Chancers Read online

  That’s why it was a shock to my family when I started drinking heavily later on. I remember visiting my sister when I was in Dublin for a shoot—she had married an Irish doctor and moved there—and one night we all got hammered, listening to records and singing along to eighties bands. My sister didn’t give me a hard time, but I could tell she was surprised. She did say something the next morning about me making up for lost time.

  Susan isn’t much of a drinker, so I don’t really mind that she’s a bit tipsy tonight—until she pops up behind me, leans over my shoulder, and says, “How about a dance?”

  “I don’t dance,” I tell her. “Especially when I’m sober.”

  “I don’t dance, either, but no one knows us here so who cares if we look ridiculous.” She grabs my hand and gives it a tug, so it’s pretty clear she’s not going to take no for an answer.

  The only other couples on the dance floor are about twice our age—mostly Japanese tourists and sunburned Americans with gray hair. It’s a bit awkward at first, like school dances when I was thirteen, but once we get into a groove it feels good to hold Susan close. I kiss her ear, then work my way over to her lips. When she kisses me back, her breath smells like rum.

  Over her shoulder, I notice two girls in grass skirts swaying back and forth, passing out leis to all the dancing pensioners. I spin Susan around so she can see what’s coming our way.

  “I can deal with the dancing,” I tell her. “I don’t mind the hula music. But I really don’t want to wear a ring of flowers around my neck.”

  “You mean you don’t want to get lei’d?” she says, cracking up at her own joke.

  “Very clever,” I say, steering her toward our table. “But I’d rather save that for the hotel.”

  —

  BACK IN OUR room the AC has been cranking, so Susan slides open the door to the balcony to let in some warm air. I follow her outside, pushing past the curtains flopping around in the breeze. Even though we’re on the tenth floor it sounds like the ocean is right below our feet.

  She’s still wearing her bikini and a miniskirt but her T-shirt is off, the string of her suit tied across her back. As she leans against the railing, I come up behind her and kiss her neck, slipping one hand inside her top. With my other hand, I reach under her skirt.

  I’m thinking I’ll just get things started and we’ll move inside once the room isn’t so cold, but she turns around and unzips my shorts, using her toes to push them all the way down. Pulling me toward her, she lifts her skirt and nudges me over against the wall. I’m sort of surprised that she’s going for it—I glance at the other balconies, wondering if anyone can see us. But pretty soon her legs are around my waist and I’m trying to hold her up and get her off without losing my balance. At this point, I don’t really care who might be watching.

  Afterward, we end up in a heap on the balcony, our feet poking through the railing. Susan’s head is on my shoulder and her arm is draped across my chest.

  “Well, I’ve learned one thing,” I tell her, kissing the top of her head.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna have to buy you mai tais more often.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Susan says. “I think I might regret that second one.”

  We both laugh, but sometimes I do miss it—the way alcohol lets you loosen up a bit. It just got to the point where I couldn’t stop at that nice relaxing buzz.

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING we drive up to Oahu’s North Shore, stopping in the surfing town where they shot that movie Endless Summer. It seems like every other car has a surfboard strapped to the roof, and the ones that don’t are VW buses selling some kind of crafts made of shells.

  Susan wants to try shave ice—a Hawaiian snow cone—so we line up outside a place she read about online. I tend to be more impulsive when I travel, but I like how she put so much effort into planning our trip. I think it’s her way of trying to make it special.

  The weather is a bit shitty so we skip the beach and walk around town with our cone. The gray day reminds me of Scotland, the sort of overcast that’s good for taking pictures—like a huge softbox that diffuses the light. Pulling out my camera, I ask Susan if I can take her portrait before we move on.

  “Really?” she says, wiping her mouth. “My lips must be bright red from the cherry syrup.”

  “That’s alright—they’ll match the building I want in the background.”

  We walk back to the shave ice place and I show Susan where to stand, against a red painted wall with a white-trimmed window. I take a few photos with her staring straight at the lens, then some more with her looking down, sipping the last melted ice with a straw.

