Chapter 1

The Waspachick strip throbbed with students let out for summer vacation. Noble slalomed through gangs of loud, excited teen-agers posturing for summer flings. Outdoor tables adorned the coffee houses and the restaurants. Suped-up cars with subwoofers on high boomed and thumped through the center of town. Many came from surrounding townships to cavort in the heat. The winter ended abruptly, and spring lasted for only a week. Noble couldn’t help but spot the wine glasses at the tables, the pints of beer, the charged atmosphere making him long for the sloppiness of a few drinks. The women who were too young for him filled the coffee houses. Even the college students looked adolescent. The women who were out of his league drank freely with their affluent suitors at the Trattoria or the Greek grotto. Waspachick women were never single. Someone always got to them first. Better stay away from them. Too young, and he could be jailed. A woman of his age, and her boyfriend would break his kneecaps.

He drank vicariously and thereby avoided the abominable hangover in the morning. For a while Noble had been riding on the ‘pink cloud’ of sobriety, a time when sobriety seems too marvelous, a movement from unmanageability to organization, clarity, and functioning. He found people who were interested in him, and he could play the social game with the alcoholics he met at the meetings. Nevertheless, he mostly observed these social interactions and kept his distance. On occasion he would go to the diner with Ivan and Milo, but over the last few weeks this activity tapered off until he developed a solitary routine.

He attended two meetings a day, one at noontime and the other at night. He showered and washed his clothes at Shylock’s. Shylock gave him a weekly allowance. “You’re my investment,” he said on a number of occasions, “and when you make it big, I want front row seats.”

After the evening meetings, he would shut himself off in the Oldsmobile and compose his instrumentals. It got to the point where he didn’t know how to do anything else. He didn’t ask Shylock about a coffee house performance. Shylock was doing enough already, and Noble was too timid to impose on him further. The next alternative involved playing on the Waspachick street corners, but he worried about the police.

Already he had received many warnings for camping near the town park after dark. Usually he drove around the block and parked in the same spot. The officer on night duty was kind enough. He warned him but allowed it anyway.

He called Harry from the pay phone next to Shylock’s coffee house. He called him when he felt like drinking. This was often, and at one point Harry asked that he call collect. Noble never had enough change to finish a conversation. He saw Harry on a daily basis. Harry attended night meetings only, now that Noble’s recovery was underway. “If you want a drink, have it tomorrow,” said Harry repeatedly. This redundancy actually worked. Whenever he thought of drinking, he remembered this mantra, and when the morning came he was thankful he didn’t drink the night before. The ‘pink cloud,’ however, dissipated slowly. He improved in his sobriety, but there was always something missing.

He desperately needed a woman to fill this void. The Three M’s had worked through the ‘pink cloud’ era, but not beyond it. He was tempted to take the Oldsmobile, his guitar, and his belongings on the road. The ‘traveling bug,’ he called it. At times he couldn’t stand being in Waspachick. A vacation from the routine would help, that or an all-out escape to the West Coast in search of this nirvana as he imagined it. But ever since his recovery, his chances of an escape were slim. New entanglements, money especially, kept him in Waspachick. Without Shylock’s allowance, he couldn’t eat, let alone fill up his gas tank. He could make it as far as Pittsburgh. Secondly, escape translated into getting drunk or flying along the highway only to smoke a joint, gulp at whiskey, frolic with women, have a beer and hear the band, et cetera. There was little or no excitement in his life. It had all grown so routine and dull. Sure, his playing improved, but other than this, his existence still resembled a parched wasteland. Where was the fun, the challenge insanity brought, the unpredictability, the wine, women, and song? Something was missing.

Perhaps he was too young for the serenity the program promised. Only retired people liked serenity, he mused. But the old-timers always said they wished they had found AA a long time ago. Their lives, they said, were wasted due to alcohol, as some of them drank continuously for thirty, maybe forty years. They envied the young alcoholics.

Ultimately the entire concept of AA rested on spirituality which resulted in serenity. Either surrender to a Higher Power or die, and Noble was very uncomfortable with this ultimatum.

