The Buy Side (30 page)

I can’t live like this anymore.

I never had a friend try to commit suicide. A pipe never burst in my apartment—it was a leak. Jenn had a miscarriage, but it was two weeks before I called in sick. I’ve been sick almost once a week, but not the kind of sick I tell work about. I’ve been doing cocaine four nights a week. I tell Jenn I have business dinners and then rent hotel rooms to snort cocaine by myself. I tell my friends I’m busy with work dinners. I tell Wall Street friends I’m busy being a father at home. I thought
I was going to be able to stop when Jenn told me she was pregnant. Then I knew I would stop when my daughter was born. But when Jenn and Lola fall asleep, I tiptoe out to the computer and watch porn and snort coke all night. I can’t stop. Just one more line.

I’m so fucked. How’d I let it go this far? I knew I should have never taken the dealer’s phone number two years ago. I’m so fucked. Just one more movie and one more line and then I’m going to flush it. I’ll call work and tell them I’m still at the hospital and I’ll text Jenn and let her know I’m okay. Just one more line. Just one more. Check the peephole. One more line. Check the peephole. One more line. Check the peephole.

I grab my phone. I have three texts from Jenn and two emails from Krishen. Jenn is worried.
Where are you? What’s happening? Are you okay? People keep calling here
. Krishen’s emails are less concerned:
You’ve been too disruptive this year. We need to talk, call me
. And then:
You need to come in on Monday. We need to talk
.

I look up at the clock: 2:30 p.m. Porn is still playing. I’ve rented more than twenty movies. There’s one more line of cocaine left. I hear a voice. I know it’s coming from inside my head, but I can hear it.
This is the last line of cocaine you ever have to do
, it says. My entire body shakes. This is it. This is my last line.

I’m so fucked.

THREE HOURS
after I leave the Rivington Hotel, I’m standing outside my apartment. I have my phone, credit cards, and my license—nothing else besides the clothes on my back. I see myself in the window of the coffee shop. I look exactly like what I am: homeless. Shortly after, Ethan and Jason pull up in a cab. They wear worried expressions and approach me with hesitation. “Man, are you okay?” Ethan says. I crawl into the back of the taxi. We’re going to Jason’s because Ethan lives in a studio in Brooklyn with his girlfriend now and Jason has a one-bedroom apartment. I spend the night on his couch and dial Jenn the next morning. I’m not sure she’ll even take my call.

After the fake mugging and my hotel stay, I walked into our apartment filled with a mixture of anxiety and hope. I’d been struck, if you believe in such things, by something akin to divine inspiration—by the belief that I was on a path to freedom from my addiction. And the first thing I needed to do was admit what I’d done. I knew it would
hurt, but I reasoned it was just like pulling off a Band-Aid. Just pull it, I told myself. I told Jenn everything, at least as it concerned my cocaine use. And I promised her I’d fix what I’d broken. I begged her to stand by me.

I could see her putting the puzzle pieces together in her head. Things started to make sense. The countless sleepless nights, the manic behavior in the apartment, the continual business dinners, and the constant sick days from work started formulating a perfect picture in her thoughts. But I couldn’t explain to her why I kept doing it. I wish I knew. The only thing I know is that it starts with a belief the morning after that I’ll never do it again. Then later in the day it’s a confidence that I’ll control it next time. Finally, it comes in the form of a seven-year-old’s anticipation on Christmas. I
have
to have it.

She was more upset than shocked. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I thought I hid my actions well—addicts always think that. But she’d lived the torment I’d caused. She wiped the tears from her face, which then took on a defiant expression. “I just have one question for you,” she said. “A month ago when I had to go to Atlantic City with my mom …” Please don’t ask, I said to myself. Please don’t. “When you were watching Lola alone on Friday night and could barely speak on Saturday?” Her eyes burned with accusations. “Were you?”

I searched for an excuse, but I had no answer. My head hung as I stared at a spot on the floor in front of me. She grabbed her cigarettes and phone and left. “Get the fuck out” is the last thing she said to me.