  “Okay, now step out.” After she moves out of the frame I take another picture, keeping the composition exactly the same.

  Just before we came to Hawaii I got this idea for a project: “She Loves Me/She Loves Me Not.” It’s a series of diptychs: The first photo is of Susan standing somewhere—on an empty street, under a light in a parking lot, on the balcony of our hotel. The second one is the same setup, without her in the picture. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to the idea, but she’s been pretty good about going along with it so far. I think she likes that I’m taking pictures again, and it’s not like we haven’t talked about my frustrations with her uncertainty.

  I need to let her catch up to me, she keeps telling me. Let her get there at her own pace. But sometimes it feels like I have no idea where I stand with her, which is basically what these pictures are about—me wondering if she’s going to be in my life or not. In all the photos she’s there…and then she’s gone.

  —

  AS SOON AS we get to the resort where we’re spending the night, we change into our swimsuits and head to the pool. When Susan booked this place I pictured water slides and hordes of kids running around, but it’s actually pretty quiet—maybe because it’s still gray and misty. There are just a few other people on deck chairs and a couple of kids who look totally bored.

  I jump in and paddle over to a waterfall tumbling into the far side of the pool. The water pummeling my head is colder than I expected—all I can hear is the roar crashing down around me. I wave to Susan to get her to come over, but she shakes her head and points to the Jacuzzi, so I hop out of the pool and ease myself in next to her.

  “Fuck, that’s boiling.”

  “Give it a minute,” Susan says, already submerged up to her neck. “It’s not really that hot.”

  It’s almost dark now, so the spotlights around the pool make everything look like a film set, illuminating the palm trees and leaving us in the shadows. I reach over and grab the camera Susan left on a towel, balance it on the ledge, and set the self-timer. Sliding over next to her, I wait for the flash to go off, then I kiss her.

  When I open my eyes it just pops out: “I love you,” I say.

  Susan turns toward me, puts her arms around my neck, and kisses me. I pull back, waiting.

  “You know, I could get used to this,” she says. “I wish we could stay here another week.”

  I don’t know how to respond. Susan is asking what I want to do for dinner, rattling off options, but I can’t answer. I just sink lower and lower into the Jacuzzi until her voice fades and all I can hear is the hum of the jets. I’m not gonna get mad, I tell myself. I’m not gonna overreact. I’m not gonna ruin the last night of our trip.

  When we get back to the room, while Susan is in the shower, I rummage in my bag, pull out the plastic bottle I’ve got hidden, and take a small sip. It’s just methadone—and not enough to get high—but I’m hoping it’s enough to keep any withdrawal symptoms from kicking in.

  I don’t usually take methadone, but I couldn’t exactly run around Hawaii trying to buy heroin, at least not with Susan around, and there was no way I was going to risk bringing drugs on the plane. It’s not like I’m a junkie, but I’ve been using enough that I can’t go without it for more than a day without getting dope sick, so I got the methadone to tide
me over while we were away. The problem is, I didn’t really know how much to take—I probably overdid it at first—and a few days ago I realized I was running low. I’m just hoping I’ve got enough left so I don’t start going into withdrawal tomorrow. I have no idea how I’d explain that to Susan.

  I hate that I’m hiding this from her—I kept promising myself I’d get clean before our trip, but I couldn’t figure out how to detox without her catching on. And if I tell her now, she’ll freak out and leave me and that would send me into a total tailspin. After we get back I’m thinking I can slowly taper off—tell her I’ve got a job out of town to explain why I can’t see her for a while. But it would be a lot easier to kick if I knew she’d still be there for me when the really hard part hit—the brutal depression that feels like it’ll never go away. That’s the main reason dope is so fucking hard to quit.

  —

  ON OUR LAST day in Hawaii, we’ve got a few hours to kill before our flight so we drive back to Honolulu and stop in Chinatown for lunch. I’m not really hungry—my stomach feels tight, and now I’m getting sniffly with the odd shiver. I decided to save the last few drops of methadone until we head to the airport later, so those first signs of withdrawal are starting to creep in.

