Sick City (2 page)
Dr. Mike adjusted his tie, fiddled with his cufflinks, and stared at his reflection one last time. There was a soft knock, and the door opened. A small, apologetic-looking man popped his shiny head through the door and said, “Dr. Mike? You're up in five.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Dr. Mike returned for a moment to his own reflection. He smoothed his gray temples. Then, as if remembering something important, he looked back at the bald man and smiled at him. The man seemed momentarily stunned to be caught in the glare of that smile. That all-white, dazzling smile had been shining from billboards, televisions, magazine covers, and computer screens with relentless regularity recently. Then, snapping out of his awe-induced silence, he stammered something about the good work the doctor was doing and quickly backed out of the room.
· · ·
Dr. Mike looked at his watch. It was six fifteen a.m. On the green room's coffee table was the morning paper, with the headline
DEAN THE DOPER: CORONER SUSPECTS OD IN MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF DEAN MICHAELS
. Dr. Mike had read the paper in preparation for the interview. He was quietly taken aback by the timing of the young actor's death. A week before the new season of
Detoxing America
was due to air, Dr. Mike had ended up booked on every major network to speculate on the possible causes of the mysterious tragedy. And on every spot, he managed to turn the subject back around to his new reality show. Dr. Mike's manager had been particularly happy with his seasoned dexterity.
“You should call a wing of your new house the Dean Michaels Wing,” he laughed.
Maybe I should hang the poor fucker's headshot in my guest bathroom,
Dr. Mike thought. He laughed and said, “Maybe I'll do that. Maybe I'll do that.”
Under the glare of studio lights, a pretty Asian girl patted Dr. Mike's face with a final layer of powder.
“Uh, Dr. Mike?” she half whispered.
The doctor puckered his mouth in annoyance and opened his eyes.
“Yes?”
“My name is Lai. I, uh, just wanted to say what a big fan I am. And, uh, I have a brother. He's an addict. I was just wondering if you had any advice. . . .”
Dr. Mike's eyes traveled down from her face, to her throat, and rested on her breasts, which dangled half an inch from his arm. The smell of her perfume. He cleared his throat. He smiled at her.
“Would you like an autograph?”
The girl smiled back.
“Oh . . . oh, sure . . . I have a pen . . .”
“No . . . not now. I need to prepare. When I'm done. Uh, well, I have this thing to do. Afterward. What time do you . . .
get off
?”
“Wellâaround noon, usually . . .”
“Would you like to meet for lunch? I'll be in the area around noon. I could . . . pick you up. Then we could . . . talk. About your brother.”
She finished powdering his face, slightly breathless.
“Oh. I'd be . . . that would be great. I mean, are you sure?”
Dr. Mike brought out the smile. The girl felt herself get light in the belly, the sudden giddy lurch of vertigo.
“I'm sure.”
He handed her a card, and she took it quickly. She slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans without anybody else seeing.
“Call me at noon,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
He watched her walk away.
“Dr. Mike! It's a pleasure!”
Dr. Mike turned. He found himself looking at the glowing, healthy face of Matthew Bower. This was the second time he had met the
Good Morning
show host, but it would be their first on-camera encounter. Bower had eased into baldness with the same quiet dignity that Dr. Mike had eased into premature grayness. Both men together represented the ultimate sexual fantasy of a large portion of American females over the age of forty. They talked with a combination of an
“I'm a man in charge of my life”
friendly insincerity and a “
don't fuck with me
” professionalism.
“I wish we could be meeting under happier circumstances,” Dr. Mike said, solemnly.
“True. It's a sad day. A very sad story all around. I really feel for his family.”
“The disease of addiction is a chronic and incurable one.”
