Chapter 2

Noble awoke early the next morning. He took a long shower and dressed in the same outfit. He signed a few forms at the nurse’s station. He expected a clean getaway, a return to his old habits. He knew only that he should drink in moderation, perhaps a beer or two to loosen the fingers. He didn’t view his hospitalization as an event which ruined his drinking. After all, he was still an artist. Two days apart from the instrument, however, seemed caustic to his artistic progress. He would bolt to Shylock’s and attack the instrument. He would practice until his fingers blistered. Experience made him smarter and more prepared. Nothing would get in the way. Just sign this last form, collect the money they confiscated, and- wait. He was almost out the door when the polyester man barricaded the exit. He wore a three-piece lime suit, polyester, in keeping with his style. Noble had been half-asleep, but this suit electrified the dull brown of the psychiatric ward. He wore a kelly tie and a gold tie pin, an insignia of the Knights of Columbus. His hair was meticulously combed. Noble figured he was the type who got a shave at the barber’s, his features carved with wrinkles from every kind of disgruntled facial expression. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a handshake. He stood like a drill sergeant on the cusp of berating his one cadet. He did, however, offer Noble a ride into Waspachick. Noble accepted, and once in the car, he remembered that nothing comes for free.

“I’m taking you to a meeting,” said the polyester man.

“No thanks.”

“Do you want to end up where you just were? That’s insanity.”

“Thanks for taking me to the hospital. I’m in a great deal of debt to you, but I really don’t want to attend a meeting right now. Y’know, I have responsibilities.”

“Like what?” he asked with a drawl.

“My job. I have work today.”

“Bullshit. Never bullshit a bullshiter. He can easily detect it.”

“Seriously. I have my job to consider.”

“Wrong. You have your life to consider. One more drink will put you right where you started. Your job can wait. You need a meeting. You said you were indebted to me. Well, now is payback time. You will go to this meeting, and afterwards if you don’t feel that AA is right for you, then you can leave with my blessings, and we’ll call it even.”

“I don’t even know who you are. You can’t force me to go.”

“DWI cards? Not from me.”

“Okay. I’ll go,” said Noble, “but we have a deal. If I don’t like it, then you give me DWI cards for the rest of the month, and I don’t come to any more meetings, deal?”

“No deal. I can’t give out the cards if you miss the meetings.”

“Then what’s the point in going to this one?”

The polyester man pulled to the curb. Then rammed the gear into park.

“This is your life,” he said angrily, “and I don’t make deals when it comes to someone’s life. You came to that meeting needing help. You were shaking all over the place, poisoned with liquor. How quickly you forget. Now we’re going to this meeting, you and I, and if you don’t like it, tough. Don’t shit me. You may end up saving your own life. Now take the cotton out of your ears and stick it in your mouth. Sit there for an hour is all you have to do. And another thing- Don’t piss me off.”

They arrived at the sprawling church which appeared august in the morning light. The sunshine lent a different character to this strong structure, its dark, misshapen rocks collecting grime from the cars darting along the avenue. The church anchored an otherwise flimsy section of Waspachick. It offered a touch of the bucolic in an otherwise dense suburbia. The supermarket across the street with its shopping carts strewn about its parking lot confused an otherwise tranquil setting. On the stone steps familiar faces puffed on cigarettes and drank coffee. Noble figured nicotine and caffeine to an alcoholic must have been the next best thing.

A few of them said ‘hello’ to ‘Harry.’ So that’s his name. To Noble they smiled. He wanted nothing to do with these people. They had done irreparable damage to themselves. Noble had only made a mistake, a slight miscalculation, which landed him detox. He intended to drink moderately, never again to go overboard in his pursuit of artistic excellence. A life without alcohol blunted one’s creative impulses, as though sobriety were inimical to artistry. Nothing novel would ever supplant the hum-drum, contemporary, even hackneyed view of experience supplied by these alcoholics. Nothing would ever result, and these men and women would never affect the human race as would Noble McCloud and his guitar. It was as cut and dry as the supermarket and the church building.

