The Wolf of Wall Street (51 page)

“I gotta have it. Six point O two times ten to the twenty-third,” muttered a tall, thin teenager with a ferocious case of acne.

Very interesting, I thought. I had been watching this poor kid for over two hours, as he walked around in a remarkably perfect circle, spitting out Avogadro’s number, a mathematical constant used to measure molecular density. At first I was a bit confused as to why he was so obsessed with this number, until one of the orderlies explained that the young fellow was an intractable acidhead with a very high IQ, and he became fixated on Avogadro’s number whenever a dose of acid hit him the wrong way. It was his third stay in the Delray Medical Center in the last twelve months.

I found it ironic that I would be put in a place like this—considering how sane I was—but that was the problem with laws like the Baker Act: They were designed to meet the needs of the masses. Either way, things had been going reasonably well so far. I had convinced a doctor to prescribe me Lamictal, and he, of his own volition, had put me on some sort of short-acting opiate to help with the withdrawals.

What troubled me, though, was that I’d been trying to call at least a dozen people on the unit’s pay phone—friends, family, lawyers, business associates. I’d even tried reaching Alan Chemical-tob, to make sure he’d have a fresh batch of Quaaludes for me when I finally got released from this insane asylum, but I hadn’t been able to get in touch with anyone. Not a soul: not the Duchess, my parents, Lipsky, Dave, Laurie, Gwynne, Janet, Wigwam, Joe Fahmegghetti, Greg O’Connell, the Chef, even Bo, who I could always get in touch with. It was as if I were being frozen out, abandoned by everyone.

In fact, as my first day in this glorious institution came to a close, I found myself hating the Duchess more than ever. She had completely forgotten about me, turned everyone against me, using that single despicable act I’d committed on the stairs to garner sympathy from my friends and business associates. I was certain that she no longer loved me and had uttered those words to me while I was overdosing only out of sympathy—thinking that perhaps I might actually kick the bucket and she might as well send me off to hell with one last bogus “I love you.”

By midnight, the cocaine and Quaaludes were pretty much out of my system, but I still couldn’t sleep. It was then, in the wee hours of the morning, on April 17, 1997, that a nurse with a very kind heart gave me a shot of Dalmane in my right ass cheek. And, finally, fifteen minutes later, I fell asleep without cocaine in my system for the first time in three months.

I woke up eighteen hours later to the sound of my name. I opened my eyes and there was a large black orderly standing over me.

“Mr. Belfort, you have a visitor.”

The Duchess! I thought. She had come to take me out of this place. “Really,” I said, “who is it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know his name.”

My spirits sank. He led me to a room with padded walls. Inside was a gray metal desk and three chairs. It reminded me of the room the Swiss Customs officials questioned me in after I’d groped the stewardess, except for the padded walls. Sitting on one side of the desk was a fortyish man with horn-rimmed glasses. The moment we locked eyes he rose from his chair and greeted me.

“You must be Jordan,” he said, extending his right hand. “I’m Dennis Maynard
^*10
.”

Out of instinct I shook his hand, although there was something about him I instantly disliked. He was dressed like me, in jeans and sneakers and a white polo shirt. He was reasonably good-looking, in a washed-out sort of way, about five-nine, average build, with short brown hair parted to the side.

He motioned to a seat across from him. I nodded and sat down. A moment later, another orderly came in the room—this one a large, drunken Irishman, by the looks of him. Both orderlies stood behind me, a couple of feet back, waiting to pounce if I tried pulling a Hannibal Lecter on this guy—biting his nose off, while my pulse remained at seventy-two.

Dennis Maynard said, “I’ve been retained by your wife.”

I shook my head in amazement. “What are you, a fucking divorce lawyer or something? Christ, that cunt works quick! I figured she’d at least have the decency to wait the three days ’til the Baker Act expired before she filed for divorce.”

He smiled. “I’m not a divorce lawyer, Jordan. I’m a drug interventionist, and I’ve been hired by your wife, who still loves you, so you shouldn’t be so quick to call her a cunt.”

