Chapter 7: It’s A Wonderful Life

After Elizabeth left me, I hit rock bottom. I drank every penny and every minute away. On one night of extremely heavy drinking at The Back Door, I looked around the bar and dizzily noticed myself in the mirror. I looked into my eyes and could see that the worst-case scenario I had been dreading was upon me. I had not only lost Elizabeth and Michelle, but also myself. It seemed at that very moment that my life was over. There really was no reason to get better or keep writing or keep eating or keep living. Once the bartender turned the lights on and prepared to close the bar, I knew it was time for me to go. Squinting, I saw him change the calendar from January 11th to January 12th. January 11th is my birthday. I forgot all about it. I said something to that effect, so he did a birthday shot with me. Just something else to send me over the edge.

Staggering out to my car, which was parked on an abandoned street, I looked at that parking space – the very same one – where I had ruined my fucking life. I apologized to Elizabeth in my head for the thousandth time. I apologized to Michelle, too, for screwing her life up. Getting to my car, I tried to unlock my door and dropped my keys. I looked around for them and drunkenly fell to the asphalt. It started to sprinkle rain. I lay there, sobbing, looking down the street, hoping desperately that a car would drive by and put me out of my misery.

That car never came. It felt like not too many people were there for me, but I never doubted my friends. Shawn, Jordan, and Taylor were there whenever I needed them and I needed them a lot. There were times when Shawn would pick me up at my house at 8:00 PM to take me out to a bar to talk and I would already be completely trashed when he got there. He would be picking me up because he knew I would be too drunk to drive myself at the end of the night. Jordan listened to me talk about the situation at all hours of the night in all kinds of sleazy bars. I showed up at Taylor’s apartment drunk and sat down in a chair that he and I stole from the university one day. I almost started crying because I remembered that I was happily married on the day we stole it.

I was devoting my nights to alcohol and thanks to my career as a best-selling author. I had the unlimited funds to make it happen. I spent my nights alone in bars or out with friends. I was officially taking a break from writing. My book had been out long enough and I had made enough money. I was taking a break to drink my problems away.

One night, around 4 AM, I pulled in to find cars everywhere – cars that belonged to the people I knew – family members mostly, but also Elizabeth. I figured someone had died. Elizabeth obviously let everyone in with the key to our house – the house we still owned – together. I was a little nervous and not because I was drunk. I hadn’t seen Elizabeth in a while. Did I want her back? Did I want Michelle back? Those were always the questions I never wanted to answer, let alone be asking in the first place.

When I walked in, all of the key players in my family were there and looked sleepy. Elizabeth seemed distant, as if she no longer knew me. I had no idea what she had told them. I looked at my aunts and uncles, some of whom had alcohol problems themselves. I looked at my cousins, who I knew to be drinkers. I looked at everyone and asked, "What are you doing in my house at 4 in the morning?"

"We’re here to get you some help," one of them said. Then I knew what was up and that Elizabeth had staged this because of all the drunken calls I had been making to her from bars in the middle of the night, begging her to come back to me.

"I don’t want your help," I said.

"Well you’re going to get it," another one said.

"Look at what you’re doing to yourself."

"What? What am I doing?" I asked, leaning against a wall and almost falling over from being so intoxicated.

"You’re dead drunk and it’s in the middle of the night."

"So what? It’s my life, not yours," I said. "If this is all you guys came here to say, you might as well leave because–"

"If you’re not careful, you’re going to ruin your career," one of them said.

"Yeah, like I’ve ruined so many other things, right?" I asked, looking at Elizabeth. She looked away with crossed arms. Then I realized they were right and I almost started crying. "Get out," I told them. They all left. As Elizabeth left, I touched her arm and whispered, "I love you." I felt ashamed. She didn’t answer me back, but she looked at me and seemed a little less distant.

I was doing a book signing next to a handwriting expert, who was dishing out so-called psychic advice. She analyzed handwriting for a living and also wrote books, taught classes, and hypnotized people.

I had my own handwriting analyzed right before she left for the day. As I was writing, she said, "Wow, what tremendous power of concentration you have there." The next thing she told me was that I had a weird sense of humor and that it was often expressed in my writing and public speaking. She said I was often sarcastic and sometimes I was this way with myself – I used this sarcasm as a shield of sorts to protect myself against my enemies and the things they might say. She told me that I needed to work through a lot of my issues and that recent events have made doing so even more difficult and uncomfortable. No shit, I thought.