He followed Harry into the church. They sat together in the illuminated congregation room. A few members were already seated. They too drank coffee and looked depressed. It took a will of iron to get up this early, especially for a meeting. It must have been seven in the morning by Noble’s calculation. Harry sat with him in silence, waiting for some divine transformation. A life devoid of alcohol was somehow stale, dull, ordinary, lifeless, as dead as this room. He certainly couldn’t play without it.

The room filled with thirty people, and an overweight man in his thirties read the preamble. He said his name was Milo. The name fit him well, his bowl haircut boyish and his tone mellow and calm, hiding anger. Noble couldn’t put his finger on it, but this Milo character wasn’t who he seemed. If pushed in the wrong places, that serene, even gentle demeanor could erupt into a tantrum, a cudgel splitting the thick skulls of everyone in the room, because the man could never swig a drink for the rest of his life. Imagine that? Not drinking for the rest of his life? Never tasting a cold beer on a hot, muggy afternoon, or celebrating with a sip of whiskey when he finally gets a promotion? Abstinence was not only ridiculous but unfeasible. The people around him were God freaks engaged in the occult. Soon they would abstain from nicotine, caffeine, gambling, fatty foods, and masturbation, and by doing so, abstain from the ethos which gives society its amusement, its fundamental joy, and above all, its necessary escape. Then the proliferation of abstemious programs for every single vice known to human kind. Why, Alcoholics Anonymous could be conceived as a danger to society, seditious, or the equivalent of high treason. Does the Department of Defense know about these people? Do they recognize the threat to our great nation?

Noble measured the dimensions of the congregation room. Light streamed through the casements which offered a view of a courtyard. Noble concluded that all of these people were brainwashed by an extreme pseudo-spiritual condition. They could be aliens living in an underground city, only to emerge at these meetings. The head alien was Harry who indoctrinated the innocent into their cult-like clan, and soon they would capture Noble and drug him. They would then drag him through a trap door in the floor. Once they arrived in their labyrinthine city, they would conduct odd experiments, and eventually drain him of blood, because they fed from human blood, not alcohol. That’s what they were, freakish vampires waiting for a spacecraft. They needed Noble’s blood to get to their home planet, the blood a form of rocket fuel, alcohol a virulent poison...

Milo asked if there were anyone new or ‘coming back’ to the meeting. Noble, still lost in phantasmagoria, felt a nudge on his arm. He regained his senses and discovered that the entire room awaited a response. It was Milo who hung onto this pervasive silence. Noble had to respond, and he said simply: “Hi, my name is Noble, this is my first time to this, uh, whatever it is, actually my second time, coming back, I suppose.”

“Welcome back,” said a few scattered voices.

He clung to the false hope that many of these drunks wouldn’t remember him from two nights ago, shaking violently and pleading for mercy. Luckily, however, the format of the meeting was speaker/discussion, and so Noble had the luxury of non-participation. Once he introduced himself, he relaxed as though taking in a film. The group was arranged in a circle, and across from Milo sat a middle-aged man with a long, prominent scar wandering down his brow and into the inner corner of his eye. He must have strayed into the meeting surreptitiously, because Noble would have immediately caught this aberration. Nevertheless, the scar interested him, and so he listened to this man’s story.

“Hi, my name is Cliff, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Cliff,” said the group.

“Thank you for inviting me to speak tonight, I’ll try to keep it as brief as possible, and hopefully through my story I could tell you what it was like, what had happened, and what it’s like now.

“I took my first drink when I was thirteen years old. My father stashed a few bottles of bourbon and rum and wine in a small liquor cabinet in the living room, and one night when my parents were out, I tried some of the bourbon. It was the worst thing I ever tasted, really, it tasted so bitter; but I heard people get high off the stuff, and naturally I had to drink some more. I drank half the bottle and felt such an incredible high. While my parents were out of town, I’d invite people over, y’know, a few friends from high school, and we used to have parties. That was my first experience with the booze. I also took the occasional beer from the fridge, but these parties happened more frequently. Nothing too drastic happened, but soon I was partying every day with my friends, and my grades slipped. My parents wondered why, but they never found out. I even went to school drunk, and my friends also go hold of some marijuana.

