Next came the sounds of further adjustments being made on the stairs, followed by, “Okay, you’re doin’ shitty. Sorry to hear that. So what’s goin on?”
I sat back on the couch and described in self-flagellating detail the events of the past three days. My conversation with Jane Bartolo, my encounter with the witch and the warlock, my night in the hoosegow, and my degradation at the hands of Phil Doppler and Rachel Solomon.
Sheldon’s response was immediate.
“Holy fuck!”
Good, he understood.
“That was my reaction,” I said.
“Holy fuck,” he repeated, more softly this time.
But apparently not softly enough. A door banged open and a raspy male voice declared, “Stop it right now, young man. Such language. You should be ashamed of yourself. This is a respectable apartment building, but you young people, you show no respect for anyone, especially not for your neighbors.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sugarman,” Sheldon groveled. “I’ll be quieter, and I promise I won’t curse.”
“Yeah yeah yeah.”
Someone said something too muffled for me to decipher, or determine who said it. The next sound, easily decipherable, was a door slamming, presumably Mr. Sugarman’s.
“Sorry,” Sheldon said. “That old fart complains about everything, and I mean everything.”
I had nothing to say to that so I waited.
“Where were we?” he said. “Oh yeah. Holy fuck!”
Aside from breaking his promise to Mr. Sugarman, my friend seemed to have exhausted his observations on the events I’d described, so I moved on.
“Sheldon?”
“What, bubbee?”
“Do you think I’m a drunk?”
“What?”
His incredulity alone lifted my spirits.
“Do you think I’m a shikker? People keep telling me I am.”
“Well, I think you like to drink. And sometimes you like to drink a lot. But that doesn’t mean you’re a drunk. Hell, I like to drink too. To be sociable, I mean. Maybe sometimes for other reasons. But I’m not a shikker and neither are you. You’ve had a run of bad luck, is all.”
I grew suspicious. Was he putting me on or giving me his honest opinion?
“Thanks. I just wondered—”
“’Course, you might consider going to an AA meeting.”
What the fuck?
“Come again?” I said, probably sounding testy.
“Hey, don’t get your panties in an uproar. I’m just saying you should think about it. Going couldn’t hurt, and it might do you some good.”
“But—”
“Wait, hear me out. From what I understand, winos tell their life stories at those meetings. So I’m thinking when they describe their own crummy lives, you’ll see that yours isn’t so bad, and just as important, that you’re not one of them.”
Jesus, that was brilliant.
I mean it.
Sheldon was suggesting I attend an AA meeting to prove I didn’t need AA. At the same time, I’d see that compared to the lives of those drunks, mine wasn’t so crappy. At the very least, going to a meeting would prove, once and for all, that Alcoholics Anonymous and I weren’t a good fit, not with my allergic reaction to religion. And as a bonus, my attendance might get the pests off my back because afterward I could tell them, in all honesty, that I’d followed their advice and given AA a try.
“Hey,” Sheldon said, “I gotta split before Sally comes out and yells at me. Meanwhile, you think about what I said.”
We hung up and I laid my head back to think about what he’d said. But I didn’t get far before nodding off. When I awoke I had no idea how much time had elapsed, only that I was panting after fleeing a coven of witches.
All of them drunk.
Chapter 76
Well, if I had to try AA to prove a point, namely that I didn’t need AA, I figured I might as well pick an expedient meeting, by which I mean one held on a convenient day and at a convenient time and location, which is why I chose the seven o’clock Monday night gathering at the Church of the Christ Almighty, or something like that, on Michigan Avenue about five blocks west of the Gazette. This time and place would allow me to grab a bite after work before biting the bullet and getting the session over with.
