Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

I keep walking, I don’t go back to the bar, simply because right now I am able not to. I want to feel something like accomplishment, the conquering of weakness, but I don’t. I feel numb. It’s colder than it should be this time of year, and I’m drunk and can’t wait to get home. I am thinking Get home get home get home, but when I get home I don’t feel like going in. I imagine opening the door, turning the light on; I imagine my blue pajamas, my empty bed. I can actually see it and feel it, because that’s something Lizzie and I have been working on for a long time: Visualization. Through the help of Visualization, I become convinced that I don’t want to go into my apartment. I call Lizzie from the hallway, and I whisper because I don’t want to wake any neighbors up, and if they’re already up, I don’t want them to hear me; I wouldn’t think much of someone in my situation. Lizzie says, I don’t see what the problem is. I say I just don’t want to go in. She says, But why? I say I just don’t, it feels wrong, I know I’ll be sad. Lizzie is quiet for a few seconds, and then she says, Are you going to fuck somebody now, is that it? It’s harsh, and I can hear the three shots of vanilla Stoli in her words. I say, I’m not going to fuck anyone tonight, that’s the whole point. Then I think I hear someone in the background, but I don’t ask her about it.

After we hang up the phone I’m still unable to go in, and the walls are dancing, so I sit down. From the floor, things are looking up. The hallway feels steadier, and I think, This is not so bad. I stay there, on the welcome mat by the door to my apartment, and I fall asleep. When I wake up a few hours later, there is daylight, and opening my front door seems easy. I walk in and feel nothing except the need to shower, the need to change clothes, the need to go to work. What was my problem last night? I think in the shower. I was drunk , I think, and I giggle to myself and the water giggles back.

3. The Bonfire

Monday night, Lizzie honks the horn for me to come downstairs. The car is Oz’s. Oz is a guy who used to be addicted to cucumbers — used to eat a few dozen every day, throw up, and start all over. Lizzie helped him, and now they’re fuck buddies. Once, Lizzie and I went to Six Flags (stages six and seven in the Brinn Method, Getting in Touch with the Child Within and Experiencing Danger in a Safe Environment), and there was some kind of problem with one of the roller coasters. At the top of the man-made mountain we sat, waiting, and talked about Oz, because he and Lizzie had just had sex for the first time the night before. I said something mean or cynical about his addiction, and Lizzie got very upset. She said, I’m not supposed to discuss this with you, but Jesus, can’t you figure it out? I mean, clearly it’s a phallic thing, and I’ll just say this: he had a very rough childhood. I felt stupid. You of all people, she said, and I really hoped she wouldn’t finish the thought. Then she said, All you addicts are the same; you all think you’re better, your addictions are sophisticated and complicated and other people’s are beneath you. There was something in Lizzie’s voice then that made it easy to imagine her one day saying, I don’t think I can help you anymore. I’ve never said a bad word about Oz since.

* * *

I put my bags in the backseat and get into the car. It smells funky, but I don’t say anything because it’s Oz’s car. Instead, I say, Why did you honk, you could have buzzed or called. I know the answer: Lizzie likes to honk. She knows I know the answer, so she just honks again and smiles at me like a wink. I grab her honking hand, but not too strong, and say, Shhhh. Lizzie glances at the side mirror and starts to pull out. She asks, Do you have everything? and I nod but she can’t see me so she asks again. Yes, I say; I have everything.

* * *

Lizzie puts a crumpled green Post-it in my hand and asks, What exit does it say? Lizzie can write tomes on Post-its in her tiny, compressed handwriting, but I’ve always been good at deciphering it. I read: Take the Belt Parkway to exit 6. Head south on Cropsey Avenue to West 17th Street. KeySpan Park and the Parachute Jump will be in front of you on Surf Avenue. Metered parking is available along most streets. Fuckers, Lizzie says, they don’t want you to park close to the beach; but we’ll see. Who, the evil powers of Yahoo Maps? I say. No, it’s from their website, Lizzie says; there’s an official Coney Island website. Well why’d you copy it if you weren’t going to follow the instructions anyway, I ask; for some reason this annoys me, and I fantasize about nudging Lizzie’s shoulder hard so she’ll lose control of the car. Maybe I’ll grab the wheel and save us. Maybe we’ll swerve, fast and sharp like on a Six Flags ride.

Lizzie looks at me like she can see my thoughts. We can park exactly where they want us to, she says, and carry all your shit for two miles, or we can park where we need to park, and assume the police have higher priorities this time of night; what’s your pleasure? You know I get bitchy when I’m nervous, I say, just ignore me. She does.

* * *

At Coney Island, the air is smoky and salty and the sand looks like ashes. Lizzie walks confidently past a few small bonfires: schoolkids, new lovers. I follow her to a secluded area behind a large Dumpster that seems misplaced. Lizzie says, You can leave your stuff here. Then, for about thirty minutes, we go back and forth from our spot to the car, where there’s a trunkful of planks. Then Lizzie starts the fire.

While I’m taking everything out of the bags, Lizzie says, You really mean it this time. Lizzie’s instruction was Bring everything your addiction finds inspiring. So I packed bags and bags of inspirations: everything the men had ever given me, pictures where we look happy, private journals with too much truth. Then I thought, Do better do better do better, so I added DVDs we watched together, the lace bra that opens from the front — anything that held a memory.

I’m happy that Lizzie has noticed my effort, and I say, I’m done, Liz, I’m done; no more married men. Then I say I’m done one more time, to make sure. By now the bonfire is something that can harm. Lizzie starts ripping things, and with her eyes she says, You do the same. I do. I know we have to make everything small before we burn it; one of the principles of the Brinn Method is Graduality, which means breaking down any Significant Action into several mini-actions whenever possible. When we’re done she says, I can’t do any burning for you. I start feeding the fire — carefully at first, but then it gets wild. I’m jumping in the air, attacking the bonfire from all directions, screaming. The fire eats away at my fantasies, and the smoke that it feeds back to the air feels sober.

* * *

When Lizzie asks if I’m ready, I assume she means am I ready to go home, and I say yes. She says, Then we should get started. I give her a look that says I don’t understand, and she says, Listen to me: What’s the one thing we’ve been ignoring all this time, the missing variable in your addiction’s equation? What’s our oversight? (A big part of the Brinn Method is finding oversights.) I say I don’t know. Lizzie looks at me. Think, she says. I can’t think. I say I don’t know. She says, The kids. I say, The kids? and she repeats, The kids; most of your men had kids, but we never bothered with that, it seemed immaterial. That’s our oversight! she declares, and I can tell she’s been waiting for this moment for days.

Lizzie reaches for one of the bags, takes out a big brown envelope, and starts handing me photographs. I’m sitting on the sand and she’s standing close to me, studying my reactions. In the photographs, random children play or cry, unaware of the camera. I look up at Lizzie and say, I don’t get it. What’s not to get? she asks; these are the kids. I still don’t quite understand, but then I see him — the kid with the cards, from the eye doctor, only he looks older than I remember, and there are no cards in this picture. Instead, there’s a dog, and he seems to be talking to it. I think, This can’t be right. I look at Lizzie, then at the picture again. Lizzie looks pleased, almost smug. I say nothing for a few minutes, and stare at the blackness of the water. Lizzie is giving me the time that I need, because she thinks I’m making progress.