Chapter 4 Chapter 2 Those Damn Eggs

I got to the Met at 8:45, fifteen minutes early.I'm wearing a charcoal gray Armani suit and dark red Gucci loafers.My head hurts in fits and starts, but I'm used to it.It usually hurts more after the day's work, and goes into complete shock after the first drink of the night. Technically, I didn't sleep last night, I just took a nap.Despite being dead drunk, I managed to order 1-800-4 for a wake-up call (if you oversleep, you're screwed) before I got dressed. When I woke up at six in the morning, I was still groggy.I knew I was still not awake when I was talking nonsense and making faces in the bathroom.It's six o'clock in the morning, but I'm full of energy.The drunk side of my mind seemed to be retreating, so the business side didn't realize it was being held hostage by drunkenness.

I showered, shaved, smoothed my hair with BUMBLEandbumble balm, then blowdried again, tossed it into its natural shape and used the AquaNet to hold a strand of hair down from my forehead.After trying countless trendy hairsprays, I finally found that old-fashioned AquaNet works best.The hair styled with it looks like natural windblown, very casual.But if you accidentally touch that strand of hair, you'll find it hard and ready to knock. I sprayed the men's DonnaKaran around my neck and sprayed some on my tongue to cover the alcohol in my mouth.Then I went to eat at the twenty-four hour restaurant on the corner of Seventeenth and Third Avenues.I had scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee.The fat absorbs the toxins in the wine, I think.I swallowed another big handful of chewing gum preparedly, then put on an obnoxiously fancy tie and set off.

Everyone stepped on the clock from all directions and arrived on time.I thought to myself, I have to study and study Carl Jung, a world-renowned psychiatrist and the founder of analytical psychology.Great job, I need to study the psychology of synchronicity, maybe someday I can use it in commercials. I shake people's hands, I say hello, I have a lot of energy, which seems out of place at nine o'clock in the morning.I held my breath when I was in front of them, and dared to breathe out when I was behind them.I always tell myself to stay at least ten steps away from them. There weren't many people in attendance: my Faberge client, the petite young woman in hand-embroidered lace, the executive accountant, and Greer, my art director.

Greer and I have been on a team that has been doing great things for five years.But lately she's been kind of annoying, always asking me about drinking. "You are late...how are you unkempt...how are you so arrogant...how are you so impatient..." always insinuating that I was drinking. When we entered the first exhibition room, I made a serious inspection of the display cases in the center of the room. I tried my best to pretend to be interested in the eggs illuminated by the four spotlights. Abominable, it's wrapped in cobalt-blue gaudy gold cord, tackyly studded with diamonds.I walk around the box, looking at it from all angles, as if I'm now inspired because of it.And what was actually going around in my head was how could I forget the lyrics to The Brady Bunch last night?

Greer approached me with an inquiring expression on his face.Not out of curiosity, but out of doubt. "Augustin, I think you should have noticed," she began, "the whole room smells of alcohol." She paused for a moment, then glared at me. "It's all from you." She crossed her arms, angry Chong Chong, "You smell like a brewery." I stole a glance at the other two.They were in another far corner, with an egg around their heads, and they seemed to be whispering. "I even brushed my tongue, and I swallowed half a bottle of chewing gum." I defended myself.

"It's not your breath, it's your pores, and what comes out of your pores is the smell of alcohol," she said. "Oh." I felt betrayed by my own organs—no deodorant, cologne, or toothpaste helped. "Don't worry," she said, rolling her eyes, "I'll cover you as always." She walked away.The sound of her heels hitting like ice picks on marble. As we continued through the museum, I was caught between two emotions.On the one hand, I was devastated and frustrated, like a drunk who was caught red-handed; on the other hand, I felt a huge sense of relief.Now that she knows, I don't need to cover it up.The latter feeling prevailed so much that I almost got carried away.

Greer had been trying to keep the others away from me all morning.So I put those eggs behind me and settled back to study the fair's clever recessed lighting and beautiful hardwood floors.These have me on the verge of giving my apartment another go. For lunch we went to the "Arizona 206," that horrible corn-eating place in the Southwest. For the first time, Greer ordered a glass of Chardonnay.She moved closer to me and whispered to me, "You should order a glass of wine too. They haven't smelled you yet, so if someone gets too close to you and smells it later, they'll think it's your lunch." time to drink."

Greer, the Greer who babbles about "riding a bicycle for forty-five minutes a day", "don't eat high-fat food", and "alcohol is bad for you", is always so rational and comprehensive.And I, on the contrary, are a living example of a chaotic personality. I obeyed and ordered a double martini. Our behavior drew the exclamation of customers and accountants nearby: "Wow, you two are so crazy..." They only ordered a glass of light beer each. The rest of the day went smoothly, things went smoothly and I was home shortly after. The moment I stepped through the door, I felt so relieved - thank goodness I'm home!I don't need to hold back carefully anymore, not daring to exhale casually. "Got to have a drink," I said to myself, "to ease the nerves I've been ravaged by today."

