The chairperson opened the meeting to a show of hands, and Jennifer H. threw up her arm to signal the speaker. She had waited long enough, four minutes past the 20-minute limit, and she needed to share. She was desperate, and Perry Street was the only coping mechanism she had left at the end of this day. This of all days. She had to put it out there.
William C.'s glazed-over eyes flew right past her, and he called on Larry B. instead. "Asshole," she whispered, glancing around to make sure no one heard her break the rules. "He always calls on his friends first."
"Thanks for your qualification, Bill. I really needed to hear that today. I've had a really tough week..."
Oh God. He's in one of his sentimental moods. We'll be listening to him blabber all night.
Seven minutes later (You're only supposed to share for five, moron!) her hand was raised again. This time William C. didn't even look in her direction.
"Yes? You over there in the back," he said.
"What do I have to do to get his attention?" she whispered. "Drop some acid right in front of him?"
"Thanks, William. Your story really inspired me..."
And I'm sure it's going to inspire him to tell one of his own. Even if we have heard it a hundred times. How many times do I have to listen to him whine about spending a year in prison for beating up his wife?
"Besides," she said to Peter B., seated to her left, "he's stoned out of his mind. I could smell it all over him when he walked in." She picked up her half-empty cup of cold Deli coffee and poured in two more Sweet'N Lows. By the time the third person was called upon, Jennifer H. realized she could start spitting up blood and still not get the speaker's attention.
"Hi. I'm Robin, and I'm an alcoholic," the redheaded woman said timidly, her voice trembling, head barely raised. "I picked up last night, and I'm terrified of what might happen if I drink again. I've been fired from the last two jobs I've had, and my own children won't even speak to me until I sober up."
"Big fucking deal," said Jennifer H., this time loud enough to get shushed by Peter B., who was smiling now, eyes closed, savoring every word that Robin G. shot through the air. "I'm an alcoholic and a coke addict, and the last time I relapsed I almost died! They found me in a ditch naked, almost choking on my own vomit. But you don't see anyone clamoring over me to hear my story."
Oh, great, she continued, to herself now. . . Peter B. was scanning the Big Book, looking over one of his favorite chapters. They're all holding her and offering her Kleenex because she's crying. I should have thought of that ten minutes ago.
Of course, it hadn't always been this way. Jennifer H. longed for the days when she was the newcomer at the Perry Street Workshop, New York's most prestigious AA chapter -- Liza Minnelli had been known to drop by. That was the time when she had less than 90 days and everyone applauded her when she spoke; when they cheered her on after she announced her day-count and gave her their phone numbers at the end of each meeting. Back when they invited her to sober parties every weekend. Jennifer H. missed the sheer un-glamour of it all.
She leaned back in her chair feeling more than just a touch sentimental. Who would have thought it would come to this, she thought; I don't even look desperate anymore.
"You've got to hang on, Robin," the speaker continued. "You're in the right place. And speak to me after the meeting so we can find a sponsor for you. Congratulations for speaking up today."
"Thanks, William. I'll try."
The applause was even more overwhelming than when she first spoke. Jennifer H. knew it was time for something drastic. She'd have to beef up her own story. Maybe she could invent something about another crisis phone call from her mother in Long Island, crying into the receiver because her 31-year-old daughter hadn't married yet. The conversation could have tempted Jennifer H. to run to the liquor store, thinking that just for tonight she could skip the meeting and drink herself to death. It wasn't exactly original, but it was all she had.
Besides, parental-abuse stories were always a hit with this crowd.
Robin G. had stopped crying, and William C. looked at the clock.
"I guess we have time for one more," he said. "Is there anyone here who really needs to share?"
Fuck it! I'm going to speak even if they have to throw me out for disorderly conduct!
"Hi, William. My name's Jennifer and I'm cross-addicted!" She threw this last line over to Robin G., who was now sitting with her head between her knees. "This is my third meeting today and I haven't been called on once. I've got to speak."
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Perhaps she had gone too far. Or not far enough.
