Double Double (2 page)

“How can I go to a football game without getting high?”

When I told my therapist that I had been stopped by the police in Washington Square Park for attempting to buy marijuana (I was let go without being charged, thank God for the non-Giuliani years in New York City), he asked why I had done something so stupid. “Because my regular guy was out, and I was going to go to the Giants–Eagles game, and I had to have some weed.” When he asked why I had to get high to watch a football game, I had no answer except: “What's the point of going to a football game if you aren't stoned?”

I got married thirteen years ago and didn't have to drink. Now I can have a business meeting, go out to dinner with my wife, and go to a football game, and it simply doesn't occur to me to alter my state of being with chemicals.

Move over, Moses, because to those who really knew me, that's a real miracle.

M
ARTINIS ARE MY DRUG
of choice, straight up, on the rocks, vodka, gin, lemon peel, olive, onion, ten to one. Any martini drinker knows what I'm talking about. Liquid silver, that's how my old friend Harry described it.

Not, believe me, that I disdained other drinks—none of them, as I recall—being partial also to an old-fashioned, a daiquiri, a whiskey sour. But nothing could win me over like a dry martini, although one has to
acquire
that taste.

I was introduced to drugs when there was really only one hand to shake: alcohol's. Cocaine, heroin, marijuana, crystal meth: I was unacquainted with this happy quartet. I was school-age at a time when you could go to school without getting shot. That was a long time ago.

It makes no difference for the purposes of this book. Heroin
and cocaine still rank as numbers 1 and 2 (despite the government's obsession with crystal meth), the baddest of the bad. Why split hairs? When it comes to addiction, they're all bad.

I'm going to avoid the big-ticket health issue, not because it isn't important but because it tends to obscure other issues. (When you set it against an X-ray of a cirrhotic liver, can you really convince someone that the drink on the bar is necessary?) You know, we all know, how dangerous addictions are to our health.

Nor will I talk about addiction as a disease. I don't know whether it is or isn't, but I don't care whether that martini shows I have a disease or an unquenchable thirst. I think I'll knock the “willpower” card off the table. It's way overplayed.

Most of life is engaged with filling a prescription. We fill up with whatever works at the moment: food, drink, smoking, shopping. A few hours at Target isn't quite as tasty as a few hours in Barneys New York, but it serves the same purpose. If you're starving, it doesn't matter who the chef is. And what works best is drugs. After the official drugs like marijuana and cocaine, alcohol (which, for some reason, gets separated from the others, for we speak of drugs
and
alcohol), we've got a long list: food (oh, what a drug lies there!), cigarettes, shopping, television, Internet, gambling, chewing gum, romantic love—anything that can fill the emptiness for a few minutes or hours or months, anything that comes from the
outside,
something that you don't have to work at. It allows you to escape, no questions asked, just go.

The whole world is our drugstore. We must be drawn out of ourselves by something.

Maybe that's why
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
keeps on being remade. The body snatchers are only after empty husks. Whatever
was inside—call it mind, call it soul—is long gone, as with Gregor in
The Metamorphosis
.

In my hometown, there was a movie house, only one theater and only one screen and one balcony—no longer there, of course. When I was young, I would look around at the rows of people, the glow from the screen bathing their faces in ambient light. I was struck by how innocent the moviegoers looked, unguarded as children. They were drawn out of themselves; in a sense, they no longer inhabited themselves. This condition could change at any second: At the moment when the film fails to grip them, they become aware that they're in a theater watching a movie, which is failing to keep their attention, but suddenly, it can be captured again. Anything that erases us from time to time, that loosens our grip, relaxes us, and lets us breathe again. Anything except death, although at times I think that's where all of this is headed. We don't “breathe easier”; we're on life support. We've got all sorts of stuff skating into our systems to keep us alive, and we take this as good, even great, since we've left ourselves behind.

For the body snatchers.