After finishing my drink, I decided to go to bed, it was midnight and I had a global branding meeting at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.I set my two alarms for 8:30 and slipped into bed. When I woke up the next day, I was immediately gripped by a wave of dread.I crawled out of bed, stumbled into the kitchen, and looked at the clock on the microwave: it was already 12:04 in the afternoon! The answering machine blinked ominously, and I forced myself to answer. "Augustine, it's me, Greer. I think it's a quarter to ten, and I was just asking if you were out. Well, you must have been out."

Beep…… "Augustine, it's ten o'clock and you haven't come. I hope you're on your way." Beep…… "It's a quarter past ten, and I'm going to a meeting." At this time, her tone was full of knowing sharpness, a kind of sharpness of "I know your details too well". I took a shower and put on the suit I wore yesterday as quickly as possible.I didn't shave, but I guess that's okay because I don't have a heavy beard, and besides, it's kind of a Hollywood star in such a mess.I walked out the door and hailed a taxi.Today, as usual, the red light all the way, slow as a snail.As I stepped into the lobby of the office building, my forehead was drenched despite the mild weather in May.I wiped my sweat with my sleeve, walked into the elevator, and pressed the button for my floor: 35th floor—the button didn’t light up.I pressed it again—no response.At this time a woman came in and pressed 38—hers lighted up.She turned to me as the elevator door slid shut. "Hey," she said, "you just got back from lunch and had five martinis?"

"No, I overslept," I said, suddenly realizing I shouldn't have said that. The smile on her face disappeared immediately, and she looked down at the ground. The elevator stopped on my floor, and I walked down the corridor into the office.I tossed my briefcase on the table and pulled out a can of Altoids from the front pocket. .As I chewed a handful of gum, I tried to find an excuse.I'm staring out the window at the East River, and there's a man on a tugboat pushing dumpsters up the river, and I'd sacrifice everything to be him, and I bet he'll never have the pressure I have.All he had to do was sit at ease at the helm with the wind in his hair and the sun in his face.In any case, his life is definitely better than mine, at least he certainly won't be late for a meeting of a global fragrance brand. I searched my brains, and finally decided to give up the excuse, and I decided to go to the conference room with a sincere attitude.I'm going to sneak in, get a seat, and say something appropriate so they'll think I've been there. I pushed the door of the conference room, only to find it locked. "Fuck," I cursed under my breath, which meant I had to knock and then someone would have to get up and open the door for me, and my plan to sneak in without anyone noticing would be ruined.So all I can do now is tap on the door so only people near the door can hear it. I knocked on the door and it opened.The door was answered by Eleanor, my boss, the executive creative director of the company. "Augustine?" She looked surprised when she saw me. "You're a little late." I saw that the conference room was full of people in suits and leather shoes, twenty or thirty people.Everyone stands, stuffs their briefcases with papers, and throws their Diet Coke cans in the trash. The meeting just ended. I saw Greer in the corner of the room, and she was talking to our Faberge customer, not just that customer, but their bosses, product managers, brand managers and global marketing directors.As soon as Greer met my gaze, his eyes shrank into slits angrily. I said to Eleanor, "I know, I'm sorry I'm late. I have some urgent business at home." Her face also twisted suddenly, as if she smelled a fart, but she took a step closer to me as if uncertain, and said while taking a strong breath, "Augustin, are you... drunk?" "What did you say?" I said, startled. "Smells of wine. Have you been drinking?" My face immediately turned red. "No, I didn't drink. I had a drink or two last night, but..." "We'll talk about that later. For now, I think you should go and apologize to the client." As soon as she finished