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Phillip Carlyle awoke in drowsy confusion with an acute discomfort running down his neck and back. A piano played in the background, and the soft tinkling of the keys was hollow and chilling. His head was lying on a hard, grimy surface- the bar, he remembered with a familiar dread setting in. The wooden bar at the dark, empty tavern. Out of instinct, he felt for the flask he carried in his breast pocket, but his jacket lay on the floor. He was cold. The sound of the rain pouring in the November night seemed far away. His clothes were damp, he realized. His dress shirt, rolled to the elbows, hung loose on his body. Phillip had no concept of what time it was. It could have been eight o’clock at night or one o’clock in the morning. He felt like the human equivalent to slush on the side of the road in mid-February.
Phillip held a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, knocked out before he could even finish the drink. A pitiful thing to behold, Phillip was sure. Heck, he pitied himself. The bartender pretended not to look over at the sorry sight of the wretched socialite, who was grateful to have been left alone. As he pushed himself up, arms trembling slightly, only one thought could push through his clouded mind: How did I end up here?
Sometimes Phillip wondered if he could blame his parents and how they’d always treated him with equal parts neglect and disappointment. However, if that were really the case, he decided he’d have been a useless drunk before turning twenty. The wrong turn had been made so long ago that it was hard to remember exactly what it was. Probably the parties. Once Phillip had made a name for himself in the theatre, invitations suddenly came pouring in. No longer would he only attend parties as the son of his parents. Phillip was his own man now, with more receptions to go to than he could keep track of. But that didn’t mean he liked said receptions.
Phillip had been to countless upper-class parties in his life, and they’d always left a bad taste in his mouth, even when he was young. It was nothing but hours of small talk and artificial friendships. Pretending to know each other, but knowing nothing at all. Phillip always felt a tinge of uncomfortable hostility in the room that everyone silently acknowledged but chose to ignore. He’d get an overwhelming need to leave after a half an hour, but he’d learned to keep quiet about it after the one time he’d interrupted his parents’ conversation and asked to leave. It was the first reception they’d brought him to. He was thirteen. Phillip suffered through every party after that, staying quiet unless approached, and giving out the same fake smiles that other guests offered him.
Phillip still suffered through parties, even now that he didn’t have to go with his parents. However, before, his parents didn’t allow him to drink. They said he was too young. Now, though, that was not a concern.
He found if he numbed himself with enough champagne, he’d stop thinking about how much he hated being at the party. Sure, maybe he stopped thinking in general, but it was a small price to pay. It was hardly even a price at all. There wasn’t much Phillip thought about that he particularly wanted to keep in his mind.
It wasn’t a problem. Well, not the first time, anyway. Not the second time, either. However, Phillip was never short on invitations, and parties were usually not short on free alcohol. He wouldn’t have known this at the time, or at least he wouldn’t have admitted it to himself, but Phillip had soon stopped attending parties out of courtesy.
Most of his nights all felt like the same blur. Walk into some mansion or museum or ballroom, exchange formalities with the host, and down glass after glass of champagne that was always floating by on a platter held by a waiter, ready to be taken. Laugh. Be loud. Forget everything. Spend the next morning in misery on his knees in the water closet before repeating the cycle. So went the glamorous life of the wealthy, successful socialite.
It was during those dreadful mornings when Phillip puzzled over why he insisted on self-destruction. That was the only name for it: self-destruction. His bad habit certainly wasn’t helping anything. Maybe he hoped it would fill whatever hole gaped inside him, although he knew no amount of alcohol would satisfy anything. Still, he didn’t stop. Phillip idly wondered if something was wrong with him, but he shook the thought off. He didn’t need help. The only thing he needed, he realized, was something real in his life.
Yes, that was it. That was the hole. Something real. He found no real value in his plays, no real value in his life, and real no value in relationships. How could he? There was nothing real to be found in all of upper-class New York.
