Interlude / Odio Mi Vida

Odio mi vida. It sounds so lovely when it crosses through my lips and my tongue twirls on the D like any Spaniard. Odio mi vida. It means, I hate my life.

* * *

I am in search of chemical balance. Every day at 5 pm, I take my psychiatric drugs. They bring me calmness. I will have gone the night before believing that all is right with my world. It is not an ambitious world. I no longer dream of finding the perfect job, or running into Mr. Right around the corner. I have no more illusions that my life will be triumphant, but it will not be a failure either. It simply is, I simply am. Although I may doubt, I cannot doubt that I exist.

Yet the mornings reveal to me that the nights were messengers of lies. I wake up alone, in my king size bed; I dress alone, in my house of four bedrooms; I breakfast in my kitchen designed to the latest styles; and I ask, “When will this loneliness end?”

I am dressed in my lawyer outfit. I open the front door to go out into the world and back to work. “Alright boy,” I tell myself. “Time to act like a man.”

All day long I wait for 5 pm, to take my drugs again and attain that chemical balance that will last the whole night long.

* * *

I know all about chemical imbalances. Before suicide and before psychiatric drugs, my mood swings were so often and so violent that I often felt as if I was being beaten up. The changes were unpredictable, and could last for any number of hours or days. I can say the mood swings were prompted by real events (an emotional slight, an anxious encounter, a physical ailment), but the reactions were always disproportionate to the reality. I was aware of my mood swings, and tried to keep them in check. Unfortunately, it’s difficult leading a life of a gay single man and a divorced father of two, trying to cope with violent mood swings. I was a lobster with no shell, raw with pain.

I was also unable to distinguish when my reactions were justified and when they were chemically generated.

In the midst of all this chemical unbalancing, I dated Reggie, a recovering alcoholic. Our fist date, after having shared great sex (fant-information), was to see a German movie. It was a coming of age flick, about a boy growing up in East Berlin before the fall of the wall, and having to deal with his mother and her Alzheimer’s. The mother is an ardent communist, in love with her government, the boy is gay; and while the mom can’t remember day from night, she sure remembers to slap that boy around whenever he slurs his S’s. As is often the case when I see movies involving children in hard times, I cried pathetically. None of the inner tears either, just plain old bawling like an old maid at her best friends wedding. Reggie, who is generally more effeminate than me, didn’t shed a tear. He kept looking at me as I gasped, as I sniffled, as I blew my snotty nose into a weepy hanky. I believe (although I can’t be certain) that Reggie was either annoyed or surprised by my behavior. He kept grunting, like a wild boar. After the movie, I butched-up, gathered my thoughts, and asked Reggie to join me for a cup of coffee.

“What was particularly interesting about that movie,” I told him, “is that we never learned the boy’s name Everything is told from his perspective, but no one ever calls him by his name. It’s almost as if he does not exist in his own world.”

As I spoke, Reggie was checking the emails on his blackberry. When he finished texting whoever it was he was texting, he turned to me and not-so gently said:

“You know what? I really don’t like to talk about a movie right after having seen it. I want to form my own opinions about it. We’ll talk on it later.”

Reggie then proceeded to tell me a drunken glory-days story:

“My parents opened the door and there were beer cans from the front stoop to the back porch. Then I threw up.”

We never did talk about the movie, about the boy who did not turn out so well. He dies in the end.

I tell this story now from the comfort of being chemically balanced by Zoloft and distanced from the event. It is not, however, how I experienced the event. This is the script running through my head during that first date with Reggie:

Pay attention. This movie is interesting. It’s not your life; you are not the child lost in this movie. Stop crying, maricón. What will Reggie think if he sees you crying? I’m macho, Reggie. I am a man. I am a fag and I am a man. Can’t you see its possible to be both? Pay attention, maricón. Don’t cry during this movie. Good grief, it’s over. Great movie. Need to check my cell phone in case I have any messages from work. Let’s see if Reggie wants to have dinner or something like that. What did Susana tell me this morning in the office about our latest transaction? Oh, yes, I have to send financial statements to the buyer. If this deal doesn’t go through, my company is going under. Pay attention, maricón, Reggie just said something.

