It was my twenty-second birthday, the Friday before Labor Day.
I called in sick to work.
Henri had planned an entire day for us and wanted to pay for everything.
We started off drinking champagne and orange juice in bed.
***
We met Eric and Susan for lunch at a place downtown.
The weather was perfect. The kind of late-August day that people from California take for granted.
The four of us laughed and toasted.
***
After lunch, Henri and I went back to her place and made drunken love twice.
We slept the rest of the afternoon.
***
The final event of the day was a fancy dinner at a high-end restaurant called Chamonix.
Henri said it was a French steak place. Everything was made of nice-looking wood. The hushed formality was something I’d only seen in movies.
Before leaving for dinner, I’d slammed a full highball-glass of Jameson.
I was in a blur.
I felt looks of disgust attack me from all sides. Everyone stared. Not directly. But I knew that out of the corners of their eyes, they watched. Judged. Asked who let the wildlife in. Joked that the waiter should keep an eye on us when the bill was due.
Loser.
Filth.
White trash.
***
We sat down and I admired how beautiful Henri looked.
Her tight (revealing) black dress magnified the purple highlights of her hair. The colored ink in her tattoo glimmered in the dim, flickering light.
She was laughing. Telling me a story about a guy who locked himself in the bathroom at the club. The bouncers had to use a crowbar to get him out.
I nodded and smiled.
Boiling inside.
The restaurant began to feel like a stage. Everyone was waiting for me to do something.
“Can I get you a beverage, sir?”
I snapped to attention and tried to focus on Henri.
She could see that I was struggling and answered for me.
“We’ll have a bottle of red.”
Henri pointed to one on the wine list. The waiter nodded and went away.
“Are you feeling OK?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said. “It’s a weird place. I’m not used to it.”
“Relax and forget everyone else.”
She held my hand.
“It’s just you and me,” she said. “We’re going to have some wine and a yummy steak. It’ll be all good.”
“OK,” I said. “You look great, by the way.”
She smiled and squeezed my hand until the waiter came back. I looked at him for the first time. A snooty guy in a black shirt and pants. He was older, and his thin mustache looked ridiculous.
He stood there like he expected me to tell him something.
“Yes, that’s it,” Henri said.
He poured a small amount into my glass, and I raised my eyebrows.
Henri laughed.
“You’re supposed to try it and tell him if you like it.”
My face filled with heat.
Why does she have to embarrass me like that?
I looked at the guy again. He’d gone from annoyed to looking at me like I was a lost puppy.
Without looking up, I drank the miniscule sip and acted unimpressed.
Henri shot me a glance.
After the guy poured our wine and left, she raised her glass.
“To you, Mr. Johnson,” she said.
I drank mine in a single swig.
She laughed. Sort of.
“That’s a fifty dollar bottle of wine, Nick. You could at least pretend to enjoy it.”
“Tastes about the same as every other wine I’ve had.”
Henri appeared on the verge of saying something, but excused herself to the bathroom instead.
***
I sat alone at the table.
I couldn’t remember ever being in a place that made me feel like such an outcast.
I walked over to the bar and ordered a double Jameson.
I drank it and ordered another.
Drank it.
I ordered a third, paid, and walked back to the table. Drunk, but not any better. Henri still hadn’t returned from the bathroom, so I slammed the third glass of Jameson.
Finally, the comforting burn.
It began to feel like I was watching everything unfold as an outsider: able to understand what was happening, but powerless to do anything about it.
Henri walked back to the table, hips swinging. Little ripples vibrated through her cleavage as she moved.
“Feeling better?” Henri asked as she sat down.
She glanced toward the empty highball glass.
“Yah, baby . . .” I said, sounding far out. “I’m good. Ready for some steak.”
On cue, a different guy took our order. Before leaving us, he refilled our wine glasses.
I took a sip.
The tartness of the wine tasted awful after the sweet whiskey. I smacked my lips loudly.
Henri looked embarrassed and I put my hand over my mouth, pretending to giggle. It turned real and then became a full blown belly laugh.