“Marijuana is combination with the liquor was the perfect high. I was getting drunk and high before school and after school, and the whole time, my grades were sinking, and my parents never found out until I was caught by one of the teachers. She noticed I had been drinking, I think she smelled it on my breath, and I was reported to the principal’s office. They called my parents, and now they were thrown into the mix. So as you can probably tell, my drinking habits formed when I was fairly young. My parents, though, didn’t do much about it. They sat me down, gave me a long talk and a slap on the wrist. They also locked up the liquor cabinet. But my drinking was far from over.

“I continued drinking in high school. Never went to college. I got a job landscaping and worked my tail off for a few measly bucks a month. After work, we’d all go out for beers, and I was the life of the party. I’d hit on the girls, dance on the bar, get into fights. One night while driving home after being very drunk, I was stopped by the police. I had been drinking vodka all night, because vodka is hard to smell on the breath. I thought I was clear, but the cops suspected something, and next thing I knew I was hauled into the station. They gave me a breathalyzer, and I was jailed for DWI. Arrested. They took away my license, everything.

“After the DWI, I settled down, although still active. I just made sure not to drive. I met my wife in the Southern Waspachick area. We got married, and I insisted on using both drugs and alcohol on a regular basis. My wife never touched the stuff, but I kept on using. One night I was at a bar over on the North Side, and I had a few too many. I thought I could make it home by car, and I got on the road, and I was stopped again by the same police officer who arrested me the first time. Some police officer. He knew I was coming from Greely’s on the North end, and once again I was taken in for my second DWI. See, I couldn’t stop drinking. I always wanted more. This is a disease of “more.” One beer, one hit, was never enough. I drank to get drunk and obliterated. In fact, I remember one night I was at the bar, and one of my old drinking buddies told me to slow down. “The night is young,” he said. “Try and enjoy the buzz.” So I tried, and it turns out I didn’t even like the buzz alcohol gave me. I kept pounding beers along with my favorite drink, which was bourbon.

“In the meantime, my relationship with my family deteriorated, simply because I hardly ever saw them. When I did see my wife, I was usually very drunk. I would drink right after work, and sometimes I wouldn’t come home until two or three in the morning reeking of alcohol. We’d have fights, even though the children slept down the hall. I remember fighting almost every night, and it was always over the drinking.

“One night our fighting turned physical. I woke up the next morning, and my wife had a black eye. I blacked-out, so I had no clue as to what happened. And then she told me how I hit her and how the kids came down the hall and begged me to stop. Of course, I didn’t stop drinking. I knew I had to come home by supper time, and I would make it to supper drunk from happy hour at the bar. My kids saw me drunk, and the fights between my wife and me happened openly at the table. I would stay home for a little while, and then I’d go out again. Everything aside from the booze was unimportant. My wife and kids didn’t matter to me anymore. Instead of my life surrounding them, it surrounded my drinking. I loved getting drunk, but the more I drank, the more my family suffered, and they paid a heavy price.

“The landscaping continued for a couple of years, but my drinking had gotten worse. Instead of drinking at happy hour, I was now drinking at both lunch time and happy hour. Me and a couple guys from work went out and basically got drunk, or it wasn’t them who got drunk, it was me. They could stop after a couple, but I kept on going until I returned to the job drunk. Everything turned into a daze. Most of the time I was confused, and after two or three years on the job, I was fired for botching up a lawn job. Incompetence, they call it. For a couple years more, I collected welfare, and at times I couldn’t put food on the table.

“My wife and kids left me a few months after I had lost the job. I remember the morning clearly. My wife simply told me in the bedroom that she was leaving with the kids, because I failed to take care of them. They went off to my in-laws, and I was in the house alone. It was amazing, because now I could drink the way I wanted to drink. No more hassles. Instead of going out for drinks, I bought the liquor home. I would wake up in the morning, have a shot while looking in the classifieds. I would drink in the afternoon, and then go to the bar at night. I was drinking around the clock. The bills weren’t being paid, the mortgage especially. I basically ignored all the bills and drank most of my savings away.