On Saturday when I call from Jason’s, Jenn answers the phone. I tell her I’m going to rehab. It’s a holistic place in Tucson called Cottonwood, I say. The anger from the day before is gone from her voice and is replaced by a kind of detachment. She tells me she’s not sure if she and Lola will be there when I return from Arizona.

I spend the rest of the morning making my confessions over the
phone. When my mother hears the word “cocaine,” she chokes on her words. I’m worried she won’t be able to sleep. When my father comes on the line, he wishes me luck, as if I’m going off to college for the first time. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you,” he says. To a person, my non–Wall Street friends are shocked. One by one, I hear the same response: “You do cocaine?” None of them knew, but, having witnessed at least some of my odd behavior and unreliability, all of them suspected something was wrong.

The first call I make to my Wall Street world is Uncle Tucker. He’s heard this type of story before but had no idea it was happening to me. He offers his assistance and compassion. Then I call Gus and Randy, both of whom seem upset. I’m not sure if they feel responsible, worried, or just mad that they’ve lost their best account. I call a few more Wall Street people and they all tell me not to tell anyone else. Keep it to yourself, they say. I can’t do that. There’s one place I must tell.

That Monday is an unusually warm fall day. I stand on the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Park Avenue. As the New York City swarm passes, I tilt my head skyward and let the sun’s rays warm my face, like a kid on a sun-dappled playground. Drugs and alcohol have hollowed me out, but in the sun’s warmth I’m almost whole again. I want this feeling to last forever, and I promise myself I’ll never forget this moment of hope and light. It’s exactly then that a guy talking on his cell phone slams into my shoulder and knocks the files I’m holding all over the sidewalk. “This isn’t the beach, asshole,” he says over his shoulder, without breaking stride. I gather my things and head into my office building.

The office is somber. I don’t know whether my coworkers are more embarrassed or sad. Whatever eye contact exists is brief, and a few glances even feel chilly. Might be me. I’m not exactly filled with
confidence right now. Regardless of the emotion, the moment is real. I walk into the conference room to see Don, our CFO, seated with Rich and Krishen at the table. The murmur I heard at the door quiets to an uncomfortable silence. I stand there with my hands in my pockets; I catch myself looking down at my shoes. I hadn’t realized how dirty they are. The eye contact in the room is not much better than that outside. My gaze settles on a spot on the wall somewhere over Krishen’s head, as if I’m searching the horizon. “I want to thank you for everything you guys have done for me,” I say, peeking down at their reactions. It might not be my finest moment, but my words come from my heart. I tell them I know I caused them pain and brought chaos into the office. I tell them I’m truly sorry. I thought I had it under control. “I have a problem,” I say. “And I need help.” I tell them I’m checking into a rehab out in Arizona. “I fly out tomorrow.”

Each one at the table is looking directly at me. “So the best thing for me to do, for everyone concerned,” I say, measuring the moment, “is to resign. Effective immediately.”

With those words, the tension on both sides of the table evaporates. I’m the elephant and I’m no longer going to be in the room. It’s over. Now they don’t have to fire me. Each of them has their say. I can hear the words coming out of their mouths, but they tumble over me like rapids over rocks. My face is burning and there’s ringing in my ears. I know they’re honestly worried about me. And I believe they truly want what’s best for me. But I also know that as soon as I walk out of the office, they’ll let out a collective sigh of relief.

Tuesday morning I’m alone with Lola on the bed in the master bedroom. I ask her if she knows how much I love her. She nods yes. I tell her I’m going to go away to try to make myself better, and ask if that’s okay. Once again, she nods yes. Though it’s impossible that she
can fully understand what I’m saying, there’s a glint in the depths of her eyes that assures me she does. “I love you and Mama more than anything in the whole world,” I say. I hold her hand as she bounces on the bed. “I just want to go away and have them fix me so I can be a better daddy.” Lola giggles, gives me a big smile, and reaches out to touch my nose. A feeling of happiness wells up inside of me. The feeling is almost overwhelming. And yet I don’t cry. I’m numb still from years of drug use. All of a sudden I realize how fragile my life is, how easily drugs can obliterate my love for my daughter.
Breathe
, I tell myself.
Just breathe
. I hold Lola like I never want to let go. I hold her like that until she falls asleep in my arms.