  By the time we leave the restaurant I’m feeling a bit better—as long as I keep my mind occupied, it’s not too bad. As we’re walking through Chinatown, I reach over and hold Susan’s hand.

  “Shit,” she says, suddenly stopping.

  “What?”

  “There’s Ethan, across the street.”

  “You’re joking.” Before our trip she told me her ex was going to be in Hawaii around the same time as us, but I can’t believe we’ve actually run into him.

  “I’m not kidding,” she says, pulling me around the corner. “Let’s go—I don’t think he saw us.”

  “You’re not going to say hi?”

  She looks at me like I’m mental. “Are you serious? After your fit when I told you our trips might overlap?”

  Even though they were together a long time ago—and he’s into men now—I did find the timing a bit suspect. For some reason I pictured him as this Rupert Everett type, the British actor all the girls wish they could turn straight. But now that I’ve seen him, he doesn’t really seem like a threat. He’s shorter than me, and looks sort of bookish.

  “If you want to talk to him, it’s fine with me.”

  “Are you sure? It feels kind of shitty to sneak away, but if it’s going to upset you, it’s not worth it.”

  “It’s not going to upset me,” I tell her, slightly irritated by the assumption. “Go ahead—I’ll wait here, then you can wave me over if it’s not too weird.”

  I hang back and watch her surprise Ethan, who I’m actually a bit curious to meet. Susan hasn’t really talked much about their relationship, except to say he was a different person when they were living in Argentina, and that he developed a habit years after they broke up. He’s been clean for a while now—all the guys he’s traveling with are on some kind of AA retreat. I wonder what she’s told him about me.

  After a couple of minutes she turns toward me and waves. I try to look relaxed as I cross the street.

  Susan introduces me to Ethan, I shake his hand, and he introduces me to the rest of his pals. We all chat about the weather and the beaches, but once they move on to talking about people they know, my mind wanders—until Ethan’s sponsor comes over and starts asking me questions. I suddenly feel put on the spot, like he’s trying to figure me out. He’s looking at me a wee bit too intently.

  I’m starting to sweat—Susan notices and hands me a crumpled napkin. I wipe my forehead and the back of my neck, wishing we could wrap up this little reunion, ’cause the stress is just making me sicker.

  “I think Graham might be getting the flu,” Susan says. “He was fine up until today but he woke up feeling a little queasy.”

  “That’s a bummer,” Ethan says, backing away slightly. Now he’s looking at me funny, which makes me even more anxious. What if it’s obvious to him and he says something to her?

  Finally Susan says we should probably get going, rattling off all the things we need to do before our flight.

  Putting my arm around her shoulder, I tell everyone, “I guarantee you we’ll be at the gate long before the plane rolls up.”

  They all laugh and we do a round of nice-to-meet-you goodbyes. On the way back to the car, Susan says, “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

  “What do you mean? I’m the one who said you should talk to him.”

  “I know, I’m just saying I think it went okay. Didn’t you?”

  “It was alright. He’s not quite what I expected.”

  “You thought he’d be all buff from the gym? Make you feel like you had to start working out?” Susan stops and puts her hands on my chest—she’s always joking that she’ll have to break up with me if I get too skinny.

  “No…well, maybe a little,” I admit. “I’m actually thinking of getting back into running. You know, really trying to get fit.”

  Even as I’m saying it, I know it’s a long shot. The last time I ran I was trying to avoid some cops. They had stormed into the projects just as I was leaving so I took off once I was out the door. Luckily they didn’t bother chasing me—I only made it a couple of blocks before I had to stop.

  “Just don’t get obsessive about it,” she says. “I can’t date a guy who gets up really early to go for long runs, especially if you decide to train for another marathon or something.”

  “Okay, no marathons,” I tell her—one promise I know I can keep. These days it would be a stretch to manage even a mile.

