The Intervention: Part One

The location was the modest, uncomplicatedly named pub called "Pub". It was downtown next to the ice cream shop. The topic was the intervention. The architects of this great humanitarian enterprise had all come gathered to discuss what recourse was avaialable to them given certain recent, shocking developments. All the arrangements had been seen to. The speeches were written, the time and place had been agreed upon by all the relevant parties, plane tickets had been purchased, accomodations arranged and payed for. A deposit had been made even been made to the caterer. Thirteen individuals from nine seperate states and three foreign countries had all arranged to meet on the appointed date. And then, at the last moment, Jake Herzog had entered rehab. Now what? Cancel the intervention? Hold it anyway? What would be the point, exactly? But if not, what a waste.

If anyone ever needed an intervention, it was definately Jake Herzog. This was not a man likely to take hold of his own spiraling life, not of his volition. Jake had been the proverbial village idiot for as long as anyone could remember. A damned fool, a cowering louse, a lecth, a feisty, untethered drunk. He was not dumb- oh no Jake was really quite brilliant- but brains were not the issue. Self control was the issue. Self control and the lack there of. And finally someone was going to do something about it, before Jake inevitably hurt himself or worse still hurt someone else.

However, the fate of the intervention was struck by a sudden turn. On a Thursday, Mel Jenkins received a late night call from a very despondent sounding Jake Herzog- not an unusual occurence- and preparing himself for the usual rigmarole, the ranting and crying, the drive down to the ATM, the bail bondsman and DT addled trip back home with Jake thrashing in the back seat, Mel Jenkins turned to his wife and shrugged. But almost immediately after the conversation had begun he noticed that something was different. Jake was sad, but coherent. He spoke softly and in well articulated phrases. This was not the drooling loon of so many ruined nights past. In his sober moments Jake could sound almost professorial, the evidence of his estimable intelligence and wit showing pathetically through the thick mold of his ruined promise, like a gourmet meal gone bad. The temptation to scrape away the spoiled parts and salvage Jake Herzog's remaining bounty was constant, palpable. But repeated attempts at this very ubdertaken had proved unsanitary, poor for the constitution. Even still: the intervention.

It occured to Mel Jenkins in that moment that this was the worst thing that Jake Herzog had ever done. Following years of pathologically unconscionable behavior, without ever having provided so much as the remotest inkling of penitence for his reprehensible behavior, Jake Herzog had now suddenly seen the light some forty two hours before the intervention. It occured to Mel at that moment that point that Jake had finally taken it all one step too far. And he knew exactly what he had to do.

Steeling himself, he apodted a mirthful tone and said "Oh come on Jake! Rehab is for quitters! Why don't you take your skirt off, get down to The Trolley and have a couple brews with me? You've never sounded better, buddy. Don't give me this rehab crap..."

On the other end of the line Jake went silent. This was the furst time in many years that a friend, any friend, had addressed him in such collegial tones. He had missed it, nearyly forgotten what it felt lile. And he couldn't understand why it should be occuring now. But Mel's overture was like a siren call. Confronted with what he had thought to be his darkest hour, Jake had suddenly been reached out to. "Perhaps," it occured to him, "I am not as disgracful as I'd imagined..." Almost involuntarily, Jake heard himself accepting Mel's offer.

"Okay, I'll see you there in twenty minutes," Jake muttered, feeling his first rush of self-esteem in the past in several weeks.

Mel Jenkins was determined to get Jake drunk- good and shitfaced- in the hours leading up to the intervention. He realized that this would probably mean that he would be drunk too, and that the two of them showing up together in that state the following morning at the event might be interpreted as a little strange. It might raise eyebrows. But it seemed the only to salvage the proceedings, and he was sure if he could explain to others- if they only knew how close the entire intervention had come to being ruined- that they would fully accept his motivations. Thinking of Jake and his inhumanly high tolerance, his oceanic thirst, he knew this was going to cost a lot of money to keep him out drinking until the morning. On his way to The Trolley, feeling bleary eyed and frequently distracted by a gaping yawn, he stopped by the ATM and withdrew $80. He hoped it would be enough.

As it turned out it was not enough, and some forty five minutes later Mel found himself back in his car, driving the mile down the street to the nearest ATM. The feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when he saw the police lights flash behind him was quite unlike any fear or anxiety he had ever experienced. "Oh my God," he thought to himself, and the sight of his wife's face at the local police precinct flashed before him- bitter, humiliated, concerned- in his mind's eye Mel Jenkins could see her holding six hundred dollar bills and turning it over to central processing. The image was curdling, nauseating. As he saw the flashlight and heard the approach of the police officer slowly clanking heavy steps in heavy boots he wanted to crawl beneath the dash. Pathetically he unwrapped a piece of "Big Red" gum and began chewing concertely, even manically upon it, as though this would somehow magically ameliorate the fact of his having consumed five beers and three shots of tequila in recent short succession. Mel knew this was not the case. He did not believe in witchcraft.