Something real. Phillip longed for it. He ached with the lack of it. He needed meaning and truth in his life so desperately he felt he could tear in half, but there wasn’t much he could do. Not when he was locked into the system and an expert player of the game he so despised. It was expected of everyone. No one would even think of breaking the mold, it was the way things were. Phillip hated it. With all his being, he hated it.
It was only the next step in the downward spiral to become involved with women. Lots of women. Turns out, when the champagne started thinking for him, Phillip was quite the charming playboy. At least leaving the parties with a woman meant he skipped the bar. He wasn’t sure if it was better, or just different.
Perhaps Phillip had hoped he’d find something real. Maybe he foolishly thought he’d make a connection with someone. However, the connections he made were never emotional ones, and they left him feeling more empty than before.
They viewed him as an object. Perhaps it was mutual. Phillip didn’t want to think about it. So, as always, he continued to stop himself from thinking. What a vicious cycle it was, and one he made no move to break, despite the feeling of self-loathing that creeped into his core more and more often.
He wished he’d just break the cycle. Phillip thought about it as he fixed his bowtie and combed his hair into a perfectly coiffed style in the mirror, getting ready to leave for that night’s party. He thought of how disgusted he was with himself as he shrugged on his tailed suit jacket.
Phillip was still thinking about it when he walked through the doors of the ballroom where the gala was being held. Towering windows with sheer curtains running the height of them, cream colored walls, tan marble floors, pretty people in lavish dresses and sharp tuxedos. Everything looked so pristine, so sterile, so starkly perfect that it all seemed unnatural. It was like everyone was putting on a play for each other. They had a set, they had costumes, and they all had to act their parts. Everyone had to have been acting, Phillip thought. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be there. Phillip, for one, already regretted coming. He practically lunged for the waiter that walked by and took a glass of champagne from his tray.
When his eyes scanned the room, Phillip almost took another glass without even having finished his first. Who did his eyes fall upon? Of course, none other than his parents. Phillip closed his eyes and downed the champagne, then immediately took another from a waiter passing by.
He’d simply have to avoid them. Stay on the other side of the room, constantly engage in conversations, and pretend he didn’t notice his parents were there. Phillip tried to keep himself together as he talked to other guests, but his eyes kept darting over to his parents. They were making their way around the room, getting closer and closer to him. He’d have to move to another group in the room, but couldn’t very well leave in the middle of the conversation he was in. Not while the well-respected Mr. Stafford was telling a story. It was rude enough that Phillip wasn’t paying attention at all. The more Phillip tried to plan his evasion, the more glasses he took. He nervously downed each one. It did not go unnoticed.
“And so I said to the gentleman- Mr. Carlyle, I’m sorry, are you feeling alright?” Mr. Stafford asked, stopping mid-story. Caught off-guard as he was pulled back into the moment and thinking a bit slowly from the alcohol, Phillip fumbled for a response. Before he found one, another voice joined the conversation from behind.
“I’d quite like to know, as well! A mother would think she’d stay in better touch with her son,” the woman said, earning a chuckle from the group. Phillip’s heart stopped as he spun around and plastered on a smile.
“Mother. Father,” he regarded his parents. Anger and anxiety boiled just beneath his beaming smile.
“Lovely to see you, darling. It’s been quite some time,” Mrs. Carlyle said. And I enjoy keeping it that way, Phillip thought.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said instead, knowing his smile was faltering and revealing the scowl underneath.
“How are you doing these days, son?” his father asked. Phillip almost laughed to himself. How was he doing? He’d never been worse, but he couldn’t say that.
“Better when you were on the other side of the room, Father,” Phillip said jokingly, getting a laugh out of the group, but his words had an edge. Mr. Carlyle began to flush with embarrassment, but laughed along with everyone else, as did Phillip. No one else would have caught them glaring each other right in the eyes, knowing Phillip meant what he said.
The moment passed, and Phillip thought his parents would move on, taking the hint and leaving him be for the rest of the night. However, to the young man’s dismay, Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle asked to pull their son aside. They were casual and pleasant about it until out of earshot from the rest of the party. Then, as they always had since he was a child, they set stern, icy glares on Phillip.
