I make my cup and take my seat and wait to be noticed. Nobody seems to pay me much mind. There is a listless man behind a desk reading from a binder full of instructions: greetings and readings and such. When he asks if anyone’s at their first meeting, I raise my hand and say my name. Everyone claps. It’s been a while since anyone’s applauded anything I’ve done, and I’m surprised how good it feels.
After all the introductory stuff, a man named Chuck starts talking, an old man who seems strangely and bizarrely happy, so much so that it’s difficult to believe he ever had a drinking problem. “I didn’t come in here with any notion of having a good or happy life,” he says. “I just wanted to rub out some of the record. I was a failure as a husband and a father and an employee. I was a failure as a human being. And I just wanted to erase some of that.” He talks about powerlessness over alcohol, about drinking to be happy and ending up sad, about drinking to make friends and making enemies instead, about drinking to feel like part of the crowd and ending up feeling alone. He says some people are drinking because they want to die but are too afraid to commit suicide; he says others keep drinking because they don’t think it will kill them, but then it does.
“It’s because we have this thirst that can never be satisfied,” Chuck says. “It can never be satisfied by physical things, because it’s a spiritual thirst. It’s a thirst for peace of mind. That’s our problem. We’re restless, irritable and discontented without alcohol. That’s our problem.”
He goes on: “I didn’t realize that at the time, of course. I thought I had a lot of problems when I was out there, and I thought I had to drink to take my mind off those problems. I thought I had lots of problems, but I just had one problem. I believe it’s the same problem all of you have, although you’ll have to decide that for yourself,” he says. “That problem is ego. What is ego? Well, I define it as ‘conscious sense of separation from.’ Separation from what? From others around us. From God. From good. From life. The ego tells me I can be happy, just as long as I pile up enough. Enough of whatever I think I need, whether it is booze or women or money. But the thing is, the ego can never be satisfied. Never! So if I’m running my life based on ego, I will just try to pile up more and more, and the more I get, the more miserable I’ll be. But just as there is one problem, there is one solution. And for me, that is ‘conscious sense of union with.’ Union with what? Again: God. Good. Life. For me, those are all the same thing.
“So recovery from alcoholism doesn’t just mean staying dry, putting the plug in the jug. That has to happen first, but beyond that, I have to start living in a way that drinking feels unnecessary. Or else I’ll go back. The opposite of alcoholism is connection, to all of these things, real connection, not based on ego. Not based on dominating, or being dominated, but based on real relationship. Which means I have to listen as much as I talk. I can’t tell other people what they see. I can tell them what I see, but I have to listen to them when they tell me what they see, because no two humans see all the same things. Nobody.
“And I have to work to change.” He smiles. “I used to think I had to drink because of the way the world was. I had to, because I couldn’t change the world. Well, I learned in these rooms, it isn’t the outside world that makes me drink, it’s when things are broken and twisted inside of me! When I work on my insides, everything that’s outside starts to feel OK. And I’m going to tell you this: heaven and hell are the same place. Because before I got sober, I sat in my living room chair and drank, and made everyone else miserable, and made myself miserable, and it was hell. But now, I’ve still got that same living room chair! And I sit in it now, and I have pleasant conversations, and I listen to others, really listen, and it’s heaven. But I have to change me. I have to work these steps and work on what’s inside of me, to turn hell into heaven. So I’ll leave you with a great quote from Carl Jung, who was a great friend of this fellowship. He said, ‘He who looks outward, dreams. He who looks inward, awakens.’”
There is applause. There are comments and sharing. I do not say anything.
Instead, I get up and head back to the coffee machine. I pour a little heap of creamer into the bottom of my too-small Styrofoam cup, then a bit of sugar, then pour the coffee on top: better mixing through engineering. There are sad little bubbles as the coffee penetrates the creamer below; I mash the plastic stirrer in there and mix up the clumps.
After all of it is over, people are crowding and milling about, asking for my phone number and telling me theirs. I tell a little of my story, and take a few phone numbers, but it’s all a bit overwhelming; I get out of there as soon as I can.
•••
A young couple’s strolled onto the car lot.
I watch them from the air-conditioned showroom; I linger there on the cool side of the glass, stroking my newly-grown beard and sipping hot coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The thermostat’s low enough that I’m not sure whether I’m drinking for caffeination or warmth.
I know I should go out there, but I watch.
Their faces and arms are glistening and slightly golden, highlit by the morning sun. They’re holding hands as they compare sticker prices. She looks uncomfortable; I keep waiting for her to take hers back, to wipe off her sweaty palm, but she doesn’t. But I can tell he’s the one who started it. And somehow this makes me feel like I know the guy, for I feel the same thing, this desire for physical affection in spite of physical discomfort. My second wife said something similar on our first date.
“You want to take ‘em, Buzz?” The sales manager’s sidled up behind me.
“Might as well.” I try to voice what I think is optimism.
“You got this.” He claps me on the shoulder, a buddy clap, hard enough to slosh my coffee.