She indicated that I preferred to get right to the point, but sometimes beat around the bush. She said I like things done quickly and that waiting worries me. She addressed my paranoia. She said I was too self-deprecating and I needed to let up a little on myself. She told me that I felt guilty about something that happened recently. "Don’t feel guilty," she whispered, "you were in love." As I got up, I watched this handwriting expert gather her materials into a knapsack and prepare to leave for the day. "Midnight Confessions" by The Grassroots played on the bookstore intercom.

But I did feel guilty. And the friend who had been helping me forget about the guilt would help me even more in the future. Alcohol, that friend, provided an escape for what this handwriting expert told me was a mistake done out of love. I had a long history with alcohol. I met it when Elizabeth and I first started having problems. I fell in love with it in Bloomington. I married it when I got divorced.

Right after the signing that day, I remember finding myself away from all the madness and all the confusion. I ended up in a bar disguised as a 50s diner. I sat and looked around the place and I felt like calling Elizabeth. It was a stupid thing to do, especially after the intervention, but I couldn’t resist. She didn’t answer, probably seeing my number on her caller ID. I left her a message that described the place. I told her she would like it. I told her she would like the old pictures hanging on the walls. The old license plates. The old car grills suspended from the ceiling. The old music playing on the intercom. The burgers and fries on the menu, and the all-around Americana feel of the place. It all reminded me of her and why we fell in love. It made me miss her. And I wanted to tell her. Whether or not that got across in the message, I’m not sure, because I’d already had five or six beers by the time I made the call.

Elizabeth, as helpful as she was trying to be with the intervention, pushed me further over the edge. I called Shawn, Jordan, and Drew, and we all went to a place called Rough River for a writer’s retreat, but it ended up being more of a drinker’s retreat. It turned out to be the last time any of us ever saw Drew and we made this last time count.

The writer’s retreat consisted of renting a two- bedroom cottage for the weekend, mistakenly hearing Jack Tripper say "Blow me" in Three's Company, comparing characters from The Dukes of Hazzard to Chicago writers, and driving two hours away for a tiny bottle of Captain Morgan's.

Rough River is a dry community and we forgot to bring alcohol. Jordan once said that the trick to being a good writer, he's convinced, is to watch Wonder Boys twice, drink a whole bunch of Captain Morgan's, and write a little bit, too. I think that's what he said, anyway. I was really drunk when he said it. He also said that when writers excuse themselves to "go write," they're really going away to sleep or drink. We all went away that weekend to write, but did some sleeping and drinking, too. One of the employees at the resort told us the nearest and best place to go for liquor was in a town called Whitesville.

Rough River is in an extremely rural part of Kentucky. The word "backward" doesn't come to mind until you get closer to Whitesville. The town name is befitting. We passed a cemetery called Old Panther Cemetery. After driving for what seemed like days, we finally found the only bar/liquor store around that part of Kentucky for hundreds of miles, appropriately called The Black Cat. When we saw it, we thought about maybe turning back because we knew we wouldn't be well-received. I don't know if it was the pickup trucks parked on the gravel lot or just how the place kind of set out in the middle of nowhere, but I really didn’t want to go in. On the other hand, I really wanted some Captain's.

We walked in and barstools twisted around to meet us. The jukebox didn't stop playing Hank Williams, but it would have been appropriate. I knew right then that we were wearing city clothes and not Whitesville clothes. We had on t-shirts and jeans; they had on overalls and wife-beaters. The place was sectioned off – half bar and half liquor store. The old man behind the counter of the liquor store just stood there, staring. Everyone at the bar continued to look, too. We examined our alcoholic choices and eventually decided, for some reason, on the smallest bottle of Captain Morgan's. Then something happened that actually made us feel better.

Some young guy and his girlfriend or wife came in and the guy was dressed even better than us! "Do you all have an ATM?" he asked politely.

"ATO?" the old man replied, genuinely confused. The old man looked back at his liquor selection, searching for anything with the letters ATO on it. He turned back around and just looked more confused. The young man who was dressed better than us left, terrified, I think. We left with our Captain's and went back to the resort to get some writing done, laughing every few minutes about the goings-on at The Black Cat.

Jordan and Shawn had had enough, but Drew and I were just getting started. The writer’s retreat was technically over, but Drew and I decided to extend it for ourselves a little bit. We drove around for a long time, not doing anything, but eventually stopped and got fucked up. I think it was around this time that my knee started hurting. It was my bad knee – but it usually only acted up to warn me of bad weather, as if I were an old man – this time it felt different, though. I ignored it and we kept drinking.