“Yes Reggie, I’m listening. . . . I see. And then you threw up? Too funny Reggie, too funny.”

Alright, tomorrow morning the first thing I have to do at work is set up a conference call among my group in Germany and the buyers in China. That’s going to be a real challenge. Pay attention maricón, Reggie is talking.

“Did you like the movie, Reggie?”

Reggie says he does not want to talk about the movie. He’s a bit brusque, isn’t he? Doesn’t matter. Probably with time he’ll sweeten up. Speaking of sweets, I must remember to buy some candy for the kids. I promised them that if they behaved well for their mother this week, I would give them a little something. Anne says that they have behaved lovely these last few days, but that during the nights Christina cries and lets out such a sharp shrill that it breaks your heart. I have to buy them candy. Keep quiet, maricón, can’t you see Reggie is speaking?

“You sold two overpriced armoires today Reggie? I’m so proud of you.

Odio mi vida. Odio mi vida. Odio mi vida.

* * *

Reggie and I are sitting in my den, eating dinner on the sofa. I don’t have a table in the den, but it’s the only room with a T.V. I like watching the tube while eating dinner. My house is oddly furnished. We ordered Chinese, even though take out food is a trigger for me. Reggie is picking away at his dinner. I have greedily finished my food, and I am eagerly eyeing what is left on Reggie’s plate.

“Did I ever tell you about my friend, Hobo Bob, from my days in Philadelphia?” says Reggie. "I knew him from the rooms. That’s what we call AA meetings, ‘the rooms.’ One time, Cheeky and I were going to meeting, and I saw two men stumbling towards us. I thought to myself, ‘I have to get out of here.’ I thought they were both drunk, and I didn’t want to be around them. When they got closer, I realized one of them was Hobo Bob and he had been badly beaten up. He was bleeding all over and lost two or three teeth. Apparently he had gotten into a serious battle with a bunch of punks. Mind you, when he was sober, Bob was the loveliest person in the world, cheerful and amiable. But when he got drunk, drunk as a skunk, he became violent and argumentative, and usually ended up in a fight.”

I’m having a hard time following this story. I’ve never heard of Cheeky or Hobo Bob. “So Hobo Bob was a fighter when he got drunk?” I ask.

“Exactly. But during the day, if he was sober, he was a sweetheart. Oh, and he was a male hooker too. I never did figure who his clients were, but I guess he must have had a serious package down there because he was always hooking, and using the money to buy booze. Anyways, that time Hobo Bob was so beat up, we had to find a place for him to spend the night. All of us at meeting put our heads together to find a place for this guy. The shelter wouldn’t take him anymore because he was too much trouble.”

My turn to talk. “You mean Hobo Bob was homeless?’

Reggie is eating Kung Pao chicken with his fingers. I hate the thought of the grease stains he’s going to leave on my sofa. I wonder if he’ll finish his rice? If not, I want it. Reggie goes on with his story, chewing and eating at the same time.

“Hobo Bob was as homeless as an unwanted puppy. The AA group got together and called a number of churches, but no one would take him in. I remember spending the whole evening making phone calls for Hobo Bob and feeling desperate for him. We all did. Finally one of the church groups agreed to take him for one night, maybe even a little longer.”

I’m still having a hard time following this story. I don’t like the idea of homelessness. “Why was he homeless?” I ask (and is he going to eat his fortune cookie?).

