The Day My Brain Exploded Page 10

  “Whatever,” he says and laughs again, easily dismissing my comment.

  “Don’t talk to me again, asshole, until you learn how shitty it is not to be able to drive!”

  “You’re such an idiot, I’d love to not drive for the rest of my life. Let someone else have that job!”

  “Then why did you sound so excited about your new car? Obviously you wanted to get behind the wheel.”

  “That’s true.” I heard the glibness in his voice. “I am excited to drive it! You’re so smart!”

  After yelling at him to stop calling me, I hang up again.

  6 p.m.:

  Prakash calls me as I’m getting ready to watch King of the Hill. The silly all-day fighting exhausted me, so I thought a little cartoon fun would cheer me up.

  “I’m sorry, bro,” he says. “That was insensitive. I realize you wouldn’t lie about your vision.”

  “I told you not to call me back.”

  He sounds serious. “I said I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you by getting you a great dinner when you next come to my place.”

  “Just promise to understand how I feel about losing part of my sight.”

  “Of course I will, let’s move on.”

  Day 2

  7 a.m.:

  The ringing phone wakes me up, half an hour before my alarm clock is supposed to wake me.

  “Hello?”

  “Ashok, it’s Prakash.”

  “What do you want?” I respond aggressively.

  “Just wanted to say good morning. I got you upset yesterday, so I wanted to check up on you.”

  “You jerk! How can you talk to me this way?”

  “What the fuck?”

  “You don’t even remember? You made fun of my blindness, asshole!” My voice level rises. “I’m your own brother, and this is what you say!”

  Every nucleus in me is freshly angry. All I know is that I hate my brother for not only gloating about his new car, but doubting my sight deficit in the first place.

  We reconcile, once again, that afternoon.

  This Groundhog Daze of fighting, resolving, and refighting usually lasted four days or so. Then, finally, I would move on.

  Day 4:

  I call Prakash in the morning, and in my sweetest voice I say, “I’m so happy we’re friends again!”

  “Asshole,” Prakash responds, hanging up.

  AVM Wha . . . ?: 2000 (VII)

  Dr. Evil

  He resected the AVM!

  He untangled the bruised veins and arteries!

  He stapled titanium clips to the ends of unattached blood routes!

  He screwed in the metal plates to put my skull back together!

  His name was Dr. Fennet.

  Conventionally handsome with close-cropped black hair and extremely tall at nearly six foot four, he had pale ochre skin and looked like Michael Jordan struck with anemia.

  It can be argued that he saved my life. After all, one clumsy cut and I’d have been in a wheelchair for life, or forced to learn sign language, or forced to move with a red-striped cane.

  As I fought for my life, Dr. Fennet was the surgeon: the main man whose hands held drills and knives to my skull and navigated through the bloody swamps of my brain tissue.

  He had performed the thirteen-hour craniotomy.

  He done good.

  Over time, my mind had gained strength. I wanted to immediately remember all I had forgotten: college days, the job I had once had, family members. I had started to read about brain surgery; I wanted to know what had been done to my noggin.

  Like a traumatized adult trying to remember childhood abuse, I begged for answers. My parents said they didn’t know. There has to be some record, I argued.

  Now we were finally going to see Dr. Fennet, months after my hospital release. I was thrilled; I could finally ask what he had done to my brain. I had all my questions written precisely in a small red spiral notebook. I had rehearsed them with my folks, in the car all the way there.

  We were finally called in. My parents and I took turns hugging Dr. Fennet, the man responsible for my second chance at life.

  He sat in a black leather swivel chair behind his desk. We sat across from him in red plastic low-back chairs. He checked the back of my head, did a quick test of my eyes and nose, and was finished. It took all of ten minutes.

  He looked suspiciously at the red notebook on my lap.

  “Doctor Fennet,” I started, like an eager junior high nerd, “I have questions for you regarding the surgery.”

  He cleared his throat, as if preparing for the acid he was about to spit in my face. “No need,” he said.

  My face fell. “What do you mean, no need?”

