Alcohol had almost vanished from polite society by the time I was ten years old – but its use as a “social lubricant” always seemed to be lauded in retrospect as unequivocally beneficial, and only the violence and organic damage it induced were viewed as pathological. To me, though, the magic bullet which had taken its place seemed like a distillation of the real problem. Cirrhosis, brain damage, assorted cancers, and the worst traffic accidents and crimes of stupefaction had been mercifully banished … but I still wasn’t prepared to concede that human beings were physically incapable of communicating or relaxing without the aid of psychoactive drugs.

Angelo swallowed a tablet and said admonishingly, “Come on, it’s not going to kill you. Every known human culture has used some kind of—”

I mimed putting the thing in my mouth, but palmed it. Screw every known human culture. I felt a momentary pang of guilt at the deception, but I didn’t have the energy for an argument. Besides, my dishonesty was well intentioned. I could imagine more or less what Gina had told her brother: Get him D’d, it’s the only way he’ll start talking. She’d sent Angelo here in the hope that I’d unburden myself, spill my guts, and be healed . It was a touching gesture – on the part of both of them – and the least I could do in return was reduce the number of lies he’d have to tell her to make her believe she’d done some good.

Angelo’s eyes glazed over slightly, as the chemical shut down various pathways in his brain. It occurred to me that James Rourke should have added a third disputed H-word to his list: honesty. Freud had saddled Western culture with the bizarre notion that the least considered utterances were always, magically, the truest – that reflection added nothing, and the ego merely censored or lied. It was an idea born more of convenience than anything else: he’d identified the part of the mind easiest to circumvent – with tricks like free association – and then declared the product of all that remained to be “honest.”

But now that my words were chemically sanctified, and would at last be taken seriously, I got straight to the point. “Look: tell Gina I’m going to be okay. I’m sorry I hurt her. I know I was selfish. I’m going to try to change. I still care about her … but I know it’s over.” I hunted for more, but there really was nothing else she needed to know.

Angelo nodded significantly, as if I’d said something new and profound. “I could never understand why you were always breaking up with women. I thought you were just unlucky. But you’re right: you’re a selfish bastard. All you really care about is your work.”

“That’s right.”

“So what are you going to do about it? Find a new career?”

“No. Live alone.”