DOUG STANHOPE SAVED MY LIFE

PART ONE: GET TO WORK

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My electric bike is neon orange.

Same color as Suboxone strips.

I’m flying down the road at thirty miles an hour with no helmet, music blaring. Poison The Well. The Tropic Rot. "Exist Underground."

"So hurry up now boy,

Start sweeping and gluing,

Get to work,

Get to work,

Get to work!" Jeff screams as I almost clip a 2013 Prius. Kamala sticker and all.

I could die at any moment. I’m more afraid to live.

I am a fading fiend. A farce.

Harvard Square teems. July radiates its hellish heat. I get to work, three and a half miles away, in eight minutes and thirty-six seconds. The people of Cambridge glare in disgust as I whiz by. They all support Ukraine, but not the homeless rotting right in front of them.

I walk in, clock in, and say hello to one of my new co-workers. We’ll call him Ethan. He’s twenty-five. Life’s still interesting. The world hasn’t fucked his face yet.

It will.

It’s hard for me to relate, so I act. Like someone else. So far, it’s working. But that mask will wear thin…

"Hey, brother. How are ya?" I say, forcing a dented smile.

"Hey, man." He’s timid. Oblivious. Never stuck himself with a needle. Never stolen to eat. Good for him.

The manager appears.

"Just you two tonight," he says. "Air conditioner’s broken upstairs." Thirty seconds later, he vanishes. I won’t see him again until closing, I think, gratefully. Nobody likes managers. Not even managers.

"Looks like it’ll be slow," I say, stripping pour spout covers off liquor bottles. I stack the covers and stow them, start refilling my juices and syrups. Our menu has thirty cocktails, each with different house-made ingredients, meaning I have about forty in total. Strawberry, watermelon, mint, honey, agave, lemon, lime, Meyer, mandarin, citric, orgeat, passionfruit, lavender, grapefruit, pineapple, vanilla, demerara, grenadine…

I could go on.

I set up my well, meticulously sequencing bottles, getting cubed and crushed ice, shocking mint, picking lavender and basil, peeling citrus, refining the peels into beautiful, ultimately worthless garnishes. Mixology is just alcoholic pageantry, I think, repulsed. Ethan’s cutting lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruits with his headphones on, and I’m okay with that, because I have nothing to say. What I do have is five silver Boston shakers, two metal mixing glasses, three Hawthorne strainers, three mesh strainers, two teardrop barspoons, two Japanese jiggers, a cutting board, a paring knife, a muddler, tongs, a peeler, and a torch. The shakers gleam in the waning sunlight sweating through the windows. Ten bottles of bitters. An absinthe atomizer. A few tinctures. Dehydrated fruits.

These are the things that keep me alive.

Two hours pass in a whir of nothing. The scene is set. The doors are about to open. There’s a line forming. Hawaiian-shirted tourists with tumorous guts and crusty lips. "Looks like I was wrong," I say to Ethan, and he frowns.

I slip upstairs to the bathroom. It’s at least 105 degrees up here. I’m pouring sweat. I splash cold water on my face and stare myself down in the mirror. My greasy bald head. My crooked jaw. My scraggly beard. A few gray hairs. I’m getting old, I think.

I’m hideous.

I open my phone case and take out a torn Suboxone wrapper. One more milligram should get me through, I think. I rip off a piece, tuck it under my tongue, sit on the toilet, and gaze at the floor. Time stalls as it dissolves.

I rinse my mouth. Brush my teeth. Fix my apron.

Then head back downstairs to play bartender.

◆◆◆

We’re busy.

Full bar. One open table.

Ethan taps frantically at the computer, prints three tickets, and hands them to me before scurrying off to run food.

Okay, two smoked old fashioneds, one Summer Days, one Psycho Killer, one Sazerac, and a Boozy Bumblebee. What a shitty name…

Mixing glass. Seven.. eight dashes of Angostura. Four of Regans’ orange bitters… Good. Jigger. Three ounces of Michter’s bourbon, two of Sazerac Rye, and a half of demerara. Good.

Summer Days. Rinse the jigger. Boston shaker. Two ounces of La Venenosa raicilla, three-quarters of Nixta, one of lime juice, half of prickly pear purée, quarter of agave syrup… Good.

Rinse the jigger. Psycho Killer. Maybe someday. Boston shaker. One and a half of Diplomático Mantuano, half of Hines cognac, half of Giffard coconut, quarter of Swedish Punsch, one of watermelon juice, quarter of lime juice… Good.

Mixing glass. Sazzy. Eight dashes of Peychauds. Two of Angostura bitters. Quarter ounce of simple syrup. Three-quarters of Bhakta cognac, two of Whistle Pig rye…

I turn around and Ethan’s smoking two rocks glasses, having trouble with the torch. "Other way," I say. The torch spits fire. Three it girls are parked in front of my well. Chubby. Caked in concealer. Sucking down skinny margaritas like they shit gold bricks.

