“How was it?” she asked.
“It wasn’t bad. This guy Walter seems to genuinely care for everyone. I was impressed, actually.”
541 class and AA come from opposing ideologies. 541’s goal is not to stop people from drinking but to change lifestyle—making better choices and planning ahead. AA comes from a place of complete sobriety. Though opposed the two are, I came at it from a mindset of wanting to learn from both. I wanted to understand addiction and the tricks it plays upon the mind. Why do some have a drink and stop, while others have the same drink and keep going? I didn’t know if I needed to go completely sober from here on out, but I knew I needed more than simple instruction to “plan ahead” or “make better choices.” If it was that simple, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to get piss drunk and drive home. I would have stopped after the first Clock Cleaner.
Jeff hosts our community group. He lives in a high-rise condo on Wilshire, a beautiful home in which the elevator opens directly into his living room. He attends multiple AA meetings a week, as well as Celebrate Recovery. When I mentioned I was visiting an AA meeting, he said something that stuck with me.
“Sharing one’s testimony takes courage. Some people see those in recovery groups and view them as weak. But it takes strength to admit weakness in front of strangers. I wonder how many successful men would be able to do the same, if they only knew their weakness.”
Alcohol helps Jeff loosen up. It allows him to be more sociable. Unfortunately, when he drinks, he often drinks too much. When he first attended AA, he didn’t want to be there. “I thought the people were rejects,” he said, “those with real problems. I was a Christian. All I had to do was pray about it and ask God to take the struggle away. But it doesn’t work that way.
“I started getting to know the people there. Most of them believe in a higher power but are not Christians. They drop f-bombs. When I share, I always say my higher power is Jesus Christ. That way, if someone wants to talk to me later and asks what I believe, he’ll know I’m a Christian and I can tell him.”
Jeff attended a funeral earlier that week with one of the AA leaders. The man was gay and the funeral was for his partner. In our community group that night, he described the memorial service and mentioned, “I wouldn’t normally go to something like that, but I’ve gotten to know the guy. I guess my prayer request is that I would be a light. Before, this was a dark place I never would have gone. Now I’m realizing it’s not so dark.”
With those words in mind, I visited my first meeting. I’d been told by some in the 541 class to attend one with a guest speaker—that way I wouldn’t have to worry about being called upon to talk. I couldn’t find one in the area, though, and attended one of the larger meetings in the Marina.
It was like walking into a 50s movie. Plumes of smoke. Coffee and cigarettes, Styrofoam cups and ashtrays. The woman at the door, an older woman, probably in her sixties, greeted me and introduced herself. I shook her hand and went into the room. Found a seat in the back. I still had ten minutes and distracted myself with my phone, probably to avoid entering a conversation. I realized what I was doing; it was taking the easy way out. It also made me look like a snob, with my yellow card—my albatross—blaring. They knew why I was there. I didn’t want to appear an arrogant jerk, texting or surfing the internet. I shut my phone off and stuck it in my pocket. I saw a few others with yellow cards. A young, pretty girl entered. She couldn’t have been a day over 21 and I assumed she was there on a court order for DUI, as well.
I paid careful attention not to make eye contact with anyone speaking. The format was arranged that the person sharing randomly chose the next person. I didn’t want to get called on. What would I say? I wasn’t sure. I’d probably invent it on the spot, making it quick and unrevealing. Would I say I was an alcoholic? I didn’t have a choice, the way the meeting worked. I was fine with saying it. I’d rather say I’m an alcoholic and prove myself not to be than deny being one and turn out to be a liar. I simply didn’t want to stand and have everyone know I was there on court order. To them, I’d be another person who didn’t want to be there and was only suffering his six weeks until he could walk out and never come back. Thankfully, I wasn’t called, though I heard some amazing stories.
One woman introduced herself as Helen, an alcoholic.
“Hi, Helen.”
