by Barb Rogers
After breakfast, we retired to the living room. I wanted to light a cigarette, but hesitated until I saw one of the boys pull a pack out of his pocket. I began to relax a bit. To my horror, one of the boys said they were going to open presents. Talk about feeling out of place! I got up to leave. Jack insisted that I stay. He handed out gifts, and to my amazement there were some for me. I didn't know what to think, do, or say. I couldn't imagine where or when they had gotten the gifts, but the gesture touched my heart in a very special way. As I tore the paper away, I didn't even care what was inside—just that people I hardly knew had gone out of their way for me.
——
The money I make for house-sitting and cleaning pays the rent for the converted garage, but soon I will have to find work or be hungry and homeless. I've been both from time to time and know how to survive on very little—but I've had to do some pretty disgusting things sometimes for money. No way could I do those things sober.
I can't sit here in this filthy apartment all day. Unloading the car will have to wait until the place is clean. Thank God the shakes and vomiting have stopped. I still don't sleep much, and the alcoholic itch nearly drives me crazy at times—it feels like I have crabs all over my body. Jack says it's because my nerves are coming back to life. As I scrub the toilet, I think of all the old, filthy toilets I've cleaned, both mine and those of others. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I'll live in a nice house with new stuff that really looks clean after I work so hard. Finished, the toilet as good as I can get it, I sit at the kitchen table, pull a pouch of tobacco and papers from my purse, and roll a cigarette.
It reminds me of sitting in my first husband Jim's dad's room so many years ago. I'm not much better off than he was. It doesn't matter, though. This is my life, and it will probably not get any better. One cave or another … it makes no difference.
9
Broke
AT THE TINY WOODEN KITCHEN TABLE that I've shoved in one corner so I have room to cook, I pull out the candy tin in which I keep the cigarette butts I steal from ashtrays outside public buildings and strike a match. It's a wonder I haven't got hoof-and-mouth disease or something else, smoking other people's butts. I push the thought from my mind, draw in the hot smoke, and let it out slowly. I'm going to have to make another butt run again soon. I almost got caught the last time in front of the grocery store. A woman walked up, and I acted like I was putting my cigarette out. I still wonder if she knew.
As much as I hated living in cities, sometimes I yearn for the anonymity of them, for a place where no one knows me, where I don't have to deal with the stares, the whispered comments, the people in the nicer stores watching me like I'm going to steal something. Looking at the small amount of cash in front of me, the realization of how dire my circumstances have become hits me. I've got to get a job. I know I could go back to working in the bars, but I also know I'll drink again if I do. I talked about it in the meeting tonight. The only advice they had for me was to pray about it. Are they insane? That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. If there is a God, why would he give a damn where I work?
Two weeks. I've got enough money to last two more weeks; then I don't know what I'll do. I could call Tom. He would help me; he always helped me. No! The price is too high. I've got to do this myself. God, I need a drink. Will I ever not need a drink? I envy those people at the meetings who say the desire to drink has been lifted from them. I think about alcohol every day, fight the urge, and attend meetings each night so I won't end up in a bar. Yet instead of getting easier, it's getting harder.
Jack and some other ex-drunks took me to a speaker meeting the other night. Neva G., whom I'd met before and thought was nothing more than a dried-up old windbag, told her story. She'd been sober over twenty-five years. Her words struck a note in my heart. It took everything in me to hold back tears, partly because of her story and partly because of my shame for some of the things I'd said and thought about her. I remember saying to one girl, “Jesus Christ, what did she do … jump off the Ark and start a meeting?” We laughed. That night, the words came back to choke me.
Neva smiled coolly as I approached. I hadn't been very nice to her, but I needed her help; I needed to know how she finally got over the constant urge to drink. I put my hand out. She shook it. I asked the question on my mind. “How?” She studied my face for what seemed like long moments, and said, “I turned my will and life over to a God of my understanding each morning, and it finally left me.” I don't know if I rolled my eyes, or if the expression on my face told my attitude about that particular step, but she said, “Do you pray?” I didn't respond. She said, “Do you know any prayers?”
