlor for the young and ambitious when they got out of treatment.

Tracy visited her brother as much as the center allowed. She was just like that—very tender and thoughtful. Someone Max needed, but didn't deserve. As the weeks went by, Max spent time with James and Tracy. And then Tracy started coming to see Max, and I'd end up spending time with James talking about things like the common philosophies of war and football.

Being at the treatment center, I remember feeling jealous. Actually feeling left out. Sort of like I wasn't part of the club of addicts. Being the one supporting felt good, but at the same time, I wanted to have some of the attention on me. I wanted to meet the beautiful sister of some meathead who sees scoring a touchdown as taking a village from the enemy camp.

I pulled away from Max once he was out of recovery. I couldn't see him even if I wanted to. He and Tracy were together every minute of the day from that point on. We'd talk on the phone, but it hasn't been the same. And I guess that's part of growing up. Isn't it?