I put my face on the table and slapped my hand down.
The tips of my fingers hit the edge of a small plate, flipping it up onto its edge. It rolled and tumbled onto the floor. It crashed and cracked, right down the middle.
This stopped my laughing momentarily. Until the plate itself became the object of humor. I was hysteric again. As loud as I could make it.
People were staring.
Henri was mortified.
I couldn’t stop.
A busboy came out to clean up the mess.
“Oh, servant boy,” I shouted to him between laughs. “Ohhhhh . . . Servant boy. Would you shine my shoes while you’re down there, my good lad?”
He looked at me with disgust and shook his head.
The busboy finished cleaning up, and I turned back to the table.
“Oh man,” I said. “I haven’t laughed that hard in a while. Wasn’t that some funny shit?”
Henri pursed her big, perfect lips in a curt smile.
I tilted my head and put out my arms.
“Aww . . . C’mon. You don’t really care what these FUCKHEADS think . . . Do you, baby?”
I said it so the entire restaurant could hear.
Henri started to cry.
When the steaks came, she didn’t even look at hers.
She stared at me with hurt, questioning eyes.
I decided my steak needed salt and grabbed the shaker. As I pulled it toward me, something made me look away long enough to put my hand on a collision course with my nearly full glass of red wine.
The clang of glass on glass was piercing.
It drew my attention back to the table, in time to see a tidal wave of dark liquid emerge from the glass and spread out across the pristine white tablecloth.
“Oh shit!” I yelled, standing to avoid the wine.
The glass fell to the floor and shattered.
Silence hit the restaurant instantly.
The first noise was the sound of Henri crying. Then the crescendo of shocked murmurs.
Regret hit me like a bomb.
Henri’s face was pale and sickly. Her whimpers became sobs.
“Why-y-y Nick?” she asked.
I stared into her eyes and croaked two drunken words, “I’m sorry.”
I could taste the insincerity. The shame and the self-pity. But there was little regret. Not then. And Henri knew it right away.
Without another word, she headed toward the door.
A team of busboys swarmed the table. They were supposed to make everything look normal. The way things had been a few minutes ago. Back in the good times.
They were unsure how.
The grumpy waiter came over with a piece of paper in his hand. Before handing it to me, he gave me a look that said I needed to leave or he was going to call the cops.
I took the check. More than $200. I had no cash, so I fumbled through my wallet for my debit card.
By some miracle it went through.
I squinted and signed the bill, uncertain how I would cover rent.
***
Henri was sitting in her small white truck, sobbing and gasping for air.
When she saw me stumbling toward her, the cries became screams.
“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, NICK!!! STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!”
I walked around to the passenger side and tried the handle. It was locked.
The engine sparked to life and revved.
She rolled down the window an inch or so, sticking her mouth up to the small opening.
“GO AWAY!!!”
The anger on her face made her unrecognizable.
“WE’RE FUCKING DONE!!! I DON’T KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING TRUSTING YOU!!! YOU’RE A FUCKING LIAR!!!”
I really wanted a ride home. We were out in the middle of nowhere. I was worried that if she left I would pass out right there on the ground.
“OK,” I said, waving my arms. “OK. OK. OK. OK. OK. Hey, I’m sorry. But you can’t fucking leave me here.”
Henri grabbed the wheel with both hands. Her hair was hanging down across her face.
“GET IN THE FUCKING BACK!”
“Oh, c’mon. Really?”
“I’M LEAVING IN TEN SECONDS! 10…9…”
“Open the door, Henri. It’s cold out here. And I’m in dress pants.”
“6…5…4…”
“You’re not going to make me get back there, are you?”
“2…1…”
She put the truck into reverse and swung it out of the parking space in a sharp arc.
I walked behind.
“I’M LEAVING!”
“OK!” I shouted. “Fuck!”
I climbed into the back of the truck.
Before I could get down, Henri floored it and almost dumped me over the tailgate. We twisted and turned around a windy road. My body slammed against one wheel well and then the other.
