Leaving Las Vegas (13 page)

At the bar he settles into his barstool position and begins working on the nuts and bolts of going to Las Vegas. Having deduced the inevitability of the trip he sees no reason to delay it further. When he gets to Vegas his first act will be… his first act will be to have a drink, and his second act will be to pawn his watch. Time will be money. Hopefully, he will never again know what time it is. If he should want a drink, he need only go out and buy one—anytime, anywhere. The bartender puts his vodka down hard on the bar and collects a few bills from the little pile in front of Ben, all the time shaking his head in silent disapproval.

“I think when I’m done with this I’ll have gin and tonic, Bombay gin and tonic,” says Ben just to taunt him.

The bartender, unable to keep silent any longer, flares at him. “You should be having coffee! All the time in here, do you know
what time it is? You’re a young man. It’s none of my business, but if you could see what I see you wouldn’t do this to yourself.”

Ben is moved. Perhaps he is being unintentionally cruel to this caring human being by making him participate in Ben’s Personal Theater of Tragedy. But what happened here? This man is a bartender. Ben’s a drunk. What’s the problem? Tough call, the old guy’s trying to show some unbridled compassion, some unconditional concern. Ben could cry here if he worked at it, so he decides to burn the bridge.

“I understand what you’re saying and why you’re saying it,” he says to the bartender. “I appreciate your concern, and it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable. Serve me today, and I won’t ever come in here again. If I do you can eighty-six me.”

“Sure, sure, I can eighty-six you now if I want. Stop fucking with me. I don’t give a fuck what you do.” He picks up a bottle of gin and fills a glass, slamming it down angrily in front of Ben. “On the house, son,” he says and knocks the bar twice with his knuckles.

Ben turns his back to the bar and sits looking at the room. He is jolted by a tug at his sleeve. Turning, he finds the image of a middle aged man whom he has seen muttering to himself on the street and sometimes in the bar. The man is making noises at Ben. Unintelligible, the sounds are similar to snorts and grunts, with the vocal cords being struck only sporadically. Figuring that this is probably a visual aid sent over by the bartender, Ben nods in sarcastic acknowledgement to the man who is indeed watching from the far end of the bar, and offers a five dollar bill to the impaired man who then shuffles away, clutching it. The scene saddens Ben, as does any encounter with hurt persons, life’s victims. As he gets up to leave he feels the familiar nausea and shortness of breath. His heart is beating very fast these days, and he’s not been able to give it any sort of proper fuel. He can tell
already that his own body won’t outlast his mind, but what if it did? That would be truly awful, he thinks, everybody thinks.

He goes directly to the liquor store and replenishes his home supply, this time with gin: a new leaf, a fresh start, a new man. He also buys a roll of heavy duty trash bags and a can of charcoal lighter, and convinces the reluctant clerk to give up as many empty liquor boxes as Ben can carry home. Ben combines the boxes as efficiently as possible inside of each other and, after putting his purchases in the innermost box, ends up with a fairly compact package. He won’t need to go home for the car; he can carry his disposal kit easily in his arms.

He deals first with the generic things, things that, when scattered, will bear no reflection of him or his life. Methodically each book on his shelf is inspected for clues about its owner, a handwritten name:
If found, return to…,
a penned inscription:
With love to Ben, who has always enjoyed Fuk-en-her.,
or a shopping list, a note, forgotten by his wife:
grapefruit, six-pack or sale twelve, chicken + ? OK?—call B.
These details, when found, are removed and the book packed neatly in a box. Pans, lamps, old clothes, things that are usable but have limited value are boxed with the books. Boxes run out and bags take over. Desk accessories, tools, a phone, a vacuum cleaner, an old television—like the Grinch stealing Christmas, Ben stuffs the bulk of his belongings into jumbo plastic trash bags and stuffs the bags into his car. Trip by trip, hour by hour, he delivers his ex-stuff to local organizations. Goodwill gets some, a Venice halfway house receives kitchen utensils and a TV, men wandering the boardwalk are enriched with clothes and canned food to add to their already overloaded shopping carts, an acquaintance down the street scores a stereo and a quick explanation that Ben is leaving town in a hurry to take a new job in Denver. Ben labors into the night, glass at his side and refreshed by his own industriousness. Bags
are left outside the gates of closed charities. A neighbor boy sleeps, unaware that he is now the owner of a slightly used French ten speed bicycle which, newly polished, sits bearing a note on the back porch. On and on, he works as much out of compulsion as out of thoughtfulness, for he cannot bear to see waste, much less generate it. Also, his cause is well served. So separated from him and each other, his possessions no longer have a story to tell. They are reduced to elements, building blocks of a modern American existence. No longer parts summing into a whole, they are without collective meaning, an eraser mark on the page of his life.