"And bitch, my sex life is amazing!" one shouts, and I want to scream in her face: "Shut the fuck up, bitch!" But I don’t. I just block them out and finish the tickets.

Bumblebee. Stupid fucking name. I guess it makes sense, though. Rinse the goddamn jigger. Boston fucking shaker. Two of Barr Hill gin, quarter of Montenegro, quarter of dry curaçao, one of lemon juice, three-quarters of honey syrup, and two dashes of Ango.

"This guy’s like a chemist. I wonder what school bartenders go to," another says as I ice my tins and start shaking. I smirk, picturing myself darting a shaker into her face at full speed. Like a fucking professional quarterback making the touchdown pass.

Glorious.

"I don’t think it’s that hard. All you have to do is get drunk and make drinks… Sounds like my fucking dream job! It’s not that hard, right, bartender?" the behemoth with the sex life says. I introduced myself when they sat down, but I’m still just "bartender" to them.

Nothing.

I flash a murderous smile. "Naw, not at all!" I yell over the commotion, shaking and stirring simultaneously, eyeing my fruit knife.

"See, I toldya! I don’t think they make a lot, though. Wouldn’t wanna date one." She whispers that last part, but I hear every word. "Might fuck one," she says audibly, scanning my frame.

Jesus Christ, I think, eyeing my fruit knife again, contemplating homicide.

It’s gonna be a long night.

◆◆◆

A closed restaurant is so calm.

Ethan’s gone. The lights are off.

Just me and these aching feet.

I step outside. Soggy, sickly heat seeps into my skin. My nose runs from withdrawals. The cycle restarts itself earlier and earlier during a taper. Every day’s a countdown to The Sickness. It’s just like heroin, minus the spike.

But there’s still time for that.

I fish a pack of weed gummies from my backpack. The only good thing I got on the Vineyard. 75 milligrams each. I pop one, put in my earbuds, hit play on Deadguy’s "Doom Patrol," and crank it. The screaming starts:

"I will not suffer your persistence, the smallness of your mistakes

Your jealousy abandoning, you worship it, of all your sins

I will not suffer you, suffer you

Suffer, suffer you…"

Suffer, I think, unlocking my bike. I tear through Church Street, bang a left, cut across Cambridge Common, and cruise down Mass. Ave toward the Star Market by Porter Square. The lights are all green in my head. I blink and I’m there.

The sign glows. An oasis.

After I lock my bike, I check my wallet—$6 left. Fuck, I think. Soup again.

Two junkies are slouched by the entrance, begging for change. Sunken cheeks. Scabbed arms. Gloomy eyes.

"Spare a coupla bucks on the way out, bud?"

"I need some donations myself, friend," I reply. I’ll be with them soon, I think, as the doors slide open.

Fluorescents expose my pale, veiny skin. Purple swamps below my eyes. Every blemish on my oil-slick bald head. Every nick from shaving with that shitty disposable. I’m a monster. A fucking monster. I always said I’d find my wife before I went bald. I thought I did… What the hell will I do now? I’m thinking this while staring at, into, through, cans of soup. I remember something useless about Warhol. Grab a can of lentil vegetable. Self-checkout. Collect the change.

I give it to the junkies on the way out.

"Hey, God bless, man!" one says with an edentulous smirk as I stagger off.

Back into the night. The world. The bike.

I blink.

I’m at the sublet, bracing myself before I carry the bike up two sets of winding stairs. Seventy pounds of awkward metal. Dead weight. I’m struggling. The front tire nicks the wall. The bike stops, but I don’t. The phone mount gouges my forehead.

Blood gushes.

"Fuck," I say aloud, finishing my climb, securing the bike, rushing into the bathroom. The gash isn’t deep, but it’s a bleeder. Perfect way to end my day, I think, as blood splatters the sink. . .

I’m naked. The bleeding’s stopped. I dab the gash with toilet paper. In the bathroom. My briefs and t-shirt are strewn across the filthy floor. The toilet’s stained with someone else’s shit. I am surrounded by filth.

I am filth.

The shower’s running. The gummy’s kicking in. I’m looking at my hideous reflection in the mirror as it fogs. My misshapen skull. My dead eyes. My gray teeth. I used to be so handsome… What a pathetic thought. And my body… I work out every day and still look like a bitch, I think, flexing my biceps, knowing I’m weak.

Worthless.

I floss. Brush my teeth. Fluoride first, then hydroxyapatite. I grip the sink. Stare myself down. Ready to knock myself out.

That’s when my phone rings.

NO CALLER ID.

Spam, I think, about to decline the call.

But loneliness wins.

"Hello?"

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Read the PROLOGUE: TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Read my novel, VILE SELF PORTRAITS

Read “AN OPEN LETTER TO BAR GOERS EVERYWHERE”

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