90 Days Clean: 12 CD’s for a Penny

My 60-day celebration was small, but loud.  The Dixon NA meeting, while being one of the oldest in that part of Northern California, was also one of the smallest. On that night, there were a handful of visitors from Woodland, just north of Davis. I was surprised to see cake, since 60 days is only two months. We also had silly hats and noisemakers. It was fun, goofy, and touching.

I’d never had the green key tag for 60 days before and hadn’t really paid attention. But with that one, I cared a little bit, and I quickly attached it to the white for showing up and the red for 30 days.

The next day, at work, was my proudest day.  Even now, 32 years later, one simple moment symbolizes the feeling. I walked past Liz and quickly flashed the green key tag as we walked past each other.  She smiled, flashed hers with the black key tag, symbolizing one year. That was it, 3 seconds of awesome. And it felt fucking good.

The rest of October was like that.  I felt like more of the haze was lifting.  I went to the Young Persons meeting that night, then drove over to the big Dixon AA meeting.  I was a couple of minutes late but made it in time for the “birthday” announcement and my first-ever 60-day chip. More cake, more coffee, and more applause.

The next morning, Saturday, I decided to take the foot off the pedal and focus on things around the room, mostly my bass, which had sat unused since my meltdown in August. I’d stepped on the cord and yanked out the electronics, including the input jack. It was all held together by electrical tape, and it was time to put it together properly.

One of my housemates, Dax,  dabbled in electronics and loaned me his soldering iron along with an offer to help.  I figured I could handle it. I even waived off his instructions, telling him “I got it.”*

I didn’t have it.  I had the process clear in my head, along with confidence in my ability. But when I had the iron heated and was getting ready to prep the jack, I went blank. My hands started shaking, I felt dizzy, and a small wave of nausea hit me.

I shrugged it off, went back to Dax, and mumbled something about it being worse than I thought. He nodded his head, followed me to the room, and got to work. I don’t remember what he said or did, but in mere minutes, he handed my bass to me, “All done.”  

“So, yeah, you yanked it hard. The positive wire totally split, but I was able to clip off the end and re-solder it. No problem.”

I felt dizzy, which was happening a lot lately. A vague sense of disorientation seemed to be happening a lot. I heard Andy’s voice in my head, “Too much good all at once.” 

Andy had a saying for every situation, even if half the time he made them up. They were approximations of what I heard in the rooms, just a little off but making the same point. He went so good

The feeling peaked as I plugged the cable into the jack and felt the satisfying snap. The next step was turning on the amp, a horrible 10-watt box loud enough to bug the whole house, but barely. Flipping the front toggle on, I heard…nothing. I leaned down to check the volume, and my thumb must have hit a string. A satisfying rumble came through the speaker. I was back in business!

My evenings after work were spent on the porch, feeling the cooling air as late Fall settled in. The fields were barren except for the occasional tomato vine. I’d worked out a deal with the house for a 2-hour window to play outside, between 5 and 7. For once, I kept to the agreement.

It took a few days to get back into playing shape.  I’d only taken 2 lessons when I was a kid, aside from the string bass lessons for orchestra. My warm-up and practice routine consisted of starting on easy songs like Black Crowes ballads until I worked up to my faves: Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam. Hearing the songs didn’t cause me to feel pain or regret anymore, but playing the same Smashing Pumpkins song over and over, Drown from the Singles Soundtrack, got a little boring.

The BMG music club was my salvation, and I greedily picked out 12 albums for a penny, and then another bonus with a full price purchase. Jane’s Addiction, Minsitry and a whole slew of other CD’s would soon be on their way. This time I promised myself I’d always send the card in.

By the time my 90-Day Clean Day arrived, I had the CD’s and a whole bunch of songs I couldn’t figure out. Ministry was from a different galaxy for me. I got the bass lines, but playing the repetitive staccato of more than just a challenge: it was a new form of heavy. Within a few hours I could grind my way through N.W.O. For the most part, at least. But Jesus Built My Hotrod laid bare one ugly and essential truth: I’d have to play it with a pick.

I decided to move on.

Those were my days in October of 1992, and that’s as extreme as it got. Even getting to my 90 Days celebration was…easy. The struggle I heard other people share about, that I’d experienced so far, as gone. I got to share the positive aspects of my life and how it had done a “complete 180” from my time using. I could testify that my worst day clean was better than my best day stoned. I meant it. It wasn’t a Pink Cloud thing, either. I felt peaceful, connected, and calm. Quite removed from the manic highs of the Pink Cloud.