Each meeting began with the Serenity Prayer and closed with the Lord's Prayer. I never said them, had never memorized them, and had no intention of doing so, but I nodded. The only prayer I knew by heart was a child's prayer, and I don't even know where I learned it. You can bet it wasn't at my parents' house. It played through my mind: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” I wasn't about to admit to this woman that at age 35, that was really the only prayer I knew.
Neva said, “How your sobriety goes, and for that matter how your life in sobriety goes, will be contingent on your spiritual condition. You know, you don't even have to believe. You just have to try it. I began by reading three prayers out loud each morning.” I must have looked skeptical, because when she continued, she said, “You know, Barb, you will experiment with insanity and death before you will experiment with spirituality,” and she turned to leave.
——
A low growl from Angel tells me it's time to fix something to eat. It will be dried soup and crackers again. After pouring hot water into the Styrofoam container, I wait three minutes, dip out most of the noodle soup into a bowl, add crackers to the remaining broth, stir it until it cools, and pour it into the dog dish. It's a good thing she's so small or I wouldn't be able to feed her. Neva's words haunt me as I eat. Is she right? Should I give prayer a try? What's the worst thing that could happen?
Immediately, past prayers, unheard prayers, prayers that never worked, memories of my dead kids, my mother, even my childhood dog, Pedro, make me question what she said. My second thought is simply, what else do I have to lose? The only thing I have left that I really care about is my old dog. Before I clear the table, I look up at the white ceiling tiles and say, “Okay God, if you're up there, if you put a job in front of me, any job, I'll take it.” Now, we'll see what happens.
To clear my mind, I strip off my clothes and step into the miniscule bathroom off the kitchen for a shower. I wish I had a bathtub so I could soak in some Epsom salts and bubble bath like I did when I was at that house at Christmas. No matter; even if I had a tub, I couldn't afford the Epsom salts or bubble bath.
With no television or radio and major insomnia, the nights are long. My landlady had a rummage sale last week, and I spotted a box filled with ballpoint paints, barely used, and a quilt ring. I bought the whole box and a white sheet for three dollars. Carefully, I cut the sheet into squares, drew pictures on them, and now I'm painting them. Jack said I needed to get a hobby. It keeps me from thinking about drinking. If I ever get all the squares done, I'll sew them together and call it my sober quilt … that is, assuming I'm still sober.
——
Angel is my alarm clock. At six o'clock every morning she's up and ready to be let out. It doesn't seem to matter to her that I didn't doze off until the middle of the night. It's a good thing this morning, because I'm supposed to meet Jack for breakfast, and it will be another long day of looking for a job. The job prayer flashes through my mind. I laugh it off, throw on some clothes, feed the dog, and trudge through snow the two blocks to the local coffee shop. I can barely wait for a steaming cup of coffee. One of the things I'll buy when I get a job is a coffeepot.
The aroma of fried bacon, eggs, and warm bread embraces me as I step into the cozy cafe, stomp the snow off my boots, and
hang my coat on the wooden hall tree by the door. Several people whom I know from the meetings smile and wave. I spot Jack, who is sitting with a man I'm not familiar with, near the back of the room. He's probably another ex-drunk. I can't believe how many of them there are in such a small town. I can't wait to sit down. Jack's going to buy breakfast. Thank God, or it would be a long, hungry day.
Jack introduces the man as Dan, we order, and begin to chat. When Jack asks if I'm going to look for work today, the man says, “Are you looking for a job?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I know a woman,” he continues, “that might be looking for someone to help with her mother. You should give her a call.” He scribbles a name and phone number on a napkin and hands it to me. Before I can respond, the food arrives. It's not something I would choose to do, but the thought of making money, of what I could buy if I had a job, drives me to ask the cafe owner if I can use the phone after breakfast. She's been great about letting me give her phone number out when looking for work, since I don't have a phone at home.