I narrowed my eyes at this bastard, trying to make heads or tails of what was going on. I no longer felt paranoid, but I still felt on edge. “So you say you’ve been hired by my wife, who still loves me? Well, if she loves me so much, why won’t she visit me?”

“She’s very scared right now. And very confused. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours with her, and she’s in a very fragile state. She’s not ready to see you.”

I felt my head fill with steam. This motherfucker was making a play for the Duchess. I popped out of my chair and jumped over the desk, screaming, “You cocksucker!” He recoiled, as the two orderlies lunged after me. “I’ll have you stabbed to death, you piece of shit, going after my wife while I’m locked up in here. You’re fucking dead! And your family’s dead too! You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

I took a deep breath as the orderlies pushed me back down into my seat.

“Calm down,” said the Duchess’s future husband. “I’m not after your wife. She’s still in love with you and I’m in love with another woman. What I was trying to say is that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours with your wife talking about you, and her, and everything that’s happened between you two.”

I felt entirely irrational. I was used to being in control, and I found this lack of control wildly disconcerting. “Did she tell you that I kicked her down the stairs with my daughter in my arms? Did she tell you that I cut open two million dollars’ worth of shabby-chic furniture? Did she tell you about my little baking disaster? I can only imagine what she said.” I shook my head in disgust, not just over my own actions but over the Duchess airing our dirty laundry to a complete stranger.

He nodded and let out a chuckle, trying to defuse my anger. “Yeah, she told me about all those things. Some of them were pretty amusing, actually, especially the part about the furniture. I’d never heard that one before. But most of the things were pretty disturbing, like what happened on the stairs and in the garage. Understand, though, that none of this is your fault—or I should say none of these things makes you a bad person. What you are is a
sick
person, Jordan; you’re sick with a disease, a disease that’s no different than cancer or diabetes.”

He paused for a second, then shrugged. “But she also told me how wonderful you used to be, before the drugs took hold. She told me how brilliant you were and about all your accomplishments and how you swept her off her feet when you first met. She told me that she never loved anyone the way she loved you. She told me how generous you are to everyone, and how everyone takes advantage of your generosity. And she also told me about your back, and how that exacerbated…”

As my interventionist kept talking, I found myself hanging on the word
loved.
He had said she
loved
me—past tense. Did that mean she no longer loved me? Probably so, I thought, because if she still loved me she would have come to visit me. This whole business of her being scared didn’t make sense. I was in a locked-down psychiatric unit—how could I harm her? I was in terrible emotional pain. If she would just visit me—
even for a second, for Chrissake
!—and hug me and tell me that she still loved me, that would ease my pain. I would do it for her, wouldn’t I? It seemed unusually cruel of her not to visit me after I’d almost committed suicide. It didn’t strike me as the act of a loving wife—estranged or not—no matter what the circumstances.

Obviously, Dennis Maynard was here to try to convince me to go to rehab. And perhaps I would go, if the Duchess would come here and ask me herself. But not like this, not while she was blackmailing me and threatening to leave me unless I did what she wanted. Yet wasn’t rehab what I wanted, or at least what I needed? Did I really want to live out my life as a drug addict? But how could I possibly live without drugs? My entire life was centered on drugs. The very thought of living the next fifty years without Ludes and coke seemed impossible. Yet there was a time, long before all this happened, when I’d lived a sober life. Was it possible to get back to that point, to turn back the clock, so to speak? Or had my brain chemistry been immutably altered—and I was now an addict, doomed to that very life until the day I died?

“…and about your father’s temper,” continued the interventionist, “and how your mother tried to protect you from him but wasn’t always successful. She told me everything.”

I fought the urge to be ironic but quickly failed. “So did little Martha Stewart tell you how perfect
she
is? I mean, since I’m such damaged goods and everything, did she even get a moment to tell you anything about herself? Because she is perfect, after all. She’ll tell you—not in so many words, of course—but she will tell you. After all, she’s the Duchess of Bay Ridge.”