Her husband wasn’t a heavy drinker but bought alcohol from Costco in bulk. He went out of town one weekend and Helen drank a case of beer by herself. Ashamed of what she’d done and not wanting her husband to find out, she went to Costco to replace the beer, but the store was sold out of that particular brand. She bought a case of a different beer, peeled the labels off the empty bottles and glued them onto the full ones.
“The things we’ll do to avoid being caught,” she said.
Though sad, it was one of the more humorous stories. The young girl was called upon and stood. I couldn’t have been more wrong in my assumption. She was only sixteen but had been in and out of asylums and recovery centers since she was twelve. She had attempted multiple suicides but not succeeded. On the bus ride to the meeting, she had been tempted to call a friend in the Marina who was a drug dealer.
“I can see two roads,” she said. “The road to heaven and the road to hell. Why do I keep choosing the road to hell? I still don’t know what I’ll do when I leave here, but the message I’m getting from this meeting is that I need to pray. And I need to pray for others, not just myself.”
I found it comforting the way others in the room supported her. No one belittled her pain because of her youth. In the room were men and women of different age and social status, but the differences were overlooked, if noticed at all. An older man stood. He looked visibly shaken and his voice warbled when he spoke.
“Hi, my name is Paul. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Paul.”
“You don’t know what it’s taken for me to get to this point, standing in front of you all. I’m 62 years old. I never drank before in my life. During the last year, I broke my hip playing basketball, I went through a terrible divorce, and my best friend died of an unknown disease. At first it was to deaden the pain, but I kept doing it. After 62 years of being sober, how could I let this happen now? I’ve avoided coming here for six months because I didn’t want to say I was an alcoholic. It was too painful an admission.
“I spent eleven years in the woods of Southeast Asia. I saw men being shot and killed. These were better men than me. My closest friend had his legs blown off. How come I wasn’t injured? Not a scratch. How come I’m still here? It destroyed my faith in a higher power. But now I’m desperate, and I’m hoping to find it.”
“I’m called to live between memory and hope,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
My 39th birthday fell on a Tuesday. Jessie and I decided to celebrate the weekend before. She was co-hosting a mission banquet Saturday night and I agreed to help out wherever I was needed. The banquet was in Palo Alto. She’d been wanting to show me Stanford. We decided to spend the afternoon there. She baked pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and muffins the night before and presented them to me in a plastic bag.
When thinking of Stanford (or Palo Alto, for that matter), I expected tall redwood trees and a temperate climate. I don’t know why. It was simply the image I envisioned. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Lush palm trees lined the main street of campus. Dozens of shirtless men and tank-topped women played volleyball, tanned on the grass and threw Frisbees. So much for expectations. But isn’t that one of the joys of life, building an image of an unfamiliar place in our minds and seeing how different the image is from the truth? Palm tree after palm tree, followed by another…followed by another.
We walked through the courtyard. A wedding had just ended and the bride and groom were taking photos with the guests outside the chapel. We waited until they finished and went inside. A crew was setting up for another wedding and we pretended to be guests for the ceremony. We knew we’d be asked to leave
; we simply wanted a few minutes inside the sanctuary, awe-inspiring with its stained glass windows, extensive mosaics and ornate pipe organs.
Jessie spent many nights inside the chapel during her time there. She would sit in one of the back pews, praying and studying the details of the intricately painted ceilings and walls, of the saints and the Christ crucified. I could see the memories surfacing and knew the significance this place held for her.
A woman wearing a nametag approached and politely asked us to leave. Of course. We walked the campus slowly, in no hurry, as she told me stories from her time there. I’d heard her speak of her time in the dorm and the comfort given by the chapel, but seeing the grounds cast it in a more detailed light. We drove to the art museum. Specifically, the Rodin Garden and The Gates of Hell monument.
Rodin spent thirty-seven years working on the sculpture, inspired by Dante’s “Inferno,” the first section of the “Divine Comedy.” He died before finishing it. One hundred and eighty figures, representing anguish of every form, passing through hell’s bronze gates.
