## Ruthies Place - Spring 1997 These basement meeting rooms were always the same, bad coffee, metal chairs, air thick with the smell of stale hopes and bad choices, and fucking powdered creamer. Ruthie’s House was the spot. Young people came for salvation and left drunk on the ghosts of better days. I had been coming here off and on for three years. The goal was sobriety. It was a work in progress. The last time I was here had been about two months ago. Meetings made me hate myself, so I usually came to them either stoned or drunk. Tonight was no exception. The only meeting I half liked was the dope Thursday night meeting at the VFW. It was the only meeting in town with a whole goddamned bar in the meeting space. Clarence, a Korean War vet, ran the place. He’d sell drinks to anyone at a meeting, your sobriety didn’t keep the doors open. This meeting? This was the hookup meeting. I didn’t do that shit, but Jesus Christ, the countless times the drip, chlamydia, or herpes had passed between these kids was scary. It was a venereal disease hotbed. I came to this meeting because it was in a basement, didn’t have a mic, and always had too many people willing to share their story. It was like church, but slightly more fucked up. My eyes still hadn’t adjusted from walking in from outside. The old steep stairs were a death wish, and… I airwalked, stepping into the void of nothing, and missed the last stair. My tongue took the punishment. Goddamnit. “Whoa, buddy. You alright? You look like you just came off a week of blow with a six-pack chaser,” someone said. I winced, swirling my tongue around in my cheek, tasting iron, flexing to feel the damage. Totally not paying attention to anything. “What?” I said. “You look like shit,” he repeated. “You here to get sober, or just sober up?” I slow-blinked. It was one of _those_ blinks; you know the blink. That universal sign of being totally cratered, like after taking a huge bong rip and your eyeballs were like day-old glazed donuts. My brain struggled for purchase, and I mumbled a sentence a solid third-grade level. “I need to get my slip signed.” “Brewer does that. Do you know who he is? He signs all the slips at the end of the meeting. Just put it in that basket.” He pointed toward the front table. “It’s that wicker thing next to the lectern.” “Thanks,” I said, trying to walk away. “I'm Vance. I welcome allcomers to the meeting. It’s really my penance, relapsing, y’know.” “Brewer, he’s my sponsor, thinks service and volunteering will help. He's a good guy. You should talk to him, he’s getting his five-year coin in a couple of weeks.” I knew this would happen. I broke my own rule. Vance plowed on, “Don't forget about your slip. One time, I had to go to two meetings in one day because I forgot mine. Those slips are important. The coffee’s on the counter, back there.” Vance thumbed over his shoulder toward the coffeepot on the counter in the back corner. “The toilet’s down the hall, second door on the right. Fair warning, it's Portland’s worst toilet.” “Thanks… I forgot your name? Sorry, I was distracted.” He grinned. “Vance. Put your slip in the basket up there, grab a coffee, and a seat.” Vance gripped my shoulder, not unkindly, more brotherly and walked by, moving on to welcome some regular attendees. I walked my slip up to the front and dropped it in the basket. Only a few so far. The juvy kids must not be coming tonight. Turning around, I started scanning the people sitting, trying to spot a seat. There was a true art to seat selection at meetings. Much like high school, except here, the assholes took the front seats. The middle seats were for the old-timers, the ones over twenty-five. The back? You’d think that’s where everyone wanted to be. You’d be wrong. That was where all the non-AA people sat, the parents, chaperones, or other hopefuls wishing their kid found salvation. My perfect seat? Second to last row, near the corner. Less light, and during the kumbaya prayer shit, you weren’t close enough to hold anyone’s hand. Score. Prime seat. Also, no bleached-out platinum blondes, no Lara ambush. Better yet, three empty seats beside and in front. I performed my best sober-walk to stake my claim. Now I just needed to keep people from taking those other seats. Pro tip for keeping people away: this