Caught Stealing (2004) (2 page)

First guy I see when I walk out of the hospital I go up to and start talking.

-Did you know, between you and me we only have three kidneys?

He doesn't say anything, just walks around me like I'm not there.

New York, baby, New York.

I've been in the hospital for six days: one unconscious and five conscious. The doctors removed the kidney, which had been nearly ruptured by the two big guys with four small hands and further damaged by my negligence and massive consumption of diuretic liquids. Booze. The kidney was at "four plus" when they took it out. At "five," they simply explode and kill you. I have been told that I should never again consume alcohol in any amount for the rest of my life on pain of death. Likewise no smoking or caffeine. I don't smoke and, like I said, caffeine makes me jittery.

After I blacked out, Dr. Bob called the EMTs and had them take me to Beth Israel. He rode with me in the ambulance and when we arrived he got me past all the emergency room crap and directly into an operating room. He saved my life. One of the doctors told me all of this and when Bob showed up I tried to thank him, but he waved it off in a just-doing-my-job kind of way. Then we get to my feet.

-So, your condition is chronic and brought on by the amount of time you spend on your feet at work.

I'm a bartender. I work a ten-hour shift five nights a week. Sometimes six or seven nights.

-You could buy a lifetime supply of Dr. Scholl's and get your feet massaged every night and it would not help. If you want the pain to go away, you are going to have to get off your feet.

-What if I?-

-Off your feet. You're like a computer worker with carpal tunnel: if you want it to go away, you are going to have to change your work habits forever.

-Wow.

-Yes, wow. Furthermore, the pain in your feet has been exacerbated by poor circulation, which I would say is related to excessive alcohol consumption.

-Wow.

-Yes. So stop drinking. Period.

-Yeah, sounds good.

And that was that. He told me good luck and was on his way out when I asked about the bill.

-When you get a new job and you've paid off your bill here, we'll talk about money.

A great guy.

Booze and my kidney. Booze and my feet. A pattern emerging.

I called the bar and talked to Edwin, the guy who owns the place. I apologized for the lack of notice, but Edwin was cool and just told me not to be a stranger.

Would I have quit if it was just the booze and the kidney? If someone said, "Get away from the booze and the drinking life or you're gonna die," would I have quit? I don't know, but my feet are killing me and that tears it.

I called my folks, made sure they knew I was OK and told them not to come out or expect me to come home to be nursed. Mom cried a little, but I made her laugh in the end, telling her the testicle joke. Dad asked if I needed money and I said no. We talked about Christmas a bit and how long I'd stay when I come out and then I told them I love them and they told me they love me and we hung up and I just fucking stared at the ceiling for a while.

I called one of the other bartenders from work. Her name is Yvonne, we used to see each other quite a bit, still do from time to time. So she's a girl I see from time to time. She's more than that. She's my best friend. But I also see her from time to time. She has a key to my place, so I told her about the cat and she promised to check on it until I got home. She offered to come by the hospital, but I said no. I want to be alone. I need to figure out what the hell I'm gonna do.

So now I'm out. I walk up to the stiff on the street and tell my kidney joke, and then I'm taking a cab home. They wanted me to stay for ten days so they could keep an eye on me and take out my staples before I left, but my lack of a) cash and b) insurance encouraged them to let me go. I'll have the staples out in a few days and just take it easy until then. I have one kidney, I'm being forced to go cold turkey, I have a hospital bill that makes the ten grand I carry in credit card debt look like a bad joke, and I have no job. On the other hand, I pick up a paper and the Giants are on a four-game winning streak and have picked up two on the Mets, who split a four-game stand against the Phillies. I lean back into the cab seat and feel a sharp stab in my former kidney and wonder what the hell was eating those guys who beat the crap out of me.

This is how I got the cat.