“He had hit bottom. I always admired him because he seemed to try so hard to stay sober. But, he just couldn’t do it. Every day at meeting, he seemed so sincere. My theory is there are three types of alcoholics. There’s what I call the tea-toddlers. You should see them in meeting. By my standards, they hardly drank. ‘Girl!’ I want to say to them, ‘I used to spill more than you drink!’ But I can’t judge them. For whatever reason, they feel that alcohol has control over their lives, and they need to be there, at meeting. Then there’s people like me, middle of the road. We have a drinking problem, but we keep it under control. And then you have the Hobo Bob’s, the constant relapsers.”

So many relapse stories. Reggie’s stories are either the “and then I threw up” variety, or the “and then they relapsed and hit rock bottom” variety. I’m in constant fear Reggie is going to hit the bottle again someday, and top all those stories. I ask him, “What do you think are the chances you could relapse?” I want him so say, none, no chance. Not within the realm of the possible.

“It’s possible,” says Reggie. He passes over some of the dumplings he doesn’t want (yum!) . "I can’t promise you there is no chance of relapse. I have a disease, and I struggle with it daily But for someone like me who’s been sober for six years, it’s hardly likely that I would relapse. Yet, there’s always a chance.”

What a dope, I think. Not the answer I wanted to hear. “I’m afraid for you relapsing,” I tell him (and pass the sauce). “Frankly, I’m afraid I couldn’t be with you if you drank.”

“You should be afraid,” he says. Always self-assured. “I wouldn’t want to be around me either if I was drinking again.” He pauses me the sauce.

* * *

I wonder if he knows?

Doe he know that I have relapsed? Except my relapse is not alcohol. It is sadness. It is emptiness. It is the delicious relishing in self inflicted despair, more real and more satisfying than life itself.

Can I tell him? He’ll be scared. He won’t know how to handle it.

I hate myself for what I have become.

* * *

Reggie is still talking.

“ And then there’s people like Hobo Bob. People who so fervently want to be sober, and yet for whatever reason they don’t get it. They don’t understand how.”

“After the night of that beating, Hobo Bob just kept showing up at meetings. He was always a mess. His shoes were all undone at the seams. One eye was permanently black and blue, as far as I could tell. He never could hold down a job, except hooking, but he would show up at every meeting, so eager, so wanting to be cured. And all I could think was, poor guy.”

I can relate. I ask Reggie, “Did you think, ‘there but for the Grace of God go I?’” I reach over for some more broccoli in garlic sauce.

“No,” says Reggie. "I just thought, ‘poor guy.’”

* * *

Poor guy. Is that what you would think of me, Reggie? My illness? Poor guy, he just does not get it. Would I become homeless, broken at the seams? Where’s the baby spinach in salty butter we ordered?

* * *

“I was lucky. As bad as my drinking was, I never lost a job, never missed a bill, never had the lights cut out on me, the rug pulled from underneath my feet. So many recovering alcoholics I know, or knew, had it so much worst. At least, I never tricked like others.”

Now that surely pricks my prurient interest. “Who do you know from the rooms that tricked?” I ask. I’m licking my fingers.

“ Besides Hobo Bob?” says Reggie. “Well, Cheeky for one. Didn’t I already tell you about him? When I left Philadelphia and moved to Charleston, he moved to Charleston. When I moved to DC, he moved to DC. We were like pack animals, up each other’s ass.”

“Was he following you around?” I ask. I’m finishing up the hot and sour soup.

“I was kind of a mentor to him, the Alpha dog. He was about ten years or so younger than me, and he looked up to me something fiercely. God knows why. He worked as a waiter, and they can make good money.”

There’s a concept, I think. “What do you consider good money, Reggie?” I ask him. (Hey, there’s the spinach.)

Reggie is picking his teeth now. He says “Forty or fifty thousand a year. Nothing I could live on, but enough if you are careful. He had a little efficiency above my place in Atlanta, where he and his boyfriend lived. Trevor, that was the boyfriend’s name. Trevor was the sweetest guy. He was from New Hampshire, and was fresh to the world. Life never ceased to surprise him.”

