Because I’m new, though, a bunch of different men introduce themselves and tell me, “Welcome.” I don’t know what to do but thank them and pretend I have to go do something else. Basically, I just end up walking back and forth to the coffee urn about ten times—never actually getting any coffee.
Finally, though, the meeting is called to a start, and I take my seat. I guess ’cause we’re using the basketball court of the local school, the overhead lights are bright-ass fucking bright.
So, yeah, like I said, they start the meeting, and it’s basically the same as every other meeting I’ve ever been to. Man, I remember how amazing it was the first time I went to one of these things. I’d been checked in to my first rehab a couple days earlier, and they finally felt I was ready to go off the grounds with the rest of the patients. We had to take a city bus down to the Marina, so I was quizzing everyone the whole time about what to expect, since I had absolutely no idea. But none of their explanations really made it any clearer.
The first part of the meeting, when they read the preamble and all this different stuff, made no sense at all to me, but then this elderly British woman went up to the front and started telling us her story. It was so crazy. I mean, despite the fact that she was from a totally different generation and the details of her life were totally different from mine, all the feelings she described about why she started drinking and what drinking gave to her and how her life had begun spiraling out of control—all of it was so dead-on to everything I had experienced. It was the first time I realized that I really was an alcoholic. And, in terms of the meeting and this program she was talking about, I knew right then it was exactly where I belonged. It’s a feeling that’s lasted since I was eighteen right up to now—despite my relapses and sometime doubts. I know this is where I belong—where I have to belong.
But today, man, fuck.
This guy is telling his story up at the front, telling the same story I’ve heard a thousand times before. Everyone’s sort of laughing in unison at his jokes—nodding their heads in agreement with almost everything—becoming emotional—then laughing again.
But me? Me, I don’t feel a goddamn thing. The man talks about the solution—finding God—being saved by the different people in the rooms—his sponsor—his sober brothers. He talks about taking commitments at meetings—greeting people at the door or cleaning up the cigarette butts or whatever—different things that helped him become more connected with the program. And he’s right, you know; it all brought me closer to the program and my friends and my sponsor. But suddenly I realize I have no connection to any of that shit anymore. The sense of hope I always had—the complete faith in everything they preached—it’s all gone. Sweat breaks out all along my neck and back and chest. My balance goes. The sickness keeps burrowing in.
So I stand.
The meeting’s not over, but I go on and push my way through the crowded aisles—almost everyone turning to stare and silently criticize me in their heads for not being, you know, serious enough. At least, that’s what I imagine. Their collective eye definitely follows me out the heavy fire doors of the gym. Doors that slam conspicuously hard behind me. I mean, fuck.
The pavement is already hot from the blur of sun, which is somehow bigger than I’ve ever seen it—filling half the goddamn sky. My sweat soaks through my shirt as I strip off my jacket and lie faceup on the burning concrete. I light a cigarette and try to smoke on my back without choking. Man, I wish I could just stay right here forever—being swallowed by the sun—my head all filled with strobe lights and static. I could just drift off and never wake up. I mean, halle-fucking-lujah. The smoke fills my lungs, and I curl onto my side, one arm buried between my legs as I tuck my knees up to my chest, fetus-like. The heat is scalding. I decide just to sleep here for the rest of my life on this goddamn glittering sidewalk. My eyes stay closed. My mind goes blank.
Of course, it can’t last. Pretty soon that Peter guy from Gallup House is shaking me and loudly whispering, “Hey, get up, you’re embarrassing us.”
I do get up, jaw clenched, my eyes fixed on his. I don’t say a word.
“You’re also not allowed to leave a meeting before it’s over,” he tells me. “That’s a rule we all have to follow.”
I laugh just to piss him off, lighting another cigarette and saying, “Man, come on, I’m just goin’ through some shit. Anyway, why the hell do you care? It’s not like it affects you at all.”
His nose lifts, all indignant. “I’m taking you to the office and reporting this to Adam.” He tugs at me kinda roughly. “Right now!” he almost shrieks, acting like I’m fighting him, even though I’m totally not.
“Fuck, all right, fine, whatever,” I say. “At this point, honestly, man, I don’t even care.”
I realize that’s the truth right after I say it. But, I mean, I
