Eight Million Ways To Die

I went into the saloon and ordered a double bourbon with water back. I remember the bartender had a shiny bald head, and I remember him pouring the drink, and I remember picking it up.

That's the last thing I remember.

Chapter 9

I woke up suddenly, consciousness coming on abruptly and at top volume. I was in a hospital bed.

That was the first shock. The second came a little later when I found out it was Wednesday. I couldn't remember anything after I picked up that third drink Sunday night.

I'd had occasional blackouts for years. Sometimes I'd lose the last half hour of the night. Sometimes I'd lose a few hours.

I'd never lost two whole days before.

They didn't want to let me go. I'd been admitted late the previous night and they wanted to keep me in detox for a full five days.

An intern said, "The booze isn't even out of your system yet. You'll walk around the corner and pick up a drink five minutes after you get out of here."

"No I won't."

"You just went through detox here a couple of weeks ago. It's on your chart. We cleaned you up and how long did you last?"

I didn't say anything.

"You know how you got here last night? You had a convulsion, a full-scale grand mal seizure. Ever have one of those before?"

"No."

"Well, you'll have them again. If you keep on drinking you can pretty much count on it. Not every time, but sooner or later. And sooner or later you'll die of it. If you don't die of something else first."

"Stop it."

He grabbed me by the shoulder. "No, I won't stop it," he said.

"Why the hell should I stop it? I can't be polite and considerate of your feelings and expect to cut through all your bullshit at the same time.

Look at me. Listen to me. You're an alcoholic. If you drink you'll die."

I didn't say anything.

He had it all figured out. I would spend ten days in detox. Then I'd go to Smithers for twenty-eight days of alcoholic rehabilitation. He let up on that part when he found out I didn't have medical insurance or the couple of thousand dollars rehab would cost, but he was still holding out for a five-day stay in the detox ward.

"I don't have to stay," I said. "I'm not going to drink."

"Everybody says that."

"In my case it's true. And you can't keep me here if I don't agree to stay. You have to let me sign out."

"If you do you'll be signing out AMA. Against Medical Advice."

"Than that's what I'll do."

He looked angry for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Suit yourself,"

he said cheerfully. "Next time maybe you'll listen to advice."

"There won't be a next time."

"Oh, there'll be a next time, all right," he said. "Unless you fall on your face closer to some other hospital.

Or die before you get here."

* * *

The clothes they brought me were a mess, dirty from rolling in the street, the shirt and jacket stained with blood. I'd been bleeding from a scalp wound when they brought me in and they'd stitched it up for me. I had evidently sustained the wound during the seizure, unless I'd acquired it earlier in my adventures.

I had enough cash on me for the hospital bill. A minor miracle, that.

It had rained during the morning and the streets were still wet. I stood on the sidewalk and felt the confidence drain out of me. There was a bar right across the street. I had money in my pocket for a drink and I knew it would make me feel better.

I went back to my hotel instead. I had to get up the nerve to approach the desk and collect my mail and messages, as if I'd done something shameful and owed some profound apology to the desk clerk.

The worst of it was not knowing what I might have done during the time I was in blackout.

Nothing showed in the clerk's expression. Maybe I'd spent most of the lost time in my room, drinking in isolation. Maybe I'd never returned to the hotel since I left it Sunday night.

I went upstairs and ruled out the latter hypothesis. I'd evidently returned sometime either Monday or Tuesday, because I'd finished the bottle of J. W. Dant and there was a half-full quart of Jim Beam on the bureau beside the empty Dant bottle. The dealer's label indicated it was from a store on Eighth Avenue.

I thought, Well, here's the first test. Either you drink or you don't.

I poured the bourbon down the sink, rinsed out both bottles and put them in the trash.

The mail was all junk. I got rid of it and looked at my messages.

Anita had called Monday morning.

Someone named Jim Faber had called Tuesday night and left a number. And Chance had called once last night and once this morning.

I took a long hot shower and a careful shave and put on clean clothes. I threw out the shirt and socks and underwear I'd worn home from the hospital and put the suit aside. Maybe the dry cleaner would be able to do something with it. I picked up my messages and went through them again.

My ex-wife Anita. Chance, the pimp who'd killed Kim Dakkinen.

And somebody named Faber. I didn't know anybody named Faber, unless he was some drunk who'd become a long-lost buddy during my drunken wanderings.