The reasoning behind this, however, was sound. Alcoholics always try to run their lives by themselves, without any assistance, like the auteur who tries to manage the entire production. The program went against self-reliance and essentially gave this self-will up to God as the alcoholic understood Him.

Harry’s understanding of God was simply the acronym ‘Group Of Drunks.’ The alcoholic turns over his will, because at the times when he had exercised self-reliance, the results were disastrous and catastrophic. For Noble it was the psychiatric ward. He didn’t dare ask Harry where his last drunk led him. Nevertheless, the program was essentially a spiritual one. Spirituality filled the void that drinking couldn’t fill. In other words, Noble’s escapism, his longing for a pina colada on a beach with blonde women would never fill this void. Traveling cross-country with a joint and a half-pint of whiskey wouldn’t fill it either. The salted soil of his wasteland could never be cultivated by imaginary crops. So the program also insisted that the alcoholic, after turning his will over to the care of the Higher Power, act in accordance with His divine will. The twelve steps were a plan of action. “All you have to know is that there is a Higher Power, and you’re not it,” said Harry. Yet Noble was bothered by the twelve steps since they all presupposed a reliance on this mysterious Higher Power, or at least steps two through twelve. Noble was not surprised when Harry said: “The first step is the only step you have to get one-hundred percent.” In short, the belief in a Higher Power remained his biggest hurdle. This was due to his rudimentary perception of a Higher Power.

When he prayed, he simply looked at the sky and received no answer whatsoever. The sky, hopefully not so starry, represented this Higher Power and His deaf ear to Noble’s pleas. Yes, he still wanted the cheering audience. He prayed and wished, prayed and wished, and meanwhile his playing never left the Oldsmobile. He refused to practice where others could hear him. Nevertheless, his understanding of this Higher Power was too narrow, a monotheistic conception of a God with limited powers. Aside from this, Noble grasped slowly the multifarious nature of God, that he may actually be operating through people. This led him to believe that telepathy was not associated with the supernatural, but the spiritual. He had mistakenly given telepathy a parapsychological association, like voodoo, astrology, or sorcery. Telepathy, however, was a spiritual phenomenon. It filled the void.

Still he was unsure. It could have been his imagination, but the signs were so overt, so conspicuous, so blatant and deliberate. The evidence of its existence was overpowering and unforgettable.

Harry wore his cotton clothes at least once a week. He behaved strangely on these nights-his staring, his smiling, his eyes rolling, a wink in the middle of a meeting- and gradually he rented space in Noble’s mind. Even when Noble didn’t physically see him at the meetings, he had conversations with him. He couldn’t distinguish what was real and what was imaginary. This was the bitter problem haunting his compliance. He separated the real from the imaginary until the latter took over. Little did he realize that for the imagination to function, it must also rely on the real or the empirical. Imagination without conscience, and now without knowledge, yielded a nightmarish delusion of majestic proportions. The two sides needed to work together. Yet the telepathic exchanges humbled him.

He tried to figure the whole phenomena out, like an incredible puzzle, but he decided that the best way to attack the puzzle was to declare ignorance. ‘I’ve tried to figure this whole thing out, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know anything,’ thought Noble. ‘That’s the smartest thing you’ve said yet,’ responded Harry. These telepathic experiences kept him coming to meetings, and he had no idea where it would lead him. He had no idea who possessed telepathy and who did not. Somehow he was stuck with it, and he would not ask anymore questions as to its nature, or above all, its intent and purpose.

