At 31 days, something felt different. I’d had 30 days sober before a couple of times in the Navy, and about three more after I got discharged. 30 was easy. It sucked, but it was no big deal.
But when I woke up that morning, something felt different. Looking back at it, I realize that the difference was that I didn’t want to drink. I didn’t want to get high, stoned, sloshed or amped. And that was weird, man. Not having that feeling, which is something I thought I’d always have was trippy as fuck.
Even stranger was that Sam didn’t call…and I wasn’t freaking out. I felt an unusual calm and focus that I didn’t even have a word for. Looking at the clock, I lit my first cigarette of the day and lazily for ready for work. I noticed I was able to think back over the past month without stabs of emotional pain. I was OK.
Work settled into an equally calm routine. The job, the noise, and the controlled chaos of the warehouse didn’t change- it was the general craziness that goes along with planning to load 12 trucks with four to six stores on each one. So many moving parts to make it all happen on schedule, and when one part lagged behind I didn’t freak out. Usually, my veins would pop around my forehead, and Michael like to point out I looked like a Kingon. Luckily the nickname “Warf” never stuck.
The meetings also settled in. Wednesday was a free day of sorts since there were no Dixon meetings. My options were Vacaville or the NA meeting in Davis. I opted to take my foot off the gas pedal and let myself rest a bit, at least one day a week. I also never wanted to get on a highway for any reason, and I wasn’t willing to put my new-found serenity to that test.
The Thursday meeting was pleasant, which again was odd. Either something was the greatest ever or it was the worst. My relationship with the world had very little room for the in-between stuff, where things were okay. I had to admit, okay felt…okay for once.
And then I got a slight jolt as a familiar and unexpected face entered the room. I didn’t know Liz well, but we’d both been at the warehouse since they opened the doors. She was as familiar as a restaurant I’d never been to but passed by daily. The jolt increased when she sat next to me.
“I heard you started coming here,” she whispered as she held out the black key chain that signified a year or more clean. After 3 years we had our first-ever conversation during the smoke break. She shared stores with Kerry and Jeff, who both admonished her for not attending regularly. All three of them did a good job of making me a part of the conversation.
As we walked back into the meeting, 30 minutes into the 15-minute break, she reassured me. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything or bust your anonymity. I used to be Kerry’s sponsor before I relapsed a while ago, I hope ya don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said, too new to the whole thing to realize the anonymity issue.
After the meeting I saw my answering machine light blinking repeatedly, indicating multiple messages. Sam! She called!
Five calls were received, none with a message, just dial tones. Sam!
As I wondered what she wanted, the phone rang again. I picked it up on the first ring.
“It’s about time you answered. How long are those damn NA meetings?”
Andy.
“Oh, hour and a half. But sometimes we…”
“Just razzing you. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night for the Young People’s meeting, 6:00 sharp. Love ya, man.”
And then dial tone. All I could do was laugh and tell myself it was God’s Will.
He was dead on time. Every time I saw Andy he was driving a different car. This one was an old 1978 El Dorado, or at least that’s what he told me. I didn’t know shit about cards, and was ignorant to the point of pride about how little I knew.
“Hop in!,” he yelled with his head sticking out the window.
It was the most excessive, gaudy, and monstrous car I’d seen in years. Even I know that much. Every inch of it was hideous. It was the most awesome thing I’d ever seen!
Getting in the passenger side, the door felt as if it weighed as much as my Corolla. The interior cloth was scuffed, with ink stains and faded, but it was soft and supple, like sitting on a cloud. Everything about it was wrong in the exact right way.
“Watcha think?” Andy’s smile was wider than the car bumper.
“Wow. Just fucking wow. How the fuck did you get this?”
“My brother, I get cars like this all the time. I buy ‘em cheap, get an Earl Scheib special for the paint, take care of the basics, and flip it.”
“But where, how?”
“Oh, you know. I got a few guys around. It’s my side biz, y’know? I’ve already got this sold to a guy in Suisun. Quick two grand, and I’ll buy two more this weekend.”
I was stuck, gazing at the wood paneling and the immense dashboard. There was a faint hint of cigarette smoke masked by dense cleaning products. The whole thing was old and worn, but that added to the feel of the beast.
