appear to blink awake, shine with new energy, as if each one has agreed now to shoulder the heavy burden of lighting the city, pick up the slack as one of their own tires out, realizes that he cannot, could never, do it on his own.
Use
Polly has eight days and I have five. Though neither of us can put together longer than two weeks, we talk about what we’ll do when we reach ninety. Polly may go back to teaching or working with animals. I have no idea what I’ll do—little seems possible, and as my bank account thins and my debt thickens, the only solution seems to be to go live with my sister Kim in Maine. What I’ll do there I can’t imagine. How long she and her family would tolerate me is also unclear. Polly has a different predicament. Her sister Heather somehow lucked into their rent-controlled apartment on St. Mark’s Place when she was in graduate school and the rent, by New York standards, is practically free. So there’s less pressure on Polly to make money, but if Heather doesn’t get sober it’s not a place Polly’s sponsor or anyone else at The Library recommends she remain. Her attachment to Heather is powerful—they are twins and using buddies—and up until recently, anytime I or anyone else suggests she move out Polly goes cold and swiftly changes the subject. But Heather continues to do lines of coke and stay up all night watching DVDs of Law & Order. Polly puts a few days together and, this time, becomes more open to talking about moving. By mid-May she begins mentioning—tentatively, cautiously—that she might look on Craigslist for apartments in Queens, which she’s heard are cheap.
And then Polly disappears. She doesn’t show up at either the 12:30 meeting or the two o’clock. I call and leave messages on her cell phone but get no answer. This goes on for days until her voice mail is full and stops accepting messages. I walk down St. Mark’s and linger in front of her building, hoping to see her or Heather. Jack tells me not to buzz the apartment because I’m not even a week sober and there could be coke all over Polly’s place. As much as I agree with his logic, there is no part of me that finds getting high with Polly appealing. There is no part of the prospect of coke in her apartment that triggers a craving. But I follow Jack’s rules, even though I’m terrified she has overdosed. I call her sponsor, who says she hasn’t heard from Polly but that someone from The Library saw Heather on the street, who said she’s OK and to let her be.
So I do. The meetings at The Library for the rest of the week seem strange without Polly. The afternoons are more spacious. I go to coffee with Annie after the two o’clock meeting a few times, but it’s odd not to go to the dog run, odd to be home for the beginning of the Oprah show at four o’clock each day. The weekend rolls around and Saturday morning, on a whim, I call Polly. Miraculously, she answers. Hey, Crackhead, she says, without the usual pluck, and I say, lamely, If that’s not the pot calling the crackhead black then I don’t know what is. She laughs but her voice is rough and weak. You OK? I ask, and after a long pause she says, Nope. She agrees to meet me at the dog run, and when she finally shows up nearly forty-five minutes late I see that she is, as she often is after using, still wearing her pajamas. She’s got a sweatshirt over the tissue-thin, unwashed nightclothes, but I can see her collarbone jutting from her skin and her movements are labored. She looks as though she’s lost ten pounds, and there weren’t ten to lose. She has Essie’s dog leash in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and when she sits down next to me I catch a strong whiff of alcohol, body odor, and cigarette smoke. I struggle not to react, but she’s ripe and it’s not easy to appear as if I don’t notice.
How she smells is obviously the furthest thing from her mind. I’ve seen Polly after using a number of times, but something is
Use
Polly has eight days and I have five. Though neither of us can put together longer than two weeks, we talk about what we’ll do when we reach ninety. Polly may go back to teaching or working with animals. I have no idea what I’ll do—little seems possible, and as my bank account thins and my debt thickens, the only solution seems to be to go live with my sister Kim in Maine. What I’ll do there I can’t imagine. How long she and her family would tolerate me is also unclear. Polly has a different predicament. Her sister Heather somehow lucked into their rent-controlled apartment on St. Mark’s Place when she was in graduate school and the rent, by New York standards, is practically free. So there’s less pressure on Polly to make money, but if Heather doesn’t get sober it’s not a place Polly’s sponsor or anyone else at The Library recommends she remain. Her attachment to Heather is powerful—they are twins and using buddies—and up until recently, anytime I or anyone else suggests she move out Polly goes cold and swiftly changes the subject. But Heather continues to do lines of coke and stay up all night watching DVDs of Law & Order. Polly puts a few days together and, this time, becomes more open to talking about moving. By mid-May she begins mentioning—tentatively, cautiously—that she might look on Craigslist for apartments in Queens, which she’s heard are cheap.
And then Polly disappears. She doesn’t show up at either the 12:30 meeting or the two o’clock. I call and leave messages on her cell phone but get no answer. This goes on for days until her voice mail is full and stops accepting messages. I walk down St. Mark’s and linger in front of her building, hoping to see her or Heather. Jack tells me not to buzz the apartment because I’m not even a week sober and there could be coke all over Polly’s place. As much as I agree with his logic, there is no part of me that finds getting high with Polly appealing. There is no part of the prospect of coke in her apartment that triggers a craving. But I follow Jack’s rules, even though I’m terrified she has overdosed. I call her sponsor, who says she hasn’t heard from Polly but that someone from The Library saw Heather on the street, who said she’s OK and to let her be.
So I do. The meetings at The Library for the rest of the week seem strange without Polly. The afternoons are more spacious. I go to coffee with Annie after the two o’clock meeting a few times, but it’s odd not to go to the dog run, odd to be home for the beginning of the Oprah show at four o’clock each day. The weekend rolls around and Saturday morning, on a whim, I call Polly. Miraculously, she answers. Hey, Crackhead, she says, without the usual pluck, and I say, lamely, If that’s not the pot calling the crackhead black then I don’t know what is. She laughs but her voice is rough and weak. You OK? I ask, and after a long pause she says, Nope. She agrees to meet me at the dog run, and when she finally shows up nearly forty-five minutes late I see that she is, as she often is after using, still wearing her pajamas. She’s got a sweatshirt over the tissue-thin, unwashed nightclothes, but I can see her collarbone jutting from her skin and her movements are labored. She looks as though she’s lost ten pounds, and there weren’t ten to lose. She has Essie’s dog leash in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and when she sits down next to me I catch a strong whiff of alcohol, body odor, and cigarette smoke. I struggle not to react, but she’s ripe and it’s not easy to appear as if I don’t notice.
How she smells is obviously the furthest thing from her mind. I’ve seen Polly after using a number of times, but something is
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