speaking, she flashed past me, her tights rustling, as if she was solemnly Tell me to shut up. I trudged my way to Greer and the client.As soon as they saw me, they immediately fell silent.I put on a smile and said, "Hello, I'm sorry I missed the meeting, I have a personal matter I have to attend to, and I'm so sorry." For the next few minutes, no one spoke, just looked at me. It was Greer who broke the silence: "You have a nice suit." I was about to say thank you when it dawned on me that she was sarcasm because the suit was the one I wore yesterday and it looked like it should have been sent in for laundering weeks ago. That's when a client cleared his throat, looked at his watch, and said, "We have to go, we have a flight to catch." So they all walked past me, and their stripes with them shirts, briefcases and itineraries.Greer tapped everyone on the shoulder. "Goodbye," she shrieked cheerfully behind them. "Have a nice trip. Walter, Sue, give my regards to the little one. Tell me the name of the acupuncturist next time we meet." Moments later Greer and I were sitting in my office -- talking. "It's not just about you, it's about me. It's affecting me, we're a team. But because your half isn't doing it right, I'm going to suffer and my job is going to suffer." "I know, I'm really sorry, I've been having a hard time lately, and I really want to stop drinking, but sometimes...yeah, I screw up." Greer suddenly grabbed the Eddie trophy from my bookshelf and slammed it against the wall opposite her. "Don't you understand what I'm talking about?" she screamed at the top of her voice. "I'm saying you're taking us down, not just your career, but mine." Her rage instantly silenced me, and I stared at the floor in silence. "Look at me!" she ordered. I looked at her, and her temples were bulging with rage. "Greyer, listen, I said I'm sorry, but you're exaggerating a little bit. It's not going to ruin anyone's career. People are late for meetings sometimes, and sometimes they just miss it. usually." "But it doesn't happen over and over again." She spat.Her blond hair, icy blond and meticulous, suddenly exasperated me.It stands to reason that there is nothing out of the ordinary about this hair, but for some reason, I find it ugly at the moment, which makes me angry. At this moment, I really want to hit her with a trophy. "Calm down please? My god, you're crazy. If I'm such a mess, tell me why we're still so successful," I said.I raised my hand and made a motion around the room, as if to say, look at all this!See what we've built together! Greer glanced at the ceiling, then at the floor.She took a deep breath and then let it out. "I'm not saying you're not good enough," she calmed down, "I'm saying you have a problem, it's affecting both of us, and I'm worried about you." I crossed my arms and stared straight at the wall behind her.I desperately need to pause for a moment, my consciousness has gone into a horrible blank.I hate confrontation, despite the fact that's how I grew up, and I'm far better at confronting people than my parents were.My dad was actually more of a fan of yelling and yelling, so you can imagine I'm pretty good at that too.But at this moment I was motionless, just staring at the wall dumbfounded—I wasn't confessing, I didn't feel much guilt, and I wasn't ashamed of being caught.I know I drink too much, or seem too much to others.But that's part of me, like saying my arms are too long.What can I do?I stared at the wall, growing more and more aggrieved.Here's Manhattan, everyone drinks so they're not as reserved as Greer, and they're happier. "I just drink a little too much sometimes. I work in advertising, and ad people drink a lot sometimes. Gosh, look at Ogilvy, one of the largest marketing communications agencies in the world. I've got a bar in the cafeteria," and I pointed my finger at her, "You sound like I'm a bum." Single-digit salaries, and they don't have Eddie trophies. She looked at me with an unmoved expression, unmoved by my spiel. "Augustine," she said, "you're going to crash, and I don't want to crash with you." Then she turned and slammed the door. Now it's just me in the office.it's over.she left.Maybe she's right.Am I worse than I think?All of a sudden I'm