How does someone invent something like that? How does it foster in his mind? Creativity will always amaze me. Why is it that we stare at a painting for five minutes, fifteen minutes, an hour? What does it speak to us? The spirit of God breathes through creation—and through art, whether it be sculpture, painting, words or music. Was it on purpose, Jessie asked, that Rodin’s Adam sculpture was placed only a few steps from The Gates of Hell? Surely, but how many stop to consider the implication? All the pain, suffering and bloodshed—the result of one man’s fall, thousands of years ago. It’s overwhelming to think about.
We studied every face and figure upon the doors. Some placed on the sides of the gates, detached from the company of others. Babies and small children, separated from the grasp of their parents, being hurled into hell. So many faces, all in torment and pain. But the sculpture, in its entirety, couldn’t have been more beautiful. Beauty through the depiction of suffering. How can that be? We stayed there longer than anticipated. Such a solemn work, one of lofty weight, calls for introspection. It can’t be dismissed lightly or with a glance.
Before we left, we stopped at the museum deli for a hot dog and old-style Coca Cola. It looked too good to pass up.
I asked Jessie to go to Banana Republic before the banquet. They had sent me a gift certificate for my birthday and I wanted to get something to wear. There was a store located in an outdoor mall near the campus and we decided to go there.
I loathe shopping. Even more so, shopping malls. If I must go, I will run to the clothes’ rack, pick out something in black or brown (possibly navy blue) and leave as quickly as I can. I have more black shirts than I can count. I can’t ever remember owning a pastel, certainly nothing with stripes. At Banana Republic, I went straight for the dark-colored sweaters. She stopped me. Urged me to branch out from my comfort zone.
“Alright, I’ll make you deal. You get to pick out whatever I buy.”
She liked that idea and went to peruse the store. She returned, carrying an armful of clothes. Now, on my own, I would never reach for an orange sweater and would never in a million years consider wearing khakis, the two items she picked out. (To note: I have no butt, or at least not much of a butt. I’ve tried everything to get one, but no matter how hard I exercise, my butt remains flat. She often teased me for it. I also have a lot of chest hair.) She sat in the dressing room hallway, giving nods of approval or disapproval as I tried on multiple shirts and sweaters, jeans and (of course) the khakis.
I’ve always considered my father something of a nerd. He’s definitely not cool and would admit to not being so. Left to his own devices (and fashion sense), he will wear mismatched socks and whatever castoff clothes my brother and I leave at my parents’ house in Tennessee. He gives no concern to what he wears or what he looks like. My mother, however…
She decided several years ago she was going to give him a gentle (perhaps more of a forceful) nudge in the right direction and began ordering him stylish clothes for his birthday and Christmas: tailored pants, Brooks Brothers shirts. I don’t think he cared one way or the other, but he gladly wore whatever she bought him. I always thought he should be more assertive—maybe tell her, “I don’t want to wear that…who wears yellow?” or, “I don’t like French cuffs.”
But I realized, for a woman he adores, a man will gladly (with a smile on his heart) wear something he otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead wearing—and he won’t think twice about it. Look how far I’d come. I’d not shaved my goatee or moustache in years, since working on the set of the first “Pirates of the Caribbean.” Yet here I was at an outdoor mall, trying on khakis and a pastel sweater while sporting a shaved chin. And I’d do it again in a second, with cheer.
It was amazing to see my defenses being stripped away (and to see how many defenses I had). With her, I wasn’t cool. I was actually quite a nerd. The former protective instinct of judging myself on appearance was crumbling. Thankfully, she didn’t like the way the khakis fit me (specifically, my butt) and the sweater was a v-neck and showed too much of my chest hair. But we did find a nice striped shirt and a high-collared sweater that zipped at the top.
I paid for them using my birthday coupon and we left. There was a Pinkberry near the parking lot and we ordered a large serving of frozen yogurt to share, compromising on the toppings. We sat on a stone wall and watched the people walking by. The adjacent store sold men’s dress clothes and the mannequin was outfitted with an extra wide tie, a fad currently gaining momentum.
“I could pull that off. The tie, I mean.”