When talking about addiction, Dr. Mike had a number of stock phrasesâmostly bastardized or lifted outright from the
Big Book
of Alcoholics Anonymousâa book that he liked to use more for its “profile” than its content. Using the book like a preacher uses the Bible, he scoured it for key phrases, nuggets of wisdom, and platitudes to advance his own theories. While talking about the death of Dean Michaels to interviewers and reporters these past few days, Dr. Mike would sometimes zone out completely. He could not talk about the specifics of the Michaels case, as the young actor was not his patient. But each and every question could be answered by using a profoundly ambiguous phrase like: “For the addict, one pill, one line, one drink is too many . . . paradoxically, one thousand are never enough.” The only time Dr. Mike really came alive was when he sensed it was the right moment to promote his show,
Detoxing America
. But even here there were stock phrases: “Revolutionary television,” “Entertainment that educates,” “The reality show that saves lives,” and of course the advertising tagline: “America is SICK. But the DOCTOR is IN.”
· · ·
“Well,” Bower was saying, “there'll be nothing hardball today . . . I know that you can't comment on the specifics of the case. Maybe I can talk to you about how crazy young Hollywood is acting these days, with the Lindsays and the Britneys . . .”
“Sure, sure . . .”
“Other than thatâ”
“GENTLEMEN! TWO MINUTES!”
“Well,” Dr. Mike said apologetically, “it looks like we're up!”
“Good luck.”
Bower sat down. The pretty girl again appeared at his side and began to powder him. As she bent slightly, she became aware of Dr. Mike's gaze on her. She half turned to him, smiled, and then scurried away.
“In four . . . three. Two. One.”
It was showtime.
And in households across America, Dr. Mike's brilliant smile flashed in instantaneous transmission: it shone out indiscriminately from gargantuan flat-screen televisions mounted on the walls of monstrous Beverly Hills homes, battered black-and-white portables sitting atop ancient chests of drawers, color televisions glowing in dark bars where already a smattering of shaky, early-morning drinkers were waiting for their nerves to settle down.
“ . . . so Dr. Mike, with the myriad perils you have mentioned in the world of celebrity . . . the, uh, easy access to drugs. The adoration. The pressure. I mean, what advice would you GIVE to someone like Britney Spears, who does seem to be having some very serious difficulties at the moment?”
· · ·
“Well, Matthew,” Dr. Mike said, leaning in, “in many ways you are touching upon something that makes my new show,
Detoxing America
, a revolutionary television event. Because what we are showing here is that there is NO difference between a celebrity who suffers from this terrible disease and the millions of ordinary Americans who struggle with addiction every day. I have made it my MISSION to bring recovery to those who cannot access it any other way. If you want my advice to Britney, I can give it to her right here and now.”
Dr. Mike turned to the screen, and looked seriously through it. Across America people quieted down, sensing that something important was about to fall from the doctor's lips. Beers froze, hovering inches from the mouths of the drinkers.
“Britney. The new episode of
Detoxing America
goes out on VH1 at ten o'clock on Thursday evening. It is repeated on Fridays and Tuesdays. We have a full roster of recovering celebrities for this season, but next time I would be honored to have you as a guest. For now, like everybody else, just watch, and listen. Open your heart. Let go, and let God. Please don't shy away from the miracle of recovery.”
Dr. Mike's eyes were glistening. They shone with the kind of sincerity that only comes with years of practice. And then it came, like the first rays of dawn bleeding across the horizon: the smile. It radiated from five million or so television screens in awesome synchronization, before reluctantly segueing into an advertisement for antidepressants.
Jeffrey made it to Tyler's place around three o'clock. So much for his resolution to stay away. It was a spacious, two-bedroom apartment on Franklin and Vermont. Outside the building a row of tall, raggedy palm trees rose up into the mercilessly bright skies like a parade of malnourished crack whores. He rang the bell, and Tyler buzzed him in. Tyler was on the ground floor. The door was unlocked.
“Oh, come ON, T! I NEED something . . . !”
Jeffrey could hear Trina's nauseating whine floating through the door. He knew this scene already. He opened the door.
“Tyler, what's up?”