“Can you slow down!?” I shouted, doubtful she could hear me.
I knew she could when she slammed on the brakes, sliding me into the rear of the cab.
The night sky whizzed by overhead.
The cool air and the pain in my side sobered me a little.
The gravity of what had happened set in.
***
We got off the expressway at the exit to my apartment.
I saw the red sign in front of my building float overhead, right before Henri hit the brakes again.
“Fuck!” I yelled, climbing out of the truck.
Before I could take a step toward Henri’s door, she screeched off.
I put my arms in the air and kicked the black tire marks.
***
I fumbled with my keys and walked into my dark apartment.
The door opened with a crash into the wall. I went to the kitchen and pulled the big bottle of vodka from the freezer. I swallowed several mouthfuls and breathed hot breath over my teeth.
My stomach knotted.
I hadn’t acted that badly.
What the hell right did Henri have to make me look like an asshole?
And on my birthday, no less.
***
With a beer in either hand, I went outside and fumbled with my keys again.
This time I was looking for the one that would start my car.
***
I couldn’t find where to stick the ignition key.
I kept hitting nothing but plastic.
Got it.
I’ll be fine.
I put one hand on the steering wheel. The other on the center console. I kept only one eye open.
It was still relatively early on a Friday night, so there was a good amount of traffic on the road.
Why am I going to Henri’s again?
I couldn’t remember.
To tell her how I feel . . .
That I love her.
The yellow streetlights made it hard to distinguish the difference between shapes.
Which cars are parked and which ones are driving?
Watch the headlights.
An oncoming car came way too close. I honked.
“FUCKING MANIAC!!!” I yelled.
Watch the white lines.
The light turned yellow.
I wasn’t going to make it.
When it turned red, I slammed on the breaks. The car screeched and the back end bucked slightly to the left side. The front end was sticking out into the crosswalk.
I breathed deeply and cupped my right hand around the beer can resting in my crotch. I was about to go for a drink when I glanced left and saw a black-and-white S.J.P.D. patrol car waiting to turn.
The cop was looking directly at me.
In the side view, I could see that my back end was about a foot from his car.
I used every ounce of energy I had to call forth my best politician face. A big goofy grin that screamed out, “Everything is OK. I’ll be much more careful next time, officer. Simple misunderstanding, sir.”
I didn’t want to look for too long. Without hurry, I turned my head slowly forward.
The green arrow appeared above him.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him look up at the light. Then back at me.
His car didn’t move.
His eyes were locked on. I could feel it.
After what seemed like forever, the cruiser accelerated quickly into the intersection and down a side street.
I went straight.
Where am I going?
The restaurant seemed like a distant dream.
By the time I swerved into a visitor’s parking space at Henri’s complex, it all seemed like one big misunderstanding. One we would work out, like before.
I told myself it was all part of the price you pay for having a bit of passion in your life.
Henri’s place was on the third floor.
I sat at the bottom of the steps, drinking the second beer. The world calmed slightly and I felt better.
I’m sure Henri is calmed down by now, too. I’ll go in and we’ll talk.
***
I stumbled up the winding staircase.
Henri was crying through the front door. My first knock brought sudden silence, followed by Henri yelling.
“TELL THAT FUCKHEAD TO GO AWAY! I’M DONE WITH HIS SORRY ASS!”
Then more sobs.
I sat and knocked on the door steadily for fifteen minutes.
The whole time, Henri was standing right on the other side.
“GO AWAY, NICK!!!”
“I’M NEVER TALKING TO YOU AGAIN, NICK!!!”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, NICK!!!”
Still, I wouldn’t stop.
I can’t believe no one called the cops.
Henri’s roommate came to the door, opening it a crack. She and I had gotten along fine. But she made it clear by her look that we were no longer friends.
“Look, Nick,” the roommate said. “She’s really upset right now. Why don’t you call her in the morning when you’re both cooled off?”
My body was waving back and forth in an endless balancing act.
