And the Oscar Goes To...

Prologue

It's difficult being the funny guy.  The guy who is always down for a good time, ready to be the life of the party.  "Hey Johnny!  Sing us a song!"  Or, "Hey Johnny! Moon those girls over there!” Or, my personal favorite, “Hey Johnny!  You got the blow?”   I smile.  I laugh.  I perform.  Like a monkey trained to do tricks, or a circus freak. Don't get me wrong - being the life of the party is better than not being invited at all.  In fact, more often than not I enjoy myself.  But sometimes...sometimes I think it would be nice to just fade into the background.  To be on the outside, tapping on the glass, waiting for the apes to do something cool.

That's hard when you live a life like mine.

I'm blessed, really.  I have a career I love, a partner I adore. But there is still a void. An emptiness to fill. With religion. With drugs. With alcohol. With sex. With money. With adrenaline. With more emptiness.  Thankfully, I’ve learned how to keep my mask in place. I hope it holds.

One

“Have you seen my purple tie? The Armani one?”

David enters the room wearing nothing but a towel, lovingly places the tie around my neck, and kisses my cheek, then disappears back into the en suite of our master bedroom.

I love David. I hate award season. 

It reminds me of my mom.

Every year since I was eight she had been my date for awards ceremonies.  Even at 15, hormonal and madly in love with my young ingenue, it was my mom on my arm for the red carpet. Now, at 35, this is the first time I will attend an award show without her on my arm.

Not that she was June Cleaver or anything.  Maybe if June Cleaver had trouble with day drinking and made a habit of bringing home strange men...but she was my best friend.  The one who gave me my first drink, then paid to have me sent to rehab after my fifth DUI. The one who helped me key the car of the first boy who broke my heart - then found someone else to blame for it.  The one who would walk through fire if what I needed was on the other side of it.  

David is great.  He has never been jealous of my mother, but I know deep down he is excited for his red carpet debut.  He has this kind of effortless charm and swagger that makes him somehow youthful and wise simultaneously. The cameras will love him and the fans will eat him up.

Maybe his presence will overshadow my mom’s absence.  If another reporter asks me what it’s like to go through award season without her I might take out my grandfather’s pocket knife and slice through their carotid artery.  

And as if all the stress of my mother’s passing wasn’t enough, I am tonight, for the first time, nominated for an Academy Award.  I take the purple pocket square from my dresser and tuck it into my suit pocket.  I had it made from the dress my mother was supposed to wear tonight- keeping a piece of her close to my heart - for luck. Boy do I need it.

Two

We arrive at the Dolby Theatre around 6:00.  Our driver steps out to let us in, but before he does, I turn to David. My eyes fill with tears as I confess.

“I can’t do this.”

David places his hand over the pocket square on my chest, looks into my eyes and says, “Let’s go bitch.”

He always knows how to lighten the mood.

I give him a kiss, then steel myself for the shutter of cameras and the onlookers calling my name.  I put on my mask - my boyishly handsome grin - and step out of the vehicle.  My AppleWatch reminds me to breathe.  

I get it, now leave me alone

The first reporter to greet us is from TMZ - my favorite…

“How are you feeling tonight Henry? Your mother’s absence is heavy on all our hearts.”

No Shit Sherlock

So much for David being a good distraction.

I reply.

“Man, you know...I just can’t stop thinking of how proud she would be in this moment.  I’m sure her ghost is standing right here in front of us posing for the camera.  There’s no way she would let a pesky nuisance like death cause her to miss being here with me tonight. Here I’ll pose with her.”

I strike a Charlie’s Angel pose - one that has become somewhat of a signature for my mom and I - and as I do, I almost convince myself that I feel her back against mine; smell her perfume in the air; hear her laugh echo down the carpet.

But as quickly as the moment comes, it passes. It’s just me, alone, performing while the tourists tap on the glass.

Every other interview goes about the same.  I recycle the same three or four comments about my mom so that different reporters have different sound bites, but my heart isn’t in it.  The truth is, my mom really carried the bulk of these interviews. I never realized how much of it until tonight.  When we finally make it inside, I excuse myself to the restroom.  I don’t worry about David.  He will be happy to play social butterfly and brush elbows with some of the movie greats. As for me - I need to escape.

Three

I stare at my reflection. My tan skin. My perfect teeth. My hair cut just-so. My clean shaven face. My double chin.  My crow’s feet, subtle, but noticeable. I look like my mother. Except for my empty, gray eyes.  Her eyes were always full of life.

Suddenly a bead of sweat drips down my back. I try to blink back tears, but they roll down my cheek. My chest tightens.  I feel a rush of blood to my head.  I’m going to pass out.

I shouldn’t have come.  I should have made an excuse to stay home and just accepted an award via Skype or whatever it is they use to make that happen.  That’s if I even win.

I reach for my pocket square.  Wrapped inside of it, is my secret. I’ve been clean for almost two months now, but I held on to an insurance policy. Ten blue pills, marked 100 on one side and OC on the other.  

Hello old friends.

I use a complimentary bottle of water to wash Three of them down.  I splash water on my face, pat it dry, and leave my solace for the hustle and bustle of the lobby.

Four

I spot David standing outside the doors to the theatre, waiting patiently. The fire in his eyes is quickly doused when he notices me.  He knows me all too well and quickly crosses over to where I stand, just outside the restroom.

“You OK?  I’m sorry I lost you for a bit.”

“I’m good.  Really.  Just nervous.”

As soon as the oxy kicks in I’ll be good as gold.

We find our seats.  For the first time, I am seated on the front row, a privilege reserved for the nominees of the “big” awards -Best Actor/Actress, Best Film, etc.

As I sit, the effects of my little blue friends take hold of my senses.  My muscles turn from rocks to molten lava.  I am warm all over in the most wonderful way.  My eyes become hooded, my breathing slow and relaxed. Thoughts of my mom, the awards, the anxiety, all are covered with a warm blanket as the world fades away.

Five

I snap back to reality with David’s elbow digging in between my ribs. I must have dozed off, although I don’t think my eyes were closed.  

“Hey babe - you’ve got to pull yourself together. Your category is coming up in 15 minutes.”

I know that’s not accurate.  I am certain that several of the winners before the Best Actor category will overstay their welcome on stage and require the assistance of the orchestra to make their exit.  That means it will be closer to 30 minutes.  Just enough time to go top off my high.

I excuse myself to the restroom while a seat filler takes my place on the front row.  As I walk down the aisle I can feel them.  All of them.  The producers, the actors, directors, screenwriters - all formerly friends - staring at me.  They hate me.  No matter how often people assure me that my mother’s death was not my fault, I know better.  And I know they do too.  If I hadn’t been at that party…if I hadn’t fallen off the wagon…if I hadn’t driven to her house…then she wouldn’t have died in a car wreck, driving me home.

By some miracle, I make it to the restroom without becoming a puddle on the floor in front of my peers, but by the time I arrive, breathing has become almost impossible. I take a bottle of water and pour it over my head, drenching my bespoke suit.  I reach for my pocket square, but my hands are shaking so badly that the pills go flying out of my pocket, scattering across the vanity and the bathroom floor.  I gather what I can from the sink and swallow them dry.  I am unsure how many I took.  Was it two?  Four?  I fall to my knees, desperate to grasp onto all that is left of my salvation.  How many are there?  I took three…then, maybe four more…So only three more pills.  I find one near the drain and rescue it from a fate of sewage and dissolution. The other two are inside the stall.  I try to crawl toward them.  I know I’m moving, but I don’t seem to get any closer.  I find myself feeling an ungovernable rage.  

Get over here you fucking bastards!

My stomach cramps, like having a knife plunged into it, then twisted. Without warning, I wretch onto the pristine marble floor, then fall into the remnants of my lunch, face first.  I’m suddenly grateful for my depression and lack of appetite.  I didn’t have many cookies to toss.

I crawl through my self inflicted quagmire towards the toilet, but before I reach it my stomach is again seized with pain.  I groan and attempt to will myself to move forward.  I am frozen.  In fact, I have somehow ended up on the floor, looking upward at the lights.  

I can’t breathe.  I reach to loosen my collar, only to find that my tie is already missing.  As is my pocket square.  I drop my hands to the floor beside me, to find them both, soaked in my own putrid vomit.  

I’m sorry…

This is my last thought before I lose consciousness.

Six

I can see myself on the floor.  Covered in bodily fluids.  I see David come through the door, grasping something behind his back, then run to my side, kneeling in the filth.  He pats my face.  He feels for my pulse. He goes to the door, calling for help, then returns to my side.  He continues to feel for a pulse, then cradles my head in his arms, defeated.  It’s at that moment, I realize what he was holding in his hand as he entered.  My Oscar.  He must have accepted for me when I didn’t make it back in time.  And now, I’ll never make it back.  I should be filled with a myriad of negative emotions - fear, regret, guilt.  But I feel nothing. That is until I feel a hand in mine.  My mother - in her favorite Valencia gown - is standing beside me.  As David watches the medics work to revive me, I turn to her.

“What should I do?”  I ask.

“Baby.  You already did it.  There’s no going back.”

She goes to the door, propped open by a paramedic and holds her hand out for me to join her.  

“I guess I should have known I wasn’t long for this world,” I say as I take her hand.

“You and me both baby,” she coos as we exit the restroom, and into the unknown of eternity.