One bit of knowledge he did uncover: that AA could only help with not taking that first drink. Some saw it as a blueprint for life, but Noble agreed with his sponsor that AA could only help with alcoholism, not much else. Some of the old-timers talked of miracles. ‘Don’t leave until the miracle happens,’ was but one of the many catch-phrases. The program had its twelve promises or miracles to match its twelve steps. Noble thought these promises too farfetched, extravagant, and contradictory. For instance, the catch-phrase, ‘We must live life on life’s terms,’ contradicted with the promise, ‘Fear of people and economic insecurity will leave us.’ The term ‘life’ and ‘fear’ were both synonymous terms inasmuch life is all about insecurities and fears. Fear is a basic staple of life and the basic trait of the human character. Noble wouldn’t dare walk too far south after midnight. And then the promise, ‘Self-seeking will slip away.’ Really? Impossible. To follow the program rigorously and then have these twelve promises fulfilled was the equivalent of achieving a heaven on earth. This could only take place if and only if a psychic change took place. The perceptions would be cleansed, and naturally one finds heaven. But how to carry on the task of living with other non-alcoholics was another problem. After psychically changing, does one simply wander naked along the Waspachick strip thinking he has found the garden of Eden? One would find a jail cell instead. All frivolity aside, the program required a mental sacrifice, not in half-measures, but in a total measure. Whether this happens slowly or quickly depends on the irrationality of the alcoholic. The more irrational, the quicker one finds this heaven on earth. ‘I came for my drinking, and I stayed for my thinking,’ he heard someone share. Noble was reluctant to throw himself on the sacrificial alter of AA. He wasn’t about to permit a full psychic transformation. He knew, however, that these meetings did affect his mentality, his attitude especially. For instance, whenever he urged, he thought of ‘One day at a time,’ and he immediately called Harry. “Have the drink tomorrow.”

Sometimes he reviewed the twelve promises. The AA philosophy encroached upon that part of him which remained, how shall we call it?, Sane? “Keep it simple,” said Harry. “Don’t drink and come to meetings. Don’t think yourself out of the program.” Noble knew that any intelligence applied to this simple program would lead him to the nearest liquor store. One essentially had to be ignorant, until the mind is utterly and irreversibly transformed. Perhaps this was a cult after all. Noble was not ready to take this leap, but he was forced to. Otherwise, a relapse would result. And besides, he was still in early sobriety.

AA was not a perfect program any more than existence itself was not perfect. Some interpreted the Big Book loosely, others closely. Harry was a realist in his approach. Therefore, AA could only help with drinking. There was no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The program couldn’t help with financial difficulties, family woes, or the loss of a loved one. As a corollary, Harry insisted: “Things don’t necessarily get better, but you get better.”

On occasion Noble found himself in denial, that maybe he wasn’t an alcoholic. It was just one silly mistake that landed him in detox, and as a result he had to avoid all which was at one time enjoyable. His early sobriety focused on the first step: his battle to accept his allergy to alcohol. No easy task.

Noble expected a regular meeting in the evening. Approximately thirty alcoholics were present. They hung about in cliques. There were younger women present, but the tall, good-looking, athletic men of his age cornered them ahead of time, as though they were predisposed. The women at this meeting were quite attractive. He stood by himself in a corner with a cigarette, examining these terrible cliques, or better yet, examining his own lonliness apart from them. He spotted the young woman who at one time was part of the Manhattan club scene, or at least that’s what she shared at an earlier meeting. She had been cornered by Smilin’ Willy and Skinny Leroy, two people he secretly despised on account of their gregariousness. Noble was better. He had better attributes than these two snake-charmers, and yet Noble could do nothing more than sip his coffee, he took it black, and suck on cigarettes, a new habit. But now these popular men worked their magic. It was either the men who did it consciously, or the women who were attracted to their wealth and status.

These two were definitely thirteen steppers, that step beyond the twelfth step which mandated trysts with women. Social climbers, these men- decent jobs, decent clothes, a good example of the Waspachick ethos infiltrating the sanctity of recovery. He could do nothing but stand and watch as these men worked with ease and heightened bailiwick, as though they had training in the art of seduction. He had rarely before felt like such a down-trodden misfit, the pariah whom no one wanted. He hated the feeling- he hated everything about these rooms, how nothing ever changed, how the women flocked to these men of better standard. The sad fact remained: that no matter how he despised these men, he wanted to become one of them, to possess the trait which won women’s hearts. ‘What was this trait?’ he asked himself. What could win this New York City clubber, this divine creature dancing to techno, strippers in cages, flashes of colored light? And was she so divine indeed? Or was his brain bending out of shape at the sight of this woman, well along in her sobriety, ready and willing to befriend these men who played their cards just right and exposed their hand at times most propitious, at times most hurtful to Noble’s self-esteem? Although he had stopped drinking, he felt so down about this entire fellowship, or this lack of one. Even Ivan and Milo subtly avoided him. They gathered in another section of the kitchen and enjoyed themselves.