"It's about my mother...I almost drank today because of her."
"Why, of course, Jennifer. I didn't see you there."
She was thrilled. Finally, all eyes were on her, and she had a hell of a story to tell. Jennifer H. was in the spotlight again, and she'd be damned if she was going to give that up. She'd have a good ten new phone numbers before her five minutes were through. With a little luck, she might even be able to pick and choose among the list of favorite Perry Street sponsors, their names written on the chalkboard like the most popular kids from high school. She'd been waiting months to dump Rachel K., who hadn't had a slip in seven years and who preferred to attend meetings in unknown midtown locations. She had once even told Jennifer H. that she preferred those spots because they were more "anonymous." Tonight might be Jennifer H.'s chance for a new beginning. Her entire being buzzed with the adrenaline rush. She started to speak.
"I'm sorry, but I need to say something," interrupted Bridget B., who had arrived late and was standing against the wall in the back. She was fashionably dressed with no makeup and sweats, her Prada handbag the one accessory that revealed her hierarchy with this crowd.
Professional writers are the worst alcoholics, thought Jennifer H., sulking over the momentary interruption. God forbid they should ever have to wait to talk.
"I just brought a friend in. He's desperate and he needs to share."
Everyone turned to the man standing next to Bridget B., and Jennifer H. slumped in her chair, the rage overwhelming her.
I can't believe she brought him, was all she could muster, almost certain she'd been outdone. She clutched the side of her chair, praying for his good health. And hoping he'd drop dead.
"Hey, guys," the man said slowly, his raspy, cigarette-sexy voice echoing through the room as he rubbed his hands nervously against his tight, ripped blue jeans. He tapped his cowboy boots on the floor, and squinted his bloodshot-blue eyes for effect. Even his dirty-blond hair was a perfect mess. "It's me. Craig. As you all know, I'm an alcoholic and an addict..."
He paused to gauge, Jennifer H. was certain, just how long he could hold the audience's attention.
"...and I did coke last night. I was going to lie about it, but I love you people too much..."
There was a gasp, and the crowd waited for the last inevitable line, like the final note in a brilliant aria.
"I'm back. Day one."
And then they cheered. Perry Street had never heard so much thunder. Some even cried, his performance so heartfelt. So like their own lives, but in a much glossier, more accessible package. Hollywood could not have made a better casting choice. As Bridget B. hugged him and whispered, "I knew you could do it" her face tilted sideways so that those who couldn't hear her could at least read her lips, a single tear glided down her alabaster skin. It was brushed aside by a perfectly manicured, unpolished hand. Not a single mistake was made. The performance was exquisite.
Jennifer H. was lost. Again. She had missed last call, after coming so close. And now she'd have to go home cold turkey, without even the soothing comfort of knowing they'd be waiting for her outside, begging to hear the rest of her drama and pleading with her to call them when she made it home. If she made it home, that is, given the vulnerable, fragile state she was in, a state that she depended on for her own stability.
When it was all over and the dreaded circle prayer complete (Thank God I didn't have to hold Paula T.'s sweaty palms!) Jennifer H. filed past Craig P.'s well-wishers and fans and left the room. He was seated now, holding court in the far corner, a reverent Bridget B. diligently at his knee. No one even said good-bye to her as she walked out the door. Ross P. did look up at her briefly, and for a moment she thought she had been recognized. But his gaze went onward, toward the main attraction in the back. Her time here was through.
Outside the snow lay on the sidewalk, rigid and iced like the night. Jennifer H. fumbled with her cigarette pack, then lit one of the remaining three, not once removing her cotton gloves in the process. She flicked her match in the direction of the wine-guzzling patrons at Cucinni's across the street. "Addicts," she whispered, then took a long drag before turning the corner on Fourth Street and heading home. Twenty-first Street seemed like an eternity away. How she'd get there alone, she had no idea. The wind howled at her through the trees above.
