From the Back Cover
"Electroboy is as surreal as life can get, proving that truth is stranger than fiction. Andy Behrman’s nightmare anecdotes are addicting."
-Eric Bogosian, author of Mall
"What a wild, mind-ripping, hellacious, and hysterical ride! Like some cranked-up, amoral Horatio Alger trapped in the dark fun house of his own brain, Andy Behrman is the stuff demented legends are made of. Electroboy is a brilliant, riveting instant classic of the American dream run amok."
-Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight
"Pull down the safety bar, because Electroboy, like the manic depression it limns, is a roller-coaster ride of white-knuckled highs and lows. Courageous and dazzling--a heartbreaking journey into the mind untamed."
-Deborah Copaken Kogan, author of Shutterbabe
"Without ever sounding self-serving or apologetic, Behrman tells the story of a man utterly at
the mercy of his impulses. It’s sometimes funny, sometimes horrifying, always fascinating."
-John Taylor, author of Falling
"This stark and unsettling memoir mimics the patterns of the manic mind. An astonishing story of uncontrolled desire told by one of the most endearing madmen you’ll ever encounter."
-Katie Roiphe, author of Still She Haunts Me
From the Hardcover edition.
About the Author
Andy Behrman is a manic depressive who has undergone nineteen electroshock treatments. He has worked as a PR agent and an art dealer. His writing has been featured most recently in The New York Times Magazine. A graduate of Wesleyan University, he knows most of the all-night diners and after-hours bars in the major cities across the country. He currently lives mania-free on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. You can reach him at www.electroboy.com.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I’ve got to be strong
And try to hang on
Or else my mind may well snap
And my life will be lived for the thrills
-Dr. Everett Scott
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
Electroboy is a memoir. However, certain names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals whose paths crossed mine at a time in their lives from which they have since moved on.
January 6, 1991.
1.Bleach bathtub, toilet, and sink
2.Make Holocaust documentary
3.Start tofu/tuna diet
4.Work out five days/week
5.Buy new scale
6.Confirm $35,000 wire transfer from Art Collection House
7.Open Munich bank account
8.Open escrow account for rent
9.Mail $20,000 to American Express
10.Bring $2,700 to Dr. Kleinman
11.Submit claims to Blue Cross/Blue Shield
12.Go to Metpath lab for lithium level
13.Pick up lithium and Prozac
14.Buy more Kiehl’s Extra Strength Styling Gel
15.Get Lara’s psychiatrist’s phone #
16.Get Pamela’s astrologist’s phone #
17.Tanning salon
18.Visit Auschwitz
19.South Beach or Bahamas?
20.Book trip with Dad to Galápagos
21.Make reservations at Chanterelle
22.Write novel and screenplay
23.Read 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
24.Pick up Liquid-Plumr
25.Buy a dog
Preface
Flying High
In Manhattan, even at 5:00 a.m., it’s easy to find someone to talk to if you can’t sleep. There’s an entire network of actors, writers, bartenders, prostitutes, and drug dealers hanging out in after-hours bars and clubs across the city, waiting to transition from vodka and cocaine to orange juice, pancakes, and eggs. Somewhere in the East Village, guys with names like Edgardo and León sell coke to kids who snort it in unisex bathrooms. In a theater
in Times Square, hustlers called Cody and Shane rush into cabs and limos and back to bedrooms and hotel rooms for $150 private shows. At a bar on the Upper East Side, two women laugh loudly-or is the one adjusting her skirt a man? An off-duty bartender, a guy in his late twenties with a healthy tan and curly blond hair, vividly describes to the bartender and a few customers his most recent group-sex scene, a private party where he and his buddies all banged one of the other guys’ girlfriends. “We worked her over for more than three hours,” he says. He does a shot of tequila and grins. A very thin thirty-five-year-old woman, with long chestnut brown hair, tan skin, and shiny pink lipstick, wearing a tight-fitting dress and strappy high heels, brags about the professional hockey player she fucked the night before. “He’s a very well known athlete-he went down on me for more than an hour and then fucked me like I’ve never been fucked before,” she says. I happen to be an art dealer, which someone once told me at a Soho opening was a notch above drug dealer on the career ladder. But tonight I might as well be a prostitute. After quite a few lines of cocaine and more than ten shots of vodka, I find myself trying to sell a Kostabi painting for $3,000 to a minor-league porn star (he tells me he’s only done a handful of films). Chad is in his midthirties, big and muscular, with huge hands that envelop the shot glass. The more coke we do, the closer he seems to meeting my asking price. He’s in New York hustling for the month and wiring money back to his wife and two kids in Las Vegas. I’m telling him that he can flip the painting for $5,000 in a day because I’m giving him a price that’s even lower than wholesale, or he can wait to take it to Christie’s and maybe get even more money at auction. He actually seems interested and takes my card. I stash my to-do list in my pocket and buy a kamikaze for each of us and a round of drinks for a group of faceless people across the bar speaking what sounds like a Slavic language, although the bartender, Mike, tells me it’s Turkish. But it’s nearly dawn and I’m drunk and wired, so my linguistic skills aren’t quite there. It’s too late to start talking to them about Turkey. Actually, I don’t know much about Turkey except what the capital is. But I really want to talk to them and be a part of their group and its momentum, even if it’s just to tell them I’ve heard about Ankara. Time is kind of frozen, and I feel like I’m going to live forever. I fear I’m going to be awake all night and can’t imagine my head resting on my pillow. Will I ever sleep again? I don’t sleep much-maybe two or three hours a night, sometimes not at all for a day or two at a time-so I end up killing a fair amount of my time hanging out downtown, drinking and doing drugs with my insomniac friends. I like the night. I’m scared that it’s going to get light out soon, so I leave these people and journey back to the Upper West Side, which seems as far away as Poughkeepsie. In the cab, I throw my head back. I’m going to force myself to get some sleep and hide from the impending brightness-it’s only minutes away.