She quickly sized me up. “No, you couldn’t.”
“You don’t think I could wear that tie?”
“I can see you in a sleek Hugo Boss suit with a thin black tie. Not that one.”
Part of me still wanted to buy it, and I don’t even like ties. I only wear them when I have to. Then again, I never thought I’d try on a pair of khakis. We finished the yogurt and hurried to the car. We were running late and still needed to change clothes. I wasn’t sure what the dress code was for the banquet but was sure it wasn’t faded jeans and a Beatles t-shirt.
We drove to the restaurant, which shouldn’t have taken long, but we didn’t account for the Stanford football game and got stuck on the main drag in town, watching hundreds of Cardinal fans trekking to the stadium. Who could blame them? It was Stanford’s year, ranked in the Top Ten with an All-American quarterback. Home game, beautiful weather…what more could a college student ask for? Finally, we passed through the blockade of cars and found the restaurant, a Chinese restaurant nestled behind a quaint shopping center. Lynn and Arthur, the other leaders of the team, were already setting up in the back room.
“This is my friend Michael,” Jessie introduced me.
I shook their hands and went to the bathroom to change. When I returned, I asked Arthur what I could do to help. What he needed was for someone to drive to Walgreen’s and pick up a roll of developed film he’d forgotten. Jessie and I volunteered, though it meant driving through stadium traffic again. We said we’d be back shortly and left. She still hadn’t changed clothes.
As soon as we were alone, she said, “I should have introduced you as my boyfriend. Does it bother you that I didn’t?”
We were still in that murky, grey area. We were dating, but at what point did we go from dating to being girlfriend and boyfriend? I thought we were there already but understood her hesitation. Also, Lynn seemed distracted and a shade high-strung. I’m not sure she would have noticed one way or another.
“It would have been nice to be introduced as your boyfriend. It didn’t bother me, though. I understand.”
“Thank you,” she said and zipped the top of my sweater.
We took back streets to the drug store and picked up the film. When we returned, we attached the pictures to the frames Lynn had given us and hung them on displays around the dining room and entrance way. The sun was going down and the guests would be arrivi
ng soon. Jessie went to change and, when she returned, she and I manned the ticket booth.
She had ordered luggage tags for everyone who served on a mission trip and we handed them to the volunteers as they arrived. They weren’t normal-looking luggage tags and “What’s this?” became the common response. Eventually, I began preempting it by announcing what they were. Once the majority of guests arrived and were seated (a few trickling in late), I counted the money and Jessie took a count of attendees. She took my hand and squeezed it.
“Thanks for your help. It means a lot to me.”
“It was my pleasure.”
We locked the money box and went to the dining room to find our seats.
I’ve always heard that one can tell a lot about a person by the way her friends react to her. Well, Jessie was a superstar that night, presenting several of the awards and appreciatory gifts. Lynn informed her, without notice, that she and one of the men from the team would be doing a comedic sketch during the presentation, sort of a “Who’s on first?” type skit. She took it in stride. They rehearsed for two minutes and pulled it off without a hitch.
After the banquet, I offered to help clean up but Arthur insisted we leave. “You flew up here to see Jessie and have spent the entire time working. Leave before you get roped into cleaning up.”
I took her hand and we left. Arthur was right. We drove to San Jose, found a café still open and spent the rest of the evening drinking tea and talking.
For weeks, Jessie had raved about a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco that served “the best chicken wings in the world.” I challenged her on it. I’d been to several I was sure could give it strong competition. After church on Sunday, we drove into the city so I could finally try the wings I had heard so much about. Her friend Gene was meeting us for lunch. I hadn’t met Gene, but I already liked him. He’d given up his spot at the wedding so I could take her. According to Jessie, he had somewhat of an acerbic personality. He spoke what was on his mind and didn’t hold anything back. “It rubs some people the wrong way,” she added. But he was one of her most loyal friends and helped her get through a rough time when she was living in San Francisco, overworked and overstressed, putting in eighty-hour weeks.
Arresting Grace Page 14