My heart pounds as I punch in the numbers. I really need this job. A woman answers. I ask about the situation. She says she doesn't need anyone at the moment, but she'll take my name and number. I hang up, knowing she'll never call. No one is ever going to call. I sowed my wild drunken oats all over town, did disgusting things, left a man whom everyone thinks of highly—why would anyone want to hire me … except the bars, for obvious reasons? Defeated, I drag myself home, put on my old robe, crawl under a blanket on the couch with Angel, and cry until I fall asleep.
For three days, I hole up in the garage, only getting dressed in time for meetings. At the meetings, I try to shut out the voices of those whose lives are getting better. I just can't listen to any more candy-coated stories about how much better their lives are … who cares? My life is shit. I begin to question why I'm even here, why I'm sober, why I don't go get a job at one of the bars and drink until I die. Who would really care? I tried to talk to Jack about how I've been feeling. He suggested I go get a physical. A physical? I can't afford to take Angel to the vet, let alone a doctor who would give me a prescription I can't pay for.
The morning of the fourth day, I awaken resolved about my circumstances. I'm out of options. I don't care what those AA people say about working around booze. They aren't going to support me. I'm going to march into that cafe this morning and tell Jack my decision. It's my life. I have to do what I have to do to survive. I tried it their way, and it isn't working.
Since I'm going to apply for a job this morning, I take extra care with my hair and makeup, dress in my better clothes, and drive to the restaurant. I hate to use the gas, but it's too far and too cold to walk. Steeling myself for the disappointed look on Jack's face when I tell him what I'm going to do, I jerk the door open. Before I have time to remove my coat, the owner steps up to me, digs in her apron pocket, and hands me a slip of paper. “You're supposed to call this woman,” she says. I look at the number. It's unfamiliar. Maybe it's the nursing home, or the kitchen job at the school, or it could be the office at the refuse place. “You can use the phone if you want,” the owner says.
I make the call. It's the woman who's been looking for a health-care person for her mother … the one Dan told me about. Could I come and meet her and her mother today … in an hour? It will be a temporary position until her regular health-care worker gets back on her feet from a medical problem. Could I? I can barely contain myself.
“I think I got a job,” I say when I join Jack at the table. He buys breakfast to celebrate. I ask if he knows anything about the family. He says they are good people, active in the church, and the mother used to own one of those really nice dress shops up on the square—the same square where I used to drink. My heart sinks. My breakfast becomes tasteless. What if they know who I am, the things I've done? What will I tell them about myself? I have to tell them something. I'm sure if I don't, someone in that little town would be happy to inform them. I have to go. I'll simply tell them whatever they ask of me truthfully, and hope for the best.
On the way to the house, I remember the prayer. Was it possible those people in the meeting knew what they were talking about? It doesn't matter. I probably won't get the job anyway. Some of Jack's wisdom slips into my mind. He told me once that if I think something will be dreadful, it will be; with my attitude, I'll make it happen. Parked in front of the house, I take several deep breaths, let them out slowly, put a smile on my face, and get out of the car. I'm going to get this job if I have to beg for it.
A couple of hours later, I'm flying high. I got the job. I don't know if it's because they really liked me, or because they are desperate for help and need it right away … but I got the job. They were so nice. I told them the truth, told them I go to meetings at night, that I am trying to get my life turned around—and they hired me anyway. Helen, the woman with Parkinson's whom I will be caring for, and I clicked right off the bat. I can do this. I make a promise to myself on the way home. I won't steal anything. I won't drink alcohol. And, I will take the best care of the lady that I am able to give. I can't wait to get home to tell Angel, to go to my meeting tonight with some good news.
The prayer enters my mind. I push it away and think of the things I can buy with my first paycheck: cigarettes, real dog food, maybe that coffeepot. Finally, a ray of hope in my dark world.
10
The Dress
DWIGHT S., A SMALL-STATURED WHITE-HAIRED MAN originally from Kentucky and chairman of tonight's meeting, says, “Is anyone celebrating a birthday?” All heads turn toward me.