On the Monday following my conversation with Sheldon I had dinner at Giselle’s and went to church for the first time in my life. A back door led directly into the meeting room, enabling me to avoid a sanctuary that might have collapsed if I’d entered it, me being a heathen and all. The room itself survived my arrival, but the question was, would I survive it? Dank and dreary, the space featured a concrete floor and gray walls littered with folksy aphorisms, such as the ever-popular “Let Go and Let God,” plus “Easy Does It,” “One Day at a Time,” “Keep Coming Back,” “Keep the Plug in the Jug” and “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” The challenge for me was to keep from throwing up.
I could see this would be a long evening, made to seem even longer by the metal folding chair on which I’d be sitting. Six rows of these instruments of torture filled half the room, and I claimed the chair nearest the exit for an unobtrusive getaway should I decide to leave before the meeting ended, which, as you may have guessed, was a distinct possibility.
Next I did what you’re supposed to do in church. I prayed.
Dear Whoever. Please get me through this ordeal with my sanity … what little is left of it … intact. For that I will be grateful. Amen.
Plea completed, I observed the drunks straggling into the room. I’ll give them this: they didn’t look like derelicts. In fact, they seemed scrubbed, kempt and clear of eye. I also noticed the men outnumbered the women ten to one, give or take, which probably vexed the men and pleased the women, not that members of either gender would sink to thinking about sex during these hallowed sessions.
Finally, at about two minutes after seven, a short, chubby guy with a large nose and thinning hair settled himself in a folding chair facing the assembly, looking for all the world, at least to me, like a pasha. He held two laminated sheets of paper, from one of which he read the “Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous” in a tired monotone that, had I not drunk three cups of coffee with dinner, would have put me to sleep in no time. But, awake and alert, I listened to what the AA road to recovery necessitated, which included admitting that you were powerless over alcohol and your life had become unmanageable. This one step alone confirmed I did not need AA. To begin with, I was not powerless over alcohol. I could reduce my intake anytime I wanted to. After all, I’d cut back for one whole month hadn’t I? Okay, so I’d gotten crocked after learning the woman I loved had—ahem—“met” another guy. But what man wouldn’t get smashed after a discovery like that? And my life was not unmanageable. Messed-up maybe, but not completely. After all, I’d managed to put food in the fridge, clothes on my back and a roof over my head, and I’d managed to hold a respectable job that paid me enough to afford these things. Yes, I’d hit a rough patch and the job was a little shaky, but shit does happen you know. They ought to put that on these walls.
After finishing with the Twelve Steps, the rest of which included a lot of God crud I won’t go into now, our leader, if that’s what he was, read from the other laminated sheet, which contained the “Twelve Traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous.” Things must be cheaper by the dozen in the AA universe.
But not wiser. Take the third item on the list, which stated that the only requirement for AA membership was a desire to stop drinking. A steep membership fee, and I refused to pay it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became I could drink moderately if I really put my mind to it. I just hadn’t tried hard enough before. And as for abstinence, that was an invitation to disaster, mainly because of the whole forbidden-fruit thing. You know what I’m talking about. When someone says you can’t have something, you want it even more, right?
I’m also sure you’re familiar with the famous line uttered by that great philosopher, W.
C. Fields: “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.” I would only add to that: “… because he could end up a drunk.”
Finished with the second list, The Pasha recited a bunch of rules governing the meeting itself. Not to sound like a naysayer, but I also found these questionable, and in one case—the rule prohibiting “crosstalk”—objectionable. That one prohibited any exchange between a speaker and member of the congregation, which meant you couldn’t question a speaker. When news sources refused to answer questions, either because they didn’t want to or because they’d been advised against it, they were almost always hiding something. So what were these people concealing?
Another rule proscribed applause, which, to look on the positive side, ensured that AA meetings avoided the idolatry of an Ann McCory event. On the other hand, it kept members from showing their appreciation for someone who may have said something of value. That didn’t seem right either.
After this third list, members finally began telling their stories.