angry.I feel like I'm a kid being forced to stop playing and go to bed.When I was little, my parents used to throw parties.As soon as the party started, they sent me to bed, and I hated that.I hate feeling like I'm missing out, which is why I ended up living in New York, where I don't miss out on anything.But I've been spoiled by that bitch all day today, and I can't calm down and concentrate on my work anymore.Greer and I make a good team partly because we're so productive, we can't stand having things unresolved - so we always solve problems quickly with a kind of frenetic focus, and we always fight beautifully.Sometimes ideas are fleeting and disappear for days and weeks, but with one brief we can usually get to work right away, get four ideas a day, and then we're free to move forward. But what she meant just now was that I've been having problems, I've been doing it to myself, and it made me hate her, and I couldn't take it anymore, so I thought about drinking again. That night, I watched a commercial that I created myself at home.Even after all these years, my "American Express" ad is still pretty cool, even though the costumes are a bit flawed.However, the flaws do not hide the strengths, and these small shortcomings cannot deny the excellent design of Greer and me. "I can't be that good for nothing," I thought, looking at the level line of my Edwards bottle.There is still a third of the wine left, which means I have drunk two thirds.There's nothing terrible about it, people often have a bottle of wine with dinner, it's not that unusual; and I'm six foot two, fit and energetic - I'm almost twenty-five.What else was there to do in your twenties but party?No, it's not my fault!It was the rigid Greer who was too controlling, she was too aggressive! I leaned against the dining table thinking about these right and wrong.I rarely use this table for meals, but as a large desk.I stood up and tried to fill my Dawas bottle, but I lost my balance and fell to the floor, hitting my forehead on the base of the stereo. There was a cut in his forehead, and blood flowed out.The blood gushed out more and more, as if bluffing.My head began to ache violently. So I drank the whole bottle, but I didn't find the relaxation I was looking for, and my mind became more rigid.So I drank a few more bottles of hard cider, which finally worked.I felt more comfortable, so I turned on my computer and surfed the porn sites.It's amazing how no matter how drunk I am, I can remember the password for adult verification. The next day, I was summoned to Eleanor's office.Her office is on the 41st floor, fully armed with floor-to-ceiling glass, a golden hardwood polished floor, a large table with glass surfaces, beveled edges, and chrome legs.The room looks a bit patterned, and only the large chair with a leopard pattern behind the desk shows that the owner of the room is creative.As soon as I reached the door, the beautiful spire of the Chrysler Building came into view through the glass.Eleanor was sitting behind a desk on the phone, so the tip looked like a horn growing from her head—a sharp horn. She motioned for me to come in. As soon as I stepped into her office, I realized it wasn't just the two of us.As if deliberately not to let me see, Greer, Eleanor's bullshit partner - Rick, and the head of the HR department were all standing in the corner of the room. Eleanor hung up the phone. "Sit down, please," she said to me, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. I look at her, her chair, and at the rest of the room—an eerie silence.I couldn't help but wonder if I had entered the empty houses during the Nuremberg Marches. "What's wrong here?" I asked warily. "Close the door," Eleanor said, not to me, but to them.So Rick walked along the wall and closed the door. I noticed something, but felt that something was wrong, and I dared not make a decision.Not likely, it can't be my drinking! Eleanor again told me to sit down, and I obeyed.Greer, Rick, and the women from the personnel department walked towards the big sofa at the same time. "Greel?" I said.I was expecting to hear some of her crazy words like "Nightmare is coming, get ready" or "Guess how much we lost on the books" but I know she won't say