Not waiting for me to talk, he gunned the engine, the wheels kicking up rocks from the gravel driveway as it sunk in and gained traction. He swerved just a bit too much as got onto Pitt School Road and headed towards town.
I just sat back, hearing and feeling the rumble of the V8 as he spouted specs that I couldn’t understand. Once we got on 80 towards Davis he accelerated to a hundred before backing off and going, “ooops.”
He missed the exit, but I think he did it on purpose. I didn’t blame him, though I was terrified at the idea of driving it. I was tempted to suggest just heading to Sacramento, but he was exiting before I could say it.
We ended up in a part of Davis I hadn’t seen. He pulled into a small parking lot designed for Volvo’s, Accords, and the occasional VW. The oversized two-door coup didn’t quite fit between the lines, so he opted to park across the street, mumbling something about not pissing off the hippies.
It was a large, fairly bland building attached to what the sign said was the “Davis Co-op.” I had no idea what a co-op was, and Andy just said it had to do with organic toilet paper and fruit loops. The part we entered had the name “Davis Free Clinic” on the door, and the ten or so people I saw sitting around gave me a hint that the meeting was in the clinic lobby.
The room had a fifty-fifty male-to-female ratio, which was not what I expected. I figured a Young People’s meeting meant teenagers. They were all roughly our age, except for one dude in glasses who was clearly in his forties. He got up to greet us.
“Welcome! I’m Mark.”
“Scott, this is Andy.” I went in for a handshake and came out with a bear hug. The guy was strong as hell.
“Jim and Jenny are over that the Co-op grabbing a mocha.” He looked at his watch. “Oh, we’ve got time. Let’s get one.”
I’d never seen Andy quiet before, but he nodded his head and followed Mark out the door before I could ask what a “mocha” was. Seriously- I didn’t know.
The sliding doors of the Davis Co-op did their thing, and I was walking inside to another world. It was like Dorothy getting to Oz for the first time. Sensory overload began with the smell, the aroma, of coffee, and unknown spices mingled with the patchouli and other assorted balms, oils, and gels worn by the customers. The ‘Co-op’ abounded with women, girls, boys, and men with dreadlocks, afro’s, corn rows, long, short, straight, everything. It was like the 60’s, the ’70s, and ’80s got mashed together for fashion and individual expression.
Every aisle we walked down had its own scent, and I noticed we were at the incense aisle. I almost stopped to gawk, but the fear of being left behind overruled my curiosity, and curiosity overcame my panic. I felt about six things all at once, but one feeling ruled them all: Being home.
I caught up to Mark and Andy at the rear left corner of the store (I have no sense of direction. None. Everything is ahead, behind, left or right. Even then, I’m suspect.) They stopped in front of a deli-counter-type thing with a massive menu behind it, a blackboard with handwritten items in colored chalk. It was a work of art. Cups of coffee and pastries were drawn with exquisite attention to detail, and the handwriting seemed impossibly perfect, the cursive script legible with a flowing elegance. I was too entranced to make sense of it and just stood there with my mouth agape, trying to make sense of it.
Andy ordered black coffee, and Mark got two mocha’s. When I thought it was my turn to order, Mark let me know he’d got me one, and began to playfully argue with Andy that it was on him. He handed it to me when it was done. The thin paper cup did nothing to shield the heat.
Wordlessly we went through the automatic doors, leaving the aromatic, chaotic galaxy behind me. I took a brief sip and tasted the bitter dark roast with chocolate. Oh, yes. Mocha. I got it.
Walking back into the meeting room/lobby, I saw that the furniture was rearranged, with couches and comfy chairs arranged in a circle. Mark motioned towards a couple on the other side of the long room, each holding their own cups and taking random sips.
“Jen, Jim, this is Scott and Andy.”
“Welcome!” the young woman greeted us. She was attractive, maybe in her mid-twenties with a short haircut and long braid down the back. Jim was a smaller guy with a crippling handshake.
(A note regarding “Jim.” I swear, 1 out of 5 guys in Northern California was named “Jim.” There are more Jim’s in this story than I can count, but I’m guessing it’s around 17. Not kidding. This was Little Jim. Later, Big Jim comes into the picture, and probably small Jim and Studious Jim. Studious Jim is actually in. The room, I just haven’t met him yet.)