After I got back home, still tasting the cloying sweetness of the cake, I saw the answering machine light flashing. I didn’t fall for it this time. I barely even thought of Sam as I hit the button and heard…Sam.

We talked for hours every day for a while. I learned that she’d gotten back with her son’s dad, Chuckles’s cousin. But the same dynamic flared up, and he ended up hitting her again. She lost a couple of days of work as her eye healed, and she was still wearing sunglasses to cover it up.

For some strange reason, I didn’t even think about trying to see her. All I wanted was to hear her voice and be there for her. She talked a lot more about what it was like growing up, what it happened to her with her stepdad, and how her mother stood by while everything happened. It felt wrong to tell her that I loved her, to try to be with her. She needed a friend, and I was determined to be exactly that. Planning our wedding the whole time, of course. But I had learned to hide that part of things, and not bring them up.

I was getting better.

Finally, it happened! Sam wanted to see me, and she invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner. I was elated! But she waited until Tuesday, which mean I only had one day to get prepared.

“Don’t worry about bringing anything!  It’s real low key, just you, me and the kid. But there’s something I need to tell you first.”

My mouth went dry.  “Ok…”

“I’m pregnant.”

I handled it well. To minimize the shaking of my voice, I said very little. Simple phrases like ‘it will be OK’ and ‘congratulations.’ In my mind, I saw myself standing up for her and the kids, joining her at the altar, being a dad. On the phone, I was just a friend. When she needed one the most.

The next morning at work was hectic.  We had 7 extra trucks due to the Holiday, 3 of them unscheduled. I was freaking out. I knew Sam said not to bring anything, but that didn’t seem right. I began to panic that I wouldn’t be able to find a pumpkin pie or an apple pie. Then I freaked out that I didn’t know if she liked pumpkin pie or apple pie.

So I called her from my office. She already had pie.

Around noon, the pulling department was too far ahead of the loading dock, which was overrun with product. Gary, the Lead of the dock, was clueless. So I called Pam, worried about the size of the turkey. I got her answering machine.

Thomas popped his head in my office.

“I can see you’re really busy. And good job getting the Bins pulled through the 11^th truck.”

“Thanks,” I said. The sarcasm went right over my head. What if she got a frozen turkey? It wouldn’t be ready on time.

“So…, when you have a minute…”

I spun my chair around. “I dunno, Thomas. I’m confused. Are you asking me to help on the dock?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“So, two weeks ago, you told me to let Gary handle it. I was, how did you put it? Oh yeah, ‘undermining’ him.”

Thomas rarely got mad. He did this time. “In case you didn’t notice, it’s a mess out there…”

I felt a flush of anger. I’d been kicked around ever since I got sober, and it all came back to me. My usual narrative about ‘I deserve this’ was absent. I stood up.

“I know it’s a mess out there. I didn’t volunteer for the Bins. I was told I was going to Pulling. And every fuc….every freaking time I try to bring up things, you tell me to stay in my lane. So ya know what? Placid Lake. It’s fine. He’ll figure it out or he won’t.”  I added, “Sorry for almost saying fuck.”

I thought Thomas was going to choke holding in his chuckle. He tried to contain it, but broke. Turning his head didn’t hide it.

“Welcome back. That was good. Now, I think we need you. May I ask for your assistance?”

“No problem.”  I felt better. I’d stood my ground, and it felt like old times.

The loading dock was divided by tape, into six lanes, with three squares in each, resembling part of the checkerboard. Each square was assigned a specific order number that went on a specific truck. Greg hated it, but it worked. At least until the conveyor system was installed, at which point the design was useless.

I’d designed it along with Tim when the warehouse first opened. It was effective as long as the pulling department gave us merchandise at around the same time. Errors were drastically reduced. The first merchandise to arrive was always oil, which was on pallets. The merchandise was stacked on top of the oil, with the lightest stuff up top to the maximum height for each trailer. Then it was shrink-wrapped, then moved to a machine that gave a final wrap of shrink wrap that was tight enough to keep the whole thing together inside the trailer.

The dock was a mess. Hundreds of cages and carts clogged the lanes. I saw the solution immediately.