  “I mean, it would be counterproductive for me to tell you.”

  “I have no memory about what happened. You were the surgeon who operated on me! You have to tell me,” I pleaded.

  “I will not tell you,” he replied in the same flat voice. “You would never understand, even if I did.”

  This had to be a joke. How can the man who put his hand into my skull not have any info for me? I almost began to cry.

  “Look, you’re fine. You’re in good shape. Thanks for coming.”

  Dad intervened, demanding, “Tell us how many metal clips are in his head.”

  “Two, maybe three.”

  “You don’t know exactly?”

  “It was so long ago. Go get a hospital report if you have to. I can’t find Ashok’s file anyway.”

  There were more horrifying comments to follow from my so-called savior. Among them:

  “I went to many years of medical school to learn about AVM resections—why should I tell you?”

  And then:

  “I have performed countless surgeries like yours. What makes you so special?”

  And finally, the coup de grace:

  “I’m the man who saved your life. That’s all you need to know. Put your pen away.”

  My parents and I stood up and stormed out.

  “Look,” said Mom, breaking the silence as we drove away, “Like he said, he saved your life. That’s all that matters. Who cares if he didn’t have all the answers?”

  “Who cares?” I exploded. “I do! How would you like to lose a hip and not know how it happened?”

  We resumed the silence and it lasted the entire drive home.

  We later contacted good ol’ Prithvi, our relative from Canada. He urged us to obtain the operative report.

  I took the next step: disgusted, I wrote a scathing letter to Fennet’s boss, the head of neurosurgery at the hospital. I was still jolted. Why would Dr. Fennet behave this way?

  To get the ever-elusive operative report, we had to contact the hospital’s chamber of files, fill out applications, make appointments to meet a neurology director, etc. I’m surprised we didn’t have to breakdance in the hospital lobby. When it finally arrived, I was newly distraught; it was hard to understand—and my very own surgeon should have fucking explained it.

  Drunk with Success: 1992–2000

  Phi Beta Kappica Alcoholica

  NYU introduced me to other Indian Americans. But after attending eighteen years of Midwestern tractor pulls, I had little in common with them. Again, I became part of a reassuring gang of misfits.

  This time, however, we misfits had a home base: nightclubs.

  Yes, the drug haven—debauched, multigendered, multisexual. Places where I could wear my hair in devil horns, clump around in huge platform boots, and meet sexy boys and girls.

  Even though I went out almost every night, I never took drugs or alcohol during college. Being the unapologetic nerd that I am, I felt that since it was illegal, I wouldn’t dare take those substances.

  In 1996, I graduated magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa, with a B.A. in Journalism, minoring in Philosophy.

  I then decided to go to graduate school at Columbia University for the South Asian Studies program. The scholarship I had been offered was very inviting; besides, I had absol
utely no clue as to my future direction. Why not study my own heritage? I figured.

  Life at Columbia wasn’t that great. Classes were filled with conformo drones, unlike the lovely individuality that sparkled in NYU. I learned nothing, really. I also found myself forced into being the token representative of “Indian American culture.” After a few semesters, I quit.

  It was now time to make up for the years I never drank while in NYU, which I did in a big way. I became an alcoholic.

  It started with drinks after class. Then drinking in restaurants with friends. I favored the occasional vodka-cranberry over ice. Soon, one cocktail became two, three, four and five. Not just at restaurants, but everywhere. Eventually I was knocking back nine drinks on school days.

  In the mornings. Before class.

  I liked the way I felt when I drank my mixture of vodka and whatever. Drinking was very satisfying. When I first guzzled it down, I became hyper, friendly, and gregarious. But eventually, like all drinkers, I became contemplative, emotional, and sad.

  When the sadness hit, I usually would be in a club with friends. At some point, after several drinks, I would wonder if I should stay and party, or go home and watch the movie Titanic. I loved the sorrow drinking caused. The Titanic tear-fest would usually win.

