Nick Nolte is Racing the Clock...
The room has begun to spin, and the boys ease me down onto the floor, where I rest on a round Feldenkrais mat, which feels like a soft, white buoy. I am quite woozy and sweating, and I hear something strange emanating from somewhere--I'm not sure where--a sing-songy, possibly computer-generated voice. A very pleasant, clipped voice. Sad Man, a life-sized papier-mache figure, is seated near the bed, his head bowed in a posture of sadness. Nolte pats Sad Man on the head as he passes. Books are strewn about--scientific journals, Philip Roth's American Pastoral, Better Sex Through Chemistry. From this angle I also see Nolte is filling up another syringe for himself, mixing a vitamin cocktail, holding it above his head, thumping it, squinting. Nolte pulls down his pajamas a bit on one side, exposing a few inches of skin, from his waist to his right cheek, a lean flank for a guy almost sixty.
After shooting up, he's feeling a bit strange himself. He's looking a little worried now, too. You sure you didn't mix the wrong thing? I ask. "No," he says, "I think I'm picking up your vibe. A kind of placebo effect."