At some point along the way, we picked a guy up – not for sex or anything, although he did bring the subject up. The way it went down is still sketchy. I remember stopping at a gas station to use the bathroom and I ran into a girl I used to know, but couldn’t place her. I didn't even remember her name, but she was drunk as hell. The next thing I knew, her hands were all over me. I hung around for a few minutes and asked her what she had been up to, but she only answered with her hands. After a brief make-out session in a corner of the gas station, I told her I would see her around. I walked out to the parking lot to find Drew, revving up his truck, with some strange man in the back of it.

He had long gray hair, but was balding on top. He had a scruffy little beard, too. He introduced himself as the "former drummer of Motley Crue," and pointed down at his shiny new guitar. This man was obviously stoned. Drew told me we were giving him a ride to his motel, which was just down the street. I went along with it. Drew took off with Nirvana blaring.

I started drinking 14 hours earlier. I almost got a tattoo. I had been felt up by a former acquaintance whose name I couldn’t remember. I was just about ready for anything life could throw my way. Then the former drummer for Motley Crue screamed from the back that we had to stop by a strip joint along the way so that he could get some money that a friend owed him. "Free blowjobs all around tonight, guys!"

He told us to swing by another gas station so he could run in and pick up a 40. We did it and he ran in, while we waited in the car with his guitar in the backseat. Drew and I seriously thought about just driving off with that guitar and his packs of drugs in tow. "Free blowjobs all around tonight!" he yelled again, coming back out of the gas station. An older couple turned around to see who he was talking to.

The former drummer from Motley Crue directed us to the strip joint, which was in one of the sleazier parts of the area. In Kentucky, there are three tiers of strip clubs. At the top, you have your expensive, "classy" gentlemen’s club where the ladies won’t take anything but their tops off. Private dances are hands-off and often bouncers search men for weapons and require them to take items like keys out of their pockets to protect the women. The second tier is a little shadier. These are the all-nude clubs where the women aren’t as strict about those private dances and depending on who you’re with, you can sometimes get pretty friendly and let your hands do the talking. At the bottom of the three tiers are the whorehouses of Kentucky, disguised as strip clubs, and it was to one of these whorehouses that the former drummer of Motley Crue took us. "Get out, boys," he said, "and get ready for action!"

Drunk off our asses, all three of us approached the building, which was gray and looked more like an abandoned warehouse except for the one big neon sign over the door. Upon entering, we were asked for our IDs by the bouncer, until he recognized drummer boy, and then we were all ushered in. The place lit up with excitement as this guy introduced us to various strippers, bartenders, and bouncers.

I began drinking and took a seat at one of the tables. I decided to stay away from the main stage area, where an attractive young woman was dancing. I just wanted to watch, collect my thoughts, and enjoy my drink. Drew talked with whomever drummer boy was introducing him to. He occasionally looked over at me and gave me a nod or a thumbs up to let me know he was enjoying the "atmosphere."

The place was dark and pretty small. Hip-hop songs blared and a new stripper took the stage. I liked this one better than the one who exited. She had long, curly, blond hair and a skinny body. Only a few guys were at the bar and didn’t seem very interested in her. She noticed me as soon as she started dancing to Rage Against The Machine’s "Killing In The Name," which I had just decided was my favorite stripper song. I had never seen a dancer move so quickly to such a heavy song. She knew what she was doing and this excited me. Drew had found himself a girl and appeared to be buying a date. I had already lost track of the Motley Crue guy. In fact, I would never see him again. I assume he found a date, too, or found that guy who owed him money. Maybe there were some complications with the transaction.

I just realized that it was my first time in a strip joint as a divorced man. I looked down at my wedding ring and decided it was probably finally appropriate to take it off. Twisting it off, I thought of Michelle, and the times I would play around with it when I was playing around with her. I put the ring in my pants pocket and tried to forget about the whole situation. That would prove difficult, though. The dancer and I kept making eye contact from across the dark room. That helped me forget a little bit. Another stripper came over to me and asked me my name. "George," I said, looking back up at the stage, making it obvious I wasn’t interested in her.

"Come here often?"

"Nope," I said. "First time." She sat in silence as I watched the stage and the stripper rock out to Rage. Every now and then I would sip from my drink.

"Do you like it here so far?" she asked. Again, I noticed my aching knee.

