October 2001

I have been crazy, doing crazy things, good things, as well as baffling things. Tariq and I spoke on Saturday at length. We were in a playful mood and flirted innocuously. He said that he and Raymond had a lovers' spat, and this led us to playfully recollect some of our own crisis, laughing. When I hung up with him I playfully leaned against the wall and sighed, 'I love him!'
Tracy and I went out drinking and got drunk. Very drunk. Someone gave me a blowjob in a bathroom stall.
Today at lecture, Dr. Bearden, otherwise stern and serious, suddenly noticed me and stopped, "Emil, I tried to get your attention, but couldn't. I treated myself to a meal. You were very busy."
'Oh, you were at Half Day?'
"Yes."
Everyone laughed. Dr. Bearden was about to resume his lecture, had an afterthought, turned to the class, "And he seemed to be taking very good care of his people. They all looked happy."
I am crazy. How is it that I can be so many things at once? One moment I am the good grandson and the next a sighing figure against a bathroom wall...
Vanessa is a second-year nursing student. Last night we drank red wine and studied. This morning we nursed our hangovers over a breakfast of cream cheese-stuffed, pecan-encrusted French toast and coffee. The U.S. has begun airstrikes on Afghanistan. This results in a series of brightly-colored nightmares in which I am piloting a small aircraft with no windows, darting straight up into endless skies, spinning uncontrollably, before suddenly nosediving, the plane shaking violently- and at any moment I may be thrown out into certain death.
Saturday evening I ventured into the city and met friends at Cafe Flore. Iranian, Assyrian, Arab friends. We did not talk about war, terrorism, or fear, which was a relief. I was in a carefree, flirtatious, confident, and dangerous mood. Afterward, I snuck off on my own in search of a chance encounter, something surprising and delightful, but these days there is something very predictable and disappointing about the Castro. All I encountered at the three different bars were cruising, lascivious men who approached me with the same absent look in their eyes. Or was I seeing the death of my own fascination in them? There was a time when I would have turned each man down politely, but on this night I was unapologetically impatient, outwardly cool.
I've called home almost daily, and Jackie seems to be warming up to me again, when in the beginning she was cold and standoffish. I try not to resent her.
Will all the people of the world work together to bring about a lasting sense of global unity and peace? I believe this is possible when others seem resigned to the verisimilitude of war and greed.
I saw Tariq at Wael's birthday party. We leaned against a dimly-lit wall and talked only briefly. My heart was heavy from two nights before, having been stopped on Golden Gate Bridge and failed a field sobriety test and issued a DUI, spending the night in jail. I was more elsewhere than with Tariq. I knew I still love him and could barely meet his eyes.
Can't concentrate. Can't keep up. Can't cope.
I called my immigration attorney and sheepishly told him about the DUI. He chuckled and said he appreciated my candor. "Although you've grown up here you don't have the same privileges as a citizen, and need to use caution in your everyday life. I feel bad saying it, but it's true."
I think of a day when I am finally secure and can feel at home here, a part of things.
I miss drinking and bars. I crave being drunk, but need to be sober for a while.
I went up to Novato to try and figure out how to bring my bed down to San Anselmo, unable to rent a truck because of a suspended license, and the phone rang. It was Tariq.
I laughed, 'What are you doing calling me here?'
"I don't know, I got the numbers mixed up!"
I leaned on the kitchen counter, looked out the window, and told him about the arrest, falling out with Jackie, having trouble concentrating on my studies, and giving sobriety a chance. He said that while he was proud of me for being sober he was also deeply worried about me. I assured him that I am well, embracing life in a loving and proactive manner.
Earlier I'd spoken with my public defender Christy, who was as usual attentive, sincere, patient. She said we could try and fight the charges, but I interjected, 'Christy, I don't have the time, money, or energy to fight this. And maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I've already looked into AA and am planning on attending a meeting this week.'
I could tell she was smiling into the phone, "That is so refreshing. OK, this is what we can do..."
This morning I made it a point to exercise, as it always energizes me no matter how tired and stressed I am. Walking out to my car in the parking lot behind the gym I saw two men arguing in Spanish in front of my car. I asked them to please move so I could pull away, but they didn't hear me and continued to argue for some time until the verbal row turned physical. They wrestled each other on top of the hood of my car. One man threw a punch that landed on the other's nose. I grimaced. I tried to talk them down, but it was useless. Then the man who'd received the punch turned to me and said in English, "He took my parking spot!" The other man slipped into his car and retrieved a wrench, chasing the other round in circles. It was both shocking and humorous. Finally I was able to squeeze through and drive away.
