Sick City Read Online Free Page A

Bobby De Niro came. Can you believe that? It’s been, like, what? Fifteen years since they’d worked together? He showed anyway.”
    â€œHarvey, man, listen—”
    â€œShut the fuck up for a moment, okay? I’m telling you about Pop’s funeral. Don’t interrupt me. You’re so fucking RUDE sometimes! Anyway, De Niro spoke, oh and shit, you’ll never believe who was there. Sidney Poitier. Sidney fucking Poitier. Can you believe that shit?”
    â€œWild.”
    â€œYup. So you calling me with some brilliant excuse for why you didn’t show up?”
    â€œIt’s not an excuse. I just got out of the psych ward. They held me for seventy-two hours, dosed me with lithium, the whole fuckin’ bit. I woke up strapped to a bed, in a ward with a bunch of nut jobs. There was this chick that kept trying to catch invisible butterflies and a guy with shaved eyebrows who screamed all night. I called the suicide hotline when I was fucked up. . . .”
    â€œAgain? My goodness, aren’t you the reckless one. Well, I’ll be sure to let Mom know. . . .”
    Â· · ·
    â€œYou’re such a callous prick sometimes, Harvey. I’m sick. I lost my wallet. I got shit in my pants. They gave me a fucking bus token and sent me off into Hollywood. I’m standing outside of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”
    â€œYou ought to be inside of it. Hold on. HEY, ASSHOLE. WHATCHA DOING? INDICATE, FUCK FACE! YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! YOU DUMBSHIT.” Harvey sighed, “Hey, shitpants. You still there?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOkay, Randal, listen. Here’s the deal. Mom, Lori, and I had planned an intervention for you. We like flew this professional interventionist called Autumn down from fucking San Francisco, and we all wrote letters about how much we loved you but we don’t wanna see you die, all of that shit. But, uh, I guess you were indisposed. So I’m gonna give you the Cliff Notes. You’re goin’ to rehab or you’re cut off. No apartment, no credit cards, nothing.”
    â€œCan you come pick me up?”
    â€œHold on, shitpants. Don’t cut me off before I get to the best bit. Randal, are you willing to accept the gift of recovery that we’re offering you?”
    â€œSure. Whatever. Can you send a limo? I need to change.”
    â€œNo changing. You’re going straight to rehab.”
    â€œI need clean pants. I shit in my pants!”
    â€œDon’t be a pussy. I’ll bring you some fucking pants, okay? You’re meant to be experiencing a, uh, rock bottom right now. So experience it. They’re waiting for you to check in. It’s a good place. The guy who runs it has that TV show, Detoxing America . You seen it?”
    â€œYeah, I’ve seen that asshole. I do have a TV, you know.”
    â€œWell, anyway. He seems like a good guy. He deals with celebrities, so I’m sure he’s used to spoiled fucking speed freak assholes like you. Just hold on, ’Kay? I’m calling a car service.”
    Randal returned to the bench. He waited. Was this a rock bottom? He wasn’t sure. When money is not an object, rock bottoms are hard to find. There are mostly trapdoors, which lead to ever more dark and deep caverns of degradation. He thought about scoring some more meth before the car service arrived. It was hopeless, though. Drug dealers never accept collect calls.
    Every year or two Randal had to make the trip to rehab at his family’s behest, or face the prospect of being cut out of his inheritance. Now that his father was dead, Harvey would no doubt be in charge of the estate. Dad had been senile and soft, prone to bouts of sentimentality and sudden forgiveness when he was drunk. Harvey, though, could be a hard-nosed bastard. The prolonged infantilism that Randal’s meth habit brought about had changed their relationship as siblings, twisting Harvey into the tough-loving