“Just let me talk to her,” I said.
My mind seemed unable to detach itself from that singular goal.
I saw Henri through the cracked door. She was out on the balcony smoking a cigarette, her back turned to me. I imagined her spinning around and smiling.
***
Getting down the stairs was easier than climbing them, but the whole building seemed to shake with every drunken step.
I followed a concrete path around the building.
Some semblance of sobriety pricked the back of my brain. I again regretted what I was doing, even as the events unfolded before my eyes.
I ended up in the front of the building, underneath Henri’s balcony.
“Fuck!” I said loudly.
She wasn’t up there. Nobody was.
For a moment, I considered getting in my car and leaving.
“Go home, Nick!” I heard Henri’s voice say from above. “Leave me alone. We’re done!”
“At least let me get my stuff then!” I shouted.
It was an excuse. A bad one. All I had there was a toothbrush, a few clothes, and some movies.
A door slammed.
A few minutes later, my stuff was flying through the air.
My black Bad Religion hoody.
The VHS tapes of Star Wars.
And finally, my toothbrush, which rapped me on the shoulder before tumbling into a runoff drain.
The door above me slammed again.
All the lights in the apartment were out.
***
I only saw Henri one more time after that.
Three weeks later.
After near constant pestering, I finally convinced her that I wasn’t going away until she talked to me.
I told her I hadn’t drank since that night. I was feeling scared, but clearheaded. I needed to tell her a few things. Then I would leave her alone.
It was all true.
I hadn’t drank.
But it was hell.
***
I woke up the day after our blowout, wishing I was dead.
First, there was the emotional pain of what I’d done. Somehow, I remembered it all in scary-clear detail.
On top of that was the physical pain. Alcohol is rare in that you can actually die from withdrawals. Your body goes into shock and you have a stroke.
Dead.
Even junkies don’t have to deal with that. They might feel like they want to die. But unless they go crazy and razorblade their skin off, they’re pretty much guaranteed to come out breathing.
I spent the entire first day wrapped in blankets. Around noon, I got the shakes so bad I almost called 9-1-1. They were big, violent, whole-body convulsions that made me feel like my chest would collapse.
I pissed myself twice. It made me feel strangely alive.
Even though I wasn’t supposed to smoke inside the apartment, I lit cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. It seemed like the only comforting thing there was.
Then I got diarrhea. My stomach cramped. I became horribly dehydrated. I couldn’t drink water. Even the smallest sip came rushing back up.
My throat was raw from stomach acid.
***
Day two was a bit better.
I forced myself to walk to Walgreens and told the pharmacist I had food poisoning. She pointed me toward the Pedialyte.
I stood over the sink in my bathroom with a bottle of the grape medicine in my hand, sure it would soon become grape vomit.
To my surprise, it actually made me feel better.
It didn’t take away the shakes, though. Two more times I had the phone in my hand, ready to call 9-1-1, but was too ashamed of myself to do it.
I grinded my teeth into the corner of my pillow to keep from feeling like my face was going to swallow itself.
***
On day three, the shakes started coming less often and weren’t as strong.
My stomach felt better too.
It was a holiday, but I was still supposed to work. I called in sick. The stomach flu, I said. And it was a bad one.
Eric came home early that morning. He’d stayed the weekend with Susan. I told him a brief version of what had happened, saying I was really done drinking this time. He made me ramen and watched the Star Wars trilogy with me. I ate the noodles with stale saltine crackers. It all stayed down.
My body didn’t want alcohol.
I’m not sure why.
***
Three weeks.
It was the longest I’d been sober since I was in the hospital with pancreatitis.
No booze, no pot, no pills, no powders.
Nothing stronger than cigarettes and caffeine.
When Henri arrived, I was feeling positive. This really was the slap in the face I needed.
Now that I was all good, she and I could get on with living our lives. With being happy and in love. It was perfect.
She was carrying a small paper shopping bag.
