The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 49

The weeks continued, and Frank did his best to do what he had done for years. He did the paperwork and prepared clients for their service. But every once in a while, it became necessary to step out for some air or bury his face in ice water. He had learned that anxiety can be made to dissolve through something called the diver response. He didn’t read into the details of it, but the first time he tried, the results were remarkable. Had he only known, he may have avoided the use of cocaine, a more natural technique – something that was already wired into his brain. At first, he was performing this four or five times a day, but as his anxiety began to subside, the technique as well as the cocaine use became less necessary. Within the next two weeks, he was using neither, but the ice water method was something he kept in the back of his mind for further use. It was simple and quick, and his response was almost immediate. But there were still times when Frank was close to breaking down, and as he felt the arriving emotional onslaught, he would excuse himself. Retreating to the basement, Frank walked to the corner most distant from the stairs and weep into a small towel. He used it to muffle the sobbing sound of pain so no one would hear and come down to investigate. He simply didn’t want that kind of attention – especially from his staff.

Recovery was difficult, but Frank managed to fight his way through, and in the end, he flushed what remained of the cocaine he had relied on for so long. But there was one more thing he needed to do. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, but he considered it part of his recovery celebration. It was after a long day, having conducted three services, Frank walked down to the bar he had been frequenting. Having been some time since visiting it, he expected the dealer to be absent, perhaps gone to another hunting ground seeking customers. After his experience, he came to believe that those who purchased these substances were little more than lost souls with a history of trauma. He could have gone to a psychiatrist for an antidepressant, but drugs of that nature require weeks to achieve their intended results. His choice, while both illegal and dangerous, seemed to be the desired shortcut he was looking for. But all that had changed, and as Frank stood inside the doorway, he saw only shadows of people suffering from the trappings of life. They sat in front of a bottle, some with their heads in their hands, as if caught in a mental lapse – the result of life having taken a sinister turn.

Sitting in his usual place, the bartender approached him, asking what he would order, returned with a bottle of his favorite beer. He wasn’t one to drink a lot – just a beer now and again. Without the bustle of people, the bar was quiet – an experience he enjoyed. Half-way through his beer, he heard the sound of footsteps as a potential customer walked in. But this was not a customer, and as the footsteps drew closer, Frank heard a familiar voice. “Frank, it’s good to see you.”

It was the dealer come to peddle his illicit goods to Frank, and sitting next to him began a quiet conversation meant to purge more money from him in exchange for cocaine.

“I take it you’re looking for a little more snow?” he asked.

Frank set his beer down on the mahogany bar and turned to the dealer with a slight smile. “Actually, no,” he replied. “I really don’t need it. Not anymore.”

The dealer’s eyes opened wide as he leaned back with an expression of disbelief.

“Now, come on, Frank,” he said. “No one just up and quits.”

Reaching into his pocket, the man took out a two gram vial of the powdery substance and attempted to slip it into Frank’s shirt pocket. “Here you go, Frank,” he said. “On the house.” Bringing up an open hand, Frank reiterated his lack of interest. This time, the dealer yielded, and tucked the vial back into his pocket.

“You’re serious,” he said. “Do you know how many people I’ve heard say that? None. No one says no to me. Do you know why? Because they need it – because without it, they’ll fucking die.” Removing the vial again, he held it up at eye-level and in a taunting voice offered it to him at no cost.

Frank was becoming angry at the dealer’s continued offer and, turning toward him, made one final refusal.

“Listen to me, asshole,” he said. “I’m going to tell you one last time. The answer is no. Now, you keep that shit out of my face, got it?”

The dealer slipped the vial back into his pocket while nodding his head. No one ever refused him – until now.

“Well, Frank,” he said. “I guess I ought to congratulate you. I’ve never seen anyone kick this stuff. But there is one other matter we need to discuss.”

Remembering that particular conversation, Frank flew into a rage and pointing a finger into the man’s chest gave his response.

“Do you remember what I fucking told you?” he asked. “Do you? I am not handing over my business to a fucking drug dealer, got it?”

The dealer was not intimidated and sat with a slight smile as Frank continued to rant. Within a few minutes, Frank's tirade was over, giving the dealer one last opportunity to offer a convincing argument. “Well, Frank,” he said. “That was quite the performance. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to change your mind. In fact, I’m certain of it. And yes, you’ll be back whether you like it or not.” As perplexed as Frank was about the dealer’s words, he also suspected that drug dealers can sometimes be dangerous. But this was Upstate New York, not New York City, and violence was not often seen in this small town. Having heard enough, Frank got to his feet and, turning toward the door, walked out. He believed that he had taken the higher ground and successfully cut himself off from the person who supplied him with the means to ruin his life. He certainly didn’t suspect the dealer could be right, and proceeded on to a waiting bed and what would be a peaceful night’s sleep.