Up in the Air

I demurred—too gimmicky, I thought—but Craig Gregory pushed, and he was right to. The Deschamps ladies crushed the toy shapeless. They mangled it. Mr. Hugs became a fixture in my practice. He burst now and then, but I always stitched him up. The more use he showed, the more willingly they embraced him, and the less likely they were to hurl him back at me. Then I couldn’t look at him anymore. Two years of rough handling had given him a soul, an expressive face and figure all his own. “Sad” doesn’t capture it. Help me, Verbal Edge. Martyred. Forlorn. Unconsolable. Woebegone. Baby Jesus left out in the rain.

I’d rather not touch him now. I withdraw my boot. I pick up the shattered briefcase and look around for somewhere to dispose of it. I stuff it between the jukebox and the wall, then realize I should search it for a note, drag it back out, and find nothing. I examine the tag again. My writing? The block capitals could be anyone’s. Likely suspects? Practically nothing but.

The scotch isn’t cutting it. I eye the toilet bag. How would one medicate this particular fright? I line up the pill bottles and play mad scientist. Xanax and Vicodin for drifty pain relief countered by the peppy Wellbutrin? Too nuanced. I need a blunter instrument. Some Ambien, that quick-absorption knockout drop favored by intercontinental flyers? The heavyweight gut punch of Lorazepam? I don’t want to put my feelings in a coma, I want to vanquish them. Blast the vampire with sunlight.

Dexedrine. I took it for a few months after my narcolepsy diagnosis; it’s as potent as street speed but without the lockjaw and much easier to calibrate. In low doses it gave me confidence, pizzazz. At higher doses I was fairly sure that the King James Bible could be improved upon and that I was just the fellow to do it. Then my tolerance grew and I felt nothing. If I damp the high notes with Xanax and Johnny Walker, I’ll be in the flow, the center of the chute, not suppressing my horror at Mr. Hugs: The Sequel but sledding its leading edge. The feelings exist, as we say in CTC, and you can either ride them or let them flatten you. I believe it’s only fitting, little bear, that I take my own advice today.

The bottle overflows with orange tablets and a drawdown of twenty percent shouldn’t be noticeable. If Alex is such a junkie that she counts them, I won’t respect her opinion of me anyway. I gulp three tabs, stash seven in my pocket, and lay in a gorilla dose of Ambien for a sound night’s sleep before my talk. Two Vicodin in case I fall and break something and have to haul myself to the ER.

I douse Mr. Hugs in sterilizing scotch—why am I suddenly certain he has fleas?—and kick him behind the waste can under the sink, then pick up the phone that’s mounted beside the toilet. You never see this placement in private homes but it’s become de rigueur in nice hotels. I associate it with invalids’ cries for help, but I know that’s not why they do it. It’s a puzzle right up there with ice cubes in the urinal.

“Art Krusk’s room, please.” I need time with a man’s man. Someone who’s been slapped around a little.

“Bingham?”

“I’m going downstairs to play some cards.”

“I just went to bed from yesterday,” Art says.

“I’ve got stuff to fix that. I’m at Mount O.”

“That Marlowe kicked my everlasting butt. You didn’t tell me there’d be role playing. Thanks, though. I feel sharp. I’ve got my fangs back. He gave me this first one as a favor to you, but what’s it going to cost when he starts charging me?”

“All depends on how deep you want to go.”

“It’s exciting the way you say that. Things in store for me.”

“You’ve entered the dragon, Art. Blackjack pit in ten. Wear your medallions. Pour on the Vitalis.”

“You have a girl for tonight?”

“A teddy bear.”

“Right. Me, too. That dancer we saw in Reno doing the old guy. I flew her down, but I think she’s gone out freelancing. I guess she’s just part of the general hoo-ha now. She carries a beeper, but I can’t get through. Marlowe says let it go. I’m like his zombie now.”

Art’s a moron, pathetic, but we click. I should slip him a ticket to Schwarzkopf. He’d be wowed and the favor might win me some leeway in my next life. Don’t you think so, Mr. Hugs? He does. Whatever you feel, your squashable feels too.