Intoxicate Me

“What am I going to do? Stage an intervention for the fucker? I don’t know him well enough to care and he hasn’t given me reason to give two shits about his marriage or his efforts to become a human ship in a bottle.”

“I think he does want an intervention,” Nancy told Trace. “Remember when he was writing on his website about his wife holding an intervention for her sister who was an alcoholic?”

“Yeah. That was about six months ago, around the holidays. So?”

“Isn’t that when you said he suddenly started becoming morose and depressive?”

“Well, it was also a period when he started writing heavily about his drinking.”

“Exactly!” Nancy practically shouted. “That’s when he was writing all those lyrical stories about walking around Silverlake in search of a liquor store for his coveted Arrogant Bastard Ale.”

Trace took a sip of his bourbon and water. “He was actually doing some good writing back then, in a Malcolm Lowry ‘Under the Volcano’ kind of way.”

“With a lot of French influence.”

“With a lot of French influence and who the fuck cares and we’re getting away from the goddamn point, which is he leaves a rambling message on my website about how terrible his life is that he can’t drink when he wants to because his wicked witch of a wife keeps tabs on every dollar that he spends and what for and, honestly, Nancy, I just think he’s looking for an intervention, as you said.”

“He’s equating help with attention. He wants attention. He was jealous when the sister in law got an intervention.”

“Yup. And if his wife read what he wrote at my website the marriage would most definitely be over. Done. Kaput.”

“He’s the kind of drunk who has to lose everything and everyone before they quit and sometimes even then they don’t.”

Trace finished his drink and didn’t order another. “I got my own drinking under control a few months ago. I don’t have time to wet nurse another drunk. For chrissakes, I grew up with them. Every one of my step fathers was a lousy drunk.”

“And you don’t want to deal with them in your adult life.’

“Nope.”

Trace hoisted the remains of his bourbon and water and chewed on the dripping ice cubes at the bottom of the glass. He hoisted the empty glass in salute and recited from his favorite novel, “Miss Lonelyhearts”:

“Soul of Miss L, glorify me.
Body of Miss L, nourish me
Blood of Miss L, intoxicate me.
Tears of Miss L, wash me.
Oh good Miss L, excuse my plea,
And hide me in your heart,
And defend me from mine enemies.
Help me, Miss L, help me, help me.
In saecula saeculorum. Amen.”

Trace gently placed his glass back on the bar. “And that’s what I think about that.”

“By the way, that was kind of funny.”

“What was?”

“You didn’t catch the humor in what you said a moment ago? You said he was writing heavily about his drinking.”

“Oh. Shit.”