The guy's name is Russ and he has this cat. Russ lives in the apartment across the hall from mine and hangs out a bit at Paul's, the place I tend bar. I know him OK and I like him. He's never any trouble and the few times I've had to float him, he's paid his tab right away. He brings me sandwiches at work sometimes. Now, one night, a couple weeks or so back, he's outside my door holding one of those pet carriers and I can smell what's coming. I take my eye away from the peephole and lean my forehead against the door. Russ knocks again. I take another look and he's still there, bouncing up and down on his toes like he has to go. I let the peep snap shut and unlock the door.

Russ has a problem. Russ has a problem and he wouldn't even ask, but he really needs a big favor. Russ's dad is sick. This is true. I know it's true because Russ has mentioned before in the bar that his dad has been sick for a while. The thing is, Russ's dad is dying now and Russ needs to take off for Rochester right away and he can't find anyone to watch the cat and he knows this is a pain, but he really needs help. Can I take the cat for a few days, a week or two at the most?

I'm already half in the bag and I tell him I'm gonna be drunk for a bit and I'm worried about the cat. Russ assures me the cat will be fine. He'll bring me the cat's special feeder that you can fill once every couple days and its litter box and all that. The cat will take care of itself. I say yes. What are you supposed to do? The guy's dad is dying.

Russ hands me the carry box with the cat inside and goes across the hall to get the rest of the gear. I get a beer from the fridge and stare at the box. I had a cat when I was a little kid. I had it for years and one day my mom brought home a stray puppy and a few days later the cat split. Nobody's fault, my mom felt terrible, but I never blamed her. I blamed the fucking cat, first sign of competition and the cat splits. Fickle, cats are fickle. I like dogs.

Russ brings back the feeder, the litter box, the shit scooper, the litter, the food, and a couple cat toys. He offers me money, but I refuse. He thanks me a couple more times and I tell him to take care of his dad and call if he needs anything and he takes off. The carry box is sitting on top of the crate that passes for my coffee table. I'm sitting there on the couch with my beer and I realize that Russ didn't tell me the cat's name. I lean down and look through the thin bars of the carry to get a look at the cat. It's a house cat, a mutt cat. Gray-striped back and head with a white belly and face. Looks to be a boy. He's wearing a collar with a little tag. I put down the beer, unlatch the door and reach in. He comes right out, no fuss. I turn him around so he's facing me and he looks me right in the eye. The tag on the collar is flipped around and I turn it so I can read the name. Bud. I pick up my cold can of Bud while Bud the cat gets comfortable in my lap and flops down and starts to purr.

The days roll by and I don't hear from Russ. And to tell the truth, I just don't mind that much at all.

At home I have a lot of booze to deal with. I could give it to one of my neighbors, but I figure it will be good for me to actually dispose of it. In the fridge I have eighteen cans of Bud, a few bottles of white wine, and a Silver Bullet. In the freezer I find a liter of Beefeater, half-full, and a pint of some Polish buffalo grass vodka, untouched. The cabinet under the sink is the real danger zone. There are bottles of Cutty Sark, Wild Turkey, Cuervo, Myers's, a variety of mixers in various states of undress, and full backups of the bourbon and Scotch. I also have three bottles of a killer Chianti and a tiny bottle of sake someone gave me on my birthday a few years back. I pile everything on the kitchen counter. I start with the beer, pouring it in the sink, but the smell backs up in there and my mouth starts watering, so I change my plan. I take the whole load into the bathroom and start pouring it all into the toilet. It works great and I feel very efficient: instead of drinking all this and pissing it back out, I've cut out the middleman. Bud comes in, props his paws on the toilet seat and takes a look at what I'm doing. He gets splashed with a little rum, shakes it off his snout, and wanders back into the other room. Smart cat.

