Dan, January 26, 2008

(Photo stolen from crazyscientist_11 on Flickr)

I don't believe you.

The death of Heath Ledger this week brought with it the expected suspicions, whispers and rumors. Once the truth of the actor's tragic death emerges, whether the cause was accidental or recreational or suicidal -- whatever truth it may be, people will say "I can't believe it" and "I never saw the signs" and "if only I had known, I would have done something." This is to be expected. This is how we humans operate. We believe in our power to fix things, to intercede and change the course of history. And often we can.

And often we can't. Sometimes we just can't fix what's broken, and then we let history have its head.

But there is a third scenario, one that I'm sure happens far more often than the other two. That path is the one I'm staring down tonight, the one I'm determined not to take any longer. That way involves the friends, family and coworkers simply shrugging their shoulders, looking the other way, shaking their heads. That's what I've been doing for years, without even thinking about it, but I'm not going to do it anymore.

You're lying to me.

Someone whose job crosses paths with mine is headed down a bad, bad road, and it may be coming to a head soon. I'll call him Dan -- Dan came in to my office Tuesday looking wrecked. Bleary, red eyes. Slow, slurry speech. Insipid chatter, silly giggle. Stoned on painkillers, again. Par for the course. And then, just as suddenly as he had come in, he walked out the door and was gone. I was busy, and had very soon put him out of my mind. And then I checked my e-mail and learned that Heath Ledger was found dead of an apparent overdose.

Wednesday Dan came in again, this time to see my boss about something. I didn't talk to Dan until he came out of my boss's office and stumbled past me. "Take it easy, shweetheart," he slurred, and weaved out the door. I stared after Dan as he left, then walked into my boss's office. "Wow," I said. "Dan looked wrecked."

"Man, he was OUT of it," my boss said. But we were both busy.

Wednesday night at about 9:00 I sat down with my husband and talked about our day. I told him about Dan; he knows Dan, too -- everybody in town knows Dan. And as the words were pouring out of my mouth, I was stunned to realize I had been complicit in a crime. I let Dan walk out of that office and climb into his truck and drive away, when he could barely form a decent sentence. I was shocked at my tunnel vision, my apparent indifference to a friend's crisis. Mostly I was disgusted that I didn't try to stop Dan from brandishing a deadly automotive weapon on the busy streets of my city. "No more," I told my husband. "I'm not playing along any more."

Bullshit.

The first thing I did Thursday was talk to my bosses about it. I had had a dream about it the night before, and it had clarified for me what I had to say.

Perhaps I was a bit hasty. Maybe I was being a zealot? I guess I should try talking to Dan first. Okay, I'll do that. Suddenly all my confidence was gone, and I questioned my judgment. I even questioned my own motives. I was not ready for any kind of confrontation, and I needed some time to regroup.

But there wasn't any time. Friday morning Dan lurched into the office looking for my boss again, and I sent him on in. I began a slow burn that turned to quiet fuming. I was angry at myself, at my boss (unfairly -- he was just as caught in this current as I was, looking for any branch to pull himself out), but mostly I was mad at Dan, a man I have always adored.

By the time Dan staggered up to my desk on his way out the door, I was boiling. Dan took off his glasses and wiped his bloody eyes. He could see by my dark scowl I was gunning for him, and though he didn't yet know why, I'm sure he could guess that it had something to do with his obvious drug use. Dan's many years of coming up with lies took over, and he began his patronizing, pathetic cover story. I cut him off.

"Don't come in here and talk to me when you're stoned," I heard myself say. I had no plan, and no idea that I would actually say anything to him. Rage had taken over.

"Yeah, I know," he said, agreeing with me! "I woke up this way, and I have no idea what's going on," he lied.

"Don't give me that!" I barked. "You've come in here three days this week stoned out of your mind. Don't tell me you woke up that way." I was ready for the string of swear words that never came. It would have been so easy. Just give me a reason to make the call, I thought. Your boss. The police. Your wife. Somebody needs to be called. Give me a reason.

"I know, it's crazy," Dan said. "I've been taking the same medications [code for Norco, Vicadin, and who knows what else] for years, and all of a sudden I think I'm having a reaction," he said, smooth as glass. Let me think back -- over the years it's been allergies, allergy medicines, back pain . . . am I forgetting any excuses? There's always a reason when Dan is stoned out of his mind, but it's never the handful of painkillers he pops in front of people he thinks are "cool" that could be causing the "reaction."

"Doesn't matter," I said, still furious, but rapidly deflating. "You are impaired, and you shouldn't be driving. I'm scared to death for you, but more than that, I'm scared for the people out on the road with you."

"I know, I know," he smoothed me over. "I'm calling my doctor to find out what the heck is wrong," he said.

All the air was out of my balloon. I had nothing left. No actual proof -- I am not one of the "cool" people he feels are safe to pop pills in front of, so I can only guess what he's taking. And I was the victim of my own game -- I call it Customer Service Karate: the art of taking a "punch" from an angry person, and using their energy against them. Pretty soon they have no steam left, but you appear unbruised, unbattered, fresh as a daisy It works every time if you can outlast them. Well, Dan had just done that to me. I was definitely battered and he outlasted me.

After Dan left he called me on his cell phone to ask a business question; I answered curtly and coldly. He thanked me for being a friend and for caring. It was the final punch. KO'd.

I'm gonna make two calls, and the second call will be to your boss. But you shouldn't worry about the second call.

Dan may have won the battle, but he hasn't yet won he war. I had to hear him lie to me, face to face, when confronted honestly. Now I know, and I know what I have to do. And my bosses are waking up to the reality, too. There may be hope yet.

As long as Dan doesn't kill himself this weekend, that is.

I can't believe it. I never saw the signs. If only I had known, I would have done something.