Текст книги "The Wolf of Wall Street "

Автор книги: Jordan Belfort

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

He motioned to a seat across from him. I nodded and sat down. A moment later, another orderly came in the room—this one a large, drunken Irishman, by the looks of him. Both orderlies stood behind me, a couple of feet back, waiting to pounce if I tried pulling a Hannibal Lecter on this guy—biting his nose off, while my pulse remained at seventy-two.

Dennis Maynard said, “I’ve been retained by your wife.”

I shook my head in amazement. “What are you, a fucking divorce lawyer or something? Christ, that cunt works quick! I figured she’d at least have the decency to wait the three days ’til the Baker Act expired before she filed for divorce.”

He smiled. “I’m not a divorce lawyer, Jordan. I’m a drug interventionist, and I’ve been hired by your wife, who still loves you, so you shouldn’t be so quick to call her a cunt.”

I narrowed my eyes at this bastard, trying to make heads or tails of what was going on. I no longer felt paranoid, but I still felt on edge. “So you say you’ve been hired by my wife, who still loves me? Well, if she loves me so much, why won’t she visit me?”

“She’s very scared right now. And very confused. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours with her, and she’s in a very fragile state. She’s not ready to see you.”

I felt my head fill with steam. This motherfucker was making a play for the Duchess. I popped out of my chair and jumped over the desk, screaming, “You cocksucker!” He recoiled, as the two orderlies lunged after me. “I’ll have you stabbed to death, you piece of shit, going after my wife while I’m locked up in here. You’re fucking dead! And your family’s dead too! You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

I took a deep breath as the orderlies pushed me back down into my seat.

“Calm down,” said the Duchess’s future husband. “I’m not after your wife. She’s still in love with you and I’m in love with another woman. What I was trying to say is that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours with your wife talking about you, and her, and everything that’s happened between you two.”

I felt entirely irrational. I was used to being in control, and I found this lack of control wildly disconcerting. “Did she tell you that I kicked her down the stairs with my daughter in my arms? Did she tell you that I cut open two million dollars’ worth of shabby-chic furniture? Did she tell you about my little baking disaster? I can only imagine what she said.” I shook my head in disgust, not just over my own actions but over the Duchess airing our dirty laundry to a complete stranger.

He nodded and let out a chuckle, trying to defuse my anger. “Yeah, she told me about all those things. Some of them were pretty amusing, actually, especially the part about the furniture. I’d never heard that one before. But most of the things were pretty disturbing, like what happened on the stairs and in the garage. Understand, though, that none of this is your fault—or I should say none of these things makes you a bad person. What you are is a sickperson, Jordan; you’re sick with a disease, a disease that’s no different than cancer or diabetes.”

He paused for a second, then shrugged. “But she also told me how wonderful you used to be, before the drugs took hold. She told me how brilliant you were and about all your accomplishments and how you swept her off her feet when you first met. She told me that she never loved anyone the way she loved you. She told me how generous you are to everyone, and how everyone takes advantage of your generosity. And she also told me about your back, and how that exacerbated…”

As my interventionist kept talking, I found myself hanging on the word loved.He had said she lovedme—past tense. Did that mean she no longer loved me? Probably so, I thought, because if she still loved me she would have come to visit me. This whole business of her being scared didn’t make sense. I was in a locked-down psychiatric unit—how could I harm her? I was in terrible emotional pain. If she would just visit me– even for a second, for Chrissake!—and hug me and tell me that she still loved me, that would ease my pain. I would do it for her, wouldn’t I? It seemed unusually cruel of her not to visit me after I’d almost committed suicide. It didn’t strike me as the act of a loving wife—estranged or not—no matter what the circumstances.

Obviously, Dennis Maynard was here to try to convince me to go to rehab. And perhaps I would go, if the Duchess would come here and ask me herself. But not like this, not while she was blackmailing me and threatening to leave me unless I did what she wanted. Yet wasn’t rehab what I wanted, or at least what I needed? Did I really want to live out my life as a drug addict? But how could I possibly live without drugs? My entire life was centered on drugs. The very thought of living the next fifty years without Ludes and coke seemed impossible. Yet there was a time, long before all this happened, when I’d lived a sober life. Was it possible to get back to that point, to turn back the clock, so to speak? Or had my brain chemistry been immutably altered—and I was now an addict, doomed to that very life until the day I died?

“…and about your father’s temper,” continued the interventionist, “and how your mother tried to protect you from him but wasn’t always successful. She told me everything.”

I fought the urge to be ironic but quickly failed. “So did little Martha Stewart tell you how perfect sheis? I mean, since I’m such damaged goods and everything, did she even get a moment to tell you anything about herself? Because she is perfect, after all. She’ll tell you—not in so many words, of course—but she will tell you. After all, she’s the Duchess of Bay Ridge.”

