O! Happy Meat!
Notes on a Tragedy Unfolding
The rumors are that lovely, deathly mix of methamphetamine and heroin.
When my mother asks, "What's wrong with Tig?" it's easy enough to push the question away;
normal is a puzzling notion for most when my child's mother is in the room. It is as if people forget that there is a difference between the general and particular. That is, generally speaking there is normal, and then there is normal for this particular individual, and ne'er the twain shall meet.
When Tig's father, her strongest and blindest defender, starts dropping hints that he is worried, and asking pointed questions that once upon a time he would have answered for himself, yes, that is the sort of thing I notice.
But all the while, there is what history reminds; there is no halfway, no small engagement—if the fight is going to happen, it will happen on a nearly cosmic scale. This has been enough to keep the various players in line, much akin to that cursed assertion of Mutually Assured Destruction.
The conditioned behavior is that unless you are prepared for knock-down, drag-out, an-episode-of-
Cops-in-the-driveway, it is best to wait for another day, when the reasons are more clearly defined, and the projected outcome more encouragingly assured.
These are the sins; this is all it takes to make people look away.
When someone pulls you aside and says, "Look, I'm an addict, so take that how you will—but
this is a problem," it is impossible to simply look away. The proverbial game is afoot, the fact that it is not actually a game notwithstanding.
The child is secure for now; as long as that remains the case without getting the courts involved, that's how it needs to go.
A week into a bizarre dialogue in which nothing seems normal, correct, or otherwise not absurd, Tig is finally starting to mount a defense. This is, in and of itself, unsettling to say the least. To the one, the "misunderstanding and confusion" defense is well past its shelf life. To the other, even at its best that defense cannot settle the ultimate question.
To the beeblebrox, it's toothless.
That is the scary part.
Generally speaking, with even the slightest question of whether or not everything is alright, one can expect a ferocious response; Tig normally goes on the offensive and tries to corner and shame you for being so stupid as to ask. Full diplomatic mode is, for her, a tactical withdrawal in order to buy more time.
The whole question could have been settled in five seconds, including the part where I apologize and crawl home with my tail between my legs. For whatever reasons, she chose to not settle the question. Thrice that opportunity was put before her. If she's guilty, as such, there is a reason she won't put the question to rest—she cannot. If she is innocent, there is something else entirely bizarre going on. After all, the chance to rub my nose in being wrong? On an occasion when I am as near to panic as anyone has seen me in over twenty years? She should be raising her glass to the Devil, sipping my soul with each celebration.
If I'm wrong, this is as stupid and embarrassing as it gets.
But I'm not wrong.
I took point on this in order to contain the flight risk. Well, that and if I left it to anyone else ... well, we don't know. But her father, usually her staunchest defender against rumors of alcoholism and other such issues, is virtually paralyzed. His true colors are emerging, and they are what everyone who isn't in his church already knew; yellow for cowardice, and black for the corruption of his pride. It's almost enough to make me wish his Biblical God existed, so that I could see the look on his face when he found out how badly he's screwed everything up.
But this isn't time for pettiness.
The reality is that there are three main factions on the intervening side; one that never liked Tig to begin with, one that wants desperately for this to not be true because otherwise it might make him look bad in his own eyes, and, well, yeah, me.
I have a small cavalry in reserve, in case this situation codes, but they can do nothing other than wait for my call. And then there are the minor factions, none of which really give a damn about Tig, and some would even be happy to see her go away forever.
There is a fourth potential faction for the intervening side, but I'm not sure which pejorative applies to his utter lack of utility. That is, the person who knows even more than I do about what has been going on is hedging on the idea that other people will judge him. Not, I should make clear, for his inability to prevent this, but, rather, because he is ashamed of himself. That is, frankly, I don't care whether one is an "alcoholic" or a "functioning alcoholic"; right now he's a lifeline, but frayed and limp and weathered to pathetic, mewling uselessness.
So I spent today getting my legal sea-legs. It's not quite as dire a conundrum as I had been thinking, but I'm still not pleased. Any venture into a courtroom is risky.
To the other, I'm running out of time. It's one thing to worry about the state. The other consideration, of course, is that this is
heroin.
That is to say, I can put off calls for legal action a little while longer. While Tig is willing to retreat and scramble to try to get some sort of handle on this thing—likely an exercise in futility—I can still apply what leverage I have in order to get to the bottom of this. There are a number of people hoping she's stupid enough to call the police; I'm covered against parental abduction under the applicable laws, so all she would accomplish is forcing the situation into the courtroom I'm trying to avoid.
But that consideration requires, well, that she lives through this. The courtroom, obviously, is an important deadline. But there is one greater, and I have no idea what the clock says for that.
I don't have the legal authority to drag her, kicking and screaming, to rehab.
Every day I wait to force an endgame might be one day too long.
Everyone else with a lever is maneuvering to cover their asses after I fail.
And come on, any book will clearly state the odds that this is not one I can win.
I accept that. Even without accounting for the child, this is my friend of eighteen years.
It's not that I'm the only one capable; who the hell is capable of pulling this one off? I mean, really, just how much practice and rehearsal should anyone give this sort of crisis? You know, give me a few more junkies and I might actually get the hang of it.
Neither is it that I'm the only one willing.
Oh, wait.
No, never mind. I mean, it's not exactly that I'm willing; science has never identified the kamikaze gene.
People of faith might say that we deal with what God gives us. For the rest of us,
life simply is.
Tig has given me a gift beyond any other in this world; perhaps I am arrogant to insist that she ought to stick around and enjoy it. But, really, there is no good solution. There is only bad, worse, and worst. I'm trying to contain this at
bad.
If it comes to
worse, say, an arrest, I'll deal with that when it comes up.
Worst is unacceptable. Sisyphus
will not be happy.
I've often joked that my epitaph should simply read, "He tried." But this is one case where that just isn't enough.
The man of faith will have his comfort; it's not
his fault, after all.
The man of spirits will have his comfort; suffering makes him feel special.
The idiot in the vanguard? The one carrying the banner to the center of the field?
O! happy meat!
