Dry: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs

Author:Augusten Burroughs
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Copy writers - United States, Augusten, Social Science, 20th Century, Literary, American - 20th century, Augusten - Alcohol use, Alcoholism, N.Y.), Novelists, Customs & Traditions, Advertising agencies, Manhattan (New York, Advertising agencies - New York (State) - New York, Business Writing, Copy writers, Substance Abuse & Addictions, Advertising & Promotion, United States, N.Y.) - Social life and customs, Self-Help, Business & Economics, Burroughs, American, General, New York, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, New York (State), Biography
ISBN: 9780312423797
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2004-03-15T21:00:00+00:00

He’s surprised to learn that my Southern parents divorced when I was young and that my mother gave me away to her psychiatrist when I was twelve and that I lived with crazy people in the doctor’s house and never went to school and had a relationship with the pedophile who lived in the barn behind the house.

I’m surprised to learn that less than two months ago, he was in a crack hotel with a piece of broken bottle glass pressed against his neck. And that he knows, for a fact, he is unlovable. And he’s afraid to kick the Brit out of the apartment because he’s worried the Brit will kill himself.

“But in Group, you were saying how he hits you, screams at you all the time.” Even I wouldn’t put up with that shit. I’d deport his ass. “He sounds just awful.”

“I know, Auggie, he is awful. But I’m all he has. If I kick him out, where will he go?”

Fresh from rehab, I answer, “That’s his problem. He is his own responsibility, not yours.”

“Naw, he is my responsibility, in a way. He doesn’t have any money.” Foster scratches his collarbone and his biceps becomes the size of a large mango.

“Are you in love with him?” I ask impartially, sipping.

“No, I’m not in love with him. I never was. We were just two messes that got together and stayed together.” He laughs bitterly. “That’s me, a big ol’ mess.” He takes a sip from his cappuccino and asks, “So what about you? How’s your relationship going?”

“I’m not in a relationship,” I tell him.

“But . . . I could have sworn you said something about some guy named Hector living with you?”

“Hayden,” I correct. “And we’re not boyfriends, I met him in rehab. He’s just staying with me for a while before he goes back to London.”

Foster gives me a little smirk. “You sure there’s nothing going on?” He wipes some foam from his upper lip, then licks his finger.

“You think I wouldn’t know?” I say. Although in the past, it’s possible I wouldn’t have.

He laughs. “Sorry, it’s none of my business anyway.” He strains his neck to the right and there’s a crack, then he cracks it to the left. He looks at me. “But you are single?”

“Yeah, I am single. Unlike you.” There’s faint hostility in my voice and I regret it instantly. It gives me away.

He scratches his chin and smiles so slightly that a person wouldn’t notice unless that person were transfixed by his lips.

The waiter arrives with a book of matches and lights the candle at our table. I’m in the middle of horrifying myself, telling Foster all the details of my life. My crazy, psychotic mother, my mean, drunk father, my advertising career, how I used to have a wake-up service call me on my cell phone just so it would ring when I was out to dinner at a fancy restaurant in Soho with friends. When cell phones were new and the size of baguettes.

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