  But as the habit escalated, I looked around me and realized I had no idea where my life had gone. I fell into a deep depression, continued drinking heavily, and entered what I felt to be a future without meaning. And remember, this was before my brain exploded.

  Liquid Public Relations

  In late 1997, I found a job through an ad in The New York Times: “Renowned public relations firm seeks an enthusiastic junior account executive.” Sounded exciting and promising. After making it through a stopover in academic hell at Columbia, this seemed like the path to now follow. So, being desperate, enthused, and most likely drunk, I immediately applied.

  Luckily, as I soon found out, public relations was a great place for an alcoholic, as the business not only welcomed drinking, it demanded it. I got the job and kept on boozing.

  The company I entered was called Steven Karter Public Relations, a top New York City firm.

  I learned so much at SKPR and got two promotions during my stay there. My clients included global corporations, musicians, fashion houses, and filmmakers. The CEO, Steven Karter, called me a “star,” and even invited me to his ultraexpensive Upper East Side townhouse.

  As I started working there, however, I immediately began to understand ABM, or “angry black man,” syndrome. Simply stated, it is a term that means society always has to watch out for black men, who are always “ready to attack.” It also means something a tad more insidious: black, or in my case, brown, men are tolerated only if they “remember their place.” If men of color actually try to be assertive, and—god forbid!—succeed, we are immediately dubbed as “arrogant” or—in the case of a term recalling historic racism to blacks—“uppity.”

  Well, this brown boy became well-versed in this dynamic. I traveled up the proverbial ladder rather quickly, moving from junior to senior account executive in the course of a few months. While acquaintances—people of color—would compliment my success, I found many of my white coworkers would dismiss my achievements. Walking past the conference room, unseen, I heard a gaggle of (white) coworkers call me names that expressly implied that I was less than humble. Of course, I took this as all part of the job. As a non-white man, I had learned this was to be expected.

  After all, I reminded myself, men of color who behave assertively are “arrogant.”

  White men who do the same are “go-getters.”

  That mattered little though; I continued doing my job, and a week after the boss invited me to hang out in his apartment, he asked me to play golf with him and his buddies. This, of course, was the worst crime of all. A brown man playing golf with his boss, as if he were rising in the ranks? Afraid of the consequences, I turned him down. But, overlooking the expected racial issues pertaining to the job, I was doing good work and actually enjoying my time there.

  Of course, not everything was perfect that way—the sinister, inebriated side of my life always showed its shadow. My hardcore drinking was escalating. I drank: at home, with friends in clubs or bars, and, of course, at hip parties. What made my alcohol abuse even worse was that I was succeeding at my job, which entailed approaching journalists and producers to guarantee client exposure. I was good at this. Very good. Plus, many of the journalists I contacted were drunk anyway. Drinkers love other drinkers.

  I would get totally plastered at night, but unlike others, I could no longer claim the renowned metropolitan classification of “functional drunk.” I couldn’t awaken early the next day. More frequently, I was calling my assistant in the morning to announce that I wouldn’t be in until 3 or 4 p.m.

  When I finally arrived, however, I worked my ass off, and had the media placements to show for it. Within a few weeks I got clients featured in Time, Newsweek, and The New York Times.

  I awoke every single morning with heavy-duty headaches. I assumed these were routine hangovers, and dealt with them by simply swallowing plenty of aspirin before heading to work.

  My behavior soon became erratic: I would yell at coworkers, forget phone calls, enter meetings irresponsibly late. But my bad behavior was tolerated. I was a PR hotshot, so no one ever said anything.

  On one chilly spring morn, I was supposed to attend a press conference at the United Nations, launching a global fundraiser. I had to be there at 9 a.m.

  My alarm went off at 6:30. Considering I had hit the pillow just an hour before (after a night with buddies in an East Village bar), I pressed snooze. Thankfully, I woke up, by accident, at 7:45.

  I had set out my charcoal gray Tommy Hilfiger suit. (I was too poor to afford any other designer.)

  After putting on a random white shirt (maybe Fruit of the Loom), I donned a red Versace tie (my budget allowed for higher-end ties).

