Averyl.com

Today I have 32 years of sobriety.

I wrote this over twenty years ago:

Gordon

I was angry and my mind was shooting blanks.  I had no more answers, questions or hope.

People seemed like mannequins in storefronts, windows to plastic dramas, none of which could be trusted.

I walked through the door, my head low and sat in the back of the room. I was the only female besides a motorcycle mamma. The men drank instant coffee from foam cups, and unlike in the bars, none of them looked at me as I sat down.  Even so I did my best NYC don’t fuck with me face and looked at my feet.  I wanted the meeting to start so no one would try and talk to me. 

It was noon. The meeting chairman knocked on the metal chair next to him to signal the beginning.

“Welcome to the 12 and 12 meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.  My name is Eric and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Eric.”

I noticed that everyone was holding a blue book, and they started to read aloud from it.  Bookless, I looked down again from my seat, but peeked upwards with my head facing down, and saw a plump old man with a big Band-Aid across the bridge of his nose, looking grumpy, staring at me. He got up out of his seat, his chair making a high-pitched screech as the metal chair slid against the floor. People continued to read. I quickly looked away and played with my watch. There was a tap on my shoulder.  I looked halfway up to see his finger pointing at the current paragraph, his other hand holding the book out to me. I accepted the book and he gave a nod, his grimace became a semi-smile and he shuffled back to his seat.

I didn’t understand what happened next, but I know that I had to work hard not to cry. My eyes burned as I read along quietly and people took turns reading aloud. 

When the meeting was over he walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

“Next time, don’t sit in the back.” He looked like he wanted to say more but began to cough and did so into his sleeve.  After his spell he looked at me and pointed above my face.

“Stay out of your head.”

He full out smiled as he exited the room, taking a cigarette out of his plaid jacket pocket. When he was gone a guy in a leather jacket walked over with an unlit smoke in his mouth.

“Is old grumpy bothering you?”

I didn’t like him being called that.

“No.”

Grumpy had a name: Gordon. He we quite a sight with his band-aid and chronic smoker’s cough. But his Band-Aid was always new, his clothes spotless and pressed.  With few words and eyes that knew things I had yet to discover, he would ask how I was doing, if I was getting into my head too much. He referred to the “shitty committee” that made up the spirit of many of his thoughts and I laughed because I knew what he meant.

I used to nag him about quitting smoking, and he’d say he’s too old to change, or he’d laugh and say “one addiction at a time.” I know he had stories to tell, but I never asked.  They seemed dark and he seemed to stay ahead of them one meeting at a time.

I wish I could say that I let him know how much I appreciated him that first year of staying sober.  Maybe he knew by seeing my face brighter, my moods lighter.  But the last time I saw him was when I stopped by a small not well-attended meeting one Friday. He was there with Ryan, a very attractive guy around my age.  Ryan asked if I wanted to have coffee with him instead of going to the meeting. I said OK, but then realized we were leaving Gordon alone, maybe without a meeting. 

It is hard for me to accept how self-centered I was back then.  I worried only briefly as I looked at him and said good-bye. 

“I’m sure other people will show up.” I said to him.

I was two weeks away from one year of sobriety, and I secretly decided that I would dedicate my one-year medallion to him. I wanted him to know that if he hadn’t approached me that first day, I would have never returned to a meeting.  I prepared a short speech.  I wanted him to know that he was my guardian angel.

A few days later Ryan and I were sitting in the local coffee house and someone else from AA came in with a newspaper. He placed it on the table and pointed to a small paragraph, the same way Gordon had pointed to the entry in the AA book he wanted me to follow. I was about to receive my next lesson. I read the words.  “Gordon Brown, Marine veteran, died on June 5, 1994.  He is survived by no one.  Gordon was active within the community…”

I cried selfishly and cried over my selfishness.  I never thought about Gordon having a life outside of AA; I never knew he was a Marine veteran…I never ASKED him about HIM.  I only saw and thought and worried about ME. ME ME ME.  I would never get to thank him.

Instead, I left my one year medallion on his grave.

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Gordon, you are survived by me and everyone else you saved, whether in the service or in being of service to others. I will always keep your message alive! I can’t believe I have 32 years?!?!?!?! THANK YOU!!!!