those things now of.She didn't say anything!She just looked down at her shoes: Chanel flats with shiny gold crossed "CS" logos.She was silent. Eleanor got up from her chair, walked around the table, and stood in front of me, leaning back against the edge of the table with her arms crossed. "Augustine, now I have a question," she began.Then he added in a briskly playful tone: "Sounds like an insurance ad, doesn't it?" Now I have a problem, Grandma. These sky-high insurance premiums and all this paperwork headache... As long as there's an easy way.'" She stopped smiling suddenly and went on: "But, Augustine, let's be serious, we do have a problem," "It's your drinking problem!" Fuck, Greer, you bitch.I didn't look at her, I continued to look at Eleanor intently.A real alcoholic will immediately deny, yell, or play tricks right away.But I just smile, slightly.I'm as calm as if I'm listening to some client's silly, irrelevant argument about an ad. "You have a drinking problem and it's affecting your work. You have to do something now." Well, I guess I should just let it go. "Elinor, do you mean you were late for the meeting yesterday?" "It's not that you're late, it's that you didn't attend this global brand meeting at all," she corrected. "It's not enough, there are many, many things that affect your work performance because of alcoholism. The customers have already reported it to me." She paused, Let the voice settle down. "Your buddies are worried about you." She turned her head to the sofa, pointing at Greer. "I can often smell the alcohol on you myself." I feel like I'm being tricked by these people.Don't they have nothing to do every day but think about how many cocktails I drink?Greer, she just wanted to be in control of everything, she wanted to be able to rise to the top.Greer didn't like my drinking, and suddenly my drinking was the company's number one problem.Greer wanted me to drink diet soda, so I had to drink diet soda. "Like now," Eleanor said, "I can smell the alcohol on you now, and there are many other examples. The time you took the train from there to Paris for three days when we were filming in London last year, You disappeared, and there was no sound at all." Oh, that time!My weekend in Paris!I've tried my best to forget everything that happened, but I still have vague memories of the sociology professor with the weird beard on his jaw.I still remember!But so what?The commercial was finally completed successfully. "It's not just about this or that. It's a matter of behavior. It's about our clients. I've had more than one person complain to me. You see, Augustine, advertising is about image. A cadre of people in advertising always Missing a meeting, being late, being drunk or smelling like alcohol, that’s not good. It’s unacceptable.” In the back of Eleanor’s head was a Wall Street Journal poster introducing her.The headline read: Elinor's view of Madison Avenue. It was all horrible, but all I could think of was to tell Jim all this over the drink.Thinking of this, I couldn't help but giggle. Greer got off the sofa, stood next to Eleanor, and said, "This is no joke, this is serious. Everyone knows you're in a mess, and the only thing that can save you is action." I saw her body She was trembling, and her short hair trembled slightly. The woman in the personnel department said: "We agree that the best way for you is to enroll you in a treatment center." I stared blankly at her—if it wasn't for her holding a stack of paychecks, I would hardly know her she is gone.Beside her stood Rick—a man who was doing his best to show that he was normal.He was looking at me with an expression of genuine concern and compassion that made me want to hit him with a stick.Rick is the most fake and backstabbing guy I've ever met, but he fooled everyone, and they were all fooled by his hypocritical appearance.It's really strange that people who advertise are so superficial.Rick is a Mormon, of course, that's not why I hate him.I didn't start hating all Mormons until I met Rick.I mean, what is he doing here?But I didn't say it.Because he's Eleanor's partner, they're like dogs—like Greer and I, and he's my boss. The woman from the personnel department continued to say in a low voice: "There are many treatment options, but we think that according to the current situation, the most desirable one is residential treatment." Oh, it's finally revealed. "You mean to send me to a rehab center?" There was silence all around, and everyone was nodding. "Rehab?" I asked again, to confirm, "I said I could stop drinking, I didn't need to leave my job and go to some fucking rehab." Everyone nodded solemnly again.The atmosphere in the room was already tense, as if if I refused, everyone would immediately rush up and strangle me. "It's only thirty days." The woman in the personnel department said, as if to comfort me. I was overwhelmed by an unbelievable dread, but at the same time felt powerless.The truth is, I know what's going on, just like when I was trying my best to sell a solution to a client and they would never be moved, I was pushed into a corner in front of everyone. I had to either quit immediately and find another way of life, or compromise and go to what they called a ridiculous rehab center.If I quit my job, I'm sure I'll find a job, I'm sure of that.But the ad world is a tiny place, and there's a good chance that Rick will call in five minutes and tell the world that I'm an alcoholic who quit my job because I refused to go to a rehab center.The next situation can be imagined, no company will want me.I had nowhere to make a living and was cornered.Although I have earned a lot of money, I still need to work to support my life, otherwise I will fall into poverty, and I will really become a vagrant, or even a beggar, as Greer said. Now the situation is clear at a glance: I am not their opponent, I lost! "Okay." I said. Every shoulder in the room loosens, like a tight valve has been released. Eleanor spoke: "You mean you agreed to go to the treatment center for thirty days?" I glanced at Greer, who was looking at me expectantly. "Yes, it seems I have no choice." Eleanor laughed and pushed her hands tightly. "Very well," she said, "I'm very happy." The woman in the personnel department stood up: "The Betty Ford Center in Los Angeles is good, and Hazeltown is also very good. A lot of people go there." I immediately wanted to say that they went in, but since then they have never returned.Then I thought of the pastor.Three years ago he gave me blowjob in the back of his Victoria• Crown.I was so drunk that I couldn't get an erection.Finally he said to me, "You should go to Pride Rehabilitation Home, which is a very good 'gay' rehab center in Minnesota." Maybe I should go to this one, the guys at the "gay" rehab sure have better bodies. "How's Pride Rehabilitation Home?" I asked. The HR woman nodded politely: "You can go there. You know, it's for gays." I look at Rick, he looks away because he hates the word "gay" and it's the only word that can tear away his hypocrisy. "That's best." I said.A recovery home run by like-minded people will be more comfortable, and there will be good music and good sex. And just like that, the confrontation became like any advertising meeting—an agreement was finally struck, practically decided.The rest of the week I'll be coordinating with HR to get the rest of my work done; I'll be back in a month with the much-anticipated refreshed sobriety.Maybe someone will write a meeting report later to publicize the purpose of the meeting. I was walking out of the office when Greer came over and kissed me on the cheek. "Good luck!" she said, clutching my shoulders. "One day you'll thank me." Which movie did she learn this pose from?I was curious. As I stepped out of the office building, I started to feel elated, and a bright and bright image appeared in my mind: I came out of this intervention unscathed; I will not have to work for a month, and it is only two in the afternoon point. I don't need to go to work tomorrow, nor the day after tomorrow, nor the day after tomorrow.When I walked out of the building, I was so relaxed that I wanted to fly, the sun was shining brightly, and the sky was full of colorful clouds.I can get drunk tonight without worrying about smelling like alcohol in the morning. I was so excited, as if I had just heard some unexpected good news. All I can think about right now is to go home and get drunk, relax, and then go out