A Fan's Notes (18 page)

“
Oh, you
won
’
t
,
”
he persisted.
“
Take my word for it. I
’
ve watched you and your big-shot buddies up at the meetings. You
’
re even worse than they are. You think you
’
re better
’
n everybody. You think your duty is to fox everybody, instead of what it should be: to find out what you
’
re doin
’
here. It
’
s only the last couple of days you thought about that,
”
he assured me.
“
Ain
’
t that right?
”

It was, but I couldn
’
t grant it to him (perhaps I didn
’
t understand it then). Desiring to humiliate him in some way, to jeer at him, I said,
“
And you? I suppose
you
will make it!
”

“
Yes, I will,
”
he said. Then he smiled that pain-in-the-ass smile.
“
You know why?
”

“
God knows! Tell me why!
”
I almost shrieked.

At this point he did a ludicrously dramatic, profoundly unsettling thing. Looking slowly over his right shoulder, then over his left—and in either case there was nothing there but blank wall—he brought his head down close to mine and whispered, in the most chillingly solemn tones, and almost choking on the words:

“
I
’
ve discovered what alcoholism is.
”

My first desire was to shriek with laughter, to dismiss him as a madman. But I found that I couldn
’
t. There was something in his demeanor so totally forbi
dding that such laughter would
have seemed sacrilegious. I considered getting rid of him in a friendly way, of saying with an air of facetiousness,
“
If you
’
ve done that, pal, you
’
ve succeeded where a thousand—no, a thousand times a thousand quacks have failed!
”
But I could not even say that, could not say anything finally. I knew, suddenly, that I wanted to hear his solution, to hear what alcoholism was. All Paddy
’
s stay in Avalon Valley had been characterized by that apartness, that singleness of purpose that might indeed reveal him as a man somehow more gifted than other men, a man who might come to truths not given to other men. Paddy knew then, by my silence, that I wanted to hear. Typically, he made me wait—wait for what seemed an infinitely long time. When he finally did speak, I felt like an intelligent fin de siècle priest who, having been given a copy of Darwin, sits now staring at the unopened book, not so much fearing that he won
’
t be able to accept the book
’
s truths, as that the great world, which for so long in his mind has looked one way, will, by his simply turning a book cover, begin to look a new and totally different way.

“
It
’
s sadness.
”

Sadness?

“
Sadness?
”
I exclaimed gleefully.
“
Why, Paddy! You
’
re a goddam drunken Irish poet!
”

I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Paddy did not care. He had told me what he had found on the ceiling, in the smoke rings, and in the furious notes he had taken at the AA meetings. He was off and running now; had I risen and walked away from him, he would have told his story to my empty chair. It was hardly different from any of those we had heard at the meetings, one long grievous history of lying, cheating, and stealing for booze, and in the wake of that story an aggrieved mother and father, a heartbroken wife, neglected children. The thing that impressed me most was that Paddy, in t
he end, turned out to be barely
literate, having no gift for words, and it was this groping search for words that touched me most.

“
I
’
ll never drink again!
”
he said, perfectly exultant.
“
Don
’
t yuh get it? And in that way I
’
ll never cause another
’
s sadness!
”
Then he rose and looked directly at me.
“
And tell me, wise guy—ain
’
t that enough?
”

I rose, too, and looked at him.
“
Whatever you say, Duke,
”
I said glibly. Then I
s
miled. Then I walked away.

I will live my life a lesser man for having done that, for having walked away from him. Despite his arrogant ignorance, Paddy
was
a poet. It was when he was leaving the next day that I discovered this and understood that Paddy had come to a kind of truth, the truth for himself, a truth that to this day will not let me divorce the term
alcoholism
from sadness. I had been in the library, and, having exhausted my cigarettes, had walked back for some to the ward, to notice that it was unusually crowded for that time of day, with men occupying most of the chairs, smoking and shifting uneasily. When I asked what was up, the answer was swiftly curt, even a little fierce
—
”
Big Shit
’
s leavin
’
“
—and I knew that Paddy the Duke
’
s departure from Avalon Valley was going to be like no other departure before or since. _