“It wasn’t until the winter, and I recall it was an exceptionally cold winter, that the bank foreclosed on my house. I was also in trouble with the IRS. I was homeless for a little while. I stayed with my mom and dad. They soon kicked me out and wanted nothing more to do with me. I had threatened them over money, and they rightly figured once was too many. These were hard times. I was now broke and an alcoholic, only that I didn’t realize it. I then stayed with friends, but soon they kicked me out for similar reasons. I would grub and steal money from them to support my habit. The social worker at the welfare office told me I had an alcohol problem, but I never believed it. Meanwhile, I was drinking every day and night. I hung out with drunks and drug addicts, although I stayed away from the harder drugs. Besides an occasional joint, drugs were beneath me, I thought, and meanwhile I was drinking bourbon like water, hanging around with the dregs of society, the maladjusted, the unemployed, basically all the addicts. I rarely saw my wife. I usually saw her for money. She’d give me all she could, before my in-laws told me to get lost. I put my wife through hell, and even my kids through hell. I was a lost soul. Alcohol took away my family, my house, I had to sell my car, but more than anything it took away my dignity and self-respect.

“One night the crew I was hanging with knew a small bodega which didn’t have good security. I was so broke at the time that I thought it was a golden opportunity. At the last minute though, I ducked out of the plan. I was too scared of going to jail. I was lucky enough not to go through with it. Last time I heard, those same guys who robbed the store are now serving fifteen years in Rahway State Prison. I could have been one of them. It must have been my Higher Power operating in my life. Otherwise, I would have gone to jail.

“But still I was broke. My love for liquor never left. I was looking for liquor everywhere, and usually I found some. But when I had no money for another bottle, I got so uptight that I stole mouthwash from the pharmacy and drank that instead. The mouthwash burned a whole through my stomach, but it was an average substitute for the booze. I got my money from selling drugs on the streets, but luckily I was never caught. I had the feeling that I had somehow been damned by the universe, damned by God. I was never angry with my wife for leaving me. Nor was I angry with my family for turning me away. I was never angry with the dealers, drinkers, or drug addicts in my life. I was, however, angry with God for bringing me into this world. I thought God had forsaken me somehow, that he allowed these problems to occur. I would sometimes curse his name, but I still prayed to him during my most frightening moments. The relationship with my Higher Power back then was pretty rough. Little did I know through all of my problems my Higher Power really never left me. He was with me the entire time, making me learn from my insanity. Yes, I made the same mistake morning, afternoon, and night by drinking, and insanity is making the same mistake over and over again. I had no control over what I did, who I saw, what was happening. It wasn’t until a warm summer night that I finally woke up from my darkness and embraced the light.

“One night I was in a homeless shelter. I had been living there for some time, and I knew many drunks who lived there too. That’s not to say that everyone who lived there drank, but there were a few there who drank like I did, meaning that they drank round the clock, and so I found instant companionship with those who had no life except for alcohol. Near the shelter was a high retaining wall, and some of the people at the shelter hung out at the knoll next to it. I was constantly drunk by this time. I woke up in the morning and vomited mouthwash, and I hung out with these guys who always had a bottle, either of mouthwash or the real thing.

“Well, on this particular night they had the real stuff. They had told me so when the shelter had its lock-out period. I hung around them the entire day, and then at night near the retaining wall. Drunk and out of control, I fell from the retaining wall, about fifteen feet. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital. I had been in a coma, and when I came to, the doctor told me I had fallen and was left by myself in a pool of blood. My skull had been severely fractured, and I had been in a coma for four days. They handed me a mirror, and I observed for the first time, this long undesirable gash running down my forehead. It took four hundred and ninety stitches, and they had to replace a part of my lip. I knew then that my drinking had to stop, only that I didn’t know how.

“In the hospital an AA meeting was held almost every night. The doctors told me these meetings would help me stop drinking. I went to a discussion meeting, and I kept going until I found a sponsor. At first I thought these meetings were terrible. I thought about what my life would be like without alcohol. I couldn’t imagine it, yet I knew I had to make drastic changes. In my hospital room I read the big book, and that gave me a lot of comfort, because I identified with the stories and its message. And all the time I was going to these meetings, and I found people who understood me, a strong fellowship with those who were in my shoes, who had similar experiences. I went to these meetings, because I knew I had to change, or else I would die. Somehow death was not the problem inasmuch life was the problem. I found within the Big Book a blueprint for sobriety and a new life beyond alcohol. At first I latched onto the slogans: ‘One day at a Time,’ ‘First Things First,’ and ‘Think.’ The one that helped me the most was ‘One Day at a Time.’ It didn’t mean that I had to go the rest of my life without a drink. Only one day without a drink. Everyone in this room, regardless of the sober time we put together, has but one day. And in that day, I don’t have to drink or drug. In that one day I can go on with my life without picking up a drink. It’s the present which is eternal, not yesterday, not tomorrow, but this moment in time. I learned that the present or today is where all the joy is, that yesterday is history, and tomorrow a mystery.

“I left the hospital knowing that if I were to return to the booze, it could mean jails, institutions, such as the hospital, and ultimately death. With the help of the program, it was now time to put my life back together again. In the hospital I found a great sponsor. I must have been on the phone with him twice, sometimes three times a day. A good sponsor is one of the essentials of this program. I would have picked up a drink without his support. And so I wanted my life back. I found a job with the hospital, an administrative position. I earned enough money to find an apartment in Southern Waspachick. I contacted my family and made amends with my wife and two children who are now on their way to high school. My wife divorced me during my drinking days, but now we’re hammering out a plan which may unite us a second time. Picking up the pieces wasn’t so easy. Every day out of the hospital I had urges, and at those times, I called my sponsor. I also networked with people in the rooms who I consider good friends.

“Today, I have a life. It’s not like the absence of alcohol took away my joy and excitement. The opposite is true. Sobriety has given me a new lease on life. The scar down my forehead, which is now my most distinguishable feature, is a constant reminder of what my Higher Power did for me. My scar is my message, or better yet, it was His message to me. I almost died at the hands of alcohol, and without these meetings, I would have certainly drank again, only that I would have never returned. I would have died drunk and impoverished.

“I’ve noticed there are a few newcomers here tonight. When I first entered these rooms, I didn’t believe this program could work. The idea of going to a park, or having a cook-out, or going to the beach without alcohol seemed ridiculous. And the first few weeks in the program were certainly my roughest. But in time, after forcing myself to these meetings, I eventually liked and soon loved coming. I find in these rooms a strength and an energy to continue but for one more day. Today I have my family back, my friends, all of those things which my alcoholism took away. To those newcomers- stick around. You may just have the time of your life.”

The audience furnished a warm applause, and the man with the scar smiled as though touched by a divine hand.

“Well, we’ve come to the discussion part of the meeting,” said Milo. “Did anyone have a problem with their sobriety today or wish to share on a specific topic?”

They all seemed to stare at Noble whose hand reached toward the ceiling.

“Hi, my name is Noble, and I was discharged from detox this afternoon. I’m not sure if I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Noble!” said the members. And random shouts of “Welcome.”

“Okay,” resumed Milo in a gentle voice, “let’s talk about ‘powerlessness’ and what it felt like when we first got sober.”

A hand was raised.

“Hi, my name is Ivan, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Ivan!”

Ivan looked about Noble’s age. He was thin. His crew cut animated his prodigious ears. His cheeks were pockmarked with acne. He wore a loose blue tee-shirt, and he looked into the table while speaking.

“Thanks for your story, Cliff. I have close to six months now, and I remember what it was like when I first came into these rooms. I had been drinking so much that the doctor said I would die if I kept drinking. I also drank under medications which can give you brain damage. But now I’m coming up on six months, and I have this good chunk of sobriety. I have to admit I’m powerless over the alcohol. One slip, and I’ll be back in the institution. It’s either jails, institutions, or death, that’s all that’s waiting for me out there. I can’t go back to that way of life. My mind is still clearing up after six months. I remember when I first came in, after a two-day bender, and I needed these rooms as I do now. Sober is better. It’s simply a better way of life, and I’m grateful for the things sobriety has given me. It’s also important to keep my mind green. Before I came in, my mind was gone due to alcohol. I only cared about alcohol and nothing else. I’m grateful for being sober another day. Thanks for letting me share.”