And today had been hell for Jennifer H. Terrifying. Even her therapist had suggested they start meeting just once a week, down from the usual two or three visits. How could she ever achieve her independence with so few people to depend on? She made a mental note to bring that up at her Incest Survivor's group on Wednesday, then lit the next-to-last cigarette. Jennifer H. was at least smart enough to pace herself: She knew by the time her final cigarette was down to the butt, she'd be in front of the North Corner Deli, where packs were $2.55, the lowest price in the Village. After that, there were only six more blocks. She prayed she could make it up Eighth Avenue without breaking down.
At the corner of Fourth and Eighth, she ran into Susan C., on her way home from another sold-out performance at 'Don't Tell Mama,' where she'd been headlining for the past three weeks.
"Back from another meeting?" Susan C. asked with condescension, after gloating over tonight's performance and pulling out her rave review from the New York Times. "I'm so proud of you for taking control of your life. I was always a little worried about you when you were singing at the Duplex." She hugged her and was off, humming a little showtune down the block.
"Cunt!" she muttered.
If she really cared about me back then she wouldn't have offered me free drinks from the bar after every show. Typical enabler. Maybe when she's face-down in a ditch I can throw a little scotch her way.
She made it all the way to the Starbucks on 16th Street, then glared inside its locked doors. She lit the first cigarette from her new pack, and inhaled sweetly. If she could only black out her memory, she might still be safe. Two guys from the gym next door walked past and bumped into her, their self-absorption preventing them from apologizing.
"They're so pathetic," she told the older woman standing next to her. "They have no sense of confidence or individuality, so they build up their muscles just to fit in."
As yet another New Yorker turned out to be rude (the woman turned away with hardly a smile), Jennifer H. composed herself and focused her mind on finding a new apartment.
Maybe someplace where the landlord isn't a fucking pervert and I don't have to worry about undressing with the blinds open, she thought.
But before she could take a step, she caught her reflection in the storefront window and the day came rushing back, the sobering memory that she so desperately needed to numb at AA. She knew she didn't have the strength to relive it all again, yet her head exploded with every horrifying detail.
Jennifer H. had spilled the coffee at work!
Her third day at Starbucks had, up until this morning, been almost entirely successful. The manager was an asshole, but at least he was gay so she didn't have to worry about him hitting on her. She had been so proud of herself for being part of the workforce again, after a year of unemployment, with countless calls into the office on 20th Street, where they repeatedly threatened to cut her off for not recording the occasional off-the-books coatcheck job.
But when unemployment ran out and her mom had refused to budge, Jennifer H. had tackled the job world again. As she had vowed she'd never lower her standards by trying to get her old job back at the Duplex, she applied for the counter-person position at the new Starbucks, for $6.50 an hour. It was a move that had thrilled her sponsor and awarded her with several embraces and thumb's up signs from the group. Naturally, it had infuriated her mother, who didn't even make an attempt to understand why such a talented girl would give up a singing career to sell coffee.
"After all," her mother had said, "it's not like you have to accept drinks when they're offered to you." Everyone in the group had laughed when she told that story.
This morning, however, nothing had gone right, and she was beginning to feel as if she should just apply for welfare, which would at least allow her more time to attend meetings.
When Jennifer H. arrived at work at 10:15 (her alarm clock had once again failed to go off), the manager, Randy, had reprimanded her in front of the two customers who were already waiting in line. Then he threw her behind the counter before she even had a chance to tie her apron string.
It was traumatic and humiliating, and the only thing that had prevented her from quitting on the spot was an encouraging pep talk from her sponsor, after Jennifer H. dashed off between patrons to make an emergency phone call. "I know it's going to be tough," Rachel K. had said, "but you've got to stick it out. Remember, you've finally got a plan. We're so proud of you."
She managed to maintain control as the noon crowd poured in, mostly barflies just waking up from last night's booze-fest, and more of those homos, so pathetically addicted to working out they could talk about nothing else. When three of them came in together and ordered decafs, all with the same buzz cut and discussing vitamin supplements, she was tempted to tell them flat-out to get a life and to stop spending weekends at drugged-up circuit parties in order to feel needed.
Fuck it, she thought, remembering what she'd learned from the Big Book about the inability to force people to change. When they're ready to face their loneliness, that's when they'll start coming to group.
And then she spilled it. An entire mocha grande, with cinnamon, that she'd just made for the man in front of her. Black-and-white liquid splashed all over the vest of his suit and dribbled down his pant leg. He jumped back and grabbed for paper towels, then kept swearing as he ran out of the shop, not even offering to pay, and not even thanking her for at least trying to get it right. Everyone stared at her, frozen at the counter, his empty cup still in her hand. By the time she managed to collect herself and clean up, Randy had taken over, screamed at her for incompetence, and sent her on an early break.
She spent nearly ten minutes in the ladies room, ignoring the incessant knocking, and bawling uncontrollably. "It's so fucking unfair -- my mother, my dependency, and now this." Her only comfort was that now she had support. People who cared and who understood and who wouldn't judge, and who would pat her on the shoulder tonight and tell her to hang in there, like that father she had always needed to hug her and tell her everything would be okay. People who would realize the utter humiliation of having a strange man yell at you in front of complete strangers when absolutely nothing, starting with an unreliable alarm clock, had gone right that day. How much she depended on tonight's meeting. It was the only thing that got her out of the ladies room and back in front of the counter.
But that was this morning, an entire 12 hours ago, when there was still hope. Now the long night lay stretched out in front of her, cold and empty, like the bottom of a shot glass. Her hands trembled as she turned the corner at 21st Street and slowly began the ascent up the steps to her apartment. The night sky closed in on her and there was blackness in every direction. Inside, she checked her machine. Rachel K. had left two messages, the last urging her not to call her back until tomorrow as she had to be up at five.
"I can't believe how unsupportive she is. No wonder I'm such a fucking mess," she said aloud, her voice echoing through the bare apartment. She half-hoped the super would call to complain. Anything but silence.
Her mother's message came next, and Jennifer H. immediately erased it. She'd heard these ridiculous guilt trips and accusations a million times and she'd be damned if she'd let herself be victimized again.
"Jennifer," the message would say, "maybe you should come home for awhile. I'm sure your old friends would like to see you." Or, "Jennifer, I just heard about a great singing job. Would you like the number?" Or most damaging of all, "Jennifer, I hope that drinking thing you're going to is helpful. But remember not to get too involved." She'd say everything to Jennifer H., except the thing she needed to hear most of all. The thing that no single person could ever tell her. That's why she had group.
She passed by the hallway mirror without even a glance. Jennifer H. hated her reflection even more at night. In her bedroom, she threw herself under the comforter and scanned the TV pay channels. Finding nothing new, she turned the set off, turned out the lights, and stared up at the dilapidated ceiling. She started to cry, and wondered how she'd ever make it through the night, staying awake and falling asleep both terrifying options. If she'd still had her cat she'd at least have something to hold onto.
And then, thank God, she remembered where she'd stashed it. It was in her closet, above the photograph of her father and tucked carefully behind her nightclothes. She hadn't touched it in months, didn't think she needed it anymore, but she kept it just in case, and tonight it was her only salvation. Perhaps somewhere in the back of her mind Jennifer H. knew that it wasn't the long-term solution to her problems, but there was no turning back now. When she opened it up, it was as if every care simply washed away. She forgot about her mother, she forgot about her job; she even forgot that she was alone. She clutched it to her chest and a glazed look came over her eyes.
Jennifer H. had picked up her Meeting Book. She found the page she needed in seconds, set her alarm for six, reset it just to be certain, and turned over on her side, cozy at last.
As luck would have it, an early-bird meeting was being held tomorrow at 6:30 a.m. at St. John the Divine chapel on 14th Street. It was a meeting so popular and reputable that the regulars had taken to calling themselves, in keeping with the religious atmosphere, the Virgin Marys. The thought of attending was so intoxicating that she was asleep before she knew what hit her.