technique works about anywhere, public transit is the best use. It's a technique I developed before leaving Detroit about seven years ago, I call it the Litter Box Stare. When someone starts to make eye contact with you for the seat, put a face on like a cat taking a shit in a litter box. It freaks people out, works every time, swear to God. “Hey guys. Listen up,” Brewer called out. “This is the 7 p.m. Young People’s AA Meeting. If you aren't here for AA, best leave now. This isn’t a spectator sport.” Brewer continued walking toward the lectern. “Vance, can you grab the smokers and close the door? Thanks.” I glanced over and watched Vance climb the stairs. A couple of seconds later, Vance descended, ushering in two stragglers. Most of the middle and front seats had filled. The asshole row was nearly full. Shifting back to face the front, I adjusted my ass on the metal folding chair. “Hi guys. Like I said this is the Young Peoples of Portland AA meeting, welcome.” “I'm Larry. Most people call me Brewer. I'm an alcoholic.” In creepy vocal unison, everyone responded, “Welcome Brewer.” “Thanks, everyone. It’s good to be here, it’s good to be seen.” “Vance, can you start us off with a prayer?” “Our Father, who art in—” Vance began. I didn’t participate in prayers. Well, actually, I didn’t participate in any of the meeting. But the religious stuff killed me. Literally. I was certifiably allergic to it. Religion was the only thing I ever really got sober from. Recovering Catholic, three years clean. Technically seventeen years abusing, if you count forced faith and blind obedience as substance. But the icing on the cake? Altar boy. Nine fucking years. Weekly mass, weddings, funerals you name it, I was there for it. Week after week, year after year. Listening to how I was bad, what I did was bad, how not giving everything to God led straight to despair. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Turns out the only things I got from that time was bad wine and a lifetime supply of guilt and shame. In that same creepy unison, the group closed with, “Amen.” Brewer stepped back up to the front. He was a walker and talker, never stayed behind a podium or lectern. “Tonight I want to talk about choices.” He made eye contact with everyone in the first couple of rows. Another reason not to sit there. “Life is about choices,” he continued “we all made a choice to come here tonight. Well, some had the choice made for them.” He held up and shook the basket. That got a couple of chuckles. I even smirked. “Tonight you’ll have to make another choice. A harder choice.” His tone and measure were on point tonight, a real Toastmasters polish. “No, it’s not ‘should I grab a slice of pizza?’” “Or ‘should I get a coffee with Bill after the meeting?’” Nice, work Bill in to everything. So cliché. “And it's not 'should I drink, or go back out'. Although a tough decision, that's not the choice I'm talking about.” He paused again, he shifted his gaze to the middle rows. “Tonight you have to make the choice, to do better. To be better.” Oh, okay. I see where this was going. Cue the _Rocky_ soundtrack. Be better. Do better. The overused old-timer mantra. Gross. “Look, I get it. I did a lot of fucked-up shit when I was a drunk.” “A lot.” He had that deadpan, glazed-eyed look of someone who'd seen it all. “I made bad choices, I hurt good people, I ruined lives. But, you know what I didn't do during those times? I didn't take responsibility.” He moved back up to the front and side-leaned on the lectern. “Responsibility for my actions. My destruction. The wreckage. The people I hurt.“ I saw some heads nodding, mostly the old-timers. This was a new speech from Brewer. I'd heard most of his sermons, but this one had a wet blanket feel that held about half of my attention. Pushing off the lectern, wiping his hands on his jeans, he continued. “Like I said, I hurt a lot of people. I caused a lot pain. I can't take that back. I live everyday with that. Serenity and strength help, I'm working on wisdom, ya know.” Nice prayer plug. I swear all the meeting leaders have a quota for getting God and prayer worked into their talks. “I know y'all aren't much different. The choices you made, the person you used to be, not good. Fueled by despair, anger, hatred." He paused. "Sadness, depression, anxiety, pain. Pick an emotion. They controlled you, me, us. We can't change that.