The last few words gave him a chuckle. “Listen,” he said, “your wife is far from perfect. In fact, she’s sicker than you are. Think about it for a second: Who’s the sicker one—the spouse who’s addicted to drugs or the spouse who sits by and watches the person they love destroy themselves? I would say the latter. The truth is that your wife suffers from her own disease, namely, codependence. By spending all her time looking after you, she ignores her own problems. She’s got as bad a case of codependence as I’ve ever seen.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” I said. “You don’t think I know all this shit? I’ve done my fair share of reading, in case no one’s told you. In spite of the fifty thousand Ludes I’ve consumed, I still remember everything I’ve read since nursery school.”

He nodded. “I haven’t just met with your wife, Jordan; I’ve also met with all your friends and family, everyone who’s important to you. And one thing they’re all unanimous on is that you’re one of the smartest men on the planet. So, that being said, I’m not gonna try to bullshit you. Here’s the deal: There’s a drug rehab in Georgia called Talbot Marsh. It specializes in treating doctors. The place is filled with some very smart people, so you’ll fit in well there. I have the power to sign you out of this hellhole right now. You could be at Talbot Marsh in two hours. There’s a limousine waiting for you downstairs, and your jet is at the airport, all fueled up. Talbot Marsh is a very nice place, and very upscale. I think you’ll like it.”

“What makes you so fucking qualified? Are you a doctor?”

“No,” he said, “I’m just a drug addict like you. No different, except that I’m in recovery and you’re not.”

“How long you sober for?”

“Ten years.”

“Ten fucking years?” I sputtered. “Holy Christ! How the fuck is that even possible? I can’t go a day—an hour—without thinking about drugs! I’m not like you, pal. My mind works differently. Anyway, I don’t need to go to rehab. Maybe I’ll just try AA or something.”

“You’re past that point. In fact, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. You should’ve stopped breathing a long time ago, my friend.” He shrugged. “But one day your luck’s gonna run out. Next time your friend Dave might not be around to call 911, and you’ll end up in a coffin instead of a psychiatric unit.”

In a dead-serious tone, he said, “In AA we say there are three places an alcoholic or an addict ends up—jails, institutions, or dead. Now, in the last two days you’ve been in a jail and an institution. When will you be satisfied, when you’re in a funeral home? When your wife has to sit your two children down and explain how they’re never gonna see their father again?”

I shrugged, knowing he was right but incapable of surrendering. For some inexplicable reason I felt the necessity to resist him, to resist the Duchess—to resist everyone, in fact. If I were to get sober, it would be on my own terms, not on anyone else’s, and certainly not with a gun to my head. “If Nadine comes down here herself, I’ll consider it. Otherwise you can go fuck yourself.”

“She won’t come here,” he said. “Unless you go to rehab she won’t speak to you.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Then you can both go fuck yourselves. I’ll be out of here in two days; then I’ll deal with my addiction on my own terms. And if it means losing my wife, so be it.” I rose out of my chair and motioned to the orderlies.

As I was walking out of the room, Dennis said, “You may be able to find another beautiful wife, but you’ll never find one who loves you as much as she does. Who do you think organized all this? Your wife’s spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of panic, trying to save your life. You’d be a fool to let her go.”

I took a deep breath and said, “A long time ago there was another woman who loved me as much as Nadine did; her name was Denise, and I fucked her over royally. Maybe I’m just getting what I deserve. Who knows anymore? But, either way, I’m not being bullied into rehab, so you’re wasting your time. Don’t come see me again.”

Then I left the room.

The rest of the day was no less torturous. Starting with my parents, one by one my friends and family came into the psychiatric unit and tried to convince me to go to rehab. Everyone except the Duchess. How could the woman be so coldhearted, after I’d tried…what?

I resisted using the word suicide,even in my own thoughts—perhaps because it was too painful, or perhaps out of sheer embarrassment that the love or, for that matter, the obsession with a woman, even my own wife, could drive me to commit such an act. It was not the act of a true man of power, nor was it the act of a man who had any self-respect.

In truth, I had never actually intended to kill myself. Deep down, I knew that I’d be rushed to the hospital and my stomach would be pumped. Dave had been standing over me, ready to intervene. The Duchess wasn’t aware of that, though; from her perspective, I had been so distraught over the possibility of losing her, and so caught up in the despair and desperation of a cocaine-induced paranoia, that I had tried to take my own life. How could she not be moved by that?

True: I had acted like a monster toward her, not just on the stairs but over the very months leading up to that heinous act. Or perhaps years. Since the early years of our marriage, I had exploited our unspoken quid pro quo—that by providing her with the Life, I was entitled to certain liberties. And while there might be a germ of truth to that notion, there was no doubt that I had stepped way over the line.