‘AA is not a social club,’ he heard his sponsor saying. Or, ‘No relationships in the first year.’ Those men mingling with the opposite sex openly violated this principle. He could have curled up in a ball in the corner, or he could have run to the bar for a shot to ease the pain of these social realities. He arrived at the point where both drunkenness and sobriety led to an equal misery. No matter what, he had to stick with it, live in his car with his guitar and play lonely ballads, long plaintive progressions in the darkness and sulk and pity himself and point the finger at the heavens for consigning him to such a fate. Womanlessness. An awful state, but one to which he contributed often, like a daily donation to some senseless cause. His attitude had turned sour, a return to his roots, the same darkness which cast its shadow in the florescence of this kitchen, the smoke so thick that one, deep inhalation could collapse the lungs. This was the extent of his darkness- the concept known as womanlessness, the idea that even the pure, golden-hearted soul is subjected to intense day-dreams and fantastic excursions with a woman but in reality must do without her due to defects of character which precluded a woman’s touch, her earthy bouquet, her lips, the expanse of her back. And Noble never knew how far it would go. It had something to do with madness, a dark insanity which pushed him further into himself, the curled ball in the corner devoured by the roaches, as though his own body were a corpse decrepit with the anguish of eternal life. Telepathy, he supposed, didn’t fill the void as he originally planned.

All melodrama and hyperbole aside, Noble knew he must go without women for the rest of his days, and in the process he will learn to despise, ridicule, and berate all women. As a result, his days and nights will lack its most essential meaning which gives existence its value. Or so he thought, until he saw within the fog of cigarette smoke another woman enter the kitchen.

He didn’t believe his eyes at first. The loneliness must be playing tricks on him, tempting him like an oasis to a thirsty man. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be the woman he had met at the East Waspachick bar. How dare she intrude on his darkness, how dare she interrupt the setting of the sun, his moment of ultimate defiance against all things female. Yet she ushered in the light to a man who already declared himself dead.

Alexandra Van Deusen walked into the room knowingly, as though she had been a part of the program for years. Noble knew, however, that this was her first time to this meeting. The men conversing with the club-goer and her group turned in surprise. The entire room gravitated towards Alexandra, as she was a newcomer and strikingly beautiful. Noble had never seen her in the light, only through beer goggles. Her sun-lit hair fell to her shoulders, her eyes blue, or were they green? He wasn’t sure. Her features suggested Elysium, a thin blonde face with full, moist lips. He would have sacrificed his sobriety to kiss them. Just one moment alone would do. Her lips would taste better than the most potent intoxicants. Amazing how light follows darkness, as though the two conspired in bringing a neurotic turmoil. And as the darkness left him, and her light struck the cloisters of his heart, bells sounding, the plumes of loud fireworks trailing in limitless skies- he again drifted into his preternatural world, where events and people were staged arbitrarily. Alexandra Van Deusen, and her arrival to this church of all places, stirred his soul and tinctured his otherwise gloomy predicament. He had no choice but to fall for her again. But his shyness prevented him from reintroducing himself to the woman who had twice rejected him. And wouldn’t you know it, the athletic men noticed her like predators, and they seamlessly broke from the club-goer and extended their hands to this sublime beauty.

Damn. Their action was so simple, but they were the first to greet the fair Alexandra, and usually the first greeting always sets the tone for involved friendship. The in-crowd certainly punished Noble who stood in the same place genuinely awestruck by what had transpired. She put on airs as any newcomer does. She seemed unbroken by alcohol abuse. She wore a masque, a confident, resplendent facade which didn’t show the slightest hint of adversity, trauma, or negligence. Her affectation placed her in the bar, talking to that greasy, long-haired guitarist, only that this was the kitchen of an AA meeting. Strange how behaviors copied themselves. She could have been drunk or high or God knows what. Noble wished to confiscate her from the likes of the in-crowd. He wanted to take her away on a long trip leading to Nirvana and then return as lovers. He even laughed aloud, and the alcoholics next to him gawked in bewilderment. His ironclad composure at once fell slack by her presence. If he owned a pair of manacles he would have chained himself to her side. He would have kidnapped her and traveled to the ocean to make love on the sand. Yes, he must do something. He must act on this terrible desire which ate away his innards, which possessed his mind, which provided an escape from darkness, only to be replaced by passion, the same passion of a lover unrequited. But first, he must befriend her, not as a would-be lover, but as a man interested only in her mind and slow recovery. This, he figured, was the only route to her heart. In the meeting he will set an example by sharing poignantly on some ridiculous topic. He hadn’t shared in quite some time, and his words must suggest strong sobriety.

Every newcomer desired the next right move, and Noble would advertise his correctness and parade it like a latent talent. Of course he imagined dialogue. Yes, that’s what he would do. He would ask her to the diner for coffee. What’s a recovering alcoholic without coffee and cigarettes? But somehow he must pry her away from the likes of the popular crew. They talked with her freely, perhaps giving pointers. He couldn’t hear what they said through the din, but he was certain that the in-crowd was again practicing that thirteenth step, and they did so deftly.

The meeting began a few minutes later in the congregation room. Alexandra sat next to the same in-crew which greeted her. Her seating arrangement stank of dubiousness and injustice. Noble could not concentrate on what was being said. He could only stare at her, wondering if she had any recollection of the two times they met. What a woman, he said to himself, and then he wondered why on earth she appeared in this way, only to be lulled by the likes of others. He couldn’t believe how quickly she diffused into AA’s most socially acceptable clique. No matter what anyone said, elitism ruled the world. It ruled the world of music especially. Have the right look, and the world opens its doors. Play a good guitar, well, that was a secondary consideration.

“Are there any newcomers to this group?” asked Milo, the group leader. Harry was absent unfortunately. He attended a Knights of Columbus meeting across town.

Alexandra raised her hand: “Hi, I’m Alexandra, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Alexandra!” almost a resounding cheer, the most life he had heard from this group in a while, like a winning touchdown. All eyes were upon her. Even Milo had been swayed by her beauty.

Noble refrained from sharing anything. In fact, everyone who usually shared for what seemed like hours could only mutter useless comments, short quips to which no one paid attention. Tonight was Alexandra’s night, and when her turn came, the room which usually reverberated with shifting positions, coughs, the passing of the basket, the drum of fingers, all stopped as though time had ended. No one moved. A spotlight would have done better.

The other women regressed into ugliness. An aura of light bathed her and isolated her, and yet the group followed her every word like a spider hanging from its last thread. If only he could wrench her from the tall hunk sitting next to her.

Noble had heard many songs about choosing the man most reticent, shy, and altogether lonely, but within the grand hall nothing was farther from the truth. Women never choose the odd guy, the lonely man who pours all of his energies into creation. They instead go for the likes of Smilin’ Willy, his height, his cellular phone and beeper, his wicked tongue, his fashionable clothes, his athleticism, everything about the man, a prime example of Waspachick and what it was becoming. This Alexandra, this lovely creature plucked from the East Waspachick bar, this incredible woman, only if she knew of Noble’s desires, if only she could know of his pledge to care for her and protect her from the unruly elements of an evolving world. He would have done so instantly. He would have defied the wisdom of the stately elders who declared that a union had to be properly matched and that a poor man with a wealthy, young woman was the equivalent of social suicide, that a union could not take place between two economically disparate people, one lonely and going nowhere, the other who could land any man she desired- a doctor, a lawyer, an investment banker. But wait. Hold on. Noble latched onto an idea, a scheme.

She may still remember their conversation at the bar. He could still play the role of investment banker. Marvelous. This could work, if only he could gain entrée at tonight’s meeting without those buffoons sitting next to her. Yes, he instantly recalled that impersonation from memory.

Wait, first. Waiting for access; a moment when all reasoning fails, when he walks up to her and asks her to the greasy spoon a mile away. He could drive her in the beat-up Oldsmobile, and perhaps they would run out of gas on the way, a walk together under a brilliant sky, and Noble confesses his complete infatuation over her, this terrible, stomach-turning obsession recharged, so that he could no longer pluck the strings or play a progression with any coherence, only a mountain of careless chords, illogical and unworthy for a woman such as she. He will offer the world, and yet he must swallow and bear his inconsequence over her development in the program. Must all of him somehow involve her? What was this terrible hunger, this fascination with this one woman? Normal men of his age look for something more in a woman, but a man without experience, without wisdom, look only at the facade of beauty, not the inner core which sets the relationship in motion; almost a sickness which captured his mind, and a heat which flashed with every slow heartbeat.

Now it was Alexandra who rented space in his head. He could have opened his skull and tossed his fleshy brain into a frying pan, he could have dropped to his knees and asked for divine intervention, if only she would return his desire, if only for a second she would offer her time and devotion towards him, why, nothing on earth would matter except the intrinsic meaning of walking in the park on a springtime afternoon, hand-in-hand, nothing exchanged, only the birds flapping and chirping, the breeze adding security to an otherwise blissful moment, and yet he could not escape the pressing reality: that he was as close to being a bum than ever before. Her suitors had jobs, fat wallets, vacation homes. What would a woman such as Alexandra be doing with him anyway? He lived in a car next to the town park, he played guitar to the audience of himself, he had no gigs lined up, no job, no education, only this intense obsession with this one woman.

She could do so much better with a Waspachick man. She had a chance to rise above the mulch of social misfits who eventually walked in the footsteps of the town bum. She could easily play tennis at the country club, live on the north side, summer in East Hampton, find a stability which comes with responsible, cardigan-wearing men singing barbershop melodies. Would she dare dispose of this for some no good, out-of-work, and above all else, foolish hobo, a person who could never show her the light she instantly emanated, only the darkness which racked his memories, his dreams, and his soul?

In the congregation room he could have easily fallen to his knees and offered a prayer, either for a powerful panacea to this Alexandra or an aphrodisiac which apotheosized him beyond any Waspachick man. His prayers never worked before. Why would they work now? Always these long wish-lists to his Higher Power. A perfect world commences, and the Higher Power shows the tragedy of war; one minute a woman walks with him in the park, the next minute she’s gone. Not even an unctuous genie could fulfill his wish-list, and he would have given anything for a simple conversation at the diner. Yes, he must be bold and fortuitous and forgo the disapproval of both his sponsor and those in the kitchen who looked askance at this attempt at wish-fulfillment.

It would look too obvious. Already the in-crew had taken her hostage, and they did so subtly. Her turn to speak came, and the room fell silent.

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

Her words slipped into tears. She wiped them away with her long fingers. She could no longer contain her emotions, and as she cried, wouldn’t you know it?, Smilin’ Willy of the in-crowd massaged her shoulder, oh yeah, like he had to be the one comforting her, like she selected him to rub her down. Nevertheless, Noble hung on her every word, as though it were astringent cleaning his pores.

“Hi, Alexandra,” chimed the rest.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she cried. “This is my first meeting...”

“Welcome,” said a few.

“And I’ve had enough. I don’t want another drink. I’m so close to committing suicide right now, and if I didn’t come to this meeting, I would have easily done it, and I need help. I don’t want to drink anymore. My life is so screwed up. My boyfriend, well, he’s active, and we’re breaking up soon, and I want a drink, and I don’t want a drink at the same time. I’m miserable but also afraid what my life will be like without alcohol. You guys are so lucky, and I don’t know what to do about my boyfriend. We’re living together, and he drinks too much. My whole life is a wreck, it’s all a wreck...”

And throughout her sharing, Smilin’ Willy messaged her back. He did so effortlessly, as though he were meant to caress the space of skin where neck and shoulder met. Noble remembered the AA aphorism well: ‘get ‘em while their shakin’! He could do nothing but watch as the lion claimed its prey and withdrew to the den. If he had nerve, Noble would have ended it immediately, but he had no control over the lion’s wandering paws, her doleful eyes appreciating every maneuver. She found friendship without even trying, and Noble knew he must penetrate the clique which had taken her captive. He must wait until the meeting’s end and wait for the right moment in the kitchen where he will introduce himself a third time, perhaps even give his phone number, but wait- he no longer lived at Shylock’s. He couldn’t give out Shylock’s phone number. He would somehow have to get hers. He must do it, or else risk forfeiting all of his chances to the super-clique.