We say we can't have a good time without a drink. Yet I remember years when I could have a sublimely good time without one. I was a little kid, or a bigger one, or even an adult. So why did I tell myself later on that I couldn't have any fun without a drink in my hand? A dinner party or any sort of gathering where we stand around and share small talk? No. You need to have a drink just to bear it.

A few years ago
USA Today
did a series of reports on dieting, a challenge they invited readers to take. One doctor or nutritionist—who did an incalculable service for all of us dieters—said that dieting is hard: “You might as well learn to play the violin.”

That's how hard it is. Willpower be damned. Some
USA Today
readers probably thought the good doctor was brutally discouraging. I thought just the opposite: She told us what we were up against and why we failed time and again. When you fail in a diet you feel like a fool or a lout. Surely anybody should be able to turn down a doughnut. No willpower.

Stopping drinking is like this.

You might as well learn how to play the violin.

I
had my last drink in Las Vegas, a sip of tepid Budweiser out of a waxed-paper cup at the Mirage casino on June 3, 1990.

I didn't plan on its being my last drink. I didn't really want to drink it. I was on a business trip and desperate to impress a pretty girl who said to me, “You're from New York, and you're not going to drink?” That's all it took for me to drink again, after holding back all weekend at the most important business conference in my nascent career. Some dreadful, reconstituted, none-of-the-original-members-except-one 1950s Motown soul group gamely pounded away as I drained half the cup of beer in one swallow. Just to show her I could party. I wasn't impressed with myself. Neither was the girl. Ever since then, I've hated Motown music.

I was part of a team responsible for putting on a book party to celebrate Donald Trump's new business tome,
Surviving at the Top,
which featured a self-satisfied Donald throwing an apple up in the
air. A follow-up to his surprise best seller
The Art of the Deal,
this book party was hosted by Steve Wynn at the Mirage, the first of the mega-casinos to swallow Las Vegas.

The trip began ominously on the flight from New York to Las Vegas. Turbulence over Utah was so bad that we were thrown from side to side, much to the alarm of the passengers, some of whom screamed in fear. I swapped stories with a producer from
Entertainment Tonight
and did my best to manage my fear like I always did: I read whatever I could get my hands on. According to a
Publishers Weekly
I clutched in my hand, Ken Kesey, one of my literary heroes and godfather of the counterculture, was driving the original Merry Prankster bus from his Oregon home to Las Vegas. He was promoting a new book,
The Further Inquiry,
a twenty-fifth anniversary of the exploits of my favorite band of LSD-fueled outlaws. My excitement over the Merry Pranksters and those pure, idealistic times that I was too young to have experienced made me overlook it as a shameless PR stunt. Strange, since I was a PR guy who was supposed to create shameless PR stunts.

Much to my delight, Ken Kesey and his pals had unearthed the bus from the backyard of his creamery in Oregon, cleaned it up, and were going to relive a little of the glory days. As my flight bumped through vicious turbulence, I ignored the hushed whispers and clenched fists of my neighbors. I closed my eyes to block it all out and remembered some of the best parts of
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
by Tom Wolfe. It was one of my favorite books in high school, a real manifesto for the 1960s that I tried to copy by following the Grateful Dead, wearing tie-dyes bought in parking lots after concerts, playing Ultimate Frisbee, hitting on girls, and partying my ass off. At that point I had been to more than
fifty Grateful Dead concerts, impressive by some measure but not many to dedicated “tour heads.”

My cab dropped me off at the Mirage, where I was greeted by a fake volcano belching fire and Siegfried & Roy's white tigers pacing in their glass cages in the lobby.

The check-in lines were horrendous. When I finally made it to the counter, I was informed that they had no reservation for me. I would have to use my own credit card to guarantee my room. I indignantly tossed my credit card over and wondered if the tiny credit limit could handle the charge. I made my way upstairs to a Day-Glo claustrophobic room designed for one thing: to propel me into the casino. That began three days of nightmare conventioneering. Padding back and forth in our booth like one of the white tigers, I schmoozed with reporters and booksellers about the big books for the fall and the importance of our authors. The over-air-conditioned convention center and deep carpeting and hours and hours of talking without a drink gave me an almost hallucinatory, out-of-body sensation that spiked on the day of the big book party for Donald Trump.