"It’s okay," I said. I took one long swig and excused myself to get another drink. I kept eyeing the girl on stage as she wrapped her body around the pole and occasionally put her ass in the faces of the few guys sitting in front of her, hoping for a dollar’s reward. I ordered my next drink and waited. She saw me at the bar and motioned for me to come up to the stage. I knew what she wanted, as I had been to strip clubs a few times in my day. I got a five-dollar-bill out of my pocket and went up to her. She rubbed her breasts on my face and I gently placed the bill between them when she was finished. Then she kissed my cheek.

"What’s your name?"

"George," I said.

"I’m Anastasia," she said. "Maybe I’ll come see you after I get done up here." I shook my head in agreement.

I went to get my drink from the bar and sat back down at my table. The other stripper had left. I think she got the point. My knee was throbbing harder now. I was hoping the alcohol would have helped, but I was beginning to wonder if something wasn’t really wrong. I tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on Anastasia. After her third dance, she put her skimpy outfit back on and immediately came down to visit me.

"So what’d you think?" she asked, exhausted.

"Nice," I said. "Very nice."

"You’re not from around here are you?"

"Not these parts, nope."

"How’d you find out about us?" she asked, touching my throbbing knee.

"My friend, the drummer–" I began. She acted like she just won the lottery. Her eyes lit up and she got all excited that I knew this guy. She went on and on about how great he was and how far back they went.

"So you wanna get drunk and have a little fun?" she asked, her crystal clear blue eyes penetrating me.

"I’m already drunk, but I’m always up for getting drunker," I said. "And I’d love to have some fun." Then I kissed her neck, searched her face for approval, and found it. She went up to the bar to get us some shots. She leaned over before she left to whisper something in my ear, her sweat-drenched hair falling all over me. "By the way, my real name is Katie." I didn’t know whether to feel dirty or special after she gave away her stage-name.

She brought back shots of tequila and we quickly downed them. We repeated this process four times as she told me about her travels to California, New York, Florida, and other big spots around the U.S. for "adult entertainment" purposes. We both thought it was funny that she ended up in a hellhole like this in Kentucky. I didn’t tell her one single word of truth about me, even though she seemed curious. I told her I was unemployed and from out of town. The way I’d been living that wasn’t too far from the truth. I’d already forgotten about Drew and wasn’t concerned about him blowing my cover. It just didn’t seem safe to tell her who I was and what I did. I didn’t want her to know too much about me. I didn’t want her to know I had tons of money. I didn’t want her to know I was a best-selling author.

Barely able to stand after four shots of tequila and hours of drinking other substances all day long, we agreed to go to a private area of the club for "a little R&R." Since I knew drummer boy, everything was on the house.

The private rooms were fuck rooms and they didn’t have doors. Other sessions were going on as I walked back the even-darker hallway to our rooms. Katie told me to have a seat and I could barely see what she was pointing to. I eventually made out a couch. "You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?" she asked.

"Not at all," I said, my speech most likely a bit slurred, my knee killing me. Ironically, that was the only part of my body I could feel. It suddenly struck me that I might need to be a little concerned about that for more than one reason considering what we were about to do.

Katie smoked, but she didn’t smoke a cigarette. After she lit up, I smelled the distinct aroma of marijuana. She passed the joint to me, and I thought, why the fuck not, and took a long hit before passing it back to her.

"You all set, baby?" she asked.

"Of course," I said, thinking to myself that maybe the weed would make the pain in my knee stop, in the back of my mind, praying to everything holy that I would have some kind of erection when she unzipped my pants. The music booming in the next room, the sex going on in the rooms around me – it was all penetrating. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and she began dancing for me, rubbing her body against mine, perhaps in an effort to get me going again, as we had been just conversing for too long now. Every time she rubbed her knee or arm or ass or chin against my knee, I felt like crying out in pain. Nothing seemed to be making it better and the dance seemed to be making it worse. Somehow through this intense pain, I was still turned on by Katie, as she was a very attractive woman, and I took it upon myself to see if she found me attractive – and she did.

After she danced for what she obviously assumed to be a sufficient amount of time, she fully disrobed and then did something unexpected: she fully disrobed me. First my shirt, then my belt, pants, underwear, and even my shoes and socks. With a grin, she looked up at me and said, "You know if the cops come, we’re fucked, right?"

I looked down, not grinning, and said, "Hopefully I’ll come before they do." She giggled and told me I was silly. Even though no money was ever exchanged, I knew the cops would never believe it and that they would book us both on prostitution. I can just imagine the family intervention on that one.

