The feeling crept in this morning. I was sitting at my desk snapping a rubber band against my wrist over and over again, concentrating on the sting and the reddening flesh while counting silently backwards from 100, waiting for the Klonopin to kick in.
Sometimes I get really agitated after swallowing the little yellow pill and have to deal with a half hour or so of squirming restlessness. It’s the discomfort of knowing you’ve started something that can’t be reversed. I’m finally feeling a warm and gentle blanket of calm come over me when I pick up the New York Times:
Someone drove a car full of explosives into a police recruiting station in Mosul. I can’t help but wonder if my brother is on of those hundred dead, buried in rubble under the unforgiving desert sun. That was the end of my Klonopin honeymoon. It’s important to pay close attention when the forces of derangement and the forces of calm rear their heads in close proximity.
“You’ll be all right once the pills kick in,” Paul says. It’s been about two and a half weeks since I started the Lexapro regimen. It must have a pretty firm hold on my bloodstream by now but I don’t really feel any different.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say. Naturally I’m suspicious of altering my brain chemistry with inorganic substances.
“Two Jamesons neat,” Paul says.
We’re standing at the bar in Killarney Rose, tucked away in the Financial District. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon. Vaporous sunlight streams in from the second-story window. The drinks come and we perch ourselves on stools around a small circular table.
“Hey, look at him,” Paul says. “Fantastic.”
He nods towards a gangly old man with wild and thinning white hair leaning against the far end of the bar. He’s wearing a ratty pinstripe suit and seems unsteady on his feet. He’s got his forearms on the bar for leverage. I heard him order a Hennessy and cranberry juice a minute ago. That’s not something you hear every day.
“Used to be a trial attorney,” Paul continues. “Until he got a taste for the white stuff through the bombshell client he fell in love with. Left his wife and kids to shack up with her but he lost the case and she went to jail, became a radical Muslim lesbian, he got disbarred for unethical conduct. Now he paints boats in a suit three hours a day for minimum wage off the books.”
It’s a little game we have, making up stories about random people. Paul’s got a real knack for it.
“Nah, he’s downtown Manhattan’s answer to Jay Gatsby,” I counter. “Made millions selling junk bonds to impress some Hilton heiress, then went mad when his plans fell apart.” I tend to struggle at this game.
“There’s only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, the tired, and the guys who hand out free passes to the Hustler club,” Paul says, and I certainly can’t top that. I sip my whiskey, savoring how the initial harsh bite smoothes out into pleasant warmth.
Paul and I have known each other since high school. After graduation he went to Pace and I went to Columbia. We stayed in touch for the most part and somehow both ended up downtown. He’s a small but powerful guy, smart as hell and a hard drinker. You get the feeling he could handle himself pretty well if things got rough.
But aside from the time when he gripped me so hard in a drunken embrace that my rib cracked, I’d rarely seen his violent side, even when some grizzled derelict confronted us on a miserable Friday afternoon as we walked to this very bar. The guy positioned himself a few inches from Paul’s face, walking in step backwards as Paul moved forward, spewing forth a furious denunciation, notable for its copious and inventive use of the word motherfucker. I thought Paul was about a few seconds away from leveling the guy but he kept it cool and the bum stalked off into the cold rain. I admit I was impressed.
Paul trades CDs down Broad Street somewhere. As I’ve gathered it’s a glorified sales position with all the fringe benefits of a forced labor camp. He insists he hates it but he makes most of his money on commission and he makes a lot more than me so he must be pretty good at it. I could be suspicious but I’ve known him a long time and I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, the kind of people he’s cold calling probably enjoy the attention. It makes them feel special to have someone pitch them an option at a $10,000 minimum investment.
My phone beeps. I take it out of my sweatshirt pocket. It’s a text message from Kate.
I’d give anything to be there right now. I’m about to text her back when Paul slides back into his seat with two more Jamesons.
“Man, he’s something else,” he says, gesturing at the wily-haired suited man. “I tried talking to him but couldn’t understand a word. He’s missing a few.”
He slides his index finger across his front teeth.
“You broke the cardinal rule,” I object.
“I know, I know but I couldn’t resist.”
Some massive truck outside blows its horn, unleashing a hideous noise. It sends a painful shiver down my spine. I should have stuck with the Klonopin and not fucked around with whiskey.
The good thing about Klonopin is that it grounds you in physical reality and makes you feel solid again when you’re feeling shaky and transparent. The downside is the “high” doesn’t last very long, only about an hour or two, and you spend the rest of the pill’s twelve-hour cycle feeling how I imagine most people consider “normal” to feel. The good thing about Klonopin and booze is that it compounds the high and accentuates the luscious fuzzy-headedness. The bad thing is the combination tends to split your head and body into two separate entities with a somewhat loose and abstract connection to one another. Also, it tends to knock you out after a while. I find it depends on the kind of alcohol. After the second glass of red wine I can count on passing out for ten hours straight. With whiskey my vision becomes waterlogged. With beer I just feel unclean.
A shaky hand slaps me on the shoulder. I turn around to see our desiccated Gatsby stumbling past, arms outstretched. He misses the door by a few feet and bumps into the wall. Stopping a moment as if in careful consideration he then proceeds to vomit on his scuffed shoes in one cranberry-colored wretch. Surveying the patrons one last time with lolling, bloodshot eyes, he slips out the door and tramps down the stairs, his lungs heaving and hacking like some pneumatic accordion, the ancient wood stairs cracking and creaking.
“That’s serious,” says Paul.
I down my whiskey in two gulps.
“Fuck this,” is all I can manage.