After a four-hour stint in our booth, I had to get out to see Ken Kesey. I left the air-conditioned mausoleum and trudged across the impossibly large parking lot in the blinding heat toward the ramshackle bus. Tentatively, I stepped inside. The interior was much smaller than I anticipated, maybe because most of the seats had been removed and cots had been installed along the sides. Ken Kesey had transformed a long, narrow old school bus into one of the most iconic images of the era when the Pranksters waved their freak flag high during a journey across America.

It was all here: the intersection of parts of America that never
would have dreamed of combining into one: a bus designed for innocent children to ride to school, driven by Jack Kerouac's famed lunatic, Neal Cassady, carrying Ken Kesey's Grateful Dead coterie to the furthest edges of LSD-fueled consciousness. I could feel it all inside the bus, and I desperately wanted to be a part of it.

I was disappointed that Kesey wasn't anywhere to be seen. A small group of modern-day hippies lounged in the bus. I looked around hopefully to see if they were ingesting anything of interest while thinking how much I missed going to Dead shows.

A wave of self-hatred hit me: I despised myself with my bourgeois-wannabe career, wearing my already out-of-fashion 1980s green Armani double-breasted suit with extra-wide lapels. I despaired of selling out to “the man.” The same man, by the way, who was paying me to go on the business trip and allowing me the visit to the bus.

A Deadhead in a tie-dyed shirt and multicolored pants smiled and said, “Hey, man, how's it going?”

I immediately poured out my tale of woe to these chemically altered strangers, describing my meaningless life, my unsatisfying job, how everything after college seemed to be about money and career advancement.

I had been telling complete strangers my problems more and more, with increasing desperation. The previous month in New York, I had seen a local news profile of a man who sat on Madison Avenue and Fifty-second Street, in front of the Seagram Building, with a sign stating:
FREE ADVICE
. I tracked him down the next day and asked what I should do about my girlfriend breaking up with me. His answer was so unsatisfying that, as I walked away, I knew why his advice was free: “Don't worry, if she really likes you, she'll call you again.”

I realized the Deadhead had been talking to me for a while: “Dude, it's okay, I mean, you're working this convention, and it might suck, but you're here in the bus with us now. That's good.” How simple, how in the moment. It wasn't enough.

I mentioned I was working the party for Donald Trump later that evening. The lead hippie in the lethargic group snapped to attention. “Dude, you've got to get us in!”

“Okay,” I said, confused as to how the conversation had taken this turn. I had a sneaking suspicion that letting a gang of drug-fueled hippies into The Donald's book party was a bad idea.

I looked around the bus at the half-dozen beaming faces. “Meet me outside the main convention room in the Mirage at six.”

With an adrenal surge, I jumped off the bus and rushed back to the convention hall, where one of the senior executives at my company told me that a radio producer had stopped by to see me.

“Meet with that guy?” I retorted. “I don't have time for small fry like him!” I was half kidding, half not.

Fully anticipating a night of free food and girls to chat up, I became livid when my boss told me I was to be the doorman. I stood seething at the front door of one of the Mirage's cavernous ballrooms. Steve Wynn was the new king of the Strip, and Trump was on his meteoric rise, so this meeting of business titans was the hottest party at the convention.

I had to screen people and then tell them where to wait to have their picture taken with The Donald. I couldn't believe I had to work the event while my boss and the other executives were enjoying themselves.

I checked invitations and made wisecracks about Trump. Surveying the line of more than a hundred people waiting to have their photo taken with His Eminence, I cracked, “I wouldn't
wait in line to meet this guy!” I noticed a sour-faced woman a few feet away with a pad and paper, scribbling something down, and it occurred to me that members of the press might be here. I blocked that from my mind and turned to see six Deadheads in full tie-dye regalia, with long hair and burning red eyes, charging up to me at the door.