Now that my pants were off and she had her head between my legs, I could see my knee for the first time. It looked two or three times its normal size. I didn’t know if this was the weed talking me into believing this or not, but I was a bit concerned. I felt hot and didn’t think it was just the blowjob, although that was part of it.

She put the condom on me and fucking commenced.

While I was in extreme physical pain, I felt nothing emotional, and realized that my life had changed. I was no longer a human being, not the one I used to be, and not the one I respected at some earlier point. At least when I stepped out on my wife with another woman, I felt bad about it. I cried about it. I begged for forgiveness. This time, I was glad to be doing what I was doing, and I was enjoying this new life. I was glad to be enjoying the benefits of a prostitute for free because I rode into town with a fucked up semi-famous drummer.

I had never felt so empty, and I have to admit, it was a relief. It was like I had drank enough and done enough wrong to finally wipe out any and all emotions within me. After a long kiss, I looked around and saw that the red lights were beginning to blur. I felt dizzy and I think it was beginning to show.

"Are you okay, baby?" she asked. I was surprised she hadn’t asked before.

"I’m okay," I said. "Keep going."

And that’s the last thing I remember saying to Katie.

The next thing I knew I was on the ground of the fuck room, looking up at bright lights. Two guys dressed in blue uniforms were doing something to me. "Who are you?" I asked. "We’re from the EMS," they said. "You passed out and you need to get to the hospital." I just lied there, thinking, and feeling sick. My knee felt like it was on fire. Then I saw what I had feared most: a cop walk into the fuck room. I don’t know who called them, but I had the feeling I just got busted. I assumed Drew was already in jail.

"Can I talk to him?" the cop asked one of the EMS workers while looking at me.

The worker looked at me and then back up at the cop. "I think we need to get him to the hospital first," he said. "His BP’s dropping and he keeps going on about his knee."

"What’s wrong with it?"

"We won’t know until we can get these jeans off." Then I realized I was clothed again. The stripper must have put my clothes back on before calling the EMS. I didn’t know how the cops fit into this, but I did feel better about being dressed. When they lifted me onto a stretcher, I felt sick to my stomach. The entire place was cleared out and all the lights were on. Only a few people were there, cleaning up, and looking official. I knew better. This place was anything but official.

Somewhere between the ambulance ride and arriving at the hospital, I passed out again. When I woke up in the emergency room, I had IVs going in me.

The ER doctor came into see me after one of the nurses told him I was awake and he introduced himself.

"Feeling any better, George?" he asked.

"A little," I said. "Why did I pass out?"

"It looks like you have a bad staff infection and we’ve traced it back to the knee you’ve been complaining about." He told me I complained about it to the EMS workers while going in and out of consciousness in the ambulance. He gave me instructions on how to take care of it. I didn’t realize how painful it was until he uncovered me and I saw that it was now at least four times its normal size. "We’ve given you medicine that’ll take that swelling down, but you’re going to have to wear a brace and stay on crutches for a few days." I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I explained that I’d always had problems with that knee and that it had been acting up more than usual.

"I suggest taking better general care of yourself, too, George," he said sincerely. "You were near death when you came in and I don’t want to lecture, but much of your pain tonight could have been avoided had you made different choices."

Choices. I felt like I was back at my house, with my friends and family, warning me that something like this was going to happen. I felt like I was riding in a car with Elizabeth, telling me that alcohol was going to get me in trouble someday. And I wanted to be in that car with her. But that I wouldn’t be able to be, ever again. Then I remembered that the police would want to speak to me.

"You had a lot of alcohol in your system tonight and that added to your trauma." Nothing about the police yet. "I’d like you to get some help right away, okay? For the knee. For the alcohol. For everything." I nodded and he started walking away. Then he turned back around and started to speak. "By the way, I saw you on that morning show a couple of weeks ago and I enjoyed your book." Then he left. And I felt weird. No cops. No jail. Just a feeling of getting fucked, in many ways, but also of getting off, again, in many ways. Drew got off, too. He dropped my car off at the hospital and found his own way home. The last thing he ever said to me was, "Man, that shit was fucked up."

I was allowed to leave the next day. My personal belongings were placed next to the telephone in my room – wallet, cell phone, wedding ring. I gathered everything up. I slipped my wedding ring back on and I left, feeling defeated, all over again.

Michelle asked me once if I thought we would still think about each other when we’re old and bitter. She said if we ended up alone for some other reason, like maybe if we got a taste of our own medicine, if we would call each other. Maybe my kids would answer. Or maybe Elizabeth and I would get back together and she would answer and Michelle would have to hang up. 20 years from now, when we’re old and hopefully not too bitter, would it be too late?