The plane touches down in Tucson early in the afternoon. It’s hot and dry. I’m dying for a smoke, but I need to pee first. I head to the bathroom in the airport, where I get a glimpse of myself. I still look like hell. My call to Jenn goes directly to voice mail. I walk over to the baggage claim and wait for my bags. When they finally come around the conveyor belt, I grab them, drag them outside, and immediately light up a cigarette followed by another. Midway through my third, an older gent with a weathered face the color and texture of a leather saddle approaches. He’s been out in the sun a bit too long, I think. Like maybe ten years too long. He carries a sign that reads
MR. TURNEY
.

“Turney is my first name,” I say by way of introduction.

“Bill’s mine,” he says as he reaches for my bags.

“I got ’em,” I say. I must look weaker than I thought. Bill and I walk across the airport parking lot to a maroon van. It’s about a thirty-minute drive to the facility. I spend the first part just looking out the window at the sights, the usual just-outside-the-airport urban sprawl of highway cloverleafs and chain stores. I can’t believe I’m going to rehab.

“What’s your drug of choice?” Bill asks, breaking the silence.

“Cocaine and alcohol, I guess. Do you work for the rehab?”

“I’m retired but I work for the center a few days a week doing whatever they need. I like to be around it. It helps me remember why I can’t drink today.”

“How long’s it been?” I ask.

“Clean?” he says with a smile. “Twenty-two wonderful years.”

I want to believe him, but I don’t.

“It goes by, son,” he says with a chuckle. Bill has a nice way about him. I like him already. “But it’s just one day at a time.”

I still like him, despite the cliché. The van stops at a red light.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” he says, “but do you want me to stop so you can load up on cigarettes before you enter?”

With cigarettes bulging from every pocket, I feel like I’m wearing a bulletproof vest. The van pulls up in front of iron gates with a security booth. Bill waves at the guard and flashes his ID. Once we clear the first gate, there’s another with more security.

“Okay, this is the end of the road for me,” Bill says. “You might want to make any last-minute phone calls before entering, but I can’t leave until I see you walk past the gate.”

I call Jenn, but her phone again goes to voice mail. The land surrounding the center is beautiful: the mossy green and golds of sagebrush, the rust-colored cacti, some ten, twelve feet high, and the purple hue of the Santa Catalina Mountains in the distance. I walk in, and as Bill pulls away, I’m overcome with loneliness.

After intake, I’m shown to my room. Small, with four single beds, but three already have stuff on them, and a tiny bath—it’s not exactly a suite at the Four Seasons. But it’s not a bunk at the Bowery Mission, either. As these things go, I would imagine this clinic is high-end. It has a chef, a swimming pool, and yoga classes. The complex reminds me of a small college campus. There are multiple buildings attached
by manicured walkways. I’m here to make 4.0. As soon as I drop my bags, I’m off to find the therapist assigned to me. I’m anxious to get started on getting better.

I’m two weeks into my stay before I finally get Jenn on the phone. With the time change and the center’s restrictions on phone calls, I’d only been able to leave voice mails. I call from out on the patio. It’s a beautiful desert early evening. “Hey,” she says flatly.

“Hey, how you doing?” With fourteen days clean and dry, I have that just-sober,
Isn’t everything wonderful?
glow that can be extremely annoying to people in the real world. I prattle on about how great I feel and the amazing classes I’m taking and the cool and sage counselors I’ve met. I tell her I’ve shaved my head. “I feel like I’m getting myself back, Jenn,” I say. “I’m learning how to live again.” There’s a beat of a second or two of silence before she answers.