I raise my hand and say, “Hi, I'm Barb, and I'm an alcoholic, and I've got one year.” Among accolades for my great achievement, I get a hug and my hard-won metal chip from Dwight. The previous chips, for three months, six months, and nine months, are colorful cheap plastic, but they go all out for year-birthdays. After what they did for my six-month birthday, I'm a bit nervous about what they have in mind now.
By the time I had six consecutive months of sobriety, I'd pretty much settled into my life. Helen and I had formed a wonderful bond, and I was her permanent day caregiver, which left evenings free for me to attend meetings. The five older men from my local meeting on Monday nights, along with Helen and her family, were my friends—although I still spent time with Cheryl occasionally. The relationship changed after I got sober, and I envied her because she could still run the bars, drink, and go dancing. I cringed inside when she shared stories about the people she partied with, but said nothing. The party was over for me.
Since Angel and I lived a pretty quiet life, I'd been able to pay off some bills and finally got a phone, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. Tom began calling, sometimes sober, sometimes drunk. Mostly, I hung up on him. In fact, after a while, when he did call the first thing he would say is, “Don't hang up … don't hang up.” Seeing him was not an option, because I knew it would weaken my resolve. All I had to do was think about looking into those pale blue eyes. My stomach instantly got butterflies, and my heart beat faster. I still thought of him every morning when I got up and every night when I retired. But, as much as I'd admitted to myself I was in love with him, that he was the only man I'd ever truly loved, I knew it was never going to happen for us.
I immersed myself in meetings every night, my work with Helen, and painting my sober quilt. As much as I enjoyed going to the meetings in surrounding towns, my favorite remained my local meeting where it had been just me and the five older men. I felt safe and comfortable there. I liked being the only woman. I'd never been at ease with other women. I drank like a man, worked like a man, and could swear like a truck driver. Which explains my shock when I received my six-month gift from the men in my group.
——
Jack said, “There's a women's luncheon in Champaign next month.” Before I could respond, he said, “We got you a ticket.” My mind denied what he'd said, but I smiled and accepted the ticket. There had to be a way to get out of it gracefully; I di
dn't want to hurt their feelings. They were beaming as if they'd given me something I really wanted. Maybe I could lose the ticket. No, they'd buy me another one. I couldn't be obvious.
As the time for the luncheon grew closer, I put my next plan into action. I said, “I don't think I can go. My old car isn't running that well. I'd be afraid to drive it out of town.” In short order, they found me a ride with a woman I could barely tolerate in a meeting. Two hours trapped in a car with her would surely drive me to drink. Again, I smiled and nodded.
A few days later, about to panic, I said, “I don't think I can go. I don't have a dress, and I can't afford to buy one. I know I'll feel out of place if I have to wear jeans.” A huge mistake! A few days later, they presented me with a dress. They borrowed one from Susan F., who to my way of thinking was the worst-dressed woman in AA. It sported huge colorful flowers, green leaves, and since she towered over me by several inches, the length was unflattering. It was god-awful. At the thought of wearing it I nearly threw up.
The reason I didn't wear dresses, at least according to the therapist I had seen after being released from the mental hospital, was that when I put on a dress and high heels, I felt like a hooker. The problem stemmed from a really tough time in my life when I had had to dress up to entice men and got paid for sex. Of course there wasn't much chance of enticing any man in the borrowed dress. But, still, the feeling remained. The only thing left was to get sick. I'd wait until a couple of days passed before I dropped the bomb.
On the Friday before the Sunday luncheon Jack picked me up for the meeting. The time had come to put my plan into action. Before I told him I thought I might be coming down with something, he handed me a box. A corsage—they'd bought me a corsage to match the dress. I knew they wanted me to feel special. At that moment, if my heart hadn't swollen with love for those men, I would have told him I had syphilis if I thought it would get me out of going. But I was doomed.