Jordan and I were coming back from a reading pretty early one Friday night and we decided to stop off at The Back Door for some drinks. I was still on crutches because of my bad knee. Whenever someone asked me what happened, I was tempted to say, "stripper got me in the knee" or just simply, "prostitution." At The Back Door, I was reminded just how full circle I had come.

The Back Door was the first place I had hung out with Jordan. We had gotten to know each other at one of those very tables. I asked Neil to be the groomsman at my wedding at The Back Door. I had gotten rid of last minute reservations about getting married by talking to Shawn at The Back Door. It was in The Back Door that I first told Michelle how I felt about her at Christmastime. I still can’t even drive past The Back Door without getting a chill and hearing Christmas music, even though it might be in the middle of summer at over 90 degrees.

It was at The Back Door that Shawn tried to make me come to my senses, but I ignored him and kept on inviting my problems in when I thought I was drinking them away. It was there that Elizabeth and I spent our last anniversary, when looking back, she probably would have much rather enjoyed a nice restaurant. It was there that I confessed my sins to perfect strangers – passed out on the table and wouldn’t even come to after Dennis poured an entire cup of ice cold water on my neck.

Yeah, The Back Door is pretty special. Or pretty sad. Or both. Some generic version of this came out in talking to Jordan, after too many drinks. At this point, random flashes of my wedding day came to mind. It really was a wonderful life that day.

Jordan and I were talking about old friends we hadn’t seen in a while. Dennis was one of those friends and his name came up after we talked about Bloomington, a typical topic of drunken conversation among my friends and me. My relationship with Dennis was a bit compromised since Michelle and I had gotten together. Instead of choosing sides, Dennis tried to be everyone’s friend and ended up being no one’s.

"If Dennis called you up and asked you to hang out, would you do it?" Jordan asked. "No," I said. "Too much water under the bridge."

Jordan agreed, when all of a sudden, in walked Dennis, drunk. He was on his cell phone and he spotted us. He hung up on whoever he was talking to and sat down with us. It had been months since we had seen him. We talked for a while and then Jordan left. I told him I would see him real soon and told him I appreciated everything he had done for me. I don’t tell my friends how much I appreciate them too much, but that night, I did. I even called Taylor and Shawn later that night and told them how glad I was that we were such good friends.

I knew I was going to hang out with Dennis after Jordan left that night and I felt bad for saying I wouldn’t, even though I knew people change their minds when they’re in situations they didn’t think they’d be in. Sitting there with Dennis was surreal. Memories of Michelle came flooding back. Our little makeshift dance floor. Our embrace that night. Frank Sinatra. Other memories, too, though. Shooting pool with Elizabeth. Having a good time with my friends. Dennis talked about his situation since we’d seen each other last. He and Michelle and Paul never spoke anymore. I could tell he blamed me for a lot of that. I can’t say I blame him too much. I apologized to him that night, for whatever it was worth. We did some shots. I decided to play some songs that were sentimental. I think Dennis was starting to pick up on some of the lyrics and he asked me a question.

"George, are you in love with Michelle or Elizabeth?"

I thought long and hard before I answered. Long and hard.

I used to think I was a really happy drunk. One of those drunks that just giggled a lot. I used to think I went out and made people laugh. The more booze I consumed, the more people smiled, laughed, and liked to be around me. Then one day it hit me: people were smiling out of sympathy. People were laughing at me. People hated being around me. At some point in every alcoholic’s career, there comes a breaking point, I’m convinced. Mine came when Elizabeth had left me.

I deserved it. In our time together, I was never at home. Some of that was because of writing and book stuff, but most of it wasn’t. I wonder now how much of the book stuff was an excuse to leave home and drink. And as I try to recover, I look forward to seeing how different my career as a writer will be when I eliminate alcohol from it.

And it was a big part of it. I spent all of our money on alcohol. I even passed out into bed so hard once that the bed collapsed beneath us. All I could do was say, "Shit. Sorry." I even cheated on her with Michelle. It’s amazing sometimes to think just how long we lasted and then I remember something Elizabeth told me once: It’s because I love you so much and I always will, no matter what happens.

Sitting in the AA meeting, surrounded by men and women like me, I thought of Michelle and Elizabeth. Then I remembered the question that Dennis asked me. Was I in love with Michelle or Elizabeth?

And again, now trying to recover, I thought long and hard.