and find a place to dive and meet people.You never know who you'll meet and where you'll end up, it's always beyond your imagination - anything can happen in a bar!Unlike Greer, I like excitement and change, and I like the next moment to be always full of suspense-it's too boring to stay the same. However, my enthusiasm was suddenly knocked down by something-a kind of indescribable and terrible loss of control, a kind of unfathomable thing gradually appeared, and it crept out in a slow, dark gesture, Wrapped around me, and immediately plunged me into emptiness. I might actually have to fight back the emptiness with some horrible actions that I can't even accept myself. Maybe I really need to go to rehab. That night, I called my best friend, Pighead, and told him I was going to rehab.Unlike Jim, who was just my drinking companion, Pighead was more of... I can't say... my normal friend.And he's older than me, he's thirty-two years old, so I think he's wiser than me in some way. "That's right," he said, "I'm glad you're in the rehab. You're a disaster." I immediately retorted: "I'm not that bad? I'm just a little unruly, a little weird." I was righteous and confident.As if I just can't tell stripes from plaid sometimes, or laugh a little loudly in restaurants sometimes. "I'm only going there so I can be healthier." "Augustine, do you know what you look like every time you're drunk? It's disgusting. You're not just being silly, putting a lampshade on your head, or just saying naughty things; you're dirty and stupid and Ugly. I don't like the way you drink at all." I thought of that karaoke bar—I wasn't dirty or ugly there, just unlucky. "If I'm dirty and disgusting, then why would you want to be my friend?" I hate people who don't drink, they don't know anything. "Because," he explained, "you're a nice guy, and I like you for who you are, so I've got to put up with your alcoholism. I think this is a good chance for you to get over it, if you take it seriously." I was stung by his answer.He only considered the issue from their standpoint, not my feelings.I don't know what I want him to say, maybe I want to hear him say, "Why? Why do so many people drink too much, but you should?" Getting to know Pighead in my first week in New York made him the cornerstone of my life and the foundation of my new life. I was also his cornerstone, although he never wanted to admit it.He'll say, "I'm the cornerstone of myself." He's a bank investor, but he's always pompous and he denies it; he won't admit it until he goes to court. I know what we mean to each other, I know who we are to each other, and we always have nothing to hide about each other.We would argue straight to the point, always, even over trivial matters.One time we didn't talk for a whole week just because he didn't like the way I put the bowls in his dishwasher. "Augustin, it's common sense that you shouldn't put a frying pan that heavy on the top shelf with wine glasses, they'll hit each other and shatter." But I don't think such trifles are worth noting at all. "How would I know this? I don't have a dishwasher, and I use single-use plastic all the time." I'm not sure if we're really incompatible, or if we're really the same kind of people and just don't agree on the outside.But I'm sure all his friends hate me, and mine hate him too.We often drive each other crazy over little things that people don't even notice, but we never tire of each other, and we realize how rare that is.What amazed me even more was that I never drank in his presence.When we're together, we're always on good terms, and when we're not, it's a perfect thing. Pighead is an HIV-positive AIDS patient, as he described: "I am an AIDS baby." His comment came from 20/20.Diane Sawyer describes babies born with HIV in Africa.At that time, we were sitting on his white sofa, drinking OceanSpray berry juice, watching a row of skinny children flash past on TV, the scene was sad and depressing. "That's me," Pighead said in his self-deprecating tone. "I'm an AIDS baby! Do you want to hug me?" 但是他六年来一直很健康，从未发病，连他的医生都觉得不可思议，所以没有人真正意识到他是患者，我们也从不提他的病，他处处都很正常和健康，事实上我早已对他厨房灶台上瓶瓶罐罐的药习以为常，甚至熟视无睹了。他至少有五十瓶药，放在那里排成一组，而我通常只注意到灶台其他地方和到处贴的便签。我甚至都不把他用来注射白血细胞激素的注射针看在眼里。 “你什么时候动身？”他问。 "In three days." “去多长时间？” "One month." “你告诉你公司了吗？” “就是他们让我去的。艾琳诺说我必须把自己清理干净，否则我就得走人。” “你真走运，他们没有直接解雇你。他们真不错，还能给你次机会。走之前你要做什么准备？” 我看到我面前的桌上有本广告册，广告上写着：纽约，雪松酒吧。 “喝酒。”我说。 “猜猜出什么事了？” “什么事？”吉姆说，呷了口酒。 “公司的人干预了我喝酒的事，他们让我去复原中心待三十天。” 吉姆笑得酒都喷了出来，不停咳嗽，几滴酒溅到我身上。 我拿餐巾纸擦擦额头，对着他的反应露齿而笑。此刻我们正在东乡村A大道的一家潜水酒吧里。 “别开玩笑了！”他叫道。他噎住了，脸涨得通红。 “是真的。我三十天不用上班，包括这星期剩下的几天。” 他从桌上的烟盒里抽了支烟，点上。 “他妈的好了，伙计。”他笑嘻嘻地说，“恭喜恭喜。” 我喝了一大口马提尼。“是呵，我越想越觉得酷。起先我还有点害怕，不过现在好了。” 现在我觉得复原会很不错。我将三十天滴酒不沾，估计感觉会和做SPA一样。等我回来后，我就能更像个正常人一样喝酒了。为什么之前我是如此恐惧呢？去复原肯定会很美妙，我已经感觉到了，为什么一开始我要拒绝呢？ 吉姆也完全站在我这边。“太棒了！想想看，你会见到很多名人，而且这是块好材料。”他将最后一些酒一饮而尽，嘴里嚼着冰块。“我是说，这以后会成为我们好几年的笑料。” “是的。”我赞同道。 “那么你的朋友皮格海德怎么看？你告诉他了吗？” 我示意服务员再给我们来一份。“嗯，我告诉他了，他也认为这个主意不错，不过他说这话的立场不对。他总觉得那是住院，而不是复原。”当我说“复原”时，我扬了扬下巴，仿佛是在谈论奥斯卡。 “那个胆小鬼。”吉姆说。 “是啊，他是。”我说，但是感觉不太好受，我没法对吉姆描述皮格海德是怎样的人。我也永远不能让我的朋友互相见面，我必须得使他们分开。他们都觉得这一点奇怪，但是基于某个原因我认为这是正常的。 “皮格海德是个太循规蹈矩的人。”吉姆说，一边把空杯子滑给服务员，好给新上的酒腾地方，“所以，他比较没劲儿。” 我无法跟吉姆说我其实很喜欢皮格海德这一点，我其实很喜欢他的这种无趣，我其实觉得这一点让我感觉很舒服。 “我想是吧。”我淡淡地说。 “不管怎样，这下你爽了。”他说。他举起杯子，要干杯。“为了你的复原。”他说。 “为了复原。”我说。我们叮当碰杯。 “嘿，为什么你不和我一起去呢？” “去不了，”吉姆说，一边吞酒，“我得工作，我不像你，有份轻松又挣钱的工作。” 我离开酒吧时充满自信，一想到我要去复原中心，我就兴奋不已。回到公寓后，我剥下衣服，换上汗衫，拉开一瓶淡啤酒迅速喝完后，就在电脑上玩起金发女郎游戏。我越想到我要去复原中心，就越喜欢这个主意。没人告诉我那边会是怎样一番景象，但吉姆是对的，它将会成为多年的笑料。 我打411查到了明尼苏达州的普瑞德复原院的电话，草草将电话记在手上后，我又去冰箱那喝了一瓶淡啤酒，接下来的四十分钟，我都花在了和复原院工作人员通电话上。我的热情又渐渐消退了，因为我被问了一连串枯燥乏味的问题：你喝多少酒，频率如何，以前试着戒过吗……等等等等。我回答说我喝个不停，一直平安无事，只是最近才成了问题；我说我能自己戒掉，但是我公司非要我去你那儿戒，所以我只能去你那儿。 通话中间我又打开了第三瓶酒，我用手捂着话筒以防他们听到酒打开的声音。我突然意识到这有点前后矛盾，就像决定打胎了，却还去BabyGap美国婴儿服装知名品牌。店买婴儿衣服一样。 挂断电话后走进浴室，看着镜中的自己。“你刚做了什么？你这个家伙，你疯了吗？”我看见自己呷了口酒。“你甚至都不喜欢淡啤酒，你还喝。”我对镜子里的自己说。 镜子里的人又吞了一口酒，然后走到冰箱前。 我被通知三天后住入普瑞德院。我订了房间，仿佛我要去圣塔•摩尼卡海淮上装有百叶窗的酒店度假一样。 我走进起居室，坐到沙发上，盯着面前那面空白的墙，突然间又觉得复原中心没什么意思了，电话里那个严厉的女人一下打消了我的积极性。如果有什么人你不愿意邀请来参加桶装啤酒派对，那一定是她。 我在沙发上开始如坐针毡，于是站起来，绕屋而走，但所到之处都觉得心神难安。我似乎应该出去走走，但随即又打消了这个念头。我百无聊赖地看看我手里的酒，再看看立在水槽里的一堆空酒瓶。 我获得过普利策奖和奥斯卡奖，见识过很多出色的人，和他们喝酒，觥筹交错，交情不错。但是，现在怎么会落得这般田地？ 我需要在去之前想想清楚，免得意气用事。 我十一岁时，生平第一次从杰西佩尼J•C•Penny，美国知名服饰品牌。买了一套人造水晶瓶。那花了我九美元，是我辛辛苦苦攒了三个星期的零花钱，之后就迫不及待地把它们装满香草苏打，假装那是威士忌。 我对那套水晶瓶垂涎已久。直到有个星期六，领零花钱的星期六，我终于把它买回了家。我把它摆在我的书桌上，但看上去还有点美中不足。于是我跑到地窖，找到那些旧银盘子，那是我父母结婚时我祖母给他们的。我母亲讨厌那些银盘子，觉得它们太俗气，就把它们扔到装碎牛肉的冰柜旁的箱子里。我母亲比较朴素务实，喜欢木头胜过银，她还喜欢爵士乐和诗歌。 我拿了一只盘子上楼，在厨房里一边看动画片一边把它擦得锃亮。 接着我又把亮闪闪的盘子拿到我卧室，把水晶瓶和四只杯子放到上面。现在看上去就完美无缺了。我把我的台灯打开，让灯光照耀在装满香草苏打的水晶瓶上，那简直是世上最美的画面。但是不到几个星期，香草苏打表面就长了一层绿毛。 所以也许是因为这个原因，或者也许是我父亲的错。 我还能记得，我的父亲总是告诫我“永远，在任何情况下”都不能碰他的酒瓶。他有各式各样的酒瓶，它们总是一尘不染，它们宛如珠宝，五彩夺目。尤其在傍晚时分，阳光低低地照进屋子时，它们熠熠发光。我记得其中有瓶是四四方方的，外面有层霜一样的玻璃。那应该是杜松子酒。 当我父亲在外上班，或者坐在黑暗的地下室里喝酒时，我就偷偷打开他的酒。我将手掌扣在瓶嘴上，再将瓶子倒过来，接着又迅速地盖上它，迫不及待地舔我的手。那时我肯定还不到八岁。 父亲最后发现我竟然也喝酒，无比惊讶。 父亲是个十足的酒鬼，但我已经习以为常，就像有些父亲有胡子，有些父亲喜欢戴棒球帽，我的父亲只是喜欢酒不离手，这没什么可奇怪的。我从来没想过，哦，我的爸爸是个酒鬼。但我认为他只是经常口渴而已。 话又说回来了，这可能是《家有仙妻》Bewitched，1960年代美国的著名电视剧，共有256集。现已推出电影版，尼可•基德曼任女主角。带给我的错觉。那个时候，我很沉迷于《家有仙妻》，对剧中的男主人公DarrenStevens更是顶礼膜拜。每当他下班回家时，他的妻子（仙女下凡者）Samantha总会问他：“Darren，要我给你倒杯酒吗？”而丈夫总是把他的公文包放到起居室里镜子下的桌子上后，用他的花手帕擦擦额头，说：“最好给我两杯。” 我爬上床，身体陷入长毛绒床垫里。我立刻感到财富的好处。我是多么幸运，在我焦灼不安时至少还有舒服的床坐。为什么我是如此焦虑？这个问题刺痛了我。我不是焦虑，我是孤独！我的孤独如无底洞，深不可测。而此时此刻，我将它一览无余，这个发现将我吓得半死。这是多么惨不忍睹——仿佛你眼睁睁看着一辆车撞向你。但是转瞬之间，这个感觉又消失了。我陷入一片空白，就像一扇门迅速打开，砰的一声，让我看看里面是多么混乱不堪。但是门很快又关上了，我来不及看到更多细节，一窥究竟。它只是打开让我扫一眼，让我知道这个房间是时候要来一个春季大扫除了。 我喝醉了。我拨通了父亲的电话：“我要去复原医院了，去三十天。” 电话那头一片静默。片刻后，“哦，你的工作怎么样了，儿子？” “我在一家广告公司，爸爸。”仿佛这就能涵盖一切。我没告诉他，公司就是我要去那地方的罪魁祸首。然后我说：“我去那儿是你的错，你使我成了这样。” 他在电话里粗重地呼气。他仿佛渐行渐远，越来越陌生，似乎只是我族谱上的一个远亲。“我不想和你谈这个，做你该做的！我只是担心你的工作。你总是理所当然地觉得那工作总是你的，不想想你可能就要失业了。它可能很快就不是你的了。看在上帝的分上，你还是忘掉过去吧。你现在是个成年人了，不是一个受委屈的小男孩。” 我被脑子里某种兽性的成分控制住了，仇恨在我血液里涌动。“你还记得那次我们在车里，你说你要杀了我妈妈最在乎的人吗？你还记得你恶狠狠地瞪着我，然后加速，加速撞向岩石吗？你还记得我当时只好跳车吗？那时我大概九岁吧，你这个混蛋。”我喊道。 他沉默了更长时间后，也咆哮了：“你知道我根本没做过这种事，你全是瞎话，我烦透这个了，烦透了。” 我知道他还记得。 “那那次你拿香烟在我鼻梁上烧呢，在我眼睛中间？” 他又无话可说了。“我不知道你在说什么。”但是他的语气出卖了他，坦白了一切。 那时我更小，才六岁，坐在他腿上，他慢慢把他的万宝路烟头放到我两眼中间…… 我几乎都不记得这件事了，直到二十岁时得了湿疹，去看皮肤科医生。当她碰到那块伤疤时，她问：“这是什么？” 我脑子里顿时一片空白。某些事不是你想不起，而是你不想想起。这片空白如此厚重，使人仿佛觉得在梦中潜水，喘不过气。 “不知道，可能胎记什么的吧。”我故作轻蔑地说。 她凑近了看，近得我能看见她每一个毛孔。“不，这是块烧伤，很久以前的烧伤。”我说绝对不可能，并且摆出一脸匪夷所思的样子，仿佛她告诉我我怀孕了似的。 但是那天晚上，我回家后喝得酩酊大醉，往日的场景历历在目。我看到那一切不是因为我醉后的幻觉，而是因为醉后我脑子失去了抑制，想起了过去。这是我醉后看到最美的，抑或最丑的场景。 我跟父亲说：“我知道你还记得。也许你当时是喝醉了，但是我知道醉了应该是什么样子。有些事你是摆脱不了的。” 我听到他在电话那头抽鼻子。但在我还没确定他是因为内疚，或者只是过敏而抽鼻子前，他妻子抢过电话，说：“够了。”她就说了这个词，然后挂断。 我按了重播键，但是线路正忙。我坐下来，想，她并不知道内情。她在他戒酒后嫁给了他，她从来不知道他是什么样的人。 我走进浴室撒尿。我一边撒尿一边想，我是不是又旧事重提了？这是不是那种受抑性记忆？看上去似乎是。 这一刻我觉得无比空虚，也许是忧伤吧。 也许是我支离破碎了。 第二天早上我在浴缸中蜷缩着醒来，才发现头枕在一块乱糟糟的毛巾上。我站起来，用手摸了摸我靠着浴缸的背部。 我的背一片冰凉，像死尸。