I’m curious, somewhat. “Where they a cute couple?” I ask. (Should I tell you what I’m eating now?)

Reggie is still picking his teeth. I find it disgusting. “Cheeky and Trevor?” he says. "Sure, they were cute. But Cheeky cheated something fiercely on Trevor. Apparently 40 or 50 a year wasn’t enough for Cheeky, so he tricked, prostituted, picked up Johns on the side. He was very proud of it too; had quite a reputation. We all knew about it, except Trevor.”

This is more than I can believe “Trevor did not know his live in boyfriend was a cheating, bastard, prostitute hooker?” I slam my chicken bone on my plate in self righteous indignation.

Reggie detects no disgust in my voice, or if he does, he sure does not care to share it. “Poor thing, no!” says Reggie. "I remember Trevor and I were watching a movie about some sort of infidelity or other, and Trevor said to me ‘If there’s one thing I have, it’s that I can trust my man!’ When he said this, all I could think was, ‘You jerk! Cheeky is probably out fucking right now!’”

“Surely you said something to him Reggie, didn’t you?”

Reggie shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. It wasn’t my place to play moral cop. But I did think, ‘you better be having safe sex, Trevor, because your boy Cheeky will bring something home.’" Reggie laughs.

I don’t understand his laugh. “You like looking at the humor in these things?”

“That’s all I have,” he says. “Humor is all there is, seeing so many of the people I’ve known are probably dead by now.”

“Is Cheeky dead?”

“I don’t know. Probably. I haven’t kept up with him. The last time I saw him, I had taken him out to dinner to celebrate his new job. He was going to work as a waiter in Rhode Island, for the summer. He was scheduled to leave the following morning. He swore up and down, ‘I’m never going to trick again!’ When we were at the restaurant, I went to the bathroom, and when I came back to the table, Cheeky had ordered himself a big martini. I was shocked.”

“Did you try to stop him?” I’m done eating. Even I am full.

“No. Once an alcoholic has decided to start drinking again, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. All you can do is hope he doesn’t hurt himself. I had to get away from him, so I excused myself. Asked him if he needed a ride. He told me to take him to the Rusty Nail, local bar thereabouts. So I took him. That’s the last time I ever saw him.”

I don’t understand. “You took an alcoholic to a bar, and left him there?” I’m dumbfounded.

Reggie is unmoved. “Yeap. Once an alcoholic decides to start drinking again, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. All you can do is hope he doesn’t hurt himself. He probably started hustling again. Probably dead by now.”

“And what about Trevor?” I ask. “I assume he’s dead also?” I’m putting away the leftovers and clearing away the plates.

“Hell no,” says Reggie. “ I ran into him last year at one of the rooms. He’s apparently doing OK. Has a boyfriend, and is happy. He didn’t mention Cheeky, and I didn’t think to ask either. Guess Cheeky is no longer with us.”

There’s no irony in Reggie’s voice. He’s simply stating the facts. No judgment or pity. “What about Hobo Bob?” I ask. “What happened to him?

“Oh, I guess I didn’t finish telling that story.” Reggie continues, matter-of-factly. “He died. I had not seen him at any of the rooms for some time. One day I was with Cheeky at Jim’s Steaks, at 4th and South Street in South Philly, chomping into really good cheesestakes and greasy fries. ‘Whatever happened to Hobo Bob?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you hear?’ said Cheeky. ‘He fell down a hill and drowned in a foot of water. He was so drunk that he didn’t have enough sense to get up.’”

“I see.” I put the plates in the dishwasher. I pick away at the leftovers.

“Poor slob. He couldn’t stop killing himself. Compared to him, I have it pretty good.” Reggie laughs.

* * *

Dead Cheeky. Dead Hobo Bob. Drunken Reggie. Poor slobs. Compared to them, I have nothing to complain about. That’s what my therapist keeps telling me week after week. I have nothing to complain about.

* * *

Odio mi vida. Odio mi vida. Odio vida