Jeffrey walked into the dim cool of the apartment. He dragged the suitcase behind him. The wheels rattled against the polished hardwood floors. The living room was sparse, just an empty bookshelf, coffee table, leather couch, and flat-screen television. Trina and Tyler were on the couch. Tyler was stoned, regarding Jeffrey blankly through a haze of gray marijuana smoke. Trina was nervously crossing and uncrossing her legs, clacking her absurd high heels against the wooden floor. She was smoking a cigarette. The television was on. The television was always on.
“Hey, bitch,” Tyler said to Jeffrey, “what's with the case? You moving in?”
Jeffrey closed the door behind him.
“Can I hang out today? I'm checking into rehab tomorrow. I need a place to stay until a bed becomes free.”
Tyler cocked his thumb at Trina.
“You wanna take this cunt with you?”
“Hey, FUCK YOU, T!” Trina snarled.
“What's up, Trina?” Jeffrey said.
“What's UP,” Tyler sighed, “is that little Miss Silicone here thinks she can blow all of her cash on titty jobs, and then come here begging for freebies!”
Ah,
thought Jeffrey. New titties. So
that's
what's different about her. She had gone for that classic '80s porn star look, and now her painful, shiny-looking tits were pointing straight out from her ribs, making her waist seem even more ridiculously tiny. Trina's pockmarked face darkened.
“It was a work-related expense! I need these for my career!”
“Oh,” Tyler sneered, “dancing at Crazy Girls is a
CAREER
now! Who knew?”
Jeffrey walked over to her. “They look good,” he said.
“Thanks! Wanna feel?”
Trina popped a swollen breast out of her top and presented it to Jeffrey.
“Gurl . . .” Tyler laughed, rolling his eyes.
Jeffrey gave the absurd breast a squeeze. It seemed ready to burst. The nipple stood out a good inch from the breast, in a state of permanent, numb excitement.
“Feels really . . .
big
.”
“Thanks! So I was just explaining to Scrooge here that I need some Oxy for work. It's my first day back. I'm out of refills and I'm getting sick. I had to take three weeks off to recover, you know. . . .”
Jeffrey joined them on the couch.
“I get off at eleven p.m.! I'll pay you then!”
“I don't do loans, Trina. If I front you today, I'll have every one of those pill-popping bitches from the club hanging out here with their hands out. It's bad business!”
Trina pouted. “I won't tell.”
“Trina, hon, you got a big mouth. The answer's no.”
“Just TWO!”
“No. Come back with some money and we can talk.”
Trina looked at Jeffrey. “Hey, can you lend me eighty bucks until tonight?”
“I'm flat broke,” Jeffrey lied. “Sorry.”
“Okay, okay,” Trina sighed, as if Tyler had just negotiated a major concession from her. “I'll fuck you. But I want four pills to fuck you.”
There was a moment of silence. Tyler looked at Jeffrey. Then they both burst out laughing.
“What? WHAT?” she whined.
“Girl, are you smoking crack?” Tyler demanded. “You ain't got the right equipment for me! You'd better go see that surgeon again if you wanna fuck me!”
“What? What's so funny? You've fucked me before! Shit, a hole's a hole. You said it yourself!”
Tyler rolled his eyes. “I was on METH, hon. World of difference.”
“I have some meth,” Trina said, quietly.
Jeffrey watched the television for a moment and quickly remembered why he didn't own a set himself. Trina had finally gotten a break.
“Okay, Christ. Lemme have some ice.”
Trina handed him a small baggie containing a dirty gray powder. Tyler dipped his knife into it and paused with the tip inches from his nose.
“Two pills,” he warned her. “This is a sympathy fuck. Two pills, okay?”
“Shit, okay.”
Tyler hoovered up the meth.
“You wanna watch TV for a bit, Jeffrey? We won't be long. . . .”
“Okay.”
Trina got up and
clip-clopped
to the bedroom. Tyler turned to Jeffrey and whispered, “This is the LAST time. This bitch is driving me crazy!”
