Sure, sometimes Bill or George or Dave drank a little, and sometimes Mark or Bill or Jeremy would sneak out to their cars to smoke a joint, but it was never like this, never so open. Her calmness fled, the anxiety returning with increased urgency, and she all but ran out the door. She'd find George. He'd... he'd know what to do. He'd take care of things. He always took care of things. He always took care of her.
***
"George!" Elizabeth, almost stumbling down the stairs, ran up to her fiancé and grabbed him by the arm. "George, oh god George. It's too much, George. I don't... sex in the bathroom, someone doing coke upstairs, pot in the parlor, what's wrong with people?"
"Oh Liz." George was slurring. "I'm sorry baby. Nothing I can do. You know?"
Her gaze fixated on the glass in his hand, amber liquid sloshing over ice cubes as he moved to hold her. She pulled away, eyes wide, mouth agape.
"George! Are you... you're drinking?"
George held the glass up, squinting at it as if deliberating. "Yes," he spoke with great care. "I do believe I am drinking."
"Five years sober and now you start drinking?" Elizabeth was livid. It was all... all too much, but this, THIS was something she could focus on. "Oh my god I can't believe that you would just throw away--"
"GODDAMMIT!" The glass shattered against the wall, light dancing off of flying shards, a damp spot slowly dripping down the wall. "I can't do this." He grabbed her by the upper arm, tight enough to leave a bruise.
"Ouch! Stop, you're hurting me. I don't know what's going on." Feeling weak and unsteady, Elizabeth let George lead her away towards the television, the others in the room watching with a mixture of contempt and sympathy. "You throwing away your sobriety, the drugs, the way people are acting-"
"Yes you do, honey," George squinted to examine with drunken seriousness the universal remote that he'd picked up from the mantle. "This is it. This is the end."
"It's just a slip. George... you can get back on the wagon. We can get through this."
"That's not what I'm talking about, Liz. You know that it isn't." He fumbled with the remote, first muting the stereo, then turning up the volume on the television.
"...riots continue in metropolitan areas, and we expect them to continue right up until the end. Doctor Schmidt, am I correct in assuming that there's some sort of relationship between the lower than expected suicide rates and the higher than anticipated level of rioting that we're seeing?"
"No, please, I don't want to watch this," Elizabeth said, her voice suddenly very small and quiet. She tried to pull away, but George yanked her back, forcing her to face the television screen.
The camera cut to a tired looking bald man in a cheap suit, subtitles on the screen proclaiming him Doctor Henry Schmidt, smaller lettering underneath naming him a professor of sociology at NYU. "Oh, definitely, uh, John. It's a definite reverse correlation. In fact, those typify two of the stages of grief – depression in the case of suicide, and anger in the case of the rioters – though I would imagine that in the case of the latter we're also seeing a degree of opportunism. That could be seen as a sign of denial – we're well past the point where the acquisition of material possessions is going to matter."
"Please, don't make me watch this." A pleading note had crept into Elizabeth's voice, but George was resolute, holding her fast. She tried to pull away, only to find that Sam standing by her side, blocking off her escape. "You need to see this, Lizzy."
"For those of you just joining us," the anchor continued, "We're running with a skeleton crew here at CNN, and we're going to stay on the air as long as we can."
"Going about your routine as if nothing has changed is another stress-reaction," the professor interjected, and the camera swung back towards him, taking a moment to focus. "A form of denial, perhaps. Routine as a bulwark against the nihilistic impulse to
***
"George!" Elizabeth, almost stumbling down the stairs, ran up to her fiancé and grabbed him by the arm. "George, oh god George. It's too much, George. I don't... sex in the bathroom, someone doing coke upstairs, pot in the parlor, what's wrong with people?"
"Oh Liz." George was slurring. "I'm sorry baby. Nothing I can do. You know?"
Her gaze fixated on the glass in his hand, amber liquid sloshing over ice cubes as he moved to hold her. She pulled away, eyes wide, mouth agape.
"George! Are you... you're drinking?"
George held the glass up, squinting at it as if deliberating. "Yes," he spoke with great care. "I do believe I am drinking."
"Five years sober and now you start drinking?" Elizabeth was livid. It was all... all too much, but this, THIS was something she could focus on. "Oh my god I can't believe that you would just throw away--"
"GODDAMMIT!" The glass shattered against the wall, light dancing off of flying shards, a damp spot slowly dripping down the wall. "I can't do this." He grabbed her by the upper arm, tight enough to leave a bruise.
"Ouch! Stop, you're hurting me. I don't know what's going on." Feeling weak and unsteady, Elizabeth let George lead her away towards the television, the others in the room watching with a mixture of contempt and sympathy. "You throwing away your sobriety, the drugs, the way people are acting-"
"Yes you do, honey," George squinted to examine with drunken seriousness the universal remote that he'd picked up from the mantle. "This is it. This is the end."
"It's just a slip. George... you can get back on the wagon. We can get through this."
"That's not what I'm talking about, Liz. You know that it isn't." He fumbled with the remote, first muting the stereo, then turning up the volume on the television.
"...riots continue in metropolitan areas, and we expect them to continue right up until the end. Doctor Schmidt, am I correct in assuming that there's some sort of relationship between the lower than expected suicide rates and the higher than anticipated level of rioting that we're seeing?"
"No, please, I don't want to watch this," Elizabeth said, her voice suddenly very small and quiet. She tried to pull away, but George yanked her back, forcing her to face the television screen.
The camera cut to a tired looking bald man in a cheap suit, subtitles on the screen proclaiming him Doctor Henry Schmidt, smaller lettering underneath naming him a professor of sociology at NYU. "Oh, definitely, uh, John. It's a definite reverse correlation. In fact, those typify two of the stages of grief – depression in the case of suicide, and anger in the case of the rioters – though I would imagine that in the case of the latter we're also seeing a degree of opportunism. That could be seen as a sign of denial – we're well past the point where the acquisition of material possessions is going to matter."
"Please, don't make me watch this." A pleading note had crept into Elizabeth's voice, but George was resolute, holding her fast. She tried to pull away, only to find that Sam standing by her side, blocking off her escape. "You need to see this, Lizzy."
"For those of you just joining us," the anchor continued, "We're running with a skeleton crew here at CNN, and we're going to stay on the air as long as we can."
"Going about your routine as if nothing has changed is another stress-reaction," the professor interjected, and the camera swung back towards him, taking a moment to focus. "A form of denial, perhaps. Routine as a bulwark against the nihilistic impulse to
Similar Books
