Black Cat Weekly #94

Chapter 5-2

“Hi,” I said, hoping he wasn’t Steve. He wouldn’t go down easily.

“You here for the Safe Harbor Group?”

“I…guess,” I answered. “I’m looking for…”

“We’re the friendly group,” the big guy interrupted. “Welcome to AA. You’re a newcomer.”

“How’d you know?”

“No eye contact, head down. That’s the way all newcomers are. Everyone’s afraid they’ll be recognized. Grab some coffee. Then come find a seat. I’ll warn you, the coffee tastes like crap, but holding a cup gives you something to do with your hands when you get the shakes.”

I passed on the coffee. I knew what to do with my hands.

He led me to a circle of chairs. I chose one that faced the door. I wanted to know who was coming towards me. My eyes went to the bouncer for approval. That felt like something a rookie would do.

The nose ring, and the rest of his head nodded. “Good for you. That chair shows me you’re committed to making a change.” Most first-timers gravitate to the chair closest to the door. Subconsciously, they are preparing themselves in case they have to flee.

“Maybe I’m just a fast runner.”

He grunted a laugh. Attendees filled their regular chairs. The aroma of cigarette smoke followed. Women and men found seats around me. The bouncer stayed on his feet, making eye contact, and welcoming everyone. A few people loitered, circling the big guy while he signed the paperwork for them. I leaned forward, hoping to read the names on the pages.

“Proof of attendance,” the woman seated to my right said. “He’s the guy to see if you need verification for your probation or parole officer. You can also drop your card into the basket during the Seventh Tradition.”

I looked at her, face blank.

“That’s what we call the collection.”

“Thanks,” I said. Leaning back in my chair, I withdrew a dollar from my wallet, carefully shading my driver’s license.

“We try to help you newcomers get settled.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“We’re the friendly group.”

“I’ve heard that.” I looked at the woman. She wore low-heeled pumps, dress slacks, and a white silk blouse.

She saw the question in my eyes. “Betty Ford Clinic requires aftercare, but I don’t need to send in proof.”

I scanned the room. Across from me sat a bearded guy wearing a baseball cap. The hat read Da Nang and had a green silhouette of Vietnam embroidered on it. He was talking with a woman in a black tank top, her arms a gallery of tattoos.

When all the chairs were occupied, the circle fell silent.

“Let’s begin the meeting,” the big guy said. “My name is Steve, and I’m an alcoholic.” “Join me in the Serenity Prayer.” When he finished, his eyes covered the room. “I know we have newcomers, so I hope you’ll introduce yourselves.” He turned to me.

My hand tightened on the pistol grip. “My name is Jerry, and I have a problem,” I said.

“That’s a good beginning, Jerry. We hope you will name your addiction. Saying the problem aloud helps to give you control over it.”

“What do you do for a living, Steve?” I asked.

He held up his hand, interrupting my question. “We don’t really go for cross-talk here, Jerry. We don’t question anyone who wishes to share.”

I considered shooting him then, but he didn’t look like an embezzler.

“To support my drinking, I took money that I shouldn’t have,” he continued.

I slowly brought my g*n out of my coat pocket.

“I took the money my wife had set aside for the children. Alcohol cost me my family.”

The g*n fell back against the lining of my jacket.

“Let’s talk today about Step One. We’ve admitted that we are powerless over alcohol and that our lives have become unmanageable. Who wants to share?”

A Hispanic man across the room raised his hand. Steve pointed to him.

“My name is Estevan, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Estevan Tomas. Could Steve be a Mexican dude? My hand squeezed the grips, finger tracing the trigger guard.

The Hispanic man’s eyes scanned the room. “Some of you know my story. The business wasn’t going well, and I started drinking to forget about my problems. Of course, the partying made my job situation worse, so I solved it by drinking more. I hid it from my boss.”

Steve was the Mexican guy, I decided. When he finished the story, I’d shoot him.

