This becomes an important part of my routine. If I’m not at the garage, I’m on my eviscerated couch, scarfing down bowls of pills, waiting for nothingness. The paycheck from my stoolie job is laughable, so I have to sell my belongings to keep me in toxins. I run through that money pretty quickly, so soon enough I have to start hustling at bars, having shot-for-shot contests with the local big drinkers. It’s no surprise that I crush them all; what is surprising, however, is that one time I let my ego run amok. I have nine hundred dollars on the table against this big guy—apparently he was a competetive strong-man before dedicating his life to the consumption of alcohol—and, when he finally palms his shot glass in the gesture of no mas, I laugh at him, do an aboriginal dance of triumph, and drink all of his remaining shots. He expresses his chagrin at my poor sportsmanship by punching my punch-worn face. It’s a lot to go through to keep myself in toxins, and sometimes I’m not even sure it’s worth it.

The oblivion never lasts long enough.

It doesn’t last forever.

After another week the presence of Chester Wellington III becomes intolerable. He is always giving me that smug groomy look of his. I know he’s won, that it’s already over, that in fact my failure to take action against my own life and my craven flight from reality via pills are just the icing under his feet, but I can’t stand the feeling of him watching over me. He’s like an evil K’plua, mocking me, condemning me. I can’t take it. I can’t take the whole apartment, in fact—the bed, the bra, the fading odor of Charlie.

So I pack up my bag and head for the marina to see my boat.74

Miraculously, it’s still there. Hanging like a cursed amulet from its gunwale is a red and black sign that says FOR SALE BY OWNER. It makes perfect sense that this is what Kong would do with it—in fact, this is precisely what I recommended Kong do with it—but when I see it I still wince.

Fleet as a one-legged Polecat, I scale the fence and scurry up one of the stilts braced against the hull and then, for the first time, I’m on deck. It’s a bright day and the sun glaring off the pristine white composite is blinding. It makes me feel even dizzier. With both hands I grasp the helm and glance out over the bow as if staring at open water, not Manhattan. I must look like a kid pulling at the wheel of a turned-off car, going “Vroom vroom” as if he were accomplishing something.