James Frey [Frey - A Million Little Pieces

A MILLION LITTLE PIECES

BY

JAMES FREY

Imagine waking up on a plane with no idea where you have been or where you are going. Imagine that your front four teeth are missing, your nose is broken and there is a gash on your cheek. Imagine that you have no wallet, no money, no job. Imagine that you have been an alcoholic for ten years and a crack addict for three. What would you do?

When he entered a rehabilitation centre at the age of twenty-three, James Frey had destroyed his body and his mind almost beyond repair. He has to fight to determine what future, if any, his life holds. His lack of self-pity, cynicism and piety gives him an unflinching honesty a

fearless candour that is at once charming

and appalling, searing and darkly funny. A Million Little Pieces is an uncommonly genuine account

of a life destroyed and a life reconstructed.

'A heartbreaking memoir defined by its youthful tone and poetic honesty. Beneath the brutality of James Frey's painful process of growing up, there are simple gestures of kindness that will reduce even the most jaded to tears. Very few books earn those tears this one does. It will have you sobbing, laughing, angry, frustrated, and most importantly, hopeful. A Million Little Pieces is inspirational and essential. A

remarkable performance.' Bret Easton Ellis

'James Frey is horribly honest and funny. He is unerring in his descent into a world where the characters need help in such extremely desperate ways. Read this immediately.' Gus Van Sant

ISBN 0-7195-6101-9

Photography Angelo Plantemura Design Pascale Mutton 780719"561016

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by John Murray (Publishers) Ltd, 50

Albemarle Street, London W1S 4BD

Published by arrangement with Nan A. Talese, an imprint of Doubleday, a division of The Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

?James Frey 2003

The right of James Frey to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Book design and interior art by Terry Karydes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without

a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library Hardcover ISBN 0 7195 6100 0 Trade paperback ISBN 0 7195 6101 9

Typeset in Adobe

Printed and bound in Great Britain

By Clays Ltd, St. Ives pic

The Young Man came to the Old Man seeking counsel. I broke something, Old Man.

How badly is it broken? It's in a million little pieces. I'm afraid I can't help you.

Why? There's nothing you can do.

Why? It can't be fixed.

Why? It's broken beyond repair. It's in a million little pieces.

I wake to the drone of an airplane engine and the feeling of something warm dripping down my chin. I lift my hand to feel my face. My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut. I open them and I look around and I'm in the back of a plane and there's no one near me. I look at my clothes and my clothes are covered with a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood. I reach for the call button and I find it and I push it and I wait and thirty seconds later an Attendant arrives.

How can I help you? Where am I going? You don't know? No.

You're going to Chicago, Sir. How did I get here?

A Doctor and two men brought you on. They say anything?

They talked to the Captain, Sir. We were told to let you sleep. How long till we land? About twenty minutes. Thank you.

Although I never look up, I know she smiles and feels sorry for me. She shouldn't.

A short while later we touch down. I look around for anything I might have with me, but there's nothing. No ticket, no bags, no clothes, no wallet. I sit and I wait and I try to figure out what happened. Nothing comes.

Once the rest of the Passengers are gone I stand and start to make my way to the door. After about five steps I sit back down. Walking is out of the question. I see my Attendant friend and I raise a hand. Are you okay? No.

What's wrong? I can't really walk.

If you make it to the door I can get you a chair. How far is the door?

I stand. I wobble. I sit back down. I stare at the floor and take a deep breath.

You'll be all right.

I look up and she's smiling.

Here.

She holds out her hand and I take it. I stand and I lean against her and she helps me down the Aisle. We get to the door.

I'll be right back.

I let go of her hand and I sit down on the steel bridge of the Jetway that connects the Plane to the Gate.

I'm not going anywhere.

She laughs and I watch her walk away and I close my eyes. My head hurts, my mouth hurts, my eyes hurt, my hands hurt. Things without names hurt.

I rub my stomach. I can feel it coming. Fast and strong and burning. No way to stop it, just close your eyes and let it ride. It comes and I recoil from the stench and the pain. There's nothing I can do.

Oh my God.

I open my eyes.

I'm all right.

Let me find a Doctor.

I'll be fine. Just get me out of here.

Can you stand?

Yeah, I can stand.

I stand and I brush myself off and I wipe my hands on the floor and I sit down in the wheelchair she has brought me. She goes around to the back of the chair and she starts pushing.

Is someone here for you?

I hope so.

You don't know.

No.

What if no one's there?

It's happened before, I'll find my way.

We come off the Jetway and into the Gate. Before I have a chance to look around, my Mother and Father are standing in front of me.

Oh Jesus.

Please, Mom.

Oh my God, what happened?

I don't want to talk about it, Mom.

Jesus Christ, Jimmy. What in Hell happened?

She leans over and she tries to hug me. I push her away.

Let's just get out of here, Mom.

*My dad goes around to the back of the chair. I look for the Attendant but she has disappeared. Bless her. You okay, James? I stare straight ahead. No, Dad, I'm not okay. He starts pushing the chair. Do you have any bags? My Mother continues crying. No.

People are staring. Do you need anything?

I need to get out of here, Dad. Just get me the fuck out of here. They wheel me to their car. I climb in the backseat and I take off my shirt and I lie down. My Dad starts driving, my Mom keeps crying, I fall asleep.

About four hours later I wake up. My head is clear but everything throbs. I sit forward and I look out the window. We've pulled into a Filling Station somewhere in Wisconsin. There is no snow on the ground, but I can feel the cold.

My Dad opens the Driver's door and he sits down and he closes the door. I shiver. You're awake. Yeah.

How are you feeling? Shitty.

Your Mom's inside cleaning up and getting supplies. You need anything? A bottle of water and a couple bottles of wine and a pack of cigarettes. Seriously? Yeah.

This is bad, James. I need it. You can't wait. No.

This will upset your Mother. I don't care. I need it.

He opens the door and he goes into the Filling Station. I lie back down and I stare at the ceiling. I can feel my heart quickening and I hold out my hand and I try to keep it straight. I hope they hurry.

Twenty minutes later the bottles are gone. I sit up and I light a smoke and I take a slug of water. Mom turns around. Better?

If you want to put it that way. We're going up to the Cabin. I figured.