His energy is there for him, running with him, high and constant. For him there is a grim thrill in this crystallization of intent. Just as a woman will break an engagement by returning the ring, it is this activity, this thing to be done, that is calling together for Ben all his recent meandering. Motion, long absent and now that much more refreshing, motion toward his future is what he is generating. The rush is tangible and of such intensity so as to preclude abstract considerations of backward and forward, to and from, growth and death. These terms are not of the moment; arguably, they are not of any moment. This tapestry which he is unraveling never really told a story to begin with; it was always non-figurative and woven without volition.

Very drunk, but well fueled with purpose, he turns to the more detailed task of purging the very personal things. He builds a small fire in the brazier on his patio. In goes the amateur artwork, that he has created: the photographs, a carved piece of pine, a watercolor painted over a love poem to his wife, a story he had written. In goes his file drawer: the medical records, the ten-forty copies, the car repair receipts, the warranties, the birth and marriage certificates. In goes the scrapbook: the polaroids of parties, the postcards from Hawaii, the totem-pole-esque strips of vending machine photos carried away from arcades and fairs. He
scoops out the accumulated debris and ashes; then, using charcoal lighter, and in an effort not so much to destroy as to ruin, to render worthless, he tosses into the flames those things that he will not keep, but doesn’t want anyone else to possess: his camera, his motorcycle jacket, his wife’s left-behind clothes, a clock purchased in Paris, a rosewood cigar box crafted by his father, a pair of binoculars brought away from World War Two by his grandfather, his engraved stationery, gifts with too much meaning to live on without him, purchased art that he can finally possess only by effecting its destruction. More cleaning of ashes, then it burns on—a fire in the gestalt. He works, it burns, until the task is done and the fire itself is gone.

It is morning. He calls his landlord: he will be out of the apartment by the end of the month, big new job in Denver. He’s sorry about the short notice, but he won’t be needing his security deposit back. The place will be clean, but would it be okay if he left behind a few pieces of furniture? He’s sure that the balance due him will more than cover the cost of having it hauled away. He’s grateful for everything and wishes good luck. A loose end is tied.

Apart from his bed and some heavy furniture, what remains, what he owns, what’s left, fits into a suitcase. Ben looks around himself, surveying the apartment. The job has been well done. How right, he thinks, that what I have done so well here is to undo. And indeed, he continues to be a tireless architect of his own undoing.

After a nap he decides on a late lunch of gin and an apple, which seems to go down more easily than vodka and a green pepper did; he is able to eat two sections of the apple. Though there is no longer any reason for him to stay in Los Angeles—he has long since forsaken any friends that he may have had here—he is still reluctant, almost apprehensive, to leave for Las Vegas. It may be simply that he knows that the five hour drive, once just
an overgrown commute to him, will be difficult if not hellish in his present condition. More likely he is experiencing an unaddressed second thought, irrational anxiety born from his cognizance that this is to be a one way trip, and if he can avoid the final journey he can avoid the final destination. But in fact he is already well along on this trip, and going to Las Vegas is merely kindling a fire that is even now raging. He will go soon, he wants to. Tonight is here however, and so he cleans up and heads out for the bars. In the mood to pay four and five dollars for each drink, he has donned his suit. He finds nothing more entertaining than bars in overpriced chichi restaurants. A lone alcoholic, albeit well-dressed and formerly good-looking, he will embarrass the rude staff and intrigue the young girls who are always in search of cocaine and Porsches.