How did I get here? From the moon to this mundane world of quotas and commissions and 12.9% APR financing? I wipe coffee from my fingers and the cup, and wonder.
“I’ll watch from here,” the manager continues, oblivious.
I walk to the door, hesitate. The lot’s festooned with sale flags and streamers hanging listlessly in the dead morning air, shining harshly in the California sun; now that I’m here choking down panic, it seems even stranger that they make these places look so festive, every last one like an absurd parody of a party.
No guts, no glory. Well, no glory either way, but I might as well do something. I open the door at last to a blast of summer heat, the cold showroom air billowing out with me and then dissipating; I sip my coffee as I walk out there under the canopy of tinsel. It occurs to me too late that I should’ve left it inside.
I’ve spouted plebe knowledge back to angry upperclassmen. I’ve talked to kings and presidents. I can do this. “Morning, folks. How can I help you?”
“We’re just getting a look,” he says. “Figured we’d check out the 1978 models while they’re still around.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to help you out. I’m Buzz.” I’ve talked to kings and presidents. And now I’m doing this.
“Joe. And this is Amy.”
Handshakes all around: firm, confident. I’m good at that part, at least.
“So, tell me, Buzz…” He’s a young guy, 23 maybe: young and anonymous, with a beautiful wife. And for a second I think: what I wouldn’t give. Then: “Wait. Buzz.” His eyes dart around the lot like it’s Candid Camera and he’s trying to spot the film crew. “Wasn’t that…wait. You are the moon guy!”
“Yeah, that’s me. I look a little different these days. Grew a beard.” I wince inwardly at the unspoken question that always comes next, the one written on their face when they hear this: what are you doing here selling cars?
“What are you doing here selling cars?”
Then again, sometimes it’s spoken. “Well, I’ve…lived and worked around machines all my life.” I sputter. I’m absurdly aware of the coffee cup in my hand, and kicking myself for not leaving it inside, and half-wishing I’d put something in it to loosen up. But I know I’ve got to keep talking. “And I…well, I
know a reliable ride when I see one. Take this Cadillac here…”
“I don’t know if we’re in the market for a Cadillac,” the woman finally speaks; she pats her belly, which, now that I’m looking that low, is showing signs of early pregnancy. “Maybe something a little more economical.”
“He can tell us about the Caddie,” the man says.
“Well, as you can see, it’s a beautiful car. A really nice sturdy machine. I’ll tell you, when we rode the lunar lander down to the moon, it was a pretty flimsy thing. They had to engineer it to be so thin that, when it was pressurized, the door actually bulged outward a little. But not these doors!” I open the door and slam it. “See? Nice solid reliable doors. And getting out? In the lunar lander, you had to crawl on your hands and knees, backwards. You had to angle your body just right so you could scoot out without getting hung up on the hatch. But there will be no problems getting in and out of this baby. Even with a baby!” I grin expectantly.
She frowns. “I’m not pregnant.”
I am destroyed. “Well, I…uh…”
“We are thinking about starting a family. If we can learn to be a little responsible.” She looks down at the sticker in the window. “Gas mileage isn’t that good, huh?”
I cannot tell a lie. “No, it probably isn’t the best car for that. I have to say…”
She starts walking towards the cheaper cars.
He doesn’t move. “What was it like on the moon?”
“Well, it was a pretty amazing place, really.” I deflate a little. And yet I’m oddly relieved. These are comfortable familiar stories now, if a little annoying to repeat. “You’d kick up dust, and it would just go up in a little arc and come right back down. And of course, no clouds. Just…stark, very stark and clear. Everything was exactly what it appeared to be. It was bright, really bright, like you were on a beach, but so much sharper, all the lights and shadows. It was really easy to move around and work…”
“But what did it feel like?
The question I hate. “I…I don’t know. We had a lot of jobs we had to do, we’d trained for years to do those jobs. I didn’t really stop and think about what I felt like. We didn’t have the time. We were too busy trying to get everything done…”
His eyes wander a little, off down the line of cars; I can tell I’m losing him. What do people expect to hear? An amazing, transformative experience, maybe: something that will let them know all of this means something. But how can you explain that if someone doesn’t already believe it? You could talk forever and it wouldn’t be enough. Al Shepard always answered the same way, his stock asshole two-second three-word answer: Super! Loved it.
“…I…people seem surprised when they hear this, but…I had a big important job, and a lot of people were watching, and I was just trying not to fuck it up.”
He chuckles a little.
“Which, speaking of jobs…” I look back down at the car.
“I have always kinda wanted a Caddie. Good, solid, American-made. What were you saying about the mileage?”
“Well, the mileage isn’t all that great, to be honest. I don’t know your financial situation, but if that’s something you’re worried about…”
“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” The sales manager’s at my elbow now, sounding jumpy and excitable.
“No problem,” I say.
“Buzz here was just telling me about his time on the moon.”
“You know, we drove cars on the moon,” the manager says, rapidfire. “And short of driving a car on the moon, I think this is the coolest ride out there. Sometimes women get a little skittish about getting a car this big, but I think a guy like you shouldn’t settle for anything less. This is a car that tells the world you’re important. If you want wealth and power to come your way, you’ve got to attract it. And these days a car like this is the only way to do it. Just the other day, I…”
He’s talking fast and loose enough that it seems unnatural. I fade back a little, and he doesn’t seem to notice.
