written 10/28/2009 – memories, true stories

Mom put me in the powder blue 1980’s Ford Escort. It was cold and we could see our breath. Wet fall leaves flew from the giant oaks lining the picturesque old street. The little engine warmed up in the dark and we were on our way to something new.

There was a sense of excitement. Mom had put on lipstick, a pretty sweater and had told me the trip was a secret. She had put on too much Channel No.5 and was still smoking Virginia Slims Ultra Lights. She seemed nervous.  

Strangely we arrived at a church, a Presbyterian church at that. Odd because we were Catholic and it was Wednesday. I was even an altar boy.

The parking lot was full. Warm and friendly people greeted my Mom upon our arrival. Hugs were offered for her, introductions and handshakes for me. None of the faces were familiar and there was lots of bending over, I was nine.

We went down a set of stairs, inside a basement room in one of the church buildings. Florescent lights glared over a circle of metal folding chairs. There was a damp moldy smell underneath the overpowering odor of coffee and thick cigarette smoke.

Convinced already that we were joining some sort of a Presbyterian religious cult, I can clearly recall realizing I was the only child in the room. Thus I began to prepare for my eventual torture and human sacrifice. Although everyone seemed nice, it was definitely going to be dark robes, satanic bibles and long knives soon, very soon.

Mom was smiling. She would totally do this to me. I asked her if I could have one of the stale jelly donuts and some Lipton tea with my demise. She said yes.

An older woman approached me as my styrofoam cup filled from a steel cauldron of superheated water. She had gray braided hair and very short stature so her odd, inquisitive look was right at eye level. “Why are you here?” she asked.

A greasy, unshaven man with rather thick glasses spoke up, “That’s X’s kid.”

“Unless he’s got a problem, he shouldn’t be here.”

OK, this was beyond weird. Presbyterians must only sacrifice problem children. If so, I certainly qualified.

Then the meeting was called to order. Everyone took a chair in the circle, including me. I sat between my mom and a kindly looking older black man. There were about 30 people.

The moment was entrancing: The not knowing. There was nearly absolute silence for a minute except for the audible sizzle of tobacco being dragged upon by hungry lungs.

My entire young life flashed before my eyes. I saw friends and family. There were toys. There was lament for the planned trip to Disney World. What a shame: To be sacrificed in a basement with Christmas just weeks away.

Then from the fog of a child’s honest lament and through the haze of nicotine spent, I saw the greasy unshaven man stand up and say

 “I’m Danny and I’m and Alcoholic. Welcome to AA.”

Half an hour in, human sacrifice would have been a mercy. The joy of my newfound lease on life quickly dimmed.

Instead I was subjected to a quick introduction to the 12 Steps, as read individually by different members of the group from mysterious little books. After which, they began to stand up, say their first names followed by ‘I’m an Alcoholic’ then let loose with some of the most depressing tales of humanity one could ever manifest.

These were drunks: Hardcore drunks. They blacked out. They lost money, jobs, families, lives, apparently the will to shower and the want to drink out of anything but styrofoam cups.  And seriously, that was just ‘Ellen’ the gray haired old lady.

 Even though a nine year old me was sitting right there, they didn’t hold back. It went on for almost two hours then concluded with us standing up, holding hands, praying the Our Father and the Serenity Prayer and hugging at the end.

This was too much. Ultra-caffeinated from 4 cups of Lipton tea, we went up those stairs from the basement and I burst into the brisk night air more confused than I had ever been in my childhood.

My mom was part of a secret society comprised of really weird people who had ‘meetings’ to talk about ‘drinking.’

I had so many questions in the car on the ride home. What was drinking? Like water or soda? O, alcohol. Ok, ok: beer and wine and other things like the familiar bottles of Beefeaters and Jack Daniels.

We lived with my brothers, sister, and aunt in my grandparents’ house. Martinis were served at 4PM Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.  Since the age of six I could stir and pour a martini perfectly dry to my grandmother’s taste,  carefully pulling the pairing knife to add the lemon twist.

I have fond memories of sitting happily at the household bar and munching on crackers, olives and cheese. The Muppet Show was still shown in re-runs on network TV.

Mom pulled the Escort up in front of the house and asked that I not get out. Then in a tone more serious that I had seen in her green eyes she made me swear not to talk about what happened that night.

Not at school. Not at home. Not with friends. Not ever. I was afraid again. There was still very little grasp of what was happening. It was an uncomfortable secret to keep.

But this meeting was not a singular experience for me. It was the first of very many. Not just AA, but NA and oddly, not just on the East coast.

A year later my bio-dad in California called, he was trying to be more interactive. He was getting remarried and asked that I travel to see him.

Sobriety was popular and he had joined up too. Bio-dad even met his new fiancée ‘in the rooms.’ Mom cheerfully told him that their son was an old hat.  “He even likes making coffee,” she said.

When I was ten, after a grueling day of flying from coast to coast (before the in-flight smoking bans) the first night I was ever in Los Angeles, bio-dad took me to an NA meeting.

But not just any ‘meeting.’ Here he  would receive his six-month ‘chip.’ It was a little customized coin to commemorate this sober milestone. He was there to speak. There was even a cake.

This would all be OK… except for two things: 1) This NA meeting was in a Hospital Recovery wing and featured detoxing patients in open-backed hospital gowns and 2) They made me speak too.

I had to stand at a podium and address a room full of heroine junkies.

They clapped. So did bio-dad. I don’t remember what I said.

That night I realized that my bi-coastal bio-parents had one commonality: They were both really fucked up in the same strange way.

This was a pretty depressing environment for me, to say the least. I hated going to AA/NA meetings and they were frequent, something like twice weekly.

Mom then got involved with social activities and then the running of the meetings. Thus an early career in non-profit management began at the mind numbingly boring AA regional ‘meetings for business.’

My intention is to write more about these experiences, from ages nine to eleven I attended hundreds of meetings. They skewed me.

For those of you out there seeking or gaining recovery:  Please make sure to have steady babysitting.