When other men left, we crowded round and shouted,
“
Good luck, Buddy!
”
and
“
Don
’
t let us see yuh back here
yuh hear
?
”
and
“
Don
’
t let the shits
”
—for that is how the insiders view the outsiders—
”
get yuh down!
”
Those of us who believed, prayed; those of us who wept, wept; and those of us who had begun to wonder if we were ever getting out, died a little. But I could see in the men
’
s faces, in the cold, silent sneers, that this was going to be different, even a little terrible, a backbiting, clawing affair—
”
So long, yuh
prick
!
”
—that kind of furious, unnecessary thing—something I knew I didn
’
t want to watch. But I couldn
’
t bring myself to leave. I would have said,
“
Lo
ok, he
’
s just a crazy Irish bas
tard,
”
if I had thought it would have done any good. But I knew that it wouldn
’
t. Seeing Snow White slouched down in a chair, seemingly indifferent to the proceeding, I walked over, took an empty chair next to him, and lit a cigarette. He didn
’
t speak to me. The cigarette was about half-smoked when there was an audible rustling, all heads were being turned to the back of the ward. Having just emerged from the sleeping room, Paddy was standing there facing us.

There are certain appeals that quite startle and benumb the heart: Hamlet the Dane
’
s
“
Hamlet, remember me
”
to his son; Hester
’
s
“
Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe!
”
to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale; Willie Stark
’
s
“
It might have been all different, Jack… . You got to believe that
”
to Jack Burden; I thought of one such appeal looking at Paddy. I thought of Holden Caulfield
’
s line when his sister Phoebe was riding round and round on the carousel in the rain—
”
God, I wish you could
’
ve been there.
”
The state had given him a neat, black wool topcoat, a cheap though nice-looking brown suit, and a pair of sleek-black, patent-leather shoes. In his right hand he carried a small Gladstone bag, containing, no doubt, the entire viaticum of a life spent badly; still he looked, from that distance where one could not deter-

him, mine the material worth of his outfit, like a man just stepped off a plane at some World Capital, a man bound on a mission of forbidding gravity.

Seeing us, he paused only momentarily—and smiled. Though there was nothing deprecatory in that smile, there was nevertheless a patina of defiance, as though he knew what kind of a farewell we had planned for him and did not care. Now he began the walk by us up the long ward. He walked more slowly than usual, taking those precise, military steps walking by one, then another, of us, much as he had walked,
by us in the cafeteria. Never again would he cast his eyes upon
us. Our breaths suspended momentarily. He went by another,
and still another of us, by the orange and blue chairs, walking by us at the same time that our breaths, in expiration, became as audible as thunder. When he reached the middle of the ward, then passed it, I knew suddenly—knew that no one was going to call after him. I knew because Paddy had the power. Call it
sadness
or whatever, he had used his time among us wisely, he would never inflict pain on another again—and, yes, he was right: he would make it! Paddy was almost at the door now, and we stood behind him, too ashamed of our timidity to look at each other. I suppose there even came a moment (at least there did for me) when we hoped he would look back at us, come back with a tentative wave, the suggestion of a smile, hoped that he would leave us something. But Paddy was indeed a man with a grave mission—that of living without causing pain. Without turning (though he did, I think, pause ever so slightly), he went through the door, out of Avalon Valley and the squalor of our lives. When he was gone, I turned furiously on my heels and fled into the lavatory. I did so, for I, who before going
down the hill
had vowed not to get close to another so as not to experience the hurt of his defeat, ended, ironically, by breaking under another
’
s victory, and I did not want Snow White or those others—lest they misunderstand—to see the tears streaming down my face.

Paddy the Duke was right. I had one more
“
tour of duty
”
to put in at the funny farm. They turned me loose a few days after he left, sometime in the winter months of 1959, but in a little more than a year
’
s time I would be back at Avalon Valley; and I would be a very sick man. Moreover, I would by then be properly humbled and prepared to go back into the past in search of the reasons, prepared, like Paddy, to stare at the ceiling and remember. My biggest problem was where to begin, for I have no doubt that the obstetrician no sooner swats the infant
’
s buttocks in
ducing the hysterical scream of
life than that a certain milieu is prepared and waiting for him, a milieu in which already the shadows and shades exist which will determine whether he goes to Avalon Valley or the White House. I thought finally that I had best begin by filling up those five years between my journey to the Polo Grounds and my arrival at the private hospital. I thought I had best begin in Chicago.