by Laurel Dewey
Checking her watch, she noted it was just after seven thirty. She deduced she could head home and order a pizza and ruminate on how her life was going to hell or she could attend the regular 8:00 AA meeting in the basement of the Methodist Church a few blocks from where she lived. Being a Friday night and a couple days after Christmas, Jane figured the meeting would be filled with people who were equally engaged in gnashing their teeth over their individual dramas. “What the hell,” Jane muttered to herself as she clenched a fresh cigarette between her teeth, slid her Glock under the front seat, and peeled away from the curb.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Methodist Church at 8:10 with the butts of two cigarettes still smoking in the ashtray. Traffic had been heavy due to the snow, and the parking lot was crammed full of cars. Several other vehicles stacked up behind her Mustang in search of parking spots. Jane was about to give up when she eyed a sliver of cement next to a far curb. Banking her wheels so that half of her car was on the curb and the other half on the cement, Jane managed to squeeze her Mustang into the space. As she crossed to the back door of the church, she sensed prying eyes focused upon her. She quickly turned around. The only action she noted was three AA members sucking on the dying embers of their cigarettes before heading down the back steps of the church. But as she followed the others down the steps, Jane could still sense the intense gaze of someone out in the snowy darkness.
As Jane expected, the church basement was packed with well over sixty people. The 1,000-square-foot room felt hot and dank as she maneuvered around the crowd, all tightly stuffed onto the couches and chairs with only the cushion of their down jackets between them. She located a metal folding chair and wedged it between two couches in the back, just behind the table that held the coffee and a bowl of packaged crackers and cheap candy. The meeting had started on time, and the customary recital of the Twelve Traditions was completed. Another female member read the Twelve Steps.
“One: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable,” the woman said with a shaky voice. “Two: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity....”
Jane peered around the crush of bodies, noting a lot of new faces. Their hollow eyes gave them away. It was the look of every alcoholic new to the program—a lifeless, blank stare that gradually filled with hope as the weeks progressed. In Jane’s peripheral vision, she caught an old man staring at her. When she looked over at the gentleman, she realized he was drawn to her beaten face. He gently patted his own cheek as if to say, “What happened to you?” Jane shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, “It’s okay” in an offhand manner, trying to minimize her awkward appearance.
“Three,” the woman continued reading, “Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him. Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves....”
That’s where Jane tuned out the woman’s voice. It was appropriate. For whatever reason, Jane was stuck on Step Four. She wasn’t sure if she just didn’t want to work the program or if the words simply weren’t connecting with her. Somewhere deep down, Jane could appreciate the significance of the Twelve Steps, but the words weren’t integrating into her psyche. At times, she likened it to crossing a rickety bridge over a roaring river and wondering how in the hell that compromised bridge was going to safely lead her to the other side. The straightforward declarations within each of the Twelve Steps resonated with millions and made the difference between pursuing a chaotic life or a serene existence. Yet for Jane, the words felt flat and meaningless. She had no idea how to begin a “searching and fearless moral inventory.” Jane could fearlessly defend herself or someone she loved against any number of oppressors. But to boldly delve into the deep, dark regions where the demons play...well, she didn’t know how to begin such a daunting task.
“Would anyone like a twenty-four-hour chip?” the evening’s appointed leader asked the group. A petite, red-haired woman in her thirties raised her hand. “Great! Come on up and get it! How about thirty days?” An angular, crusty old cowboy in his seventies got up from the couch and collected the chip. “Ninety days?” Three people dislodged themselves from their seats and pocketed their three-month chip. “Six months?” Jane was two days shy of snagging that chip, but figured it would be bad luck to add it to her collection before the actual date. The distribution of sobriety chips continued with nine months and finally one year. Finally, it was time to cruise around the room and make introductions.
“I’m Joanie and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Joanie,” the group responded in unison.
“I’m Alex and I’m an alcoholic drug addict.”
“Hi, Alex.”
Once again, Jane’s mind wandered. Perhaps it was because of the serious discomfort caused by the throbbing pain around her eye and lip. But whatever the reason, when it became Jane’s turn to introduce herself, she missed her cue. The older woman to her left gently touched her arm, bringing Jane back into the room.
“I’m Jane. And I’m an alcoholic.” The words fell tiredly, sounding more as if she were ordering a bag of fries than declaring a life-affirming revelation.
“Hi, Jane,” the group responded.
Introductions continued for another five minutes. Then it was time to open up the meeting to whatever topic crept into the minds of the group. Jane shifted her aching body in the hard chair and waited for what she expected would be a sad drone of post-Christmas despair. She was about to zone out again when a wiry, dirty blond woman in her late forties spoke up.
“I’m Michelle and I’m an alcoholic addict.”
“Hi, Michelle,” the group dutifully responded.
