18
I expect the Friday Night Young People’s Meeting at the Manayunk Clubhouse to be full of college kids and court-mandated high school dropouts. But, at thirty-two, I fit right in.
April has been encouraging me to start going to more meetings on my own.
“It’ll help you to meet new people and make some friends. You don’t want to only go to the meetings I go to. Besides, you might want to complain about me sometimes.”
“I complain about you all the time,” I remind her.
She laughs. “I mean behind my back.”
Meetings without my sponsor are a bad idea. Or, rather, they’re a phenomenal idea, but an inept execution.
Trey is forty-four—a decade too old for a Young People’s meeting, and by far the oldest one in the room. He is twelve years sober to my two months and four days abstinent. When