“ You have no idea what fueled me. The only people that know are either murdered or estranged. A passing thought screams in my inner ear. I saw more red than anything. I barely heard Brewer continue. “I'm not here to judge who you were. Lord knows, I shouldn't judge anyone.” “But.” “But I want everyone to hear this, especially those of you who have twenty-four hours, one week, one month. You have to move on from your past. You have to accept who you were. You can't change that. Those choices are done.” Again, Brewer paused and surveyed everyone. “And the more you replay those shitty moments in your head, the worse you'll feel. The harder sobriety is. The harder life is. The harder all this,” Brewer gestured around the room “—is.” “I know this sounds stupid, a lot of you are thinking, 'This guy, he doesn't know me.' And you'd be right, I probably don't know you. But, I was you. I was bitter, angry, pissed off, vengeful. And you know what that got me? It got me a relapse. Worst pain you can imagine.” Brewer moved back toward the coffeepot, shook the powdered creamer into a steaming Styrofoam cup, stirred it, and blew across the top before taking a sip. Then he started walking back to the front. “All this ‘do better, be better’ talk used to sound like garbage to me. 'Old-timer wisdom.' But after my fall, my momentary lapse of reason, my slip into oblivion, I figured ‘better’ was all I could ask of my broken and fractured mind.” I swatted the rage buzzing in my brain just long enough to catch Brewer’s last few lines. Way to bring the mood down, dude. Christ on a stick, I just came to get my slip signed. Brewer stood back at the front, next to the lectern, looking at the room. He let out a deep, heavy sigh, like he was trying to exhale a decade’s worth of pain from his ribcage. “Better is making a good choice, better is working a step, better is making an amend, better is admitting your powerless.” “Alright, let’s open the floor up for sharing.” I slumped farther down in my chair, trying to make myself small. I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone especially Brewer. Great. Some front-row over-sharer was getting up. Thank God. I was off the hook. *** The over-sharer started beating the drum of drunktales. The period reenactment of a recovering alcoholic reliving drunken slideshow memories. These stories are a common occurrence, and this guy had a doozy or a web to weave. I didn’t know who he was, and I didn't care about his shitty story, I had to piss. I zip-zip-zipped my way down the row in my ridiculously loud corduroy pants and clambered into the hallway. Walking the short musty distance to what smelled like an over used porta-potty minus the air freshener. Let me just say, Vance was not joking. I believe, I have stumbled upon Portland worst toilet. That bathroom was horrible. I don't think it had been cleaned in decades. If I was a chick, I would've pissed in the sink, seriously. There was no toilet seat. Piss all over the floor. Sticky, too. And the smell, I could still taste it. Nearly sprinting back to the meeting room, I gently opened and closed the door. The smell of over cooked Folgers and stale cigarette smoke was a welcome olfactory cleanser. I found an open spot along the wall; I leaned between two cork posting boards. A new guy was finishing his drunktale, talking about some bad choice he’d made. I’d missed most of it, so none of his talk made sense. He finished, thanked everyone and headed back to his seat. Brewer stepped back to the front. “Alright guys, let’s do coins and close the meeting out.” “Twenty-four hours? Anyone have twenty-four hours?” A young kid, probably sixteen, stood up. Vance walked over and handed him a twenty-four-hour coin. Most people clapped, I didn't. The kid turned red and sat down quick. He wouldn’t make it a week. I could see the twitch, which will lead to the scratching, he's got it bad. Does that make me an asshole or just cynical? Pretty sure I was an asshole. It’s been over a year maybe two, since I got one of those coins. I stopped collecting the twenty-four-hour coins, well actually, they stopped giving them to me. Brewer kept calling out milestones. “Ten years? Anyone