“That is not how you are to talk to your parents! Especially not here!” Mr. Carlyle scolded his son, who laughed and shook his head.
“Still chiding me! Perhaps you haven’t taken note, but I am a grown man, who has made a name for himself, and does not need to be spoken to like a child,” Phillip retorted.
“We’ll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one,” Mr. Carlyle fired back firmly. Phillip nodded, and his mouth twitched in a smirk. Trying to win was hopeless. Without another word, Phillip pushed past his parents, collected his coat and hat, and walked out of the ballroom and into the rainy night outside. Just as he walked out of the door, his father grabbed him by the arm. Phillip spun around and glared at his parents, him standing on the marble steps in the downpour and them looking down on him from the doorway.
“Phillip, you have a name to uphold, the name of your mother and I! Did you see how everyone looked at you when you stormed out like a child having a tantrum? You disgrace our name,” Mr. Carlyle scolded.
“Oh, of course, it only matters that it’s your name,” Phillip shot back.
“And you’re not taking care of it well,” Mrs. Carlyle cut in.
“Mother, Father, you misunderstand me. You say this as though I live my life caring about my high-society image.” He sneered the word image as if it disgusted him. Perhaps it did. “The name Carlyle means nothing, it is just another name. No better than that of any urchin living on the street. Dare I say it’s worse?” Mr. Carlyle set a stony glare on his son.
“You don’t mean that. You’re not in your right mind. Who would be, after all that champagne? You disgrace us, you stinking drunk,” he sneered. Fury swelled in Phillip.
“What gives you the right to speak to me in this-”
“Am I wrong?” The remark was pithy. It was said simply, but Mr. Carlyle’s glare didn’t break. Phillip was fuming, but silent. He couldn’t refute his father because he was right. Phillip broke eye contact with his father, quiet and angry and ashamed as he scowled and felt the rain soak through his coat. “We let you out on your own, and this is what you’ve become,” Mr. Carlyle added, shaking his head in disappointment.
“How about all of the successful plays I’ve produced? Is that not enough?” Phillip tried, searching for a valid argument.
“Success is nothing without a good reputation,” his father shot back dryly. Of course he had an answer. Of course there was a way for him to always be right, and for Phillip to never reach the standard his parents expected of him. Phillip gave a mirthless laugh.
“I can’t please you, can I? I never have, and I never will. Tell me, mother, father- have you ever given thought as to why I drink so much?” The question hung in the air as rage flared up in Mr. Carlyle.
“How dare you put the blame on your mother and I! We will not take responsibility for your mistakes.” The man’s voice was sharp as a knife, and cut like one, too.
“Come back inside, Phillip,” Mrs. Carlyle said, her voice quieter than her husband’s but still as severe. Phillip looked from his father to his mother. He felt the chill of the rain, and wiped the drops from his eyes with a gloved hand. He would not be ordered around by his parents anymore, Phillip decided. Without a word, he turned and walked away.
“Come back here this instant!” his father bellowed, but Phillip did not turn around.
“Phillip!” his mother called, but he continued on as if he hadn’t heard her at all.
“Do not disobey your parents!” Mr. Carlyle shouted, but his voice was lost beneath the thunder of water hitting pavement, and Phillip was barely visible through the sheet of rain.
The bartender poured a glass of whiskey the second he saw Phillip walk through the door. The socialite hung his dripping coat before miserably stalking over to the bar and sitting down. The glass was in his hand before he could even ask for it. The bartender is my only true friend , Phillip thought sardonically.
From there, he drank himself senseless. He didn’t enjoy the burn of the liquor at all, but it numbed him better than anything else could. Phillip hated it. He hated himself. For the hundredth time, he wished he would stop. He still knew he wouldn’t.
Hunched over the bar, drink in hand, tears came to Phillip’s eyes that he didn’t quite know the reason for. He cringed, as if in pain. His head was cloudy, his thoughts blurry. It was like a storm cloud filled his mind.
How did I let this happen? How do I get out?
He fell asleep right there on the bar, the glass still in his hand.