It was nearing evening. She was dressed for work at the club. Her face was dolled up and she was wearing tight clothes. It was a sad contrast to the look on her face. Her big lips were neither happy nor sad. The eyes that had looked at me in love, in ecstasy, in anger, and in passion. Now, they stared without feeling. They looked past me. At some random spot on the wall.
“Hey, Henri,” I broke the silence. “Thanks for coming over.”
We walked into my bedroom and she reluctantly sat on my bed. She didn’t look at me, just down and toward the carpet. I searched her stoic face and tried to find the right words.
“I wanted to apologize for my birthday. It was a horrible way for me to act. I know it. And I know you probably hate me now. But I wanted to tell you in person that I’m quitting drinking. I’m in a program, and they’re even sending me to A.A. meetings.”
The words sounded pretty lame, actually. The same bullshit I’d given her after every big blowout.
But this time I have proof!
The rehab and the meetings show I’m serious!
Twice she appeared ready to say something, then pulled it back. I was about to speak again when she finally broke the silence.
“Nick . . .” she started, slightly above a whisper. “I love you.”
My heart skipped.
“I love you t—“
“Stop,” she said, holding up her hand. “I won’t do it again. There’s too much pain. Too many scars that can’t heal.”
“Look,” I said. “Things will be different this time. Can’t you see that I’m telling the truth? I’m really doing the right thing this time. Can’t I get one more chance?”
I asked the last question with far more self-pity than I deserved.
Henri knew it.
“You had one more chance, Nick. Or don’t you remember the first time you broke my heart?”
She tried to stand up and I held her arm so she couldn’t.
“I know I don’t deserve it,” I said. “I don’t deserve you. But I need you. I can’t do this without you. You’re what’s driving me to be a better person.”
Tears started falling down Henri’s already anger-reddened cheeks. She cocked her jaw and shook her head, like she’d been talking to a dumb child.
It was a look I’d never seen on her face.
I pictured her back in the motel room in L.A., that same look stamped on her face as she wrote out her note.
Don’t call me.
“That’s the problem, Nick,” she finally said in a lecturing tone. “I can’t change you. I’ve driven myself crazy twice thinking I could.”
She sniffled and I handed her a tissue. She blew her nose and continued.
“You’re a good person. A brilliant man. Who I have no doubt will do some amazing things in this world . . . As long as you can get out of your own way.”
She straightened up and took a moment to compose herself. She poked me hard in the shoulder.
“The only thing standing between Nick Johnson and great things is Nick Johnson. If I stick around. If I stay and keep letting you use me as your source of happiness. There’s no way you will ever have any reason to change.”
Henri wiped the corners of her eyes. Her black eyeliner had run.
She shook her clenched fist full of tissues in frustration.
“I have to go, Nick.”
I nodded my head, trying to seem like I was understanding. Despite the fact my insides felt like someone had scraped them out with a cheese grater.
“OK, well maybe a break is a good idea—”
“No,” she said, pointing at me. “This is for good. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I really do. But one sad reality of life, Nick, is that sometimes there is pain you can’t forget. All you can do is get away from it. As far away as you can.”
“Look,” she continued. “I know I haven’t been perfect. And maybe this is more my fault than I want to admit. But Nick, you’ve been so hurtful. Too many times for me to forget.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, Nick. And I’m sorry too. I wish things could be different.”
She started to stand again, and I again tried to pull her back. This time she resisted.
“No, Nick. I have to say goodbye,” she handed me the paper bag. “Here are your last few things from my place. I don’t have anything here except a toothbrush. You can toss it.”
Now I started to cry.
My mind raced to find some secret passageway that led out of the situation. Back in time, where I could do over every bad thing I’d done in my life.
“Goodbye, Nick.”
Before she could get by me, I grabbed her with both arms and squeezed as if my life depended on it. I felt that if I could hold on to her long enough, there was still a chance she would change her mind.
She would see that I could be good to her.
She put her arms around me. Lightly at first, but then with feeling.
“I have to go, Nick. I have to go.”
I released my arms.
She walked out the door and never spoke to me again.