Dyan Sheldon - Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Stu was propped between the toppled garbage can and a mound of plastic bags. A couple of the bags had split open, and there were coloured strings and shredded paper clinging to him. The way he was sitting, he didn’t seem to have bones. Besides the vomit splattered down his shirt, and the strings, and the shredded paper, he was liberally decorated with organic waste. Either he’d been in the can when it fell, or he’d been under it.

“We have to get him inside,” I said. “So we can clean him up a little.”

“You mean sober him up, don’t you?” said Ella.

She was definitely getting better at saying what she meant.

The word “sober” must have triggered something in the part of Stu Wolff’s brain that wasn’t paralyzed by alcohol. His eyes focused on us for the first time.

“I need a drink,” he announced with remarkable clarity. Causing a small landslide of eggshells and fruit peels, he started to get to his feet. “I need a drink now.”

Watching Stu Wolff on stage is like watching the gods dance. His movements are quick, and graceful, and awesome in their sensuality. But he wasn’t on stage. He pitched forward, stumbling uncontrollably. He might really have hurt himself this time, but Ella and I were there to break his fall.

“Oomph!” the three of us gasped as one.

Ella pulled her head back, a stricken look on her face. “Oh, my God, his breath … he smells like a backed-up drain.”

I tilted my own head slightly out of range of Stu’s breathing. “How can you be so crass?” I demanded. “Can’t you recognize a man who’s haunted by demons when you see him? Can’t you tell he’s in cosmic pain?”

“What I can tell is that he’s drunk,” said Ella. To hear her, you’d think she was an expert on drunks. “And that he’s puked all over himself,” she added unkindly.

Stu managed a few shaky steps forward. “I’m going,” he announced. “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Hold on to him!” I ordered, grabbing hold of him myself. “Don’t let him get away!”

Stu Wolff struggled to free himself from our hands.

“A drink!” he roared. “My kingdom for a drink!” And then he suddenly stopped struggling, and started laughing. “My kingdom!” he choked out between hoots of laughter. “My effin kingdom!” He turned to me. To be totally honest, I’m not really sure that he actually saw me. “You want my effin kingdom? You want all the fame and money? You want the effin fans? You can have it. You can have the whole effin thing. Just get me a drink!”

I wasn’t too thrilled with hearing Ella and myself described as “effin fans”, but I was willing to make allowances for the evil effects of alcohol.

I took advantage of this sudden good mood to slip my arm through his. Without my having to tell her, Ella did the same.

“A coffee,” I shouted. “We’re going to get you a coffee!”

“A drink!” bellowed Stu. “I want a drink!”

“We’re going to get you a drink,” said Ella. Unlike Stu Wolff and me, Ella wasn’t screaming. She was speaking in the soft, coaxing voice of a mother reasoning with a little kid. “Just come with us, and we’ll get you a drink.”

To my surprise, Stu stopped screaming and laughing. “A drink,” he repeated, nodding compliantly. “We’re going to get a drink.”

Holding Stu up between us, Ella and I started to walk.

“Where are we going?” Stu demanded after a few yards. “Where are you taking me?”

“For a drink,” said Ella, her voice as soothing as the sound of the sea. “We’re taking you for a drink.”

Stu stopped so suddenly that the three of us knocked into a lamppost. It was an effort, you could see that, but this time he was definitely looking at us.

“Hey,” said Stu, his eyes darting back and forth between us. “Hey, did Steve send you? Are you friends of Steve?”

“Of course not.” I gave him a tug. “We’re your friends, not Steve’s.”

He tugged me back.

“You’re Steve’s friends,” he said. “Well, I’m not going back with you. I know your game. You tell Steve they’ll be selling ice-cream in hell before I go anywhere with him again.” He listed forward. He seemed to be trying to smile. “You tell him that.”

Ella patted his shoulder. “We’re not Steve’s friends, Stu,” she practically crooned. “We’re your friends. Remember?” Ever so gently, she pulled on his arm. “We’re your friends.”

“We’re your friends,” Stu repeated. He thought about this for a second. “You’re my friends?”

Ella nodded. “That’s right, we’re your friends. We’re going to take you for a drink.”

“ My friends … my friends…” he chanted as we dragged him along. “ My friends … we’re going for a drink…” And then he made one of his sudden stops. “Who are you?” He was shouting again. “You’re not my friends. I don’t have any friends.” He started laughing again. “Not unless they want something from me. What do you want?”

I was too traumatized by these mood swings to answer, but Ella seemed unfazed.

“We don’t want anything,” she assured him, coaxing him on. “We just want to buy you a drink.”

I adjusted my grip as we staggered down the street. “That’s Ella,” I explained to Stu. “And I’m Lola.”

He stopped again.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He smiled. More or less. “My name’s Stu.” He stuck out a hand.

It was the moment I’d been waiting for all my young life. Eat sand, Carla Santini. I was about to shake Stu Wolff’s hand. I let go of his left arm. Following my lead, Ella let go of his right.

Ella and I stood there, our hands outstretched, as Stu Wolff crumbled to the ground.

Given superhuman strength by Mother Necessity, Ella and I managed to half carry, half drag Stuart Harley Wolff through the unwelcoming streets of lower Manhattan in search of shelter from the storm-tossed night. Unfortunately, the only shelter that seemed to be open were bars. Ella didn’t think a bar was a good idea, even though most of them serve coffee.

“How do you know they serve coffee?” I asked. “When have you ever been in a bar?” Mr and Mrs Gerard were as likely to take Ella to a bar as they were to take her to Lima to live among the poor.

“I’ve seen it in movies,” said Ella. “Anyway, they’d throw us out because we’re too young, and he can’t be trusted to order coffee by himself.”

The more we walked, the more Stu talked. His conversation shifted from politics to music to family and friends without any awkward transitions. People owed him money. He owed people money. The tax man was after him. Several women were after him. His father wanted him to cut his hair. His mother wanted him to settle down. His agent was a thief. His manager was a liar. Steve Maya was a back-stabbing traitor. Everyone he knew was out for what they could get.

“It’s a crime,” Stu suddenly screamed, more or less apropos of nothing. “It’s a crime, and everybody knows it’s a crime, but no one will do anything about it.”

I’d been so busy trying to imprint every detail of what was happening in my memory that I’d lost track of what he was saying.

“Now what’s he talking about?” I asked Ella.

She grunted as Stu missed his footing and shoved her into a wall. “Nothing,” said Ella. “He’s just rambling incoherently. And, anyway, who cares? I just want to get inside before I drown.”

Perhaps hearing the staggering lack of concern for him in Ella’s voice, Stu straightened up. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded with disarming lucidity.