SUPER-SECRET SOCIETIES
Change was around every corner when I finished my stay at Hazelden. “Bob, you’re going to want to stay in what’s called a sober house when you get back home or you won’t make it,” they told me, but I was hardheaded. “Fuck that,” I said. “I have my own house!”
I left Hazelden the same way I had come in—piled into a staff car driven by gnomish little Sonny. He was just as positive as he had been when he had picked me up upon my arrival. “Well, you look like a whole new person!” he said, chuckling. I wasn’t so sure about his assessment, but the ride to the airport lacked the dope-sick anxiety I had felt when we made the drive to the facility thirty days earlier. Now there was just a general nervousness. I stayed quiet while Sonny chattered and occupied myself with the scenery that flashed past the window of the car. My head was filled with questions. For the first time since I was a kid, I was sober. Could I keep it going? Could I be in the air for hours and not drink? What about when I got back to L.A.? What if I slipped into old habits? I didn’t have the answers to any of it, and this worry didn’t help matters, so I tried to shut it out. “Whatever happens, happens,” I told myself. When we reached the airport, Sonny walked me to the gate. He may have sensed my uncertainty because as I left to board my flight he clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder and said, “Take it easy, kid.” I nodded my agreement and got on the plane that would take me back home. In my seat, I settled back and shut my eyes. Sleep would be the best way to pass the miles. I slipped into Slumber Land before the plane taxied down the runway and I didn’t wake up until I felt the bump of the wheels when they touched down in Los Angeles. I grabbed my bag and deplaned, thrilled to be back home. Outside the terminal, I breathed in the smog-scented air and listened to the hum and bustle of heavy airport traffic. This was home—noisy, gritty Los Angeles—and I was glad to be back. I hailed a cab and told the driver, “Get me home as quick as you can!”
I could feel something was different even as the key slid into the lock on the front door. I knew something was up as soon as I stepped inside. The place was … empty. Marin had decided to split while I was away. That was a shock, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I didn’t really care. The house seemed bigger with all of her stuff gone. And there were other changes. One, in particular, that I had noticed before I left town. A lot of people I knew had jumped on the sobriety bandwagon and had ridden it to what they said was a better life. Now that I had stopped the booze and drugs for the moment, I hoped they were right. It did make staying sober easier, even though most of the time I felt scared and alone. At least I had company.
I had been introduced to the twelve steps at Hazelden and I continued to attend meetings once I was back in Los Angeles. This was a super-secret society that had its own customs, a big book that spelled out its mission, and, at its core, a set of actions that one had to follow to attain enlightenment and freedom from addiction. Of course, from the start I was schooled in the absolute importance of secrecy. This was not stuff for the outside world. It wasn’t fodder for gossip. Whoever dared to break the code of silence would be cast out and forever be condemned to wander the wasteland. Or at least that’s how it seemed.
I wasn’t completely sold on this organization or its program, but everywhere I looked I found friends of mine or old using buddies who were its devotees. A lot of them were in the music business. A couple were close friends. Under the influence of this system, I found that I was a lot closer to Anthony Kiedis than I ever had been when we did drugs together. But something inside didn’t feel right. This community had allowed me entry, but I just never felt truly a part of it. The meetings were full of people I couldn’t relate to, even my friends, like Anthony. They seemed to be buying into something wholeheartedly and I was much more guarded and suspicious about the whole idea.
Bob Timmins was a guy who specialized in getting help for entertainers, actors, and musicians. Celebrities. In Los Angeles, there was no shortage of those and a lot of them had drug problems. A former addict himself, Timmins had found a niche and he worked it well. When I arrived back home, I heard about a kind of group therapy meeting that was made up of mostly musicians and actors whom Timmins had put together. “You should go, Bob,” said Anthony Kiedis. “It might click with you.” It was at a recording studio I was well familiar with, and I got myself together and walked over. It was a Wednesday night. I found my way inside. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the group members as they sat in a circle on metal folding chairs and smoked cigarettes and drank coffee from flimsy white Styrofoam cups. Oh … my … God. What the fuck am I doing here? I wondered as I looked around. These were the heroes of my youth. These were guys from all my favorite bands growing up.
I sat down as the meeting started. The speakers began sharing the