  So, there I was, garbed in a lovely charcoal suit and red tie.

  Now, I am extraordinarily hirsute, and even though I shaved the night before, I had ridiculously thick, unruly morning stubble. I wanted to keep my face smooth, but there was no time; unshaven I went.

  The last problem: to deal with the liquor smell that wafted from my body.

  I located the cheapest, bargain-basementy cologne I had in the bathroom and showered myself with it.

  When I arrived at the press conference, I was luckily just ten minutes late. What transpired is a haze, I’m afraid. All I remember is the smelliness of the cut-rate cologne. So did everyone else. I overheard one older white man in an untailored suit lean over to his friend, and ask:

  “Do you smell that?”

  “The stench coming from that young man?” his friend replied.

  “Obviously. It’s the same smell from the cab I took to get here.”

  “Do their people ever bathe?”

  That press conference continued smoothly, but my drunkenness did not, causing similar problems in other major events as the weeks progressed.

  After working in the firm for nearly one year, I decided to leave. In my hazy, clouded mind, I believed I was not being paid enough for the great work I was doing. It was an alcohol-fueled decision, but a decision nonetheless. In my exit interview with Ling-Yu, the sexy, Trinidadian office coordinator, I was still a little drunk from the night before, so I couldn’t help but ask a question that had been haunting me ever since she joined the company.

  “Ling-Yu,” I asked, “why do you have such an East Asian name?”

  “My parents conceived me while watching Chinese porn. Ling-Yu was the name of the actress in it.”

  She looked up, dreamily. Then she turned to me, suddenly. “Ashok, do you know what’s been happening here?” she whispered.

  “No, what?” I said, thinking that she was going to tell me how the coworkers couldn’t stop discussing how “arrogant” I was. Even better, I was wondering if she was going to tell m
e that the partners were planning a surprise farewell party. I was wrong, on both counts.

  “Everyone says you’ve been on drugs all the while you’ve worked here.”

  “Huh?” I didn’t know how to react. My mind was still scrambled a bit—the residual effect of twelve Jack-and-Cokes from the night before; however, her next comment was like a pot of black coffee.

  “They say you’re on those fancy designer drugs from all your party-hopping, and I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  You gotta be shitting me, I thought. At that moment, I was so fucking happy to be leaving that den of dirty gossip that I had never even considered the ramifications of what had been said. Besides, they had incorrectly assumed I was on “designer drugs,” when it had been cheap vodka all along.

  My “morning” headaches were now occurring all the time, even on those rare mornings after a sober night. Instead of heeding their warnings, I dulled the headaches with barrels of aspirin. But then I had no idea of what lay ahead.

  Only a Few Days to Go

  A headhunter found me a spectacular new opportunity: a job as account supervisor at Lennox Publicity, a smaller but impressive PR firm. I had my interview with the CEO, Jon Lennox, in the company’s offices, a spacious, hardwood-tiled suite with open cubicles instead of walled rooms.

  When I arrived, a tiny, grumpy East Asian receptionist with platinum Jean Harlow hair told me she would call Jon over. I sat on one of the arty crimson chairs in the waiting room, sectioned off from the main office by a large cactus.

  The first thing I noticed when I first saw Jon was his bright, oversized floral shirt, the type of shirts worn by guys who video girls getting nude on spring break. Baggy green cords finished his look.

  He was white and slight and over forty. Barely five foot five with a pigeon-gray crew cut, he had tiny shaving cuts on his upper lip, which meant he was clumsy. Always a good sign in a boss.

  “Ashok Rajamani?” he said, unexpectedly pronouncing my name perfectly. “I’m Jon Lennox.”

  I was volcanically trashed, having drunk nine whiskey sours just thirty minutes before.

  Bathed, once again, in nearly a full bottle’s worth of trashy cologne, I didn’t wear a suit but rather a rumpled black T-shirt over a dirty white long-sleeved thermal tee, stained muddy brown from weeks of unwashed use.