11 Days To Dudes: "Lease On Life" (Outtake from Indiana"

In November of 2002 I went to the doctor for the first time in eight years. Those eight years had passed during a very personal engagement spent in the entertainment business, a life lived off the grid of normality, one in which I had only dreamed of being allowed to indulge. Temporarily assured of immortality, I had gone out of my way to indulge heavily in more debauched activities than I would ever remember, among them the ingestion of an impressive array of chemicals and poisons that were never really intended to function harmoniously with the human body.

And, with my 30th birthday less than a year away, I was beginning to notice a few things: Besides a gnawing sensation that my liver might have shriveled to the size of a raisin, there were night sweats and a tremor in my hands that never seemed to subside until a few whiskeys were sloshing in my gullet. It was time to pay the piper, to get a clear evaluation of the damage. To make some adult decisions about making adult decisions from here on out.

I made the appointment and hoped for the best.

“David, you are strong as an ox and healthy as a horse,” the doctor smiled at me over his wireless bifocals. “We’ll have to wait a few days for the blood tests to come back, but I don’t expect to see anything abnormal.” He peeled of the latex gloves that had, moments before, probed the interior of my rectal cavity. “I would, of course,” he tossed the gloves into an odd-looking container, “encourage you to stop smoking.”

“Thank you,” I replied, as if he had just offered me a plate of canapés.

“As far as alcohol is concerned,” he turned on the tap and began to wash his hands, “keep in mind that the effects of abuse in our 20’s and 30’s often don’t manifest themselves until our 40’s and 50’s.” He turned to look out the window as if contemplating my uncertain future, then craned his neck to face me. “I would encourage you to begin moderating your intake now.”

“OK.”

He looked down and addressed the sink. “Do I need to say anything about hard drugs?”

“No, not really. Yeah, I’m finished with all that.”

“Excellent.” He dried off and offered his hand. “Very nice to meet you. See Patty at the front desk to schedule a follow-up.”

I burst out of the medical building and into the overcast parking lot like Maria Von Trapp across the Swiss Alps. While the diesel engine of my beloved 1985 Mercedes 300D warmed up, I poured a generous shot of whiskey from a flask into a Styrofoam cup of reception room coffee, lit a cigarette and set out for a long drive across the late Autumn back roads of Nashville. “Lease On Life” was pretty much finished by the time I got home a couple of hours later.