Queer Greer

by A J Walkley

  AA. Alcoholics Anonymous. I had heard of it before, of course. In fact, I think Brian had mentioned it once or twice after one of his multiple DUI incidents. Never in my wildest dreams had I ever thought of it for myself. I didn’t even drink, so why should I have?

  But, I was getting out of hand. I thought it was under control but, in actuality, I probably did need someone to help. I figured it was worth a shot, right?

  “Okay, Mr. Riley. I’ll check it out.” He smiled and patted my shoulder.

  ***

  I couldn’t believe I was there, sitting in a room with a bunch of middle-aged alcoholics. What did they all see when they looked at me? There’s no doubt that they thought I was some screwed-up kid with a drinking problem at the age of 17, maybe 19 since I had worn eyeliner that day. Regardless, I had no right being there. These people had real problems. For all I knew, they were wife-beaters and child abusers who chose alcohol as their escape, but also used harder drugs: coke, crack, maybe even heroin. I certainly didn’t belong.

  Looking around the room it was strange to see how diverse the crowd actually was. Honestly, I do not think I’d have picked half of those people off the street if I were asked to identify an AA member.

  We sat in a semi-circle. To my left sat a Black businessman, most likely in his early 40’s with short, dark hair, and a pensive, weary look on his face. He leaned forward, gripping his hat. He was well dressed in a shirt, slacks, suspenders and a tie. He must have just come from work, maybe at a law firm or something.

  By him sat a pretty, young Asian woman with straight black hair and red lipstick that matched her red sweater. She didn’t look much older than me, actually; we were probably the youngest people there.

  To my other side was a wistful-looking elderly woman (dreaming about her last beer, no doubt) with short, white hair, wearing a bright purple silk shirt and holding her head in her palms.

  A teary-eyed, professional-looking, middle-aged white female with faded red hair pulled back in a bun, tacky jewelry, and light make-up in a business suit sat at the end of the row. She reminded me of my mom, although my mom never drank. Her vice was exercise; morning, noon and night. If exercise can ever get to the point of addiction, she was probably there.

  And, of course, right next to me was Mr. Riley. Only 32 years old, Mr. Riley had been drinking daily for more than fifteen years, until he realized he might lose his job or worse if he didn’t get himself under control. He had been attending AA meetings every night at 7:30 p.m. for the last year or so. To be honest, when he invited me, I got the feeling that going with him, however weird and boundary crossing it might be, would help him more than it would help me.

  We had met that evening at the United Methodist Church on Briar Cliff. Like most places in town, it wasn’t too far from my house. I didn’t have my own car and there was no way I was about to ask for a ride. I met him out front that night at 7:15. We were both the kind of people who got where they needed to be at least ten minutes beforehand.

  “Hi, I’m Richard, and I’m an alcoholic,” a balding man at the front of the room was saying.

  “Hi Richard,” came the monotone response from the crowd. I didn’t join in the welcome. I didn’t know if I should have. I didn’t know if I should have been there at all.

  “Today was a good day. I got all of my work done. I picked my kid up from school on time. I even made dinner before my wife asked me to - meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It wasn’t half bad. I was sitting there at the table with my family and I wasn’t thinking about booze for once. That’s a rare occasion, let me tell you. Four months sober next week.” He smiled and sat back down in his front row seat. I clapped with everyone this time.

  I looked over at my teacher. Mr. Riley was holding the Bible on his lap, ready to lead the prayer he told me would end the hour. It made me uneasy. I really hadn’t known that AA was so religious. I thought it was just a group that told stories and supported each other. Sure, it was in a church, but that could have been for anonymity purposes. If the thought of this program was disconcerting before, this element only made it more so.

  “Hi, I’m Kathleen, and I’m an alcoholic,” the businesswoman said.

  “Hi Kathleen,” I replied with the others. She didn’t continue at first, wiping tears away with a crumpled tissue. I wished I had another to hand her.

