There were half a dozen people in attendance already. I took a seat on the end of the second row and waited. Addicts came in all shapes and sizes. The guy who sat down next to me looked like he’d stepped out of an ad for Harley-Davidson. But the woman who seemed to be hosting the meeting looked like a librarian.
When the room was full(ish), the librarian opened the meeting. “Hi, I’m Linda, and I’m an addict. Thank you for coming to the Colebury Narcotics Anonymous meeting. This is meant to be a safe place for all, so I must insist that no drugs be on your person at our meetings. If you are carrying anything please remove it from the room at this time. Although drugs are not welcome in this room, users are. Membership to this fellowship is free, and you are a member when you say you are.”
She paused to take a breath, and then she asked someone to read the Why We Are Here passage from the handbook.
The Harley dude volunteered. He took the dog-eared book, flipped to the text and began reading.
The words were soothing in their familiarity. The message was a simple one, but there was power in hearing it as a group. We were all here because we couldn’t manage ourselves on drugs. We put our habits ahead of all else. Because we did harm to ourselves and others, and because we needed to change our ways in order to survive.
Sitting in a meeting always reminded me that the problem was bigger than a few bad decisions or shitty willpower. It wasn’t just me.
“We have a speaker today,” Librarian Linda said. “Robby has brought his mother to celebrate three years clean.”
There was polite applause, which I joined. Three years. I didn’t know Robby’s story, not yet. But even if he’d only given up pot and Doritos, I was still jealous.
Robby himself looked to be about my age or maybe a few years older. It was hard to say. But he had a nice tight haircut and healthy glow.
He began to tell his story, and it was one I’d heard many times. Boy steals his father’s prescription painkillers. Boy’s friends teach him to snort them. Boy can’t give up the habit and begins to steal from his parents.
Change a detail here and there, and you’d have my story, too. I’d stolen petty cash from my father’s till. I’d started with oxys, too. When my habit got too expensive, I took to stealing parts from a junkyard owner who’d trusted me. I sold them on eBay and snorted the proceeds.
Robby hit bottom by ODing. He was lucky to be alive. I hit bottom by killing someone and was also lucky to be alive.
“I know I’m always going to be fighting this disease,” he said. “But I know that I can win, and that my family is here to help me.”
Ah, and that was where our stories parted. Robby’s mom sat there beaming, tears in her eyes. My mom ran off with another man when I was eight. My father got drunk the night she left and never really sobered up.
Sometimes these stories really buoyed me. But today wasn’t one of those times. Robby’s beaming mother just grated on me. She reminded me of the stage mothers that Sophie used to have to deal with. Isn’t my kid great? Listen to the way she hits those high notes in Ave Maria!
I didn’t begrudge Robby his success, though. I really didn’t. I’d give my left nut to have three years clean.
Before the meeting ended, we went around the circle. Most people gave a little update about how their week had been.
“Would you like to say anything?” the librarian lady asked.
I just shook my head.
When it was over, I sprinted into a bathroom I’d seen on my way into the room, mostly because I didn’t want to chat with anyone. I didn’t want to be greeted, hugged or asked whether I would come back next week.
My tactic worked. The meeting room was empty when I passed through again. I made it all the way up and onto the darkened sidewalk before I saw another human. He was seventy-five years old if he was a day, and slowly shoveling an inch of slippery snow off of the sidewalk. But he had on the wrong kicks for the job—black dress shoes. And I could tell that he was trying hard not to slip.
“Let me get that,” I said. My voice was rough from underuse.
He looked up, and I noticed that he had a priest’s collar on under his coat. “Am I doing that poor of a job at it?” His eyes twinkled with the question.
“No, um, father. But I think I have better traction.” I pointed at my work boots.
With a smile, he handed over the shovel. “I’d appreciate that, son.” He stood there, watching as I began to strip the slush off the walk in long sweeps of the shovel. “Of course the snow held off until our facilities person went home for the day,” he said, conversationally.
“That’s usually how life works,” I said.
“True. And we have many people coming to dine this evening, so I can’t have them sliding around everywhere.”