  —

  AFTER OUR PLANE takes off, I press my camera against the window and take a few pictures of the ocean, with the coast of Hawaii disappearing below the wing. I started taking photos out of plane windows years ago, when I was traveling all over the world: crossing Siberia on the way to Japan, flying over Africa to London, arriving in New Zealand at dawn—all the islands looked like floating pieces of moss. I’ve got some great shots looking down on Manhattan, but right now the thought of landing in New York is just depressing.

  The more I picture walking into my house, the more the craving kicks in—and it doesn’t help that Susan seems ready to get home. She’s already making a list of everything she needs to do, scribbling away next to me, but I’m going back to the same dysfunctional routine. I’ve got bills piling up, no work on the horizon, no agent bringing in big advertising jobs. I used to have one but we fell out, partly because my drinking got out of control, but I also needed some time off after working too much. All the stress was getting to me, and that just made me drink more: a few drinks at dinner, a nightcap at the hotel bar, then a flight with free booze for hours.

  No one in my family knew how bad it had gotten until Liz made me call my sister and tell her I had a problem. It sounds like you’re describing an alcoholic, my sister said, and I told her no, I’d just become a bit too dependent on alcohol. But I asked her not to tell anyone else. I didn’t want my parents to worry, and I thought my brother would think I was a loser—getting fucked up in my mid-thirties, instead of in my twenties, when most people party. But eventually everyone found out. In 2004, some friends called my dad and brother and said they needed to straighten me out. So they flew to Geneva when I was there for an assignment, surprised me at the end of the shoot, and told me they were taking me to Scotland to get help. I was a bit pissed off, but I didn’t fight it. It was sort of a relief that they finally knew.

  Then when we got back to Scotland the hospital wouldn’t admit me—I didn’t have a doctor’s referral, and I wasn’t covered by the health service because I didn’t live there. I ended up staying with my parents for a few days, making up excuses to get out of the house so I could buy booze in town. I couldn’t quit cold turkey ’cause I was terrified of having a seizure—it had happened a few times before when I tried to stop drinking, and it was really scary. I’m sure my paren
ts knew what was up but they didn’t know what else to do. My dad went to the pub, my mum sat in the living room watching the telly, and I holed up in the spare bedroom, staring at the rain lashing against the window. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore—I called the airline and bought a ticket leaving the next day. Once I got back to New York, I picked up right where I’d left off.

  Everything sort of snowballed after I got back. Liz had moved out, my career was going off the rails, I basically had a breakdown—ending up in the hospital, trying to detox and get my head straight. A couple of months later I went to a pricey rehab in California for twenty-eight days, a total waste of money and time. The whole notion of abstinence was just too overwhelming. The first thing I did on the flight back to New York was have a drink—I figured I just needed to drink more sensibly. It wasn’t until after I realized Liz wasn’t coming back that I finally did quit drinking, more or less on my own.

  That’s sort of how I ended up with a drug habit. I’d been using cocaine to clear my head after drinking too much, and then a friend introduced me to crack—a way more intense rush, with no messy nosebleeds. Eventually I added heroin to the mix. I should’ve known better, but that first hit was fucking brilliant. I remember thinking, This must be what people think heaven is like—I wish I could stay like this forever. Once I discovered dope, I didn’t really need to drink: The high lasted longer and I didn’t smell like booze or slur my words. To be honest, a heroin habit is easier to hide—but not so easy to quit. I’d gotten divorced (again!), I was trying to climb out of a dark hole, and suddenly Susan showed up at my door. I was pretty up front with her about my past, but obviously there were some things I left out. I didn’t want to scare her away.

  And now she’s sitting next to me, planning for her book release, which makes me feel even worse about my stalled career. I wish I could have a drink, just to take the edge off—the flight attendant is coming down the aisle with her cart. She’s passing out little bottles to a guy a couple of rows ahead of us, I can practically smell the Jack Daniel’s from here. That sound of miniature bottle tops cracking open, ice rattling in plastic cups, and liquor being poured reminds me of so many boozy flights. Before she gets to our row, I put away my camera, push my seat back, and close my eyes. Better not to even look.