Jen was hard to figure out and always would be. Lesbian? Bi-sexual? Even more curious is I never did find out if Jen and Little Jim were in a romantic relationship. I’d never see one without the other, but there were no signs of affection, not even hand-holding. They were the most ambiguous pair I ever met, but I think of them fondly.
Studious Jim walked up and introduced himself. With thick glasses and a massive mustache, he physically looked like the slightest breeze would wisp him away. He had a high voice and always sounded unsure of himself. He was also a Sociology Professor, and impossibly intelligent.
“Oh yeah, Scott here just celebrated 30 days, ain’t that right, buddy.” I felt the solid hand-slap of Andy on my back as I was stirred out of my thoughts.
“That’s great!,” Jen said. “You can chair the meeting. Our speaker backed out.” She turned to the rest of the group. “Hey gang, let’s get started! Scott’s from Dixon. He’s got 30 days, and he’s sharing tonight!”
No time to even think about panicking.
It was the best meeting experience of my short Recovery. I managed to blurt out enough of my story to at least seem coherent, and the members were gracious. The rest of the meeting felt like more of an AA meeting than NA. Open discussion about drugs, sex, and depression filled the rest of the hour, and no one shut it down. It was confusing, but refreshing.
They all made a huge deal about me having 30 days sober, almost as if they had known me the whole time. Each member shared their experience of their first 30 days, and I noticed that the time in recovery ranged from two months to five years.
After the meeting, we all chatted while we rearranged the furniture and took out the trash. I got some clarity on both the Co-op and the Free Clinic, and the members of the meeting. Jen and Little Jim were Master’s students at UC Davis, Studious Jim was a professor, and the rest were undergrads. Mark mentioned meeting at Deny’s for the after-the-meeting-meeting, but Andy had to get back for a date he was having later that night.
Little Jim and Mark wouldn’t let us leave without a meeting schedule, complete with a map that had red dots where each meeting was located. Finally, Andy let loose with the horn of the car, and I bid farewell, promising to try to make it to the 8:00 meeting the next night at St Martin’s Church.
If Andy was upset, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was exuberant as we drove back to Dison, talking a mile a minute and asking me dozens of questions. I barely had time to answer before he launched the next one.
“Well, buddy, how’d you like it?
“That Jen was kinda hot. I like the no make-up look.
“That mocha was great. I’m fucking buzzing man, how ‘bout you?
I just answered in my head. The meeting was nice, and being around people my own age was a nice change. I figured if I timed it right, I could attend this one at 6:30, leave right away and make the 8:00 in Dixon. I wanted to get a meeting pattern of at least seven a week and focus on 90 meetings in 90 days, per the suggestions. I could double up on days and even catch up if I tried hard enough.
It felt like we got back to my room way too fast, but I hadn’t been paying attention. Andy shouted out a “Love ya, buddy. See ya later,” and kicked gravel into the air so quickly, if I didn’t know better I’d swear he was high.
When I got back to the room, the light was not blinking on the answering machine.
The next morning, I felt great after a good night’s sleep but still felt more anxious than usual. The meeting that night was nagging at me, not that I didn’t want to go as much as I felt like it wasn’t enough. Missing my regular meeting in Dixon also put me on edge, even though I’d only been going there for about a month. I grabbed the meeting schedule around 10 AM and noticed that there was a noon meeting not far from Saint Martin’s church. I hated the thought of driving back and forth to Davis twice in one day, but it was only about 15 minutes each way.
After another hour of it all spinning in my head, I resolutely drove to the noon meeting. It was in an extremely small room in a nondescript part of campus. It was in a small, modern brick building that looked like it belonged in an assisted living facility. Clean, utilitarian, and somewhat cozy. There was a single round table in the center of the room festooned with AA reading material, with a loveseat bearest the door, yellow plastic chairs on the sides, and a rocking chair opposite the loveseat. The elderly woman sitting in the rocking chair enhanced the assisted living vibe.
I was my usual 20 minutes early, and she seemed surprised I was there, but greeted me warmly without getting up.
“Well, hello young man. Welcome! Grab yourself some coffee, we have some cookie and of course coffee. I’m Margerie, and you are…?”
“Hi, I’m Scott. From Dixon.” Damn, that felt awkward…
“ Hello, Scott from Dixon. Are you a new friend of Bill’s?”
It took me a couple of seconds to get the reference. “Yeah, I just had 30 days this week.”
