You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  Like staying clear of Dwayne Hassleman.

  Good advice, Luther.

  * * *

  I first encountered the Monster over the phone.

  The night after the A.A. meeting, Dwayne called me at home— at three in the morning. I managed to catch it on the second ring, but the future ex-wife was already sitting up, looking alarmed. If expressions were literal, hers would read: Who died?

  Dwayne sounded unusually energetic for the middle of the night. Music was blasting in the background. He either had his stereo on at full blast or he was calling from one of those Ecstasy raves in San Francisco. (Which I would have dearly loved to attend if I wasn't too old and burdened by bourgeois respectability.)

  Dwayne was shouting over a pounding bass line.

  "Hey, pal, I thought you were going to call me! What's going on?"

  "Dwayne, what do you mean what's going on? It's three in the morning."

  "Oh, sorry if I woke you. I was just wondering when we were going to get together. I'm excited about you sponsoring me and all."

  I was waking up now. I found my glasses on the nightstand and put them on. I hear better when I can see. Something I have never understood.

  "Look, Dwayne, I never said I was sponsoring you. In fact, the opposite. Anyway, let's talk about it tomorrow."

  In the background I heard a crash. Like something brittle flung against a wall.

  "Dwayne, where the hell are you calling from?"

  "I'm at home. Hold on, I'm turning down the music."

  Then blessed silence except for the Monster's labored breathing over the phone. The wife mouthing, "Who is it?"

  "It's okay, honey, just a guy from A.A. Go back to bed."

  "All right. Remember to take the girls to the dentist after you pick them up from school."

  "I won't forget."

  "Jimmy, can you hear me now? Who you talking to?"

  "My wife, Dwayne. Look, I have to be up at five in the morning. I'll call you from work, tomorrow."

  "Fuck that, pal! You were supposed to call me today! How can you be my sponsor if you don't even keep your word about calling?" Here was the Monster. The Monster clearly on speed. There was no trace of Dwayne from last night— the funny, calm, intelligent guy who once played stoopball and skelly in Park Slope.

  "Dwayne, listen to me. I'm not going to talk to you when you're high. I'll call you tomorrow when—"

  "Don't you fucking dare hang up on me, cocksucker! You have no idea who—"

  I hung up.

  A few seconds later it rang again.

  "NOBODY HANGS UP ON ME, YOU COCKSUCKER! I OUGHT TO COME OVER THERE AND BURN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE DOWN, YOU PIECE—"

  I hung up and decided to leave the phone off the hook.

  It was a long time before I could fall back to sleep.

  * * *

  The Monster apologized the next afternoon— by way of voice mail. I didn't retrieve the message until the following day. I never answered the phone at work. It was part of an efficiency system I had developed over the years. Let all calls go to voice mail. Then let the messages— especially the "urgent" ones— age at least twenty-four hours before even thinking about responding or taking any action.

  My experience was that 90 percent of the questions or requests would simply evaporate within twenty-four hours. Most issues and problems at work tended to resolve themselves just fine without my assistance. I was a scarred survivor of countless office wars. I had pretty much had all the proactive problem-solving propensities beaten out of me. It would not be unfair to say that after eighteen years I was a tad burned-out.

  I had been working on the computer the entire day. In the morning I played eighteen exhausting (but exhilarating) rounds of virtual golf. The game was called Mean Green, scoring a 63 at Pebble Beach— no mean feat. I was now battling the dealer in a marathon session of blackjack. The game, called Dr. Blackjack, helped the player learn counting tactics and strategies, and I was determined to master them before again confronting the live dealers at Las Vegas.

  In the cubicle facing mine, separated by a five-foot-high partition divider, an intelligent and pleasant young man (although a distinctly nonmarketing type of person) named Scott was drawing a cartoon and on the phone trying to get some newspapers to carry it. He had sat (mostly unseen) a few feet from me for years. Hidden behind the soft gray barrier. Cubicle life is like that.

  The name of the cartoon was Dilbert. He eventually got it syndicated.

  Across the aisle, cocooned in an extra-large cubicle, a few of the market research people were fleshing out the financial projections for their own planned research and consulting company.

  I loved the Dr. Blackjack program. Every year I would go with three or four phone company buddies (all marketing types) to Las Vegas for a weekend. Sort of an extended boys night out. Our wives were glad to get rid of us. We all fancied ourselves expert blackjack players (the casino's dream customer), and we would do other manly things— eat vast quantities of prime rib (rare) and steak and belch extravagantly after each meal.

  The casino loved to comp us meals and drinks as long as we made donations at the blackjack tables. Those of us not on the wagon (in recent years, everyone but me) would guzzle down prodigious quantities of comped casino whiskey and beer. We liked going to any comedy show that featured foul and sexually explicit language, racial and misogynistic slurs, and scatological references. Occasionally one or two of our group might later find himself in a club featuring loud canned music and scantily clad women dancers who were always very friendly. The women were so friendly to tourists that they were happy to demonstrate their dancing abilities by gyrating directly on one's lap.

  An underappreciated art form.

  I instructed the computer dealer to hit me on a soft 17 (Dr. Blackjack was showing a king— I have to assume he's sitting pretty with 20). I busted. I was determined on the next Las Vegas trip to break the casino with my new computer-enhanced skills. Impress the boys. Maybe even get banned from the casino for counting— the ultimate respect.

  By three in the afternoon it was almost time to pick up the girls from school (our company prided itself on offering "flex-time" to all managers). I did about ten minutes of work, which consisted of deleting all of my new e-mails without reading them. My theory was that if an issue was truly important, the person would send me an urgent voice mail (which I could let age), page me, or, God forbid, pay an actual visit to my gaming cubicle.

  I then listened to yesterday's voice mails. The first message was from Dwayne. There was no hint of the 3 A.M. Monster in his tone.

  "Hey, pal, look… I just want to apologize for calling you last night and acting like a total jerk. I don't remember much of it but I feel like a total asshole, really sorry. I'll understand it if you don't ever want to speak to me again… It's just that I felt we really got along great the other night and I could sure use some help… Anyway, whatever you decide, I understand. Tell your wife I apologize for calling so late, probably woke everybody up… Well, that's it."

  I have had my own mortifying experiences with calling people on the phone when I was drunk. There was nothing more embarrassing to me than having that person bring up my phone call at a later date. Usually I remembered nothing of the conversation. Sometimes I didn't even remember making the call.

  I called Dwayne and he picked up on the first ring.

  "Jimmy, thanks for calling— I was afraid you'd never speak to me again."

  "You ever call me again all fucked-up at three in the morning and I won't."

  "Damn, I'm so sorry, pal. I probably woke up your wife and kids. Please apologize to them for me. I don't know what gets into me— not working, I don't know, just too much time on my hands."

  We agreed to meet again at Denny's on Monday night after the meeting.

  "All right, pal! So you're officially my sponsor?"

  "No, but I'll try to help you until we can get someone more qualified."

  "Listen, if there's an
issue because you think I don't really belong in A.A., well, I used to drink too much and I do have a desire to stop drinking."

  Bingo! The magic words were spoken. Dwayne had done some research on the "only requirement for A.A. membership."

  "That's not what you told me the other night."

  "I was so nervous— I was going to get into it but we got off on the whole New York trip. So you will sponsor me?"

  "I'll be your temporary sponsor. Just show up clean and sober Monday night and we'll talk after the meeting."

  "No homework assignment?" Dwayne had clearly had sponsors before.

  I told Dwayne the same thing I had been told, many times. "Yeah, go to as many meetings as you can and don't drink or use in between meetings. Read the chapter on Step One. We'll discuss it at Denny's."

  "Jimmy, just promise me you're not going to pull the whole Higher Power God as I Understand Him trip on me— I already put in my time at Saint John's in Brooklyn. I've still got the scars on my knuckles from crazed, ruler-wielding nuns. I have no problem with God— I'm just scared shitless of some of His earthly representatives."

  I laughed. "I feel the same way. Besides, you're talking to a recovering agnostic. You should have gone to Erasmus— no nuns, Jewish guilt instead of the Catholic variety, and we all know there are no Jewish alcoholics or drug addicts."

  "I've heard that myth. So what happened to you?"

  "I guess nature just abhors a vacuum. Or a myth."

  "Speaking of whores, did you ever go to this after-hours club down on Atlantic Avenue…"

  We were friends again.

  As we used to say back in Brooklyn: "Everything is everything."

  * * *

  The Monster resurfaced about a month later. Right after Dwayne did his Fifth Step with me.

  We had been talking on the phone a few times a week and meeting at Denny's every Monday night after the meeting. Dwayne was working his way quickly through the Twelve Steps of A.A.

  "Might as well, Jimmy. I still have four more months of full disability pay, so now's a good time for me to focus on my recovery."

  I never really understood either Dwayne's work situation or his disability status. Once he told me that while working as a corporate consultant in sales quality, he had slipped in the lobby of a client's building and injured his back. ("I'm suing their asses off— they had just mopped and waxed the floor and there were no warning signs"). Another time he said he was a "senior account executive" for a San Francisco-based computer company. He had been at the warehouse, overseeing the delivery of some new high-end workstations, when a piece of loading equipment smashed into his shoulder.

  I figured if and when he was ready to tell me the truth, he would.

  Whatever the real story, he must have made a full and complete recovery because Dwayne never seemed to have any back or shoulder problems.

  For his Fifth Step, we took a table all the way in the back of the smoking section of Denny's. Luther, Doris, and the gang had gone to get pizza, so the entire section was deserted that night. Cindy, our gracious teenage hostess, brought us black coffee and my Cherry Coke and then abandoned us, after what passed for her as a pleasant greeting: "Where's the rest of you drunks tonight?"