I wouldn't mind a drink, a drink, a drink. Friends are supportive, although some of them don't think I have that great a problem as to go completely sober. But I know otherwise.
Last night Vanessa performed a striptease on the coffee table; afterwards, she offered me a hit of heroin from a folded up sheet of aluminum foil. It didn't do anything for me.
The two older gentlemen who come in every weekend say that I am destined for great things, and for a moment I let myself believe it- a moment that's tucked in the back pocket of a century in flight. Others feel obliged to tell me I remind them of Roman paintings and sculptures. Pauline, another regular, wistfully admits, "You remind me of a friend of mine... He died a few years ago."
Again I smoked heroin with Vanessa. What is the matter with me? Always between a dream and a hard place. Always rearing, restless, ready to run, gallop into the promising horizon. So, I tie myself to an iron post with a rope that's braided out of forced logic. The nebulous horizon lies, possesses false promises.
I know I will survive this brutal winter called life.
Vanessa's downstairs, nodding off. She admits she's been on a binge, but becomes irritable and defensive when I try to talk to her about it.
I continue to learn. My perception of the world constantly mutates.
A woman who dined alone on the sunny patio today took the time to say, "I want to thank you for the wonderful service. It really made this lunch a special occasion."
Each living moment here, as human, is an opportunity to leave a lasting imprint of love, of hope, of kindness, and to touch someone else in some small and vital way. What is the point of life if we don't constantly strive to breathe love and significance into everything we do? Life on earth is really an intimate garden party, small but significant. I opt to live in Hanging Gardens, marveling.
Sober from alcohol, but seeking escape through other addictions and dark alleyways.
A woman I had never served before kisses me on the cheek and wishes me a wonderful rest of the day.
It's apparent in Vanessa's eyes that she's out of control and destroying herself. Doesn't anyone else see this? Her father, our co-workers, other nursing students at the college... What can I do anyway? What can I say? Who do I tell? What silent alarm do I sound? I'm terribly worried for her. She's been smoking heroin and meth, drinking an entire bottle of wine every night. Dazedly she bumps into furniture and absently laughs it off, and says incoherent things.
I called Tracy and thanked him again for taking care of me the morning I got out of jail. I had called him and he'd received me at his office in Haight-Ashbury, where I had crashed on the sofa by his desk. He had worked while I slept off my hangover, a Billie Holiday CD playing over and over. When I woke up he had pulled up a chair to the edge of the sofa, firmly planted his elbows into the tops of his thighs, leaned in, and chastised me for my terrible habit of drinking and driving. He had been loving, but firm. I still remember the disappointment in his face.
The affection I feel for Vanessa is so deep, so brotherly, it hurts me to see her struggle. I wait in a dream.
Shammi has moved to L.A. I wait for her to call out of the blue, her robust voice penetrating my soul. Tariq leaves a voice mail.
Today a customer asked if I am a writer. This took me off-guard. How had she guessed? "You seem to connect with all kinds of people. You're very sensitive." I had never seen her before in my life.
Every single moment counts. Every human being counts. Every experience, every gesture, every word, as well as every sweet syllable inside every word.
Sean Penn and his wife Robin came in again today and sat in my section. Robin wore black and looked beautiful. Sean was not as aloof as he usually is. Robin smiled and even waved goodbye as they left the restaurant.
Tonight I went to an AA meeting in a charming little chapel in Mill Valley. Claude, whom I'd met at a meeting in Corte Madera, approached me during break with a white envelope containing a newspaper clipping about Iran. We stood near a gorgeous Japanese Maple that had turned a breathtaking crimson. "So, when are you going to call me?" he asked.
'I don't know, Claude,' I answered without fanfare. Before the meeting I had been to yoga, exhaling at the ceiling like a dragon, drumming my stomach in a strenuous pose, hissing like an old heater. Now words seemed cumbersome.   
Claude is a sweet, gentle soul in his fifties. At that first meeting he'd been somewhat aggressive, extending his hand and introducing himself, pointing out the stacks of AA literature on a nearby table, offering his phone number. I know all these gestures are typical at an AA meeting, but there is something odd about Claude. I can't quite put my finger on it.
Vanessa was passed out on the couch when I got home, and woke up when I walked in. I sat with her and we talked briefly. She said she was scared and wanted to be sober again, cried. We made plans to go to an AA meeting with a classmate of hers who is twelve years sober.