She didn’t pause her knitting. “Hmmm…” She pointed to the table, “There’s plenty of AA material on the table. If you don’t mind, I’ll get back to my knitting.”
I didn’t mind at all. I still wasn’t comfortable talking to people too much, especially people I just met. I rummaged through the literature, mostly what I saw at other meetings. Over the next few minutes, other people came into the room, mostly women, who mostly sat down and started knitting. I sat there awkwardly, but quietly.
It was nice to just sit and listen for a while. During the meeting, I learned that it was traditional to bring cross stitch, needlepoint, or something to the meeting. It wasn’t a woman’s meeting, per se, but traditionally it had a very strong female contingent.
The only other male at the meeting was a very tall guy with long, stringy gray hair tied into a ponytail. He was bald up top, making it look like a tonsure. Of course, at the end of the meeting he introduced himself, and his name was Jim. Literally: Big Jim. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, and he invited me to the big meeting at Saint Martin’s that night. I told him I’d be there.
I got home to the boarding house around 130, took a quick nap, grabbed some lunch, and took another nap. I was feeling extremely well-rested, and relaxed, but still a little anxious about going to another meeting. I flirted with the idea of venturing over to the Co-op before the 8:00 start of the meeting, the figured that was putting too many things into one day. The idea of getting lost, stuck in traffic, or in an accident was a bit too intimidating.
At 7 o’clock I had back to Davis, taking the backcountry roads, even though it added 10 minutes to the time. The idea of getting onto 80 was still intimidating, especially after writing as Andy’s passenger.
I still managed to get there at about 730, plenty early. I felt the usual social anxiety as I walked up the steps to the church. I was learning how to ignore it a little bit, and I just kept walking ahead. I immediately saw Big Jim talking to Studious Jim, who waved me over as soon as he saw me.
“Aaaah, the wanderer returns,” Big Jim said. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually make it, but it’s good to see you here anyway.”
The handshake with his massive hand was surprisingly gentle. He seemed to be surveying the group members, spotted someone interesting, and invited us to join him. The meeting room consisted of huge conference tables, arranged in a rectangle. Just a rough count told me the tables along to hold about 50 people. On either side of the tables were rows of chairs, in my rough estimate put it at another hundred people. This was potentially a very big meeting.
By 7:55, the room was filled with roughly 100 people, of every possible shape, size, sex, race, and presumably length of sobriety. The ceilings of the room, being a huge church, were at least 30 feet high, and the sounds from below echoed, making it hard to hear any one conversation clearly.
The meeting secretary, an academic-looking Hispanic woman, brought the meeting to order. Looking around the room, I had no desire to speak or do anything to draw attention to myself. I hesitated before I raised my hand as a Newcomer, but in the end, I forced myself to do it. I slunk back into my chair and did my best to turn invisible.
I don’t remember exactly what the meeting topic was, or even if there was a speaker. All I know is that the topic didn’t confine itself to alcohol. Members freely spoke about drugs, depression, anxiety, or whatever they were going through. It was fascinating and a little scary. I’d never heard such openness before, and I couldn’t even imagine having the courage to speak in a meeting that loud. By the end of the meeting, I was so overwhelmed that I scurried out before anyone could talk to me.
As I bolted out of the church, I was surrounded by three guys with fliers, almost like car salesmen trying to snag me as their mark. I took the sheet of paper while they verbally invited me to a “real” AA meeting at a private residence.
“Yeah, we focus on the Primary Purpose of AA without the distraction of outside issues. You should come. Next Saturday, same time as this…meeting…, you can hear the real message of Recovery as it is in the Big Book. Paul, it’s his house, sponsors all of us. Do you have a sponsor?”
I put the flier in my pocket, nodded “yes” and scrambled to my car. The parking lot lights cast an eery amber glow as the late summer fog rolled in, and I thought about the classic The Exorcist poster
On the way home, I tried to get the bad taste of that encounter from my mouth. Something felt off, even if that was the best meeting I’d been to so far. I just wasn’t sure which side of the issue was ”Off.” I knew enough about the traditions to recognize that, yeah, meetings should be focused only on problems with alcohol. At the same time, it seemed to me that all the other issues probably had something to do with alcohol. It was confusing as heck.
