Twelve Step Hopscotch

Many of these short stories are actually parts of a novella which will probably never get finished due to laziness, insecurity and a demanding day job (but mostly laziness). Fortunately, they all function well enough in this format. In the time line, this one leads right up to Evil Did I Dwell. There's not really a denouement because it occurs in the next chapter; at this point the character is as hopeless at the end of the story as he is at the beginning, if not more so.

I realized that my drinking was out of hand, and since I was getting nowhere by trying to kick the habit alone, I decided to see if a support group was a more effective route to sobering up. I got out the phone book and cold-called Alcoholics Anonymous. I told the lady who answered about my addictive personality and how much trouble it's gotten me into over the years, and the first thing she said was that the temptation of being around other drinkers could be dangerous, and since I wasn't a drug addict, it might be prudent to try a Narcotics Anonymous meeting instead. I jotted down some addresses and times of local meetings and went to my first one that evening. But like everything else at the time, my heart wasn't really in it; I was basically going so I could tell everyone that I gave it a shot and the program just didn't work for me.

After the first few meetings, I learned to sit in the back. If you avert your eyes, only the bold will approach you. Although I had little faith that the twelve steps would work for me, I wanted to at least give the impression that I was trying. I learned the serenity prayer and recited it with brow-furrowed conviction, listened to the success stories from people who managed to clean up and lead a sober life, and suffered through the "war stories" that people thought they were intrepidly sharing.

But inspiration just never came.

I usually ended up trying not to laugh at their horror stories, the way seasoned veterans of any field mock the rookies. At the time I scoffed at their "pain," because I felt I was beyond their suffering, which of course was ridiculous. Everyone bears a cross of some kind. I adroitly posed as sympathetic while masking disgust, because most of the people there were addicted to pity, not drugs.

N/A meetings usually begin with a newcomer approaching the podium, introducing themselves, and receiving a hearty welcome. At the end of the first meeting you are given a key chain. Introductory, or "newbie" key chains are white. After ninety days you graduate to yellow, then green, and so on. The key chain itself is shaped like a number one, and has either A/A or N/A printed on it in bold letters. I kept mine for about a week, until I realized that every time I pulled it out of my pocket I was basically showing off a scarlet letter. I might as well have "drug-addict" or "alcoholic" stamped on my forehead, and that's not exactly the image I wanted to project, no matter what fucking color it was.

Anyway, many of the people there were pathetic, and I often had to think of deceased relatives to fight off the giggles I would get from listening to their sob stories ad nauseum. For example, the Wednesday night meeting in Brookline splits up into groups, according to which of the twelve steps you're currently following. One night we were making our way around the circle, each person sharing part of the reason that brought them to N/A. When the floor was given to the girl two seats to my left, her story rang familiar in both its pedestrianism and absurdity.

"I figured that I'd had enough of this life," she sputtered in between short fits of weeping. Aside from the maniacal bush of unkept hair and the sour breath brought on by incessant weeping, she was quite attractive; if her eyes weren't red and puffy from crying they were a sparkling emerald, and she had the slightest gap between her front teeth that I imagined centered the most endearing smile.

"...So I found my mom's prescription for Xanax, I never tried it before but I heard they were strong. So I downed half the bottle, wrote a note and waited for the end."

I had to admit her performance was captivating, and for a moment my heart, like everyone else's, was all hers. The people flanking her offered their hands for support, and she squeezed them tight as she shared her painful story.

The leader of our group, a twelve step graduate named Rhonda, had the sympathetic composure of someone who had heard a thousand similar tales in her lifetime and could empathize with every last one of them. "Did they have to pump your stomach, dear?"

"No, they...they didn't have to," she let go of the hands supporting her and reached into her purse for a Kleenex to dab her eyes. I could tell that everyone was curious as to how her story ended but were hesitant to ask because she was starting to calm down. I just couldn't resist.

"So what happened?"

"Apparently, my mom thought I might try something like that, so a few days before I did it she replaced the Xanax with Col....ce."

"Sorry, you kind of trailed off there." I felt Rhonda's disapproving glare but for some reason I persisted. "What did you say she replaced it with?"

"With COLACE," she blurted out, as her patience trailed off like the eyeliner sinking down her cheeks.

The people who didn't know what it was remained puzzled, and someone naively asked what it was. Before she could think up a suitable euphemism, I took it upon myself to explain the uses of the mystery pill.

"It's a stool softener."

"I had diarrhea for three days!" she blurted out before bursting into another fit of sobbing. A few people either genuinely continued to share in her grief or at least pretended to, but I could see most of them blushing and trying their best to suppress smiles. It was the kind of revelation that should engender a reaction of equal parts sympathy and humor, but it didn't strike me as either. In hindsight, I can't believe how callous I was.

For some reason, her anecdote completely incensed me. Here I was, finally letting my guard down and really feeling sorry for this girl, only for her story to end like a Monty Python sketch. I decided to express my anger, which was rare for me.

"You're shitting me, right?" I asked as I stood up, regretting the pun instantly when everyone's attention shifted my way. I racked my brain for something else to say that would convey my indignation, but I drew a blank. When I searched their eyes for validation and came up empty, I ended up storming off in silent disgust.

That was my last meeting for awhile.