First up was an anemic gentleman wearing a three-piece suit several sizes too large. He marched to the front of the room, faced his fellow members and said, “Hi, I’m Sid and I’m an alcoholic.” Yet another AA rule forbade the use of last names, which I guess gave members their anonymity. But to my surprise the audience responded to the natty one with “Hi, Sid,” which apparently did not qualify as crosstalk. Anyway, he said that in the old days he drank at least three quarts of vodka a day, starting when he got up in the morning and ending when he hit the sack at night. As a result he’d lost his wife of twenty-one years, his three children, ages four to nine, his position as a bank vice president and his self-respect. But thanks to the AA program and his Higher Power, aka God, he’d been sober for two weeks and three days.
Next, a plump woman with pendulous breasts introduced herself as Loretta and admitted to both a drinking and eating problem, and, when she was younger and slimmer, a sleeping-with-any-man-who-bought-her-a-drink problem. In her fifty-two years she’d contracted gonorrhea and suffered a heart attack, a stroke and multiple other ailments, and figured it was time to give up the booze. With the help of AA and her Higher Power, she hadn’t touched the stuff in a year and a half.
Then came Jerry, who wore a smile, a crew cut and a Michigan Wolverines sweatshirt, a memento of the time, not too long ago, when he quarterbacked U of M’s junior varsity. He put away four or five cases of beer a week, before, after and sometimes during classes (don’t ask). The heavy consumption began after Jerry underwent a series of disasters. First the football team booted him after several inferior performances in a row. Then the university suspended him for conduct unbecoming a student, the exact nature of which behavior he failed to specify. And finally his fiancée dumped him for “knocking boots” with her best friend. Sobriety had been tough, but Jerry had maintained it now for three whole days and, naturally, thanked AA and his Higher Power for this impressive achievement.
At the other end of the age spectrum, Stella, a dwarfish lady with bad dentures, drab gray hair and a menacing cane, declared she’d been sober for a dozen years and yet still attended meetings at least once a week. Also, she prayed to her Higher Power every day, because otherwise she’d return to her old ways. Stella finished by raising her cane on high and yelling, “And let that be a lesson to you.”
This place was full of lessons, none of which made sense to me, and now I was more than ready to leave. But then The Pasha announced there was time for only one more speaker and I decided to stay to the bitter end.
Up stepped a stocky, middle-aged gentleman who apparently shaved his head every morning along with his face, probably because there wasn’t much hair topside to begin with. So I asked myself: which was sillier, trying to hide your baldness or flaunting it? I put the question on hold as Baldy unbuttoned his sports coat to reveal a bright yellow turtleneck to go with his bright shiny head. He then introduced himself as Merv, said he was an alcoholic and drew the standard response. Next he inspected his audience, stopping briefly, for whatever reason, at me and then continuing on his way.
He began by asking, “Any skeptics out there?” And then answered his own question. “I know a few of you are doubters who believe all of this is a load of manure, but who for one reason or another have chosen to be here tonight. You see, I was a cynic too when I started on this path, because though I never went to college I was a thinker. In fact, I spent most of my spare time thinking. Thinking and reading, reading and thinking, thinking and reading. So I became smart … certainly too smart for all this nonsense. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He gave us a synthetic smile before continuing. “At the start of my journey there was this hole in my life, this vast emptiness. In fact, one night while drinking martinis in my favorite bar I felt so empty I wondered if I was even there. I told some friends about this and they suggested I go to church and pray for guidance. And I thought, that’s the best they’ve got? Didn’t they know religion was a fairy tale and prayer a form of voodoo? That shit was going to fill the void? Please.” Merv paused and looked at me again for reasons that still escaped me. Maybe I looked bored, which I was, and that pissed him off. “Anyway,” he went on, “I kept drinking, and kept feeling empty, when one day my brother suggested I go to an AA meeting. This came out of nowhere, and I thought, but that’s for drunks, and whatever else I may be I’m not a drunk. I’m neat and clean and I don’t see spiders crawling up the wall. Plus I have a gorgeous wife, two great kids, a good job and an even better boss. In other words, I had just about everything a man could hope for. So me a drunk? Come on. Of course I didn’t have happiness, but what the hell, you can’t have everything, right?”