I wander inside and go to the bathroom, and when I come out, they’re inside, the guy filling out paperwork on the sales manager’s desk, his wife standing above them, arms folded with displeasure.
I want to forget all of this.
I retreat to my office and pick up the phone. I pull out one of the numbers from the meeting, a guy I’d talked to for a little bit before I’d left, a guy named Clancy.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s…Buzz. I met you the other day. At that thing.”
“What’s going on, Buzz?”
“I want a drink.”
There’s an emptiness on the line, but only for a second. “What am I supposed to tell you? No? It’s not my job to tell you not to drink. If you want to drink, go drink. It’s your business. I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to tell you how to stay sober, if you want to stay sober. That’s my business.”
“I don’t want to drink.”
“OK, then. There’s meetings today, if you want to meet up. We can get started on the…”
“I’m still at work.”
A longer pause than before. “Wait, where is it you’re working again?”
“A car dealership.” I look through the glass partition at the rest of the showroom and reassure myself: no one’s paying attention to the fact that I’m in here.
“Buzz, is that really what you want to be doing with yourself?”
“No.”
“Well, why are you there, then? Have you sold any cars?”
“No, not yet.” Out on the showroom floor, the sales manager walks the young couple to the door, opens it for them, shakes hands with the man.
“Well, I don’t know you that well, but it sounds to me like you’re not a car salesman. It sounds like they’re just using you to make themselves look big. Are you actually being useful, to yourself or them?”
“I want to sell a car.”
“Is that humility talking, or your ego?”
“I want to sell a car.”
The sales manager walks past, sees me alone in the office, gives me a look. I hang up the phone, hoping he’ll keep walking.
No luck.
He sticks his head in. “Buzz, you got a minute?”
“Sure thing.”
“That guy, why didn’t you close the sale?”
“Well, his wife was…”
“His wife wasn’t the customer! He wanted a Caddie, you should have sold him a Caddie.”
“Financially, I didn’t think he was…”
“It’s not your job to make their financial decisions for them, Buzz.” He sighs. “Look. This is America. Everybody stretches themselves somewhere, in some area of their life. A house that’s too big. A boat they don’t need. If they don’t do it with us, they’ll do it somewhere else.”
“Yeah.”
“And besides, we’ve got inventory we’ve got to move. We’ve got to get the best price we can for it. When the new models come in, people aren’t interested in the old ones any more.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, it’s a tough business. But you’re a tough guy. Hell, you had to be, to do all you’ve done. But you gotta get comfortable around the customer.” He leans forward; I can see a little of what looks like blood at the base of his nostril. “You’re asking them to do something that may be hard for them. The only way to do that is to be comfortable. Whatever you gotta do to make that happen, make it happen.”
•••
It is later that same night and I am drunk, horribly awfully drunk yet again, and things have gone horribly awfully wrong yet again, and while they’ve gone wrong before (arguments, accidents, adultery, etc.), now they have gone wrong in an unfathomable way, for I am at the local police precinct, under arrest, it seems.
Me, arrest. Another A, worse than the scarlet one, like a varsity letter you’re competing not to get.
We won’t go into all the details.
But I am under arrest, and it didn’t even occur to
me right away that things had gone so very wrong, for when the officer arrested me, he’d been extremely polite about it, like “Sir, I’m going to ask you to take a little ride with me,” with a hopeful little uplift at the end of the sentence, almost as if he was asking for a favor, like he was seeking my daughter’s hand in marriage, or he wanted the pleasure of my company on a pleasant automobile excursion. Hell, he never even used the word “arrest.” And I could tell he was practically a kid; he looked twelve or maybe fifteen, tops, and using my logical brain (which I haven’t done all that much tonight), it seemed like he was about the same age as Mike. And with all this talk about kids not respecting their elders these days, when one calls you “Sir” and asks for a favor, that’s behavior you want to encourage, right?
And he wasn’t putting me in handcuffs or anything, he was sort of shepherding me from behind, so somehow it didn’t occur to me until we got over to the squad car that I’d be sitting in the back, regardless of my preferences on the matter, or whether or not I’d asked to ride shotgun. And sure enough, it was just like all the mindless cop shows, no locks on the doors, windows that didn’t roll down, etc., and suddenly my level of drunkenness wasn’t nearly enough to match the awfulness of it all.
And now we’re in front of the booking officer, an older guy with a lumpy Irish potato of a face. And my hopefulness is coming back, for I’ve formulated an escape plan of sorts: some remnant of me is sure it’ll all be funny to them, maybe, like once we get to know one another, they’ll see how silly this all is, just a simple comedy of errors.
“Last name?”
I smile stupidly and give my name.
He writes it neatly in the blotter without looking up. “First name?”
Island of Clouds: The Great 1972 Venus Flyby (Altered Space Book 3) Page 32
