Roughneck - An Autobiography Part 14

23.

The calendar blurred and swayed in front of my eyes. I braced my hands against the dresser, leaned forward squinting.

"Let's see," I mumbled aloud. "T-two days from Oklahoma, plus ten days, plus four f'r that Hollywood b.a.s.t.a.r.d, plus-plus-What the h.e.l.l day is it?"

I couldn't figure it out. My eyes wouldn't focus. My mind was satiated with worry over the inevitable.

It was probably as well that I didn't know the truth, or, knowing, did not accept it. Sodden drunk for days, I was near enough dead already.

"G-got to eat," I thought, again mumbling the thought aloud. "Got to..."

I stumbled around the room, looking for my clothes. I discovered that I was dressed, and laughing crazily I flopped back down on the bed.

There was a knock on the door. I shrugged, and dug a bottle out from under the pillow...Lot of knocking lately. Lot of funny-looking things. Take a drink, and they went away.

The door opened and two men came in. My landlady stood behind them, wringing her hands.

"I just didn't know what to do, gentlemen. I tried to call a doctor, but-"

"Sure. The doctors don't like to fool with us drunks...What do you say, Bill? You thinking the same thing I am?"

"I'm afraid so. And I think we'd better get him there fast."

They took me by the arms, hoisted me to my feet. Suddenly panicked, I tried to jerk away.

They held onto me firmly.

"It's all right, fellow. We're from Alcoholics Anonymous. We're going to take care of you."

"H-how? Where you takin' me?"

"Don't you worry at all. We're on your side. Been through this thing ourselves."

We went down to the street and got into a car. Then on to Bellevue Hospital where I was committed.

Many scare stories have been circulated about Bellevue Alcoholic Ward. Perhaps I am not the most competent critic, but I saw nothing to justify them. The food was good, the beds comfortable and immaculate. Surrounded by some pretty trying customers, the attendants remained accommodating, the doctors and nurses courteous and capable.

In a word, I was very well treated. So much so that by the afternoon of the fifth day I was able to be discharged.

I started across town toward my rooming house, worrying again-continuing to worry. It was a day short of five weeks, since I had left Oklahoma. Not much over a month, to be sure, but to an old man, a lonely old man who secretly feared that he might be forsaken...

I reached Fifth Avenue. Instead of crossing, I suddenly turned and headed uptown. Surely the publisher would be able to make his decision by this time. By G.o.d, he simply 'had' to.

Well, he had.

He walked me into his office, his arm around my shoulders. "Got some good reports from Louis and d.i.c.k. They're going to fix us up with blurbs to put on the cover...Now, I do feel that quite a few revisions are necessary. There are a couple of chapters I'd like to see excised, and new ones subst.i.tuted. But-"

"Oh," I said, pretty drearily. "Then it'll still be quite a while before-"

"What? Oh, no, we'll pay for it right now. We're definitely accepting it. Incidentally, when you get this one out of the way, we'll be glad to-Yes?"

The receptionist was standing in the doorway. She murmured an apology, held out a yellow Western Union envelope. "This came in yesterday, Mr. Thompson. I tried to reach you by phone, but-"

"It must be from my mother," I said. "I wasn't sure how long I'd be at that rooming house, so I told her to-to-"

I ripped the envelope open.

I stared down at the message.

Blindly. Stricken motionless.

"Bad news?" The publisher's hushed voice.

"My father," I said. "He died two days ago."

THE END.