6:35 a.m.
I’m lying between my chocolate brown, maroon, and hunter green paisley Ralph Lauren sheets wearing Calvin Klein briefs and feeling very un-Lauren, and frantic and guilty for wearing Calvin Klein briefs. I start worrying about whether or not it’s acceptable to wear Calvin Klein briefs and sleep with a Ralph Lauren comforter. At last I decide that it’s perfectly okay to mix and match. The elastic is irritating me, so I push the briefs down and they get lost in the sheets for a few days. Now I’m totally naked and relieved. Is it okay to sleep alone naked? I won’t tell anyone.
These sheets are supposed to be comfortable. That’s what the saleswoman told me-something about the high thread count.
Six hundred. She should recommend sleeping naked to her customers. But the dramatic swirling pattern agitates me. $100,000 split between Dave and me isn’t fair. I’m in the mood for French toast. I can’t get comfortable, so I get up and put on Abba’s “Waterloo,” turn on the lights, and start counting $100 bills from a shoe box I keep underneath my bed. Fifteen minutes later I’ve got $85,000. I double-check it. This time it comes to $83,000.
Shit. I’m not going to count it again. I put three 3-inch-thick piles of cash back into the navy blue shoe box with “Ralph Lauren” embossed in gold on it. There’s also 25,000 deutsche marks in the box-about $10,000. This is my German reserve, my strudel money. I put it back under the bed. I rubber-band $50,000, bring it into the kitchen, and stack it neatly in the freezer next to some Perdue chicken breasts, an old pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, a frosty bottle of Absolut, some half-empty ice-cube trays, and a bottle of amyl nitrate. It’ll be safe here. I’ll probably go through it quickly anyhow.
I get back into bed. Dave is a fucking cheat. He doesn’t even deserve a dime on this deal. I’d love a bagel. The trucks outside sound like rockets being launched. They carry milk, soda, fruit, and beer. All of this will end up in supermarkets today. I walk back into the kitchen, take an Amstel Light from the refrigerator, and swallow three blue Klonopin and two plain white Ambien to try to knock myself out. I look in the mirror. Five more pounds to go. Legs look good. Big deal. That’s a genetic thing. From my balcony, I see a man walking his cocker spaniel. I open the sliding glass door and drop the beer bottle four floors down onto the street. Just see him as a moving target and feel the urge. It doesn’t hit him, or his dog, but he looks up and curses. Asshole. I give him a slight nod. Go through the mail. Pay some bills. After twenty minutes I realize that the pills aren’t working. I can’t get myself to fall asleep. This stuff is crap. Thank God the fucking insurance company foots the bill for this shit and not me. I get into bed and try jerking off to a video, but that doesn’t work either. Probably because I’m so fucked-up and exhausted. I’m not in the mood for phone sex either. I throw on a pair of jeans (no briefs) and a black cashmere turtleneck. I’ve got to get out of my apartment and go somewhere. A diner, another after-hours bar, or for a walk up Madison Avenue.
Early-morning window shopping. Fuck it. I pack my passport and prescriptions, a suit, and a dozen rolled-up canvases, then reach into the freezer and grab a rubber-banded wad of money. I feel like I should wear a matching black cashmere mask over my face. I’m stealing from my own freezer. An inside job. I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Kleinman at 8:30 a.m. Fuck him. He’ll get his cash either way. Press for the elevator. Beer in hand. Good morning to the doorman. I’m not worried what he thinks. I hail a taxi. Where to? Kennedy Airport, I guess. I open the window and let the breeze blow on my face as we cross the park. We’re picking up speed. Thank God.
9:30 a.m.
There’s a flight to Tokyo stopping in Los Angeles, so I buy a ticket with cash. $8,600. Grab a hot dog with ketchup and onions. $3. The plane smells like Dove soap. Everyone in first class was probably showering at the same time this morning. It’s a nice smell. Still, something tells me that this is going to be a painfully long flight. Usually it’s fourteen hours. Time for “life-jacket follies.” I already feel restless, and we haven’t been in the air for more than two hours. That must be Ohio down below. The plane is filled with Japanese tourists. On my way to the bathroom I notice a few Madonna look-alikes with bleached blond hair sitting in coach. I squeeze a pimple on the side of my nose, and some pus squirts on the mirror. I leave it. I hate this flight. I really prefer to keep moving, and the layover makes me anxious. I stay on the plane. It’s like coming down from a ...