“Drinking, temporarily, made my problems go away. That’s what makes its hold so tight. But, you know, drinking is an almost-solution to a problem. Like the Titanic’s captain trying to stop the sinking by filling the hole with washers. I felt like I was doing something about the problem, but I wasn’t solving it, not really. The water kept pouring in through the holes. Meanwhile, I’ve added iron to the boat, pulling it down faster.

“Thank you, Stevie,” the bouncer said.

My hand clutched the 9mm, and my eyes darted between the two men.

The bouncer looked at me. On the spot, I named him Steve Number One. “I see tension and pain on your face, Jerry. Do you want to share?”

“I’ll pass,” I said. “But thanks.”

A woman to my left spoke. She looked like an ordinary housewife, socially between the tank-topped woman and the Betty Ford alum. “There is never any pressure to speak, especially at your first meeting. Merely being here is an important step toward acknowledging powerlessness.” She patted me on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’m Ruthie,” she continued, “and I’m an alcoholic.”

The woman alongside Ruthie fixed me with a sympathetic look. “We’ve all been there,” she said. “I gambled and lost money I didn’t have. I lost a high-tech job. I drank to mask the pain.”

She paused and then seemed to remember herself. “I’m Stephanie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

My eyes went back to Steve One and Steve Two.

“But my friends call me Stephie,” she added.

Damn. Steve Three.

A man across the circle chimed in. “I’m Billy, and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for fifteen years. I still have days when I want a drink, like I want oxygen. I remind myself that I can’t control my drinking. I say out loud that no matter how poorly, how desperately I feel, or what problem I have if I try to solve it with a drink, I’ll be right back on the horns of my addiction. Life is too precious. I don’t have an alcohol problem; I have a living problem.”

“Thanks, Billy,” Steve Number One said. A hand to my right shot into the air. Steve pointed in her direction.

“I’m Lois, and I’m an alcoholic,” she began. “I’m like Billy.” Lois led us down the gutters and back alleys of her life as a drinker. Still, she found meaning. “I’ve relapsed and given in to alcohol more times than I can count. But every day I’m separated from alcohol,” Lois continued, “I am reminded how precious life is. I realize that biography is not destiny. The fact that I was a prisoner to alcohol does not mean I must remain chained to the beast. I am a grateful recovering alcoholic.”

Steve Number Three raised her hand. “When you risk losing everything, if you’re lucky, you make the decision to stop.”

Without really knowing why, I felt the tight grip on my handgun loosen. A sense of peace descended upon me that I hadn’t felt in months, if ever. Somewhere in their stories, maybe Lois’s words, perhaps Stephanie’s, or from Steve, the bouncer, I heard a hopefulness in the pain and tragedy of existence. I felt a burden being lifted. A wide swath of people from all walks of life worked together to help one another survive. The scene inspired me.

Then, I stood up and shot Steve, Estevan, and Stephanie.

I had to. One of them had ripped off my employer.

As I walked out, I put an extra round in Steve just above the nose ring. He was a big guy, and I needed to be thorough.

Biography is not destiny, but I guess I’d written each of them one last chapter. Or I’d just relapsed. It’s hard to know how to look at it.

I stepped over the bodies and exited the community center. Amidst the shouting, confusion, blood, and spilled coffee, the meeting broke up. I could hear sirens in the distance. Walking quickly back to the car, I wiped and dumped the g*n. Then I made a beeline back to Samaritan Hospital.

I found my counselor. She could tell by my expression that I had made a decision. She was right.

“I’m not going to sign the order to discontinue the life-support,” I told her. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. But I’ve thought about it since I left. Life is precious, and recovery is a struggle. But it is possible. I’ve seen it today. My wife has a living problem, but her past is not her destiny. I’ve seen lives transformed. I want her to have a chance to recover.”

The counselor didn’t speak as I turned and walked out of the hospital. She knew there was nothing to say to a life-affirming guy like me.

My name is Jerry, and I am a hopeful hitman.

Mark Thielman is a criminal magistrate working in Fort Worth, Texas. He is the author of more than thirty published short stories. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine, and a number of anthologies.

Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine