The Client: Four Years Sober
by A.J. Daulerio
When I got out of rehab in December of 2015, I quickly got hooked up with a temporary sponsor. This was three months before the Gawker trial, but he vanished soon after the verdict. Actually, scratch that: he didn’t vanish–I ghosted him..
I wasn’t ready to commit to the hard work, mostly because I was just too uncomfortable with AA’s rigidity. I wanted the CliffsNotes version of AA: let’s skim the first three steps, go easy on the 4th, and get right to the amends portion where I’ll send a sorry-not-sorry mass email to anyone I may have hurt so I can resume the most important part of my hero’s journey, the focus on MEeeeeee.
After all the coverage the trial received, I considered myself a VIP fuck-up: I really wanted to have sober companionship, preferably someone who’d worked with publicly disgraced high-profile people on the mend. I wanted to be coddled–enabled, really–as I made the redemptive transformation from downtrodden to...hmm...whatever the opposite of downtrodden was to me at that moment.
The problem was I had no fame, less than zero dollars, but I did have an outsized ego which convinced me that those details could be worked out later. For now: gimme a babysitter for grownups who will tell me how brave I am to stop polluting myself with drugs and alcohol.
At one point I asked a friend who was close pals with Dr. Drew to reach out to him for me, even though during the trial coverage he called me “depraved” and an “idiot” thanks to my disturbing deposition performance.
My thinking was that if Dr. Drew knew who I was–and knew I was trying to get sober–he’d happily take me on as a charity case. He did not. His 'handlers' sent back a response that basically said "Dr. Drew is a very busy man who can’t help everyone in need."
But, it’s me! The depraved idiot!
Instead, I went back to 12-step rooms and tried to get sober the honest, anonymous way.
*****
My friend Joe Schrank, author of the “I’ll Ask Joe” columns, does sober companionship for some actual high-profile people. Without naming names here’s one experience he had last year.
Joe had to drive, who we'll refer to from here on out as The Client down from Napa after he had spent the weekend holed up in a b-and-b near one of the vineyards with a new female companion he’d met over the weekend. Joe had to go pick him up, politely extricate him from the new “girlfriend” and then drive him down to Los Angeles where The Client was supposed to visit with his brother.
Thanks to all the detours and pit stops they took along the way, the normally five-hour road trip down from San Francisco took two days. Most of Joe’s famous clients had no concept of other people's time.
They finally got to LA and checked in at the Chateau Marmont. The Client was cordoned off in one of the spooky bungalows up top, Joe in one of the civilian rooms in the main hotel wing. It should be noted that The Client was extremely wealthy, the kind of wealth that could buy moon real estate or hire Beyonce to play his kid's pre-school graduation party. So Joe’s room and all of his meals and whatever else he needed were always paid for.
Incidentally, The Client had at one point expressed a half-hearted, half-drunk interest in investing in The Small Bow, so Joe had invited me over to The Chateau to have a luncheon meeting, the major caveat being “he may not ever come down from his room.”
I was there for about an hour having a nice poolside lunch with Joe, hearing more about how messy the situation was. It was also an incomprehensibly sad one. The Client was a lifelong problem drinker, but a recent family tragedy had caused an earthquake-level fissure and now the drinking was medically unsafe. Joe’s job wasn’t to attempt an intervention or smuggle him into rehab–it was a rescue mission ordered by his family members to make sure he didn’t drink himself to death.
*****
The Client emerged from his lair and shambled over to our table and apologized for making us wait, even though by that point neither Joe nor myself expected his presence at all. He stuck a Marlboro Red in his mouth and shook my hand before he lit it. Noticing the new addition to our table, our waiter made a quick stop and asked The Client if he’d like to see a menu. He asked for an ashtray and then ordered a Budweiser.
Joe’s don’t-die strategy was to have him stick to beer and not vodka. Also, Joe carried a bag full of weed gummies with him which he dispersed to The Client once the cutoff point happened (I think it was 10 beers). This was the type of harm reduction millions of dollars could afford.
I don’t know how I expected The Client to act, but I certainly didn’t think he’d be so damn fun. He was incredibly charming with this weird magnetism that just drew people in. Literally. He’d beckon people over and they would come. Once they were there, he’d compliment their bathing suit or their torn jeans, or he’d examine the fabric of their caftans and nobody complained or felt violated.
*****
Anyone could tell The Client was wealthy based solely on his graceful overconfidence. He also had an expensive haircut, a preppy tailored summer outfit, and impossibly straight teeth that somehow still glimmered despite the chain-smoking.
But there was also a sallowness to every inch of him. His eyebrows were in desperate need of a trim. His shirt had some gunky spill-stains on it. He smelled funny. He was a Bentley covered in birdshit.
All the people he called overstayed at the table lingered until The Client got distracted or blew too much smoke in their face and then they’d leave. They were impressed until they got closer and saw how sloppy he was.
Still, I was jealous. I missed that smell of sweaty beer and cigarette breath and chlorine hair. I missed the antics and the potential for chaos before dinnertime.
The waiter came over and plopped the checkbook onto the table. The Client opened it up and just scratched his signature without looking at the total. Joe quickly reached over the table, examined it, and called over the waiter.
“We didn’t order this and this never came.” The waiter came back with another check and again presented it to The Client. Joe snatched it again and gave permission to sign this one.
The Client looked at me and shrugged it off.
“That’s what happens when you have too much money. You just sign stuff. I haven’t looked at a bill in years."
By that point, he began to slur and wobble a bit and asked Joe for one more beer. Instead, Joe shot the bag of weed gummies to him across the table. The Client took them.
Pretty soon the lively conversation between all of us at the table became just me and Joe, The Client having excused himself to go...somewhere. He made a mouth noise and pointed before he walked a few feet and then fell into a row of bushes nearby two of the sunbathers he’d chatted up.
They didn’t help him.
*****
That day last year was, honestly, the most I’ve missed drinking. Even though all of the evidence was there that The Client’s life was engulfed in flames, it kicked up all the nostalgic yearning for a day to not be sober. Just a day by a quiet poolside with a beer and a pack of cigarettes, but without the lightning guilt.
Tomorrow will be four years sober for me. Well, four years “back” I guess since I reset my day count on July 15, 2016. To be honest I don’t know if that is the exact date I walked into AA and raised my hand to yell “First day back!” like a chump. It was around this time and this is the date I’ve celebrated the last couple of years so it’s gonna stick. July 15. That’s my sobriety date. It's a date that both means everything and nothing because today is today. I don't miss drinking today. I don't miss chaos today. But check back with me tomorrow.
That's it. That's the gig.
*****
Joe heard from The Client a couple of weeks ago after a few months of zero contact. He called him on Facetime and Joe picked up not expecting anyone to be on the other end, but there he was. The Client was pantsless and surrounded by cigarette butts in a messy hotel room. He showed off his new artwork purchase. Joe said it was a weird painting with "things glued all over it."
Joe asked him how he was and The Client stared right into the camera as he lit another cigarette.
"Fine," he said. "I'm fine."