  Privacy and confidentiality are essential for the Fifth Step. To me, it was so important that I chose to do mine with my psychiatrist rather than with Luther (or any other of my half dozen former sponsors). To help Dwayne feel comfortable and safe, I had offered to drive over to his house to listen to this step.

  "Why don't you give me directions to your place— you live near downtown, right?"

  "Yeah, on Maple Street, but that's okay, Jimmy. My place is a disaster area— my cleaning boy didn't show up this week. Denny's will be just fine— there's never anyone in smoking anymore other than recovering junkies and drunks."

  Once again we faced each other through a haze of cigarette smoke. Dwayne had brought his written Fourth Step— his "moral inventory"— and started reading it like a laundry list. He delivered his litany of misdeeds, his moral missteps, with the practiced nonchalance of a mischievous Brooklyn kid once again in the confession booth.

  Dwayne's Fifth Step contained no dramatic confessions, nothing even particularly unusual (unless, of course, you're not a drug addict or an alcoholic— in that case, it might seem shocking). Lots of lying, cheating, stealing, manipulating, and petty criminality. In the same perfunctory tone, Dwayne related a dozen or so incidents "where I caused pain to others."

  I took a leaf from Dr. Shekelman's book, saying nothing. Just nodding, making eye contact, and muttering the occasional "right" and "I see." The phone company called it "Active Listening." I just wanted Dwayne to know I wasn't making any judgments. Or was about to interrupt with advice. For a sponsor, the Fifth Step is mostly about listening. I had no prescription pad I could reach for, no magic pill for the pain.

  "…and there's probably a lot more, but I was pretty stoned so much of the time that this is all I can remember right now." Dwayne put down his laundry list and took a mighty drag on his cigarette, staring into the black pit of his coffee cup. He was waiting for something. Penance? Absolution? Understanding?

  Probably the same thing we're all waiting for.

  "Dwayne, I think you did a great job. This step takes a lot of courage and I can also understand your not remembering things. Forgive the program cliché, which I believe they borrowed from the Bible, but they say 'More will be revealed.' Practically every week I remember something else that I did or said that I didn't remember when I did my Fifth Step. Even a few things that I'm still ashamed of."

  Dwayne's body suddenly tensed slightly and his head cocked, like when you hear one of those high-pitched sounds that no one else around you seems to hear. For the first time that evening I noticed that his previously green eyes were an intense shade of blue. He wore his usual fatigue pants and jungle boots but had on one of those khaki long-sleeved survivalist shirts with all the cute little pockets and epaulets.

  "Jimmy, this moral inventory— is it supposed to include those things we are ashamed of? I thought it was just the things we did wrong."

  "I'm no expert here, Dwayne. I did this step with my shrink, and all he said was to take some more Prozac. All I can tell you is that I was told— by every one of my six ex-sponsors— that if it's something that bothers us we should include it in the Fifth Step. The prevailing A.A. wisdom seems to be that if we don't— if we keep it to ourselves— it could be something that we get drunk about later. The A.A. cliché is that 'we're only as sick as our secrets.' "

  Dwayne nodded solemnly, considering this.

  "That makes sense."

  "Is there something else you want to talk about?"

  Dwayne stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He glanced nervously around the room. We still had the smoking section to ourselves.

  "Well, maybe… Once when I was pretty young, not even out of high school, I got pretty fucked-up at this party thrown by this older guy in the neighborhood, and I ended up…" Dwayne looked up, exhaling smoke painfully. He took another survey of the empty room.

  "Look, Dwayne, you don't have to talk about anything you don't want to, and you sure don't have to tell it to me. You can do like I did— see a professional counselor— or you could even talk to a priest if you wanted to. A lot of A.A. guys do the Fifth Step with their priest—"

  "No, Jimmy"— Dwayne waved the smoke away between us— "I trust you. I know you'd never repeat this to anyone… never betray me."

  Betray? This was starting to get very— what was that sixties word? Heavy. Too heavy.

  Dwayne looked down, studying his hands, squeezing the coffee cup like it was a life preserver.

  "Like I said, I was pretty wasted, taking downers— reds, I think— chasing them with one-five-one rum." Dwayne tightened his grip on the cup, knuckles going white. I was afraid he was going to have a stroke or something— a bluish vein surfaced on his forehead and it was beating and pulsing like
a tiny troubled heart.

  "Dwayne, listen, whatever this is, you don't have to talk about it now. You—"

  "No, Jimmy, I do… I don't know how I got there, but when I woke up the next morning, I was in this older guy's bed. Naked. Next to him. I guess we had done some things. It took me a week of brushing my teeth to get that horrible taste out of my mouth, to…"

  Dwayne released the coffee cup and finally looked up. He lit another cigarette, hand shaking, then just looked at me. Intense blue eyes. Waiting. For what? My judgment?

  All I could think was big deal. I didn't care, and even if I did it wasn't relevant.

  I told him so.