  “I fell off the wagon last weekend.” A collective sigh rose from around me. “My husband left Friday night. He said he couldn’t take the strain my struggle was putting on us. He said I was leaning on him too much. He felt suffocated, he said.” She blew her nose, but kept going. “I just went numb. I didn’t react. I walked out the door and kept walking until I reached the closest bar. I remember ordering three dry, vodka martinis and then the next thing I know I’m puking in an alley.” She started sobbing then. She reached into her pocket and threw two chips to the floor before collapsing back into her seat.

  “What are those?” I whispered to Mr. Riley.

  “That’s her newcomer’s chip and her one month chip. Kathleen’s only been sober a little over a month. It’s pretty normal for a relapse to happen soon after you try to quit the first time. Her husband’s actions don’t help.” I nodded to him, then looked back sympathetically at Kathleen.

  When it didn’t look like anyone else was going to speak, Mr. Riley stood up and walked to the center.

  “Is there anyone who needs a chip tonight?” Mr. Riley looked at the Asian girl expectantly. She smiled and stood up.

  “Three months, please.” Applause of encouragement and praise filled the room. She accepted her chip and sat back down. I wondered if alcohol was her addiction, or if she was like me and was there for something else.

  “Is that it?” The small group looked around at me. Nobody but Mr. Riley had seen me before so they knew I was a newcomer. I stood up shyly and walked to my teacher.

  “Newcomer, I guess.” More applause. Did this mean I was on the wagon? On the road to recovery? Shit. I didn’t know if I wanted to stop.

  ***

  If you’re a smart masochist, there are ways to hurt yourself that don’t seem self-inflicted or abnormal. Like piercings. Despite the fact that I wouldn’t become a legal adult for another several months, there were always places you could get around that rule. Like Fierce Piercings in Flagstaff. Less than 2 hours from Prescott, I got my mom to lend me her car. Once I laid the guilt on, she didn’t even ask why I was going, or care that I technically couldn’t drive without a licensed driver in the car with me.

  “Mom, please? I’ve had my permit for almost a year now and I never get to drive anywhere! You’re always gone and Dad’s never here. Just for the day? Please?” I asked over Saturday morning breakfast of donuts and coffee from Dunkin Donuts. She hadn’t finished her large Iced Latte yet, and she was never quite functional until she had.

  “Okay, okay,” she replied, clearly still waking up. “Take it, just bring it back in one piece.” She waved me off and went back to reading the paper.

  “Thanks, Mom!” I grabbed the keys from the counter and left before she could change her mind.

  In her red Audi, the windows down, the Rolling Stones blasting from the speakers, I felt free. My hair was blown back and I sang at the top of my lungs:

  “I’ll never be your beast of burden! My back is broad, but it’s a hurting! All I want is for you to make love to me…” Ooh, and that was enough of that one. Moving on…

  “You’re gonna get it straight from the shoulder! Can’t you see the party’s over! Let me go! Can’t you get it through your thick head? This affair is finished – dead!”

  Maybe the Stones aren’t the best choice.

  I turned on the radio instead and started humming along with some hip-hop song I didn’t know. At least it didn’t remind me of You-Know-Who (and I don’t mean Voldemort).

  An hour and a half later I was pulling up in front of the store. The windows were plastered with tattoo options and I started to get nervous before even getting o
ut of my car.

  ‘What if they ask for my license? Do I say I don’t have it?’ Worries ran through my head.

  Marcy told me that this was my best bet, so I took a breath and got out of the car.

  The store was smaller inside than it appeared to be. There was a sitting area where you could flip through five different binders of tattoos. Then there were two rooms off to one side where business was done. I must have looked completely out of place, standing in the doorway like I had no idea what I was doing.

  “Can I help you?” I heard before the manager stepped out from the second room. She was in her 20s by the looks of her, had piercings all the way up both ears, and a nose ring that connected to one ear piercing by way of a chain. Her arms were also completely inked with images ranging from fairies and mushrooms, to skulls and song lyrics. Even though her appearance might be considered intimidating, she had a pristine smile that welcomed me.