Yet, in spite of everything, I felt that I still deserved compassion.

Did the Duchess lack compassion? Was there a certain coldness to her, a corner of her heart that was unreachable? In truth, I had always suspected as much. Like myself—like everyone—the Duchess was damaged goods; she was a good wife, but a wife who’d brought her own baggage into the marriage. As a child, her father had all but abandoned her. She had told me the stories of all the times she got dressed up on Saturdays and Sundays—gorgeous even then she was, with flowing blond hair and the face of an angel—and waited for her father to take her to a fancy dinner or on the roller coaster at Coney Island or to Riis Park, the local beach in Brooklyn, where he could proclaim to one and all: “This is my daughter! Look how beautiful she is! I’m so proud she’s mine.” Yet she would wait on the front stoop for him, only to be disappointed when he never showed or even called to humor her with a lame excuse.

Suzanne, of course, had covered for him—telling Nadine that her father loved her but that he was possessed by his own demons that drove him to the life of a wanderer, to a rootless existence. Was I now feeling the brunt of that? Was her very coldness a result of the barriers she’d erected as a child that precluded her from becoming a compassionate woman? Or was I simply grasping at straws? Perhaps this was payback—for all the philandering, the Blue Chips and the NASDAQS, the three-a.m. helicopter landings, and sleep-talking about Venice the Hooker, and the masseuse and the groping of the stewardess…

Or was the payback more subtle? Was it a result of all the laws I’d broken? Of all the stocks I’d manipulated? Of all the money I’d smuggled to Switzerland? For fucking over Kenny Greene, the Blockhead, who had been a loyal partner to me? It was hard to say anymore. The last decade of my life was unspeakably complicated. I had lived the sort of life that people read about only in novels.

Yet, this had been my life. Mine.For better or worse, I, Jordan Belfort, the Wolf of Wall Street, had been a true wild man. I had always looked at myself as being bulletproof—dodging death and incarceration, living my life like a rock star, consuming more drugs than any thousand men have the right to and still living to tell about it.

All these thoughts were roaring through my head, as I closed out my second day in the locked-down psychiatric unit of the Delray Medical Center. And as the drugs continued to make their way out of my cerebrum, my mind grew sharper and sharper. I was on the rebound—ready to face the world with all my faculties; ready to make mincemeat out of that bald bastard Steve Madden; ready to resume my fight with my nemesis, Special Agent Gregory Coleman; and ready to win the Duchess back, no matter what it took.

The next morning, just after pill call, I was summoned back into the rubber room, where I found two doctors waiting for me. One was fat and the other was average-looking, although he had bulging blue eyeballs and an Adam’s apple the size of a grapefruit. A glandular case, I figured.

They introduced themselves as Dr. Brad ^*11and Dr. Mike ^*12and immediately waved the orderlies out of the room. Interesting, I thought, but not nearly as interesting as the first two minutes of the conversation, when I came to the conclusion that these two were better suited as a stand-up comedy act than as drug interventionists. Or was that their method? Yes, these two guys seemed quite all right. In fact, I kind of liked them. The Duchess had flown them in from California, on a private jet, after Dennis Maynard informed her that the two of us hadn’t hit it off too well.

So these were the reinforcements.

“Listen,” said fat Dr. Brad, “I can sign you out of this shitty place right now and in two hours you can be at Talbot Marsh, sipping on a virgin piña colada and staring at a young nurse—who’s now one of the patients because she got caught shooting Demerol through her nurse’s skirt.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Or you could stay here for another day and become better acquainted with butterfly-lady and math-boy. But I gotta tell ya, I think you’d be crazy to stay in this place one second longer than you have to. I mean, it smells like…”

“Shit,” said the Glandular Case. “Why don’t you let us sign you out of here? I mean, I have no doubt that you’re crazy and everything, and you could probably use to be locked away for a couple of years, but not here—not in this shithole! You need to be in a classier loony bin.”

“He’s right,” added fat-Brad. “All kidding aside, there’s a limo downstairs waiting for us, and your jet’s at Boca Aviation. So let us sign you out of this madhouse, and let’s get on the jet and have some fun.”

“I agree,” added the Glandular Case. “The jet’s beautiful. How much did it cost your wife to fly us here from California?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I’m willing to bet she paid top-dollar. If there’s one thing the Duchess hates, it’s a bargain.”

They both laughed, especially fat-Brad, who seemed to find humor in everything. “The Duchess! I love that! She’s a good-looking lady, your wife, and she really loves you.”

“Why do you call her the Duchess?” asked the Glandular Case.