Later, Jeffrey and Tyler were watching
The View
on TiVo. Trina had already left for Crazy Girls, with the OxyContin. Tyler was wearing sweatpants and an ancient, faded “Frankie Says Relax” T-shirt. He was still tweaked and shiny with sweat.
“You know who I'd like to fuck?” Tyler asked.
“Who?”
“That Hasselbeck bitch.”
“Who?”
Tyler pointed to the television. On-screen several unattractive women were talking about the death of a Hollywood actor.
“That one. The little blonde with the mean, pinched face.”
“HER?”
“Yup.”
“You know something? I think you're going straight. I mean, you're banging strippers left and right, and now you wanna fuck . . .
her?”
“Do you watch this show?”
“I don't watch TV.”
“Dude, she's a total bitch. I mean, she's a Republican, stuck up, a real churchgoing cunt. The worst kind of a cunt. She probably has a Bible on her nightstand.”
“Uh . . . right. And?”
“And she's a WOMAN. I mean, I've fucked Republicans before, they're the sickest fucks out there. But she's a Bush-lover, a Christian, a fucking
woman
, you know? I find her, like, so fucking REPULSIVE, I just wanna fuck her. You know what I mean? To, like, teach her a lesson.”
Jeffrey took a pull on Tyler's joint.
“Seriously, bro, I think you need to lay off the meth. It's like fucking up your brain. You should hear the shit you say when you're on it, sometimes. You freak me out.”
“You're so boring, dude.”
“Please . . . welcome the host of
Detoxing America
, Dr. Mike!” said the television.
Applause.
On-screen a studious, gray-haired doctor walked onstage. He waved to the crowd and gave a semi-apologetic “Aw shucks, me?” grin.
· · ·
“I hate this motherfucker, too,” Tyler announced.
“Who's this guy?”
“He's a fucking doctor. Dr.
Mike
âcan ya believe that name? Dr. Mike! He's like he's something off of
Sesame Street
or something. Imagine having a doctor called Dr. fucking Mike? He runs a rehab. He's like Mr. Recovery. Every time I turn on my goddamned TV this fucking clown is on it talking about somebody. Britney, that dead actor, what's-his-face Michaels, anybody. He's such a fucking whore.”
“He has a TV show?”
“Yeah, dumbshit!
Detoxing America
. They get a bunch of washed-up celebrities and put 'em through detox. Only most of 'em don't have a real drug problem. They're just desperate to be on TV. He has that rehab, Clean and Serene, out in Pasadena. The one that Robert Downey was always in. . . .”
“What? What did you say his place was called?”
“Clean and Serene.”
Jeffrey was pulling a piece of paper from his back pocket. He looked at the paper. Tyler watched the television impassively. Dr. Mike was talking about why young Hollywood uses drugs.
“Because drugs feel great!” Tyler shouted at the screen.
“ . . . the addictive personality is certainly encouraged by the excess of Hollywood, which is something that I discuss in detail in my new book,
Narcissism and Narcotics
. . . ,”
Dr Mike was saying.
“Bro, you ain't gonna believe this,” Jeffrey said.
“What?”
“That's the place I'm going to tomorrow. Clean and Serene in Pasadena.”
· · ·
Tyler looked at Jeffrey. He whistled. “For real?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, that's a nice place. Did the old man pay for it?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.”
“That's wild. You'll probably see tons of famous people in there. Can you take pictures?”
“I don't think so.”
“That sucks.”
Jeffrey watched the television for a moment. Dr. Mike was talking about his television show, telling the women of
The View
that
Detoxing America
is reality television that saves lives.
“Wanna smoke some crack?” Jeffrey said.
“Oh, sure. Hey, dude, you should totally fuck Dr. Mike.”
“Yeah, maybe I should . . . ,” said Jeffrey, as he started pulling the coke and the pipe out of his bag.