“Thanks Ivan!”

Another hand raised.

“Hi, I’m Eddie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Eddie!”

“What can I say? All right, I know. I was riding down the highway the other day with a new worker in the truck, and it’s obvious to me the guy’s been drinking, so he asks me if I want a beer. I tell him ‘no, I don’t want a beer,” but he keeps askin’ and askin,’ and he won’t stop asking. So I pull over by the road and tell him straight: ‘No, I don’t want a beer, and if you keep on bugging me about it, I’ll tell the boss.’ The next thing, you know, he’s breakin’ out another beer. And I’m drivin’ down the road to another site, and he keeps on askin’ me to drink with him, and he’s goin’ on and on about how his wife left him, and how his marriage fell apart, and now he’s respecting me, because I’m sober, and he’s drunk. I mean why drink in the first place? Right? So anyway- hmmm, I just lost where I was- oh yeah, so we’re drivin’ down the road, and he starts crying about his wife, and I couldn’t believe it, I should have left him on the side of the road, but then he again offers me a beer after all that cryin’. And I get home after a long day’s work, and my sister yells at me about a raffle ticket. I didn’t wanna buy one, but she keeps forcing it on me, and we got into a huge fight about it. I said ‘I’m not gonna buy one of those tickets, because I don’t wanna. I have more important things to spend my money on,’ ya know? So I guess I’ll keep coming.”

Noble didn’t know what to make of this good-humored litany. The man was older and shorter, a laborer, probably a landscaper or a surveyor, something to do with soil or dust. He laughed at his own predicaments and strayed far enough from the topic to warrant another alcoholic sharing with a point and purpose in mind, like steering straight a vessel which had drifted off course.

“Hi, I’m Phinaeus, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Phinaeus!”

Phinaeus resembled a giant octopus, his head completely bald, and his cranium immense and irregular. He wore square plastic eyeglasses which could have easily been confused as goggles. He sucked on a stubby corncob pipe. He might have been an alien from a planet far removed or a squid with its tentacles squeezing normalcy from the meeting’s atmosphere. There was little chance he would guide this sinking ship.

“I’ve got to remember where drinking got me,” he shared with celerity, “I mean, I’ve been out of the hospital for three weeks, and I was in the hospital for three years, eleven months, fourteen days, and six hours. I mean I don’t understand why I have this obsession for drink, it’s horrible, it really is. I had a beer just the other night, I can’t control it. I had a beer at my mother’s place, I mean it just gets worse and worse. I was at my mother’s, and she’s committing adultery all the time, and I know what it says in the Bible about adultery: ‘Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife,’ and all she’s been doing is committing adultery, which puts me into the oddest position, because my father died a long time ago, and all he did was drink, so I don’t know where I get this obsession, but ever since I got out of the hospital, I’ve done nothing but think about drinking. I don’t want to go back there, my God, I’ve been in there for the longest time, and one drink will put me back there, and I can’t stop focusing on the drink. My mother used to drink a lot too, and ever since my father died, she’s been committing adultery. I tell her to stop, but she never listens. It’s really a tough situation. She never lets up, and I talk to her about drinking, but she never listens to me or to anyone for that matter. It says so right in the Bible, but whenever I bring this to the attention of my mother, she basically tells me to get lost, and I think that drinking will make things better, as my mother commits adultery and- it’s all a question of adultery. She’s sleeping with this old...”

“Phinaeus,” interrupted Milo, “I’m cutting you off, okay. Time is very precious in these rooms, okay? We have to give others a chance to share, okay?”

Phinaeus seemed more confused than humiliated by the interruption. A hand was raised towards the back end of the congregation room. A tall, athletic, good-looking young man shared next. He wore a silk suit, his tie hanging loosely from his collar signifying a decent-paying job, a car, an apartment in Waspachick, and indicating that he was now off-duty like a sign in a store window which reads ‘closed.’