“I’ve been sober and drug free for three years, Christmas Day. I think that day is appropriate because that’s when I had my big spiritual awakening. But there were lots of moments that served as spiritual awakenings. I just didn’t recognize them at the time. When they’re happening, you’re usually so wrapped up in whatever shit’s goin’ on that you don’t realize that the hand of God just touched you and transformed your existence. Like three and a half years ago, I’d been drinking pretty much for four days straight and decided it would be a great idea to get in my truck and go for a drive. But I was so fucked-up that I forgot I had forty-two empty beer cans and two empty bottles of Jose Cuervo rollin’ around the backseat.” The group chuckled in a knowing manner. The woman continued. “So I’m driving and getting more pissed at everything in my life. And I don’t realize I’m going over ninety in a forty mile an hour zone. I also don’t see that there’s a turn just up ahead. I come up on that turn and try to make it, but it’s hard to carve a turn going ninety miles an hour when you’re sober, let alone drunk. So my truck banks on the divider and then flips twice, landing on its hood. For some unknown reason, I don’t fly out of the truck window. I’m just hangin’ upside down and all around me are those forty-two crushed beer cans. The two empty glass bottles of Cuervo had smashed and the chards were embedded in my face. But I didn’t feel anything. I was like, ‘Fuck! This sucks.’ Then a state trooper drives up. It didn’t take him more than a second to put two and two together. He says, ‘Well, lady, you sure did it to yourself.’ I say, ‘Get me the fuck outta here.’ At least, I tried to say it. I didn’t know that I’d almost bitten my tongue half off. The ambulance shows up and they use the Jaws of Life to pry me out. Next thing, I’m in the emergency room and there’s the nurse shoving this paper in my face, saying I have to sign it. They’d sewn my tongue back together, but it was swelling up and they said that in less an hour it would be so swollen that I wouldn’t be able to swallow and I’d die. So I had to sign the piece of paper to let them operate again and save my life. And I thought, ‘Wow. I have a clear choice right now to sign my name on a piece of paper and, in doing so, choose to live. Or I could just lay here and die in less than an hour.’ That was profound, you know? So I signed the paper. And you’d think that that would have been t
he great moment of change for me, right? Wrong.
“Chasing death was my newest addiction. The closer I got to death, the more fun life was. When I got out of the hospital, I started mixing booze and drugs. I lost my job. I lost my house. And the whole time, I cursed God for abandoning me. I ended up in a homeless shelter in the worst part of town. Every possession I had fit into a duffel bag and I got that stolen the second night there. A week later, I got the shit kicked out of me in the alley over a bad drug deal. A week later, right before Christmas, I got raped by three guys. I figured that was it. God had forsaken me and there was no reason to go on. So, on Christmas Eve, I locked myself in the shelter’s bathroom and downed a bottle of Valium and a fifth of Jack. I lay on that tile floor and waited for God or the Devil to come get me.
“That’s when it happened. I stepped out of my body and looked down at myself lying there. For the first time in my life, I looked at myself as I really was. I saw how much I hated myself and how fucking angry I was at everybody and everything. And in the same moment, I realized that all the shit in my life, all the stuff that I thought was so awful and had led me to that cold, tile floor, had served a greater purpose. All the things I thought were terrible were actually spiritual awakenings that were trying to lead me toward my higher Self. Yet, each time they happened, I wasn’t ready to grab on to the towline and pull myself to shore. That didn’t mean God wasn’t there the whole time. He was beside me, but He was also within me. Those are the only words I have to explain it. I looked down at myself and for the first time in my life, I felt love and compassion for that person lying there. I never loved myself until I was on the edge of death. I spoke to God. I thanked Him for the car accident. I thanked Him for getting beat up. I thanked Him for getting raped. And I thanked Him for the grace of a quick death or a better life. And this time I meant it.
“The doctors said I should have died that night. None of them could understand how anyone could survive what I did to myself. But I’ve never questioned it. I just know that the synchronicities of my life are neither good nor bad. They are all opportunities to move closer to the God within.” The woman peered down at the worn, blue carpeting and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “Someone told me that temptation precedes growth,” she whispered. “Now I know what that means.”
The group was silent. Jane sat stone-faced. She’d heard plenty of stories over the last few months from group members, but this one drove deep into her core. A swell of emotion inexplicably crept up on her as her thoughts shifted to that winter night almost twenty-two years ago. She remembered stepping out of herself and looking at the battered and blood-soaked body that lay unconscious on the dirt floor of her father’s workshop. But for Jane, there was no compassion or love for that girl on the floor. There was only the desire to die so the pain would cease. The taste of salt brought Jane back into herself, and she furtively wiped a tear off her face. The cut on her lip throbbed. She knew the only way to temporarily short-circuit her pain was via a strong dose of nicotine. Jane quietly stood up and made her way to the stairs that led outside.
Thankfully, the snow had ceased, leaving a dry layer of caked, white powder on the black asphalt parking lot. The orange streetlamps cast a distorted glow against the world. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Jane looked around the parking lot as the stillness enveloped her. She figured a gentle walk might help, so she drifted toward the front of the brick church. Once away from the glare of the streetlamps, she stopped, gazing into the black velvet December sky.
“Hey,” said a soft voice from the darkness. Jane turned quickly to her right. A round-faced woman in her mid-sixties sat on the cement steps that led to the church’s front door. “Sorry,” the woman said. “I thought I should say something so you knew I was here and didn’t freak when you saw me.”