He stopped to scrutinize his audience again, and while doing so looked straight at me again, this time as if he knew I knew exactly what he was talking about. True, some of what he said may have applied to me, but I was nothing like him and I hoped he realized that even though he didn’t know me. Another thing he didn’t know was when to shut up. “So,” he droned on, “I came home one night … drunk naturally … and my wife, the bitch, threatened to divorce me if I didn’t at least try AA. Of course I was too hung over to show up for work the next day, but when I did return my boss, the dirt bag, threatened to fire me if I didn’t get help, for instance from AA. So what could I do? I attended a stupid meeting, and while listening to all those stupid drunks I thought, what a bunch of losers. Thank God I’m not one of them. Me powerless over alcohol? I could stop anytime I wanted to. And I proved it by going home and not drinking for the rest of the week. Or rather I tried not drinking for the rest of the week. But what I discovered was, I couldn’t go for even a day without hooch. So I returned to AA because, well, I had nothing to lose did I? But after that second meeting, for reasons I couldn’t even begin to explain, I read the Big Book and started following the Steps. And long story short, here I am today, booze-free for nearly a decade.”
I started to get up, thinking he was done and the meeting was over at last, but old Merv just kept on going.
“I gotta be honest with you, folks, since honesty is an important part of this program. It’s been hard … real hard. You see, I still wanna drink, and sometimes I wanna drink so badly I get on the pity pot because I can’t. And yet I keep on keeping on, avoiding alcohol at all costs. Why? Because I don’t wanna be unhappy all the time, and I know in my heart I’ll be very unhappy if I drink. Now I don’t claim I’m sitting on cloud nine these days, but neither am I down in the dumps all the time. So I guess you could say I’m sort of content.”
He smiled, almost shyly for once, as if recognizing the limited nature of his triumph. And yet I wondered what “sort of content” felt like, because as far as I knew, I’d never come even close to that feeling.
“And here’s another thing I gotta admit,” said Merv, whose admissions threatened to go on forever. “I still have a hard time with God. I mean, I’m a nonbeliever at heart. But I’m happy to say I now believe in a Higher Power. And by that I mean in something greater
than myself, something bigger than big-shot me, something more loving, more tolerant, more generous … something I can look up to. Because I gotta tell you, folks, if I’m all there is, if I’m all I got, I’m in b-i-i-i-i-i-i-g trouble.”
A few people tittered and I almost yelled, “Don’t encourage him,” but then Merv said, “One last thing,” and I settled down. I also prayed he meant it.
“After several meetings I finally got a sponsor. I was sure when I started coming here regularly that I didn’t need one, but then I discovered otherwise, meaning I found out I needed some kind of human support. So in addition to my Higher Power, the Big Book and the Twelve Steps, I’m grateful to my sponsor. And, of course, to you all.”
And with that Merv clasped his hands over his head, like a victorious prizefighter, and returned to his seat.
I was ready to depart, again, but then The Pasha said, “Will everyone please stand and join hands for the Serenity Prayer.”
What the hell?
Everyone rose, and when I did likewise to avoid looking like a dork the two people next to me—a middle-aged woman on my left and an older gentleman to my right—thrust a hand in my direction. I looked around and saw everyone holding hands, so I reluctantly took the two being offered me while keeping my eyes straight ahead.
The prayer everyone recited, with me more or less joining in, went:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things
I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”
I’d about had it with all this goo, but now that I could leave I couldn’t, which may sound contradictory but during the Serendipity Prayer, or whatever they called it, several questions popped into my head, and to a reporter questions are an itch that has to be scratched. So while everyone was filing out of their rows and heading for the rear, I stepped into the path of a dark-haired, middling-attractive woman about my age.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 39