And so he finds himself at such a place in Malibu. After the breezy drive up the coast he is ready for this, his last night in LA. He has never been to this place, and the white smocked bartenders have never seen him. He is grateful to sit and drink anonymously; he will enjoy this aspect of Vegas. There was a time when he nurtured his stature as a
regular
in bars all over Los Angeles. He would make special trips out to bars that he had been away from simply to reaffirm his familiarity. He enjoyed being called by name, having his drink order predicted, or at least guessed at. But now he is known to those places as a pathetic drunk. Like the incident at the bar in Venice, he must now endure judgment as part of his bar tab. They hate to see him. They roll their eyes. They shake their heads. Serving him has become a moral question for bartenders that once poured liquor into his glass freely.
On me!
they would exclaim, and marvel at his ability to drink enormous quantities and never give a hint of intoxication. He was a star. Now he is a case.

It is early in the evening. He is still riding a wave of purpose
and has the extra internal energy to prove it. His head is not yet drooping. He doesn’t appear to be brooding over his drink. So, if one can look past the bloated condition of his face, Ben looks okay, even rather dashing, sitting confidently at the marble bar, looking like someone who knows what he’s doing, like someone who is bearing up under unreasonable pain. This vision is not lost on an attractive woman in her thirties who has entered the bar alone and taken a seat on the opposite side from Ben. She watches him through a jungle of chrome-spouted bottles, hoping to catch his eye. When she does, realizing that this may be her only communication with him, she gives him a meaningful, somehow profound smile.

It is a remarkable smile, extremely familiar but without a trace of professionalism, and Ben wonders at its intensity. It is a touch, a piece of communication. The smile she gives to him is a daring embrace. It pleads for an answer. It is a gamble. It is an affirmation of humanity. It is a sympathetic speech that is intended to cut through the fact of where they are and suggest where they could be. It says:
You may be able to save my life, I know that I can save yours.
It says:
I know that you know me, I know you.
It is shrouded in abysmal despair, and yet remains hopeful. It is an assertion of strength; it craves but does not need. Ben comprehends it all, yet finds himself unable to respond. Locked in a circle of logical inaccessibility, he thinks: I am not good enough to be with you, and because I will not be with you, I am not good enough. His gaze instantly assumes a downward cant. The girl, having not yet received her order, leaves. Too much has transpired. The bartender, holding her drink, looks around the room for her. Ben calls him over and explains that the girl, a friend of his, had to leave suddenly. Ben pays for her drink.

In the face of this further confirmation of his inability to perform a function, to have a value, he swings moodily downward.
An angel from
the city of…
came to see him on his last night in her town, and all he could do was look at his glass. The evening’s adventure has been pretty much ruined, for he was just offered the grand prize, and he turned away. Given that, what exactly should he be looking forward to? He doubts that even a cheerful chat with Camus, an existential pep talk, could inspire him to endure this particular absurdity.

Having properly set himself up now, he plunges wildly back into his liquor, ordering and reordering at a feverish pace, and drinking a quantity that is unusually high, even for him. He finds himself buying rounds for brief acquaintances at the bar, who down them quickly and move along to dinner or to another seat though they are not quite sure what it is about him that has frightened them. Despite all that he is consuming he is keeping to the right of the line and not becoming overtly obnoxious. Tonight is plastic night and he wants everyone to share the wealth. He will discreetly inebriate LA; it will be his going away party. When he senses people noticing his behavior at one bar, he simply signs the invoice and drives down the road to another. Amused, he thinks that this may be how they ultimately find his corpse, a trail of American Express charges leading right up to the final room service bottle of bourbon clutched in one stiff fist, his heart in the other. Even in his death, no doubt, he will haunt Amex, causing them to be charged the additional fees incurred in getting his rotting stink out of the hotel room. Tonight he has many stops to make before going home, and home is the last stop before Vegas. Tomorrow he will move away from his mailbox, and since he has always been so meticulous about paying his bill in the past, American Express won’t even think twice about a couple of months without a payment. He’ll be wearing a tag on his toe long before the first computer-generated letters start arriving at his
last known address. Bar after bar, the rooms fade into each other, and all turn eventually into sand, as he loses his grip and blacks out.