When I'm done, I throw all the bottles and cans into a blue plastic recycling bag and take it down two flights and out to the curb, where it will sit for God knows how many days before it's picked up. It's a fantastic day at the very beginning of fall. The air is clear, with the slightest chill. I go back in and get the piled-up mail from my box. I go upstairs and sort through all the bills, the advertising and credit card and calling card and insurance card offers, which leaves me with a letter from my mom and a jury duty notice. I empty the cat box. Yvonne filled Bud's food thing and made sure he had plenty of water, but she left the crap for me. That's all right. I take the bag with the kitty litter and junk mail out to the curb and put it next to the blue bag full of empty booze bottles. I wonder if I missed something, if maybe there's still a full can of beer in there or the dregs of that sake. The air is just as cool as it was before, but I break a little sweat. This could be harder than I thought. I go back up, grab the phone, call my dealer and tell him I need some grass. He says he'll be right over.

The days I spent in the hospital got me through the worst of the shakes and nausea of coming off a binge, but I had a little help from the morphine they gave me. Before I checked out, the doctor set me up with a bottle of Vicodin, but I don't like pills, they make me feel stupid. The bag Tim is bringing over should bridge the gap.

Tim is a regular from Paul's. He's a forty-four-year-old jazz head and boozer who got lucky. A few years ago, Tim was a junkie living off welfare and the aluminum cans he picked out of other people's trash. Then he fell into a great job and got himself off junk. The job: deliveryman for a dealer. Every morning, Tim goes to his boss's office, where he and the other delivery guys pick up a list of clients and the product. They handle pot, hash, mushrooms, acid, and coke, and they will deliver to your home or office for no additional fee. Tim wanders all over the city, receiving a per-delivery commission and carefully saving his taxi receipts so he can get reimbursed at the end of the day. He carries a little extra grass so he can make impromptu deals on the side. He will also, in the course of the day, consume at least a fifth of Irish whiskey and some beer. Let's face it, you don't kick junk without filling that hole with something else. Everyone has to figure out a way to get through the day and booze is a very popular strategy. Tim is what we call a functioning alcoholic.

I let him into the apartment and he flops on the couch. Tim was at the bar when I got worked over. He holds his backpack in his lap and looks me over.

-Hey, man, how you feel?

I tell him I feel OK. We chat about folks from the bar while I slip Kind of Blue into the CD player and Tim rolls a joint. We light up. Tim is a professional and informs me in detail about the weed we are smoking: it is a Virginian crossbreed of a classic skunk and a very potent Thai stick.

-Most importantly, this shit was raised in the wild, not in a hydroponics tank by some mad scientist. Hold the smoke. Hold the smoke, man, you can taste the mountain air.

I cannot, in fact, taste the mountain air, but I am getting high and, as I do, I start to think less about having a drink.

-Hey, you got anything to drink around here?

So much for that.

Tim takes off a short while later. He's a true boozer; if he doesn't have a belt soon, his hands will start to shake. On his way out, I give him some cash for the bag and he waves as he goes down the hall, then stops for a moment.

-Hey, did you ever find out what was up with those assholes, why they had it in for you?

I tell him it beats me and he says so did they and gives a lame laugh, realizing it's a bad joke. Then he leaves. It is a bad joke, but it's a great question, and as soon as I can think straight, I'll deal with it.

You can only smoke so much pot. I have smoked a great deal already and it's time for a break. I really just want to have it around to smooth out the edges for the next week or so. I figure after that I should be in good shape. This is not the first time I've stopped drinking. I've hopped on the wagon a couple of times to see how it would go and, the fact is, with the kind of motivation I have, I don't expect to have much trouble. Just as soon as I get the system all flushed out. But right now I'm just sitting here alone in my apartment with someone else's cat in my lap, listening to the Clash's Combat Rock, being unemployed and in debt and thinking about beer. I decide to do the laundry.

Tasks are good when you're trying to give up something. They keep you occupied and make your life seem useful. I stuff my dirty clothes in a sack. I grab a handful of quarters from my change jar, but on the way to the door, I stop. Bud has a little blanket in his carry box and I decide to wash that too. Russ should be back in a day or two and it would be nice if Bud has a clean blanket. This is the way I think. It's my mom's fault. I grab the blanket and pull and it snags on something in the box. I tug harder and hear the blanket rip a little. I put the laundry sack down, get on my hands and knees, and reach into the box to unsnag the blanket.