The last few words gave him a chuckle. “Listen,” he said, “your wife is far from perfect. In fact, she’s sicker than you are. Think about it for a second: Who’s the sicker one—the spouse who’s addicted to drugs or the spouse who sits by and watches the person they love destroy themselves? I would say the latter. The truth is that your wife suffers from her own disease, namely, codependence. By spending all her time looking after you, she ignores her own problems. She’s got as bad a case of codependence as I’ve ever seen.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” I said. “You don’t think I know all this shit? I’ve done my fair share of reading, in case no one’s told you. In spite of the fifty thousand Ludes I’ve consumed, I still remember everything I’ve read since nursery school.”

He nodded. “I haven’t just met with your wife, Jordan; I’ve also met with all your friends and family, everyone who’s important to you. And one thing they’re all unanimous on is that you’re one of the smartest men on the planet. So, that being said, I’m not gonna try to bullshit you. Here’s the deal: There’s a drug rehab in Georgia called Talbot Marsh. It specializes in treating doctors. The place is filled with some very smart people, so you’ll fit in well there. I have the power to sign you out of this hellhole right now. You could be at Talbot Marsh in two hours. There’s a limousine waiting for you downstairs, and your jet is at the airport, all fueled up. Talbot Marsh is a very nice place, and very upscale. I think you’ll like it.”

“What makes you so fucking qualified? Are you a doctor?”

“No,” he said, “I’m just a drug addict like you. No different, except that I’m in recovery and you’re not.”

“How long you sober for?”

“Ten years.”

“Ten fucking years?” I sputtered. “Holy Christ! How the fuck is that even possible? I can’t go a day—an hour—without thinking about drugs! I’m not like you, pal. My mind works differently. Anyway, I don’t need to go to rehab. Maybe I’ll just try AA or something.”

“You’re past that point. In fact, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. You should’ve stopped breathing a long time ago, my friend.” He shrugged. “But one day your luck’s gonna run out. Next time your friend Dave might not be around to call 911, and you’ll end up in a coffin instead of a psychiatric unit.”

In a dead-serious tone, he said, “In AA we say there are three places an alcoholic or an addict ends up—jails, institutions, or dead. Now, in the last two days you’ve been in a jail and an institution. When will you be satisfied, when you’re in a funeral home? When your wife has to sit your two children down and explain how they’re never gonna see their father again?”

I shrugged, knowing he was right but incapable of surrendering. For some inexplicable reason I felt the necessity to resist him, to resist the Duchess—to resist everyone, in fact. If I were to get sober, it would be on my own terms, not on anyone else’s, and certainly not with a gun to my head. “If Nadine comes down here herself, I’ll consider it. Otherwise you can go fuck yourself.”

“She won’t come here,” he said. “Unless you go to rehab she won’t speak to you.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Then you can both go fuck yourselves. I’ll be out of here in two days; then I’ll deal with my addiction on my own terms. And if it means losing my wife, so be it.” I rose out of my chair and motioned to the orderlies.

As I was walking out of the room, Dennis said, “You may be able to find another beautiful wife, but you’ll never find one who loves you as much as she does. Who do you think organized all this? Your wife’s spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of panic, trying to save your life. You’d be a fool to let her go.”

I took a deep breath and said, “A long time ago there was another woman who loved me as much as Nadine did; her name was Denise, and I fucked her over royally. Maybe I’m just getting what I deserve. Who knows anymore? But, either way, I’m not being bullied into rehab, so you’re wasting your time. Don’t come see me again.”

Then I left the room.

The rest of the day was no less torturous. Starting with my parents, one by one my friends and family came into the psychiatric unit and tried to convince me to go to rehab. Everyone except the Duchess. How could the woman be so coldhearted, after I’d tried…what?

I resisted using the word
suicide,
even in my own thoughts—perhaps because it was too painful, or perhaps out of sheer embarrassment that the love or, for that matter, the obsession with a woman, even my own wife, could drive me to commit such an act. It was not the act of a true man of power, nor was it the act of a man who had any self-respect.

In truth, I had never actually intended to kill myself. Deep down, I knew that I’d be rushed to the hospital and my stomach would be pumped. Dave had been standing over me, ready to intervene. The Duchess wasn’t aware of that, though; from her perspective, I had been so distraught over the possibility of losing her, and so caught up in the despair and desperation of a cocaine-induced paranoia, that I had tried to take my own life. How could she not be moved by that?