have ten years?” I’d never seen anyone at this meeting get a ten-year coin. Most people, besides the odd traveler, move to other 'mature' meetings after four or five years. But who knows, maybe one day, a traveler will have a ten-year soberday. “Alright, guys. I want to close out with the Serenity Prayer, circle up.” Brewer motioned in a circle. I should’ve saved my piss for this part. I really hated the hand-holding kumbaya shit. *** “Hey Brewer, can I get my slip?” I was standing at the front, next to Brewer and a couple of the other old timers. “Sure. Mick, right? It's good to see you back. What's it been, a month?” With an awkward grimace I corrected him. “Yeah, well, actually... it’s been about two.” “Look, Mick, no one’s judging you. Like I said earlier, I’m in no position to judge. But when you’re ready for the program, we’ll be here. I’m glad you made it tonight. Maybe I’ll see you at the VFW meeting in a couple days?” “Maybe. Clarence doesn't like me much, so I kind of avoid that meeting.” Brewer let out a burst of laughter. “Christ, Clarence doesn’t like anyone. That asshole tries to sell me a beer every meeting. Real piece of work.” I let out a quiet “heh,” at his comment. “Lara also goes to that meeting. I haven’t seen her in a while. Not sure I need to see her this week.” Brewer leaned back, taking me in. “Lara went back out, Mick. No one’s seen her in weeks.” Shit. My stomach tingled with adrenaline. But what stumbled out of my mouth was: “Huh, well that sucks.” “Yeah. You and her were close right? She’s a good person, she was always nice to have around, willing to help. I really hope she finds her way back in.” Shit, Goddamnit. The emotional assaults and drama started to buzz in my head, too much for one night. I needed to get out of here. So many memories dredged up from the deep dark abyss. I pointed distractedly to the basket of slips. “Can I get that, my slip, sorry.” "Yeah, hang on I still have to sign it." Brewer said while inking the slip. I pocketed the slip without looking at it. Lara’s name was still crawling around in my head, heavy, sad, angry, stubborn. *** ## Blackout Playlist: The Cure – "All Cats Are Grey" The music looped again. Track six. She knew it by feel now, not by title. _All Cats Are Grey_ seeped out of the boombox like fog under a door, slow and ambient, all low synth and reverb drums. The CD skipped once, barely noticeable, before falling back into rhythm. Lara didn’t flinch. Her eyes were half-lidded, glazed, reflecting the jagged ceiling light like dishwater glass. She lay in the center of the room, sunk into a lopsided beanbag, more cigarette burn than stuffing. Her long T-shirt, stretched out, sleeves chewed at the edge, clung to her skin. A thin crust of dried blood from a recent nosebleed had trickled down, over her top lip, and onto her chin. She hadn’t had the energy or desire to wipe it off. Her legs were bare, thighs showing faint gooseflesh. One leg twitched gently, a silent rhythm to a song she wasn't aware she was hearing. The apartment was quiet, except for the music. Robert Smith’s voice whispered through stale, stagnant air: _“I never thought that I would find myself / In bed amongst the stones…”_ She hadn’t eaten since Friday, maybe Saturday. Her stomach didn’t hurt anymore. Just fluttered faintly. Like it had given up, too. In the corner, the ashtray had overflowed. Cigarettes stacked like driftwood. The coffee table’s surface had taken on a film of something oily, nicotine, grease, time. On the kitchen counter: the archeology of a relationship undone. Cans, bottles, dirty dishes. A spoon fused to the bottom of a crusted bowl. Black scorch marks on a pair of butter knives. He took everything that mattered. Her Nintendo. Her little TV. Even her favorite Stussy hoodie. He left his shitty boombox and her precious darkwave CD collection. A sudden pounding came at the door. “County Sheriff! Welfare check!” Lara couldn't move. The voice sounded like it was coming through a fish tank. Another pounding rattled the flimsy door, a jarring thud that made the boombox skip. Her head tilted slightly to the left, her cheek brushing the sweat- and cigarette-stained fabric of the beanbag. She smiled. Or maybe she grimaced. “I never thought that I would find myself…” She faded into oblivion.