Jane’s first thought was that she’d never heard a woman in her mid-sixties use the word “freak” unless she was using it to describe someone who she considered weird. “Okay,” Jane said. There was an awkward silence between them as Jane drew two drags off her dying cigarette, blowing the smoke away from the woman. The woman shifted her backside on the cold steps and wrapped her long, wool coat around her chest. “You know, it’s warm downstairs. And there’s hot coffee if you want it.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Thank you,” the woman replied, not moving a muscle.
Jane regarded the woman out of the corner of her eye. She appeared slightly plump under her heavy purple coat. Her lilac suede boots rose above her calf, under what appeared to be a violet wool dress. On her head, she wore a jaunty, multicolored bouclé hat. What really caught Jane’s observant eye was a thick, single braid of salt-and-pepper hair that reached to the middle of the woman’s back. The words “well dressed Bohemian” rang in Jane’s head. This woman was no road-ravaged drunk, she thought. This was a woman who lived well, albeit alone, and swigged a bottle of good red wine every night as she watched the Arts & Entertainment cable channel. For some unknown reason, Jane decided to do what she hardly ever did: strike up a conversation with a total stranger.
“I remember my first time coming to a meeting,” Jane offered, flicking her cigarette onto the curb. “I hung right around these same steps, sucking down a half pack of Marlboros before going down in the basement and meeting the folks.” The woman turned to Jane with a nervous smile. “My name’s Jane.”
The woman looked into Jane’s eyes. “I’m Katherine Clark.”
“Oh, no, no,” Jane admonished Katherine in a joking manner. “No last names. It’s like the hotel marquees on the Vegas Strip. “Liza.” “Elton.” “Siegfried and Roy.” I’m Jane P. and you’re Katherine C.”
“Kit,” the woman said, an undercurrent of nerves still below the surface. “Everyone calls me Kit.”
“Kit? Okay.”
Kit peered at Jane’s beaten face. “Looks like you got smacked pretty hard.”
Jane shrugged it off. “I just had a little run-in with a pool table.”
“And the pool table won?” Kit quickly replied.
“Fuck, no! It’s a goner!”
“Okay,” Kit said with a smile.
Jane eyed Kit. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you, mid-sixties?”
“I’ll be sixty-eight next year.”
“One thing I’ve noticed talking with the Basement People here—”
“The Basement People?”
“That’s what I call them. I’d rather say I’m going to see the Basement People than say I’m going to a meeting. Personal preference. Anyway, I’ve noticed a definite distinction between your generation of drunks and what’s out there today. There was a certain dignity to your group that you just don’t see anymore. Your liver could be the texture of pâté, you might be perambulating around on two legs that look like thick dowels, you could fall asleep on the kitchen floor clutching a drained bottle of scotch, but you still managed to get up every morning and make it work. Goddammit, I respect that!” Jane slid another cigarette out of her pack and lit up. She handed Kit the pack of cigarettes.
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t give up one addiction without starting a new one.”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Jane slid the pack into her coat pocket. “But understand that meetings are sponsored by R.J. Reynolds. We gotta numb the pain, right?” Jane said with a nervous edge to her voice.
“I need to feel my pain,” Kit said, her eyes trailing across the ground.
“Running is always a popular one. That’s what I do now. I run in circles around my block like a fucking nut. And coffee. I’m a coffee expert. Gourmet coffee, not the cheap shit. I bet I’ve got close to twenty pounds of coffee in my freezer. If one’s good, twenty’s better. That’s the alcoholic creed.”
“I haven’t heard that one.”
“We Basement Folk have a pithy saying for everything. ‘Fake it ’til you make it.’ ‘One day at a time’. And of course, ‘Let go and let God.’”
“That’s a good one.”
“It’s one thing to say it, Kit C. It’s another thing to actually do it.”
“You don’t sound as if you enjoy being here.”
“Who in their right mind would enjoy this? Regurgitating your past in front of people with initials for last names. ‘Naming it and claiming it.’” Jane peered off into the distance. “I used to hang out with drunks in bars three or four times a week. Now I get to hang out with these drunks, drink bad coffee, eat crappy candy, and listen to stories of redemption. You know, Kit C., there’s nothing more tedious than listening to drunks prattle on about redemption! It’s like paying a whore to read you the Book of Revelations. What’s the fucking point?”
“You don’t think a drunk is worthy of redemption?” Kit asked, really studying Jane’s face.
“Sure, why not? Let’s hand redemption out to everybody!”
“You always use sarcasm to skirt an issue?” Kit asked with a penetrating stare.
Jane turned to Kit. There was something different about this woman—a quiet intensity. At once, it attracted and repelled Jane. “Well, yeah. It usually works.”
“But those who know you don’t let you get away with it,” Kit declared.
The conversation had turned far too personal for Jane. She felt the need to either buffer her well-built wall and change the subject or return to the dank basement. Jane chose the former. “So, have you started your personal inventory?”
“My personal inventory?”
“Oh, right, this is your first time. Step Four: ‘Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.’ According to the Big Book, “We search out the flaws in our makeup which caused our failure. Being convinced that self, manifested in various ways, was what had defeated us, we considered its common manifestations.’”