I managed to get my mind off it, wondering if Sam called while I was out. I was thinking about her less and less, but I was still firmly on the obsessed side. My heart skipped when I saw the red light flashing, and you think by now I’d know who it was…
“Tomorrow. Noon meeting. Same place as your little NA meetings. See ya there!. Love ya, buddy.”
Andy never showed up at the meeting. I got there my usual 15 minutes early, Felt immediately at home when I saw regular Dixon members in attendance. There was Pat and his wife Susan, Bobby and a handful of others.
Pat walked up to greet me. He had a strange beard that was closely trimmed, resembling a Mennonite beard. He also had a habit of standing just a little too upright and looking upwards whenever he spoke. I liked him a lot, but I wasn’t sure if he liked me at all.
“I smell gas.” He pointed at the hood of my Corolla.
“Oh yeah, I do, too.” It was a strong, undeniable odor. I quickly popped the latch, and by the time I made it to the front of the car he was already looking at it.
“These hoses. They’re all leaking. Quick fix, though. You might want to get that done right away.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. I’ll have to find…”
Pat pulled down the street. “Go down here, three blocks, take a right at the light. NAPA auto parts will fix it up right away. Do you want me to follow you?”
“No, that’s ok. I think I can manage.”
His wife walked up and put her hands around his waist. I guessed her age to be late 40s, maybe early 50s. She was extremely attractive, with an almost ageless face, but her silver hair gave her away. “Oh yes,” she said. “I can smell that from here. Pat, you should go and get what he needs. I wouldn’t want Scott to drive this until it’s fixed. It’s too dangerous.”
Pat looked down at me, smiled, said “I’ll be right back.”
Embarrassment flood throughout my body, as if every cell were ashamed and felt the need to let me know about it. I tried to get words out.
Pat held his hand up. “Consider it done. I know what ya need. You look like you could use a meeting.”
Sitting in the meeting was hard at first. To begin with, it was weird being where the NA meeting was, although we were in a different room. I also felt vulnerable, a feeling of shame, deep and profound. I’d been free from feelings of worthlessness for a few days, and it all came back tenfold.
The meeting dissipated those feelings quickly. It was a “Book Study” meeting, which I’d never heard of before. No open topics or drunkalogues, members simply read a paragraph, and everyone had a chance to comment. Half the time, no comment was made aside from a quiet moment of reflection.
The Topic was Tradition Five, out of the book Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions. If it felt odd being in a meeting that dealt with what I experienced the night before. It certainly didn’t settle the issue for me. Yes, the big meeting veered way outside of a simple discussion on alcoholism and how to recover from it. At the same time, I felt like everything they talked about was directly related to the reasons why they drank, and the experiences they had after they quit drinking.
On the other hand, based on what we read at this meeting, it made sense to confine things to issues strictly related to alcoholism. I just wasn’t convinced by the language, the 1940s way of writing. I was unconvinced, either way. It was confusing.
The book study meeting had a way of making that seem OK. I was supposed to figure this stuff out, and I had an opportunity to listen to an in-depth discussion. I didn’t participate very much, preferring to sit back and listen and learn something for once. I also bought a copy of the Twelve by Twelve and decided to make this my regular meeting.
Before the meeting ended, Patrick came in quietly and sat behind me. As the meeting ended, he handed me the hoses and offered to help me reattach things. I accepted the help, mostly because he had a Swiss Army knife to cut the hoses. The whole process took about five minutes, as all the gas line hoses on the old engine were worn out and needed to be replaced. The car was old enough that everything was up top and easy to get to, something that Patrick pointed out as we went through it, hose by hose. When I offered to pay him back for the hoses, he held up his hand and refused to take my money.
“Someday, you’ll have the chance to do the same thing. Thanks for letting me help you.”
When I got home, I took stock of the past week. I couldn’t keep track of it all, so I kept it very simple. I now had a meeting scheduled that was going to work, and get me to 90 meetings and 90 days.
Sunday- AA Book Study
Monday- Off
Tuesday – Dixon NA
Wednesday – Off
Thursday – Dixon NA
Friday – Davis Yount Persons, Dixon AA at night
Saturday – Davis Noon meeting, Davis 8:00 meeting at night.
Seven scheduled meetings per week, with chances on Monday and Wednesday to pick up another meeting if I wanted to. Lather, rinse, repeat…