  “Yes, thanks. I’m here for a piercing.”

  “Excellent. What kind are you in for today?”

  I had thought about this for the past week. A belly-button ring would be good - painful and hidden from the likes of my mother. An industrial wouldn’t be bad either. But, what I really wanted was a nose ring. Sure, my parents might freak, but they’d get used to it.

  “A nose ring.”

  “Great, follow me.”

  She led me to one of the rooms and I sat down in the chair, which was exactly like the ones the dentist uses. She rummaged for supplies for a few minutes and came back with a silver stud, a large needle, alcohol wipes, and a small cork.

  “What’s that for?” I asked, pointing to the cork.

  “This goes in your nostril to catch the needle.”

  “Oh.” I gulped, suddenly second-guessing my decision.

  “Everyone gets a stud first. You keep it in for a few months, until you’re healed, and then you can change it to a hoop or whatever,” she told me as she wiped the needle clean. “Which side?”

  ‘Left is right and right is wrong?’ I thought that was the saying for piercings. Left meant you were straight, supposedly.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Okay.” She wiped my nose with the alcohol and told me to put the cork in until I couldn’t anymore.

  It was uncomfortable, kind of like the time I shoved a dime in there for the amusement of my sister. It wasn’t funny when I had to go to the ER to get it taken out.

  “Ready?” she asked, but before I said anything, the needle was piercing the small dimple in my nose.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering my dad telling me that the more senses you have working, the less it will hurt. I relished in the pain, even though my eyes teared and I held my breath. The pressure was so great, and then – into the cork it went and it was over.

  She took out the needle and put in the stud.

  “Not too bad, right?” she asked, cleaning my nose up. “It might bleed a little. Wash it with salt water and it should be fine in a few days. A little sore, but nothing too bad.” She winked at me and motioned for me to follow her to the cash register up front.

  I quickly paid the $40 it cost and practically ran back to my car to inspect. In the rearview mirror it looked a little swollen and red, but cool. Definitely cool.

  This was something I had done for me, alone, for once. I relished in that thought, knowing that any time I felt like life was too hard, I could look at my face and see strength.

  ***

  When I got home I went straight to my room and inspected the little ball on my nose. I had no idea what my mom’s reaction would be. I didn’t have to worry about Dad, one because he wasn’t home, and two because from the pictures I had seen of him when he was my age, well, to be upset would have been completely hypocritical.

  Unfortunately, it would be my mom whose reaction I would have to weather.

  I decided to lose myself in my dad’s latest literary choice for my reading pleasure: Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I flipped it open at random and read:

  “Blind living wrestling touch, sheath’d hooded sharp-tooth’d touch!

  Did it make you ache so, leaving me?”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Why was it that when you are feeling an emotion strongly, everything in your life seems to relate?

  Instead of abandoning the book, I read on, Whitman’s way with words overpowering my own sensitivities. At least until my mother called up to tell me dinner was ready half an hour later.

  Walking confidently down to the kitchen, I told myself not to give into any protestations my mom might throw at me.

  Emily was already at the table, scooping mounds of mashed potatoes on her plate.

  “Em, honey, leave room for some green beans at least,” my mom said as I sat down. I realized then that she was sitting in the seat where my nose ring was most visible.

  “Greer, thanks for joining us,” she said to me, acknowledging my presence by passing me the plate of barbecue chicken.

  She looked right at me, smiled and went back to her own dinner.

  “What is that?” Em asked, pointing at my face.

  Way to go, little sis. Thanks for blowing up my spot.

  I was glaring at her when I heard my mother gasp.

  “Greer MacManus! What have you done to yourself?” She leaned over and took my head in her hands, turning it left and then right. “When? Why? HOW?” she devolved into single word expressions.

