White Tiger on Snow Mountain Read Online Free

addict and ex-convict turned counselor to the stars, out in LA, of course, where he sold the weak and wealthy something called a sober companion—basically a paid buddy whohung around and kept you from getting drunk. This was a controversial idea in AA and NA, which frown on profit motives. And we help only those who seek our help. In Dr. T’s business, often it was a family or board of directors that demanded its wayward son or CEO be monitored. In effect, the sober companion was a babysitter, trading his dignity and values for three hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.
    “Sounds great,” I said. “How do I begin?”
    “I actually have a client in mind,” Dr. T said, “someone I think you’ll really connect with. Derek Furber. A terrific young writer.”
    “Fantastic,” I managed to hiss through my frozen grin.
    Back in the ancient ’80s, when I was just beginning to degenerate, I too had been a terrific young writer. My book of short stories,
Shoot to Kill,
detailing the life of a young art-damaged junkie in the East Village, sold surprisingly well, and for a short time I became a literary celebrity, which basically meant free drinks in a few clubs and free passes at a few girls, all of which I took. Over the next few years, I shouted on a record with a punk band (the Scum, first single “Shooting to Kill”), wrote a screenplay (
Shoot to Kill,
sold but never produced), and tried to write a play (unfinished, working title
Shoot to Kill
). I want to emphasize that I did each of these things exactly once. Then, for a long time, I did nothing. In fact, when I was forced, later, by rehabs and shrinks and the IRS, to reconstruct my past, there were whole years I couldn’t account for: I nodded on the couch, in the sunny spot by the window, and petted my girlfriend’s cat. I went to the corner bodega for a Snickers. You think being a punk-rock writer/junkie was thrilling? It was,briefly. But in the end it was like being a mailman, making my daily rounds, snow or rain, in my torn sneakers and moth-eaten coat, stomach twisting, guzzling Pepto from a bag. In abandoned buildings where the homeless shat. In alleys where kids picked their pimples and fingered their guns. In shooting galleries where, if you died, you got thrown out with the trash.
    That was another lifetime. Today I am remarkably healthy, considering. I do yoga (stiffly) and run (slowly). I eat vegetables and fold the laundry. I water my neighbor’s plants. I even quit smoking. But I didn’t write a word. I tried at first, but I couldn’t get started. Then I took a break. Then I decided it didn’t matter anyway. The world wasn’t weeping for my unwritten books. Now when people ask what I do, I say: “I’m a teacher.” Or: “I proofread legal documents.” Or: “I hand out jalapeño humus dip at Trader Joe’s.” I say, to myself, mostly: “I’m alive, motherfucker.” What else do you want?
    Two days later, I was on a plane to LA. After checking whether I had a driver’s license, a social security card, and a criminal record (yes, yes, and yes), Dr. T had briefed me on my mission. Derek Furber was the twenty-five-year-old author of
Down Time,
a fictionalized memoir or memorialized fiction about his life in Beverly Hills, where he sold drugs to his high school friends and their famous parents. He was busted, sentenced to community service, and ended up coaching some team (debate? polo?) of inner-city youth, which rapidly led to his own redemption, a plug from Oprah, and the bestseller list. Now young movie stars were competing to play him in the film, models were competing to play his girlfriend in
Vanity Fair,
and he himself was due, in a week, to accept the Lionheart Award,presented annually for a Work of Literature That Exemplified the Human Spirit and the Power of the Word to Change Lives. The only problem was, he couldn’t stop getting high.
    According to Dr. T, Furber was bound for disaster. You simply do not go on
Oprah
with your