“I know what to do. Wanna get Gary? He should execute it.” He was right about me undermining Gary. At every opportunity, I complained and criticized what he did. Because he didn’t do anything.

Thomas nodded and held his hand up, motioning for Gary to come over. Gary looked like hell. Gary looked like it was Sunday morning after a three-day binge with one of his dozen girlfriends. He was pasty white, and in clear need of a cigarette. He and I were not close. He was exceptionally good-looking, with a dangerous tendency to flirt with the women and girls in the warehouse. At our first Company dinner a few months earlier, his girlfriend arrived in a teddy…

I told Gary what to do: stop stacking pallets and clear the dock of as many cages as possible. Enlist Choo-Choo, the guy who pulled the carts with a pallet jack to the dock, to assist and get the empty carts and cages out of there. The oil pullers were sitting on their pallet jacks, talking, looking, and laughing.

“Hey Thomas, look over there…”

Thomas was mad for the second time that day. I’d never seen him walk so fast and forcefully. Six overweight dudes with protruding beer bellies turned red, came over to the dock, and started pitching in. Greg was coming towards the dock, a look of extreme aggravation highlighting his scowl. The big boss was displeased.

“Gary,” I said. He was in panic mode, so I clapped him on the shoulder. “Just let the guys know the plan.  I’m going to touch base with Hassan and Ramon. I’ll be right there, man.”

I untucked my collared shirt, stretched my neck, and jumped into the chaos before Gary could respond. Greg had summoned him and Thomas for a dressing down. I disappeared into the din.

This was home for me. On the dock, with the guys. I spotted Hassan, one of the loaders whom I’d trained. He was busy staring at a loading sheet, trying to make sense of the chaos.

“Where you at?”

“I’m right fucking here.” His voice was high with a rich Pakistani accent, and he smiled without looking up at me. “This is crazy shit, you know?  Fucking we got 1006 combined before 512. No one knows what the fuck they doing!”

“Just like old times,” I said.

“Damn fucking right.”  He held his fist out for a bump without looking up. “So when you gonna fix this, boss?”

“Right here and right now. Remember last Christmas?” Hassan smiled, jumped off his pallet rider. He whistled and waved until he got Ramon’s attention. Ramon jumped off his rider and ran to join us. He was one of the original Kragen guys from San Jose. Quiet, reserved, and incapable of exhaustion. At 40 years old, he outworked teenagers and never broke a sweat.

“Ola!,” he said and shook my hand.  Hassan said, “Remember Christmas?”

“Oi, yes. Si.”

“You want to load or me?”  

Ramon looked around, shrugged. “You load, I’ll stack. Which one?”

Hassan pointed to the sheet, and they identified 512’s location. It was a small load, two pallets of oil and a few totes. Ramon nodded, held up 5 fingers.

I was in awe of them.  They’d gone beyond what I’d taught them, what we figured out three years ago. Two loaders who could work together were virtually telepathic.

Ramon and I stacked 512, had it wrapped and ready in about 4 minutes. Hassan slid the forks of his rider into the pallet and hopped off. He pointed to the other stores on the sheet. 512 was in the nose, and the next step was to move the other 3 stores to staging.  The three of us nodded.

Ramon looked at me, asked, “You wanna stage?”

“Naah, this is your party.” He nodded and left.

I glanced at the dock. Gary was fluttering but calmer. The combiners had all stopped stacking and were clearing cages and carts. Choo-Choo was leaving with a train of carts about 5 too long for safety, but it was time for that. The oil guys were moving quickly, stacking the heavy stuff and clearing cages while Manual and Bubba were pulling empties by hand back to the pulling area. Within ten minutes, the dock resembled normal. Thomas nodded from 50 feet away, motioning for me to leave and check on my crew in the bins. Just a quick tilt of the head.

I felt elated. I loved this part of the job, but it was time to check on my area.

Sam!  The turkey!

I went into my office, frantically called her. She answered.

“You know, you always get like this.  Maybe it’s best if you didn’t come over. Sorry…”

I don’t remember if I said anything in response. I don’t even remember that’s exactly what she said. What I do remember is the world spinning, turning white. The jolt of shame the course through me told me everything I needed to know: I fucked it up again. I was obsessed. I couldn’t just let it go, couldn’t just let things happen. I never did get back to the bins, opting instead to sit in my office for a little bit while the lights were off. I just needed a minute. 

And then the crying started.