  “It’s no big deal, Mom. It’s just a nose ring.” I wrenched myself out of her grasp and shoved a forkful of potatoes into my mouth.

  “No big deal? Your pretty face, Greer! You’re not even eighteen! Where did you do this?”

  “This piercing place in Flagstaff,” I said as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Look at me, now!” my mother yelled. I looked at her and saw her practically seething at me. “This is not okay, Greer. I lend you my car and you come home looking like this? No, I will not have that. You will either take that out right now or you will be grounded until further notice!”

  I had never heard my mom talk like this.

  I had also never come home after maiming myself before.

  I stared her right in the eye before I said, “I’m keeping it.”

  “Room! Now!” Her eyes narrowed, glaring at me in anger.

  Without a word, I threw my fork down on the table, shoved my chair into the wall and stalked up the stairs, hitting each one extra hard.

  Once in my room, I slammed the door and screamed, “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you PAID ATTENTION TO ME ONCE IN AWHILE!”

  I threw myself onto my bed, screaming again into my pillow.

  I was livid and felt like doing something to piss off my mother even more.

  I imagined the different scenarios that might play out if I told her I might be gay.

  “Greer,” my mom might say, “we love and accept you for who you are. I hope you know that. Nothing could ever change that.”

  But I doubted that.

  There was also the possibility that she could say, “Not under this roof! OUT!”

  Since Mom’s friend Jill happened to be gay, however, I doubted such a radical reaction.

  The worst that could happen would probably be nothing at all. Silence.

  Whichever way that conversation went, I was not ready to have it then. It was more likely than not that I would be the one hurting more at the end than vice versa.

  ***

  That night, I lit up a roach I had saved from the day before.

  Short-term memory loss; itchy eyes; a fuzzy buzzing in my head; cotton mouth; munchies; a euphoric sense of self; lack of anxiety; the knowledge that everything will be alright; poor sense of judgment; drowsiness; laziness; lack of ambition; an empty wallet; burned out.

  Why, exactly, do I smoke pot? I questioned myself, before grabbing my journal and writing:

  There must be life after death, because what is death but the end of the body. We are not our bodies. We are our con
sciousnesses. People can hack their body to bits, taking things off, adding things in, and yet “ME” remains the same. It’s like that famous quote by that guy, “I think, therefore I am.” I’m just rambling now, weed’ll do that to you, but it’s true nonetheless!

  Our bodies do matter, in that they are a source for our self-esteem and perception for ourselves and others. We either attract or repel others by our outer looks (which none of us have control over, for that matter). But maybe this wasn’t always the case. I bet the cavemen didn’t worry about what their mate looked like as long as he could procreate with her. After all, sex comes down to instinct, right?

  There’s the theory of pheromones, but whatever attraction is, like our looks, we don’t have any control over it. We fall in love with who we fall in love with, whether the other person is a bad influence or if they treat you like a queen or king. We can’t choose.

  In the same way, we have no choice as to what body we are born into. This is why I cannot understand racism of all prejudices to hold. I didn’t choose to be white just as Nick didn’t choose to be Black. How can you possibly hate someone for an attribute they had no control over? It’s absurd!

  Oh, high thoughts. Some can make no sense once you’re sober, but others are right on the money.

  I reached over to my bookshelf and picked up one of the first books my dad ever gave me: A Room of One’s Own by

  Virginia Woolf.

  ‘G-Bee~ I thought this might speak to you. Love you always, always, always, Dad.’

  I cracked the spine and turned to one of the many dog-eared pages:

  “The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.”

  I leaned back on my bed, lips upturned, and kept reading, almost feeling like I could have written the words myself.

  “I … walked for miles at night along the beach … searching endlessly for someone … who would … change my life. It never crossed my mind that that person could be me.”

  - Anna Quindlen

  APRIL

  “Do you think scars are beautiful?” I asked Nick. We were at my house, and he was visiting for half of his spring break. He turned towards me, uncertain answering.