“Well, it’s a long story,” I said, “but I can’t actually take credit for the name, as much as I’d like to. It came from this guy Brian, who owns one of the brokerage firms I do a lot of business with. Anyway, we were on a private jet, flying home from St. Bart’s a bunch of Christmases ago, and we were all really hung over. Brian was sitting across from Nadine in the cabin, and he laid a humongous fart and said, ‘Oh, shit, Nae, I think I just left a few skid marks with that one!’ Nadine started getting pissed at him, telling him how uncouth and disgusting he was, so Brian said, ‘Oh, excuse me; I guess the Duchess of Bay Ridge never laid a fart in her silk panties and left a few skid marks there!’”

“That’s funny,” said fat-Brad. “The Duchess of Bay Ridge. I like that.”

“No, that’s not the funny part. It’s what happened next that was really funny. Brian thought his joke was so hysterical that he was doubled over laughing so he didn’t see the Duchess rolling up the Christmas edition of Town and Countrymagazine. Just as he was lifting his head up, she popped out of her seat, took the most enormous swat at his head you could possibly imagine, and knocked him unconscious right on the plane. I’m talking out—fucking—cold! Then she sat back down and started reading her magazine again. Brian came to a couple of minutes later, after his wife threw a glass of water in his face. Anyway, ever since then the name stuck.”

“That’s incredible!” said the Glandular Case. “Your wife looks like an angel. I wouldn’t think her the type to do something like that.” Fat-Brad nodded in agreement.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you have no idea what she’s capable of. She might not look tough, but she’s strong as an ox. You know how many times she’s beaten me up? She’s especially good with water.” I smiled and let out a chuckle. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: I deserved most of the beatings. As much as I love the girl I haven’t exactly been a model husband. But I still think she should’ve visited me. If she did, I’d already be in rehab, but now I don’t wanna do it because I don’t like being held hostage like this.”

“I think she wanted to come,” said fat-Brad, “but Dennis Maynard advised her against it.”

“It figures,” I sputtered. “He’s a real piece a shit, that guy. As soon as all this is resolved I’m gonna have someone pay him a little visit.”

The comedy team refused to engage with me. “Can I make a suggestion to you?” asked the Glandular Case.

I nodded. “Sure, why not? I like you guys. It’s the other prick I hated.”

He smiled and looked around conspiratorially. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Why don’t you let us sign you out of here and take you to Atlanta and then just bolt out of the rehab after you check in? There’re no walls or bars or barbed wire or anything like that. You’ll be staying in a luxury condo with a bunch of wacky doctors.”

“Yeah,” said fat-Brad, “once we drop you in Atlanta, the Baker Act is nullified and you’ll be free to go. Just tell your pilot not to leave the airport. If you don’t like the rehab, just walk away.”

I started laughing. “You two guys are unbelievable! You’re trying to appeal to my larcenous heart, aren’t you?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to rehab,” fat-Brad said. “You’re a nice guy and you deserve to live, not die at the end of a crack pipe, which is what’s gonna happen if you don’t get sober. Trust me—I speak from experience.”

“You’re a recovering addict too?” I asked.

“We both are,” said the Glandular Case. “I’m sober eleven years. Brad is sober thirteen years.”

“How is that even possible? The truth is I’d like to stop but I just can’t. I wouldn’t make it more than a few days, never mind thirteen years.”

“You can do it,” said fat-Brad. “Not for thirteen years, but I bet you make it through today.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I can make it through today, but that’s about it.”

“And that’s enough,” said the Glandular Case. “Today is all that matters. Who knows what tomorrow brings? Just take it one day at a time and you’ll be fine. That’s how I do it. I didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Gee, Mike, it’s important to control your urge to drink for the rest of your life!’ I said, ‘Gee, Mike, just make it for the next twenty-four hours and the rest of your life will take care of itself.’”

Fat-Brad nodded. “He’s right, Jordan. And I know what you’re probably thinking right now—that it’s just a stupid mind-dodge, like pulling the wool over your own eyes.” He shrugged. “And it probably is, but I personally couldn’t give a shit. It works, and that’s all I care about. It gave me my life back, and it’ll give you your life back too.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I liked these guys; I really did. And I truly wanted to get sober. So much that I could tasteit. But my compulsion was too strong. All my friends did drugs; all my pastimes included drugs. And my wife…well, the Duchess hadn’t come to see me. With every terrible thing I’d done to her, I knew in my heart that I would never forget how she hadn’t come to see me after I’d tried to commit suicide.

And, of course, there was the Duchess’s side of things. Perhaps she would choose not to forgive me. I couldn’t blame her for that. She had been a good wife to me, and I had paid her back by becoming a drug addict. I had had my reasons, I figured, but that didn’t change things. If she wanted a divorce, then she was justified. I would always take care of her, I would always love her, and I would always make sure she had a good life. After all, she’d given me two gorgeous children, and she was the one who’d organized all this.

I looked fat-Brad straight in the eye and started nodding slowly. “Let’s get the fuck outta this hellhole.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Indeed.”