Step One

Rain spat from the sky.

Puddles laid bare the crumbling integrity of the city’s sidewalks. Enormous magnolia trees poked through man’s best laid plans for a sidewalk with their roots that disembodied the now jagged and jutting concrete slab work. I plowed through them. My ratty shoes were already dripping wet. The rain in this town never let up. Monsoon-like precipitation had become a uniquely inescapable nuisance.

Organic Chinese water torture. PETA would be proud. "Thanks, nature," I thought bitterly.

I was heading to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Absent a drink, I sought connection. My expression twisted into a grimace of disgust and resignation. It was not that I did not want, or even need, human connection. I desperately wanted to socialize, and found it demanding without alcohol to assist me. Drunk, I had the interpersonal acumen of a car salesman. Sober, I carried a defensive current of venomous irritability and homegrown self-loathing—on a hair-trigger. It denied me even the simplest attempt at connection.

The exposure that came with connection was daunting, and the prospect terrified me. I felt physically ill the last time someone recognized me on the street. I wanted human contact, but only on the very specific, niche terms that my neuroses dictated. This was nigh impossible, and I knew it.

My musings on my socially catastrophic internal composition abated as the eternal deluge turned the volume up to ten. The spit from the sky quickly became a steady stream of piss. I cursed my luck and picked up the pace. I was almost there.

I finally arrived at my destination and hurried through the heavy church doors. The room was far from empty, and I beelined for the bathroom—sympathetic nervous system already engaged. I felt the familiar knot forming in my stomach, the unease I’d have to endure for the next hour and change.

Alcoholics Anonymous meetings had always felt a bit more like church service or a funeral to me. The most common feature of my twelve-step experience was biding my time. Checking the clock on the wall. Listening to people who had fewer social handicaps than me.I was meekly attempting to inherit connection and friendships by osmosis through my attendance alone.

There was cheap coffee. We sat uncomfortably in creaky fold-out chairs. Forced smiles. Handshakes. Side glances between those of the opposite sex. Axe Body Spray wafting from the group of drug treatment center visitors du jour. The visceral experience of a meeting was one that I was very familiar with at this point.The cross section of society that Alcoholics Anonymous represented in its rooms, basements, and meeting halls was always interesting in the wildlife safari, National Geographic, nature documentary sense.

The room was more crowded than I had expected, and I internally cringed at the fact that I would now have to sit there for the full hour. I cared too damn much what these people thought of my every move to duck out early. What would they think if I left the second I walked in? These things I found important. Why, was beyond me. My normally detailed internal analysis was nonexistent. I wished it were different. “But it wasn’t.” I thought. I grabbed an extra chair, and positioned myself so that no one was behind me, in the most inconspicuous spot I could find.

Ensconced in the corner, I noticed the coffee machine next to me still had the wood grain of a ’70s station wagon in its paneling. Everything in the room being fold-out was such a characteristic of any gathering of fuck-ups that I wouldn't trust anything else at this point.

The preamble was read, and the sharing began. I sat in detached silence, listening to Jed share his story. The format of the meeting was a speaker meeting—my favorite kind, where nobody looked around in confused, awkward silence waiting for someone to say their name and that they were an alcoholic.The speaker was a great one. I recognized him from a rehab I’d been to a year before—one of the detox panels, H&I, Hospitals and Institutions. He had a complexion that made you wonder whether he was descended from an Egyptian pharaoh, but his last name clearly displayed his Hispanic ancestry. I still preferred to think of him as King Tut.

I liked this speaker because he seemed to share his story in a way that let you know he wasn’t one of those assholes who liked to hear himself talk. He spoke practically, relatably, while providing plenty of qualification—his addictive and alcoholic accolades and credentials were well earned. He was a tree trimmer who had followed in his father’s footsteps—both in addiction and in trade. They were following near-identical life trajectories, from dope fiend to blue-collar climber of trees and snipper of branches at great height for average sums of money. I sat back in my seat, satisfied to hear Mr. Stanko belt out his shpeel to the rest of us fuck-ups.

He had chased heroin all over town for years, following in the footsteps of his pops, who had also endured his own scumbag phase. He went through the typical ups and downs of gutter junkies—eventually being kicked out of everywhere and everything. After intermittent law enforcement run-ins and a Baker Act hold that strapped him down and forced sobriety on him, he landed at a place called the Salvation Army program. He felt it was strict, rigid—excessively so—and a difficult place to deal with because of its unyielding rules and standards. This was also accredited to be his advantage however in providing a foundation that he built from in his life and formed habits. I zoned out for the rest of the speaker time. This happens sometimes, and I really don’t have anything to say about the rest of Mr. Stanko’s story.

I found myself staring at a woman seated across from me. She had to be new or recently arrived, because she was kind of fuckable and I’d never seen a woman here that caught my eye. I let my gaze linger a few times too many, and she noticed. I quickly averted my eyes back to the speaker, who was wrapping up the last remaining minutes of his share.

I knew there was no real use in initiating anything that even hinted at interest in this woman I’d ogled. I was too much of a social freak to do anything about it unless it was dropped in my lap.

My discomfort in social situations—and around people in general—was always more important than anything else in my life, for whatever reason. It’s why I hadn’t picked up a sponsee and rarely attended meetings. My avoidance of discomfort in all its forms nearly always took priority. It wasn’t even a conscious thought or decision. It was a knee-jerk, instinctual reaction—one I hadn’t even been aware of until right now, maybe.

As the meeting devolved into post-speaker sharing, I shifted in my seat and eventually got up to take a leak, making a scene as the chair fell on its side when I tried to push it back into place. Fortunately, the group had already begun the “Our Father, who art in heaven” portion, and we were all holding hands like some kind of limp-wristed cult singing kumbaya. The meeting was nearly finished. I grabbed the sweaty palm of the fat fucking slob who’d been seated next to me, and then—hand still warm from grabbing my dick—clasped the hand of Mr. Stanko, who’d shifted into place beside me. I think he recognized me.

“What’s up, bro?” he said in a conversational tone as the prayer ended.

“Not much, man. How’s it going?” I said, begrudgingly performing the rites of social contact.

“Good, man. It’s good to see you on the outside. How’ve you been doing?”

At this point, I didn’t mind talking as much, since the niceties that made me want to vomit had already been said.

“I’ve got a year, three months, two weeks, and five days off the sauce. Can’t complain, man. I’m working and in school now.”

“That’s amazing, man. Where at?”

Unfortunately, the summary conversation devolved into a lecture I’d prefer to pretend I didn’t sit through without gouging Stanko’s eyes out and fashioning them into a prosthesis for my dog’s empty fucking nad sack. So we’ll just detail it here in subtext: he did not approve of the work I was doing—night security at a bar that paid me cash under the table.

That was the moment Stanko made the list I kept tacked to the hallway wall. A few names were on there, but his stood out now. I knew I was going to kill him. I knew it would come soon, and I felt good about the fact that his life would end by my hand. He had humiliated me, and I was going to humiliate him. Not really—but it was a fun little violent fantasy to have. It allowed me to go through life with less indignation and fewer actual homicidal ideations. I had gotten quite good at killing people in my mind.

The violence faded. I chuckled off Stanko’s public chiding—red in the face, secretly fuming. Furious was a better word. But my impotence was the only thing on display today.