Read Online Dry: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
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wearing a naughty face. “You know the rules Helen. If you have something to say, use an ‘I’ statement .”
Helen blushes slightly and stammers. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She inhales very deeply, slides her eyes up to the ceiling. “What I mean is that I could relate to your story because I have felt that my drinking was okay as long as it didn’t hurt anybody. But in the program, I’m starting to realize that I do matter, that I am somebody who is worth something and it’s the booze and the crack that make me feel I’m not. If I don’t use, I can’t lose.” Then she looks at the cowboy. “Dale, I’m very glad you shared that. And you too, Tom. I really got a lot out of what both of you said . . . so thanks.” She shrugs and smiles.
I’m thinking, In the program . . . thanks for sharing . . . if I don’t use, I can’t lose . . . What language are these people speaking? I remember I was really freaked out on my first day in advertising, because I could barely understand a word people said. It was as if I had taken a job in Antwerp: Storyboards, VO, Tag, Farm-out, CA, Rep, Donut-middle. It was like, Huh? My favorite phrase was “Two-Cs-in-a-K.” This referred to the standard packaged goods commercial. It stood for Two Cunts in a Kitchen.
I say, “There seems to be an alcoholic language and I don’t speak it.” I have never had an ear for languages, which is yet another reason why I should leave right now.
People chuckle knowingly.
David smiles.
I turn red and mentally scold myself for actually involving myself with these people. Better to sit quietly, avert the eyes. Do not ask the Iranian hijackers for an extra pillow.
David says, “Yup, there’s a language all right. You’ll pick it up really quickly. But if there’s some particular thing you heard that you don’t understand, just tell us and we can explain it to you.”
Marion briefly departs her world of low self-esteem long enough to smile at me.
I wipe my hands on my pants. They leave dark wet marks behind. I am feeling so out of place and uncomfortable, not to mention threatened. Like it’s the first day of high school and I showed up in a red Speedo. I swallow hard. “Well, this woman here . . .” I point to the woman who had just “shared.” “Helen, is it?”
She nods.
“Yeah, so Helen, she said something about ‘in the program’ and I guess I was wondering what a ‘program’ is.” Somehow, I do not think a program in any way resembles something Julie from The Love Boat would dream up.
“Would anybody like to answer Augusten’s question?”
Pregnant Paul smiles at me, looks like he’s about to open his mouth.
“Sure. Hi Augusten, I’m Brian and I’m a drug addict,” says a guy who has been silent the whole time. He has been not only silent, but borderline smirky.
“Hi, Brian!” says the room.
“A ‘program’ is basically AA terminology and it refers to the steps. You know the Twelve Steps?”
I shake my head vaguely and shrug. I only know the first step, which seems depressing enough: admitting I am powerless over alcohol, even bad sangria. That there are eleven additional steps is daunting.
“Okay, well, when you ‘work your program’ all that means is that you’re doing everything you can do to stay sober, according to the steps. You’ll see. You’ll see a lot of AA when you get out of here.”
That should be interesting. I’ve always wondered what an AA meeting is like. The reason I’ve never been to one—aside from the fact that you can’t drink at them—is because I’m afraid what I see in my head might be close to the truth: Held downstairs in the dank, unused basements of churches, I envision a shamed group of people wearing long dark coats and old Foster Grant sunglasses, sitting in folding metal chairs. Everyone is clutching a white Styrofoam cup filled halfway with bad coffee. Filled only halfway so the coffee doesn’t slosh out, due to the fact that
Helen blushes slightly and stammers. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She inhales very deeply, slides her eyes up to the ceiling. “What I mean is that I could relate to your story because I have felt that my drinking was okay as long as it didn’t hurt anybody. But in the program, I’m starting to realize that I do matter, that I am somebody who is worth something and it’s the booze and the crack that make me feel I’m not. If I don’t use, I can’t lose.” Then she looks at the cowboy. “Dale, I’m very glad you shared that. And you too, Tom. I really got a lot out of what both of you said . . . so thanks.” She shrugs and smiles.
I’m thinking, In the program . . . thanks for sharing . . . if I don’t use, I can’t lose . . . What language are these people speaking? I remember I was really freaked out on my first day in advertising, because I could barely understand a word people said. It was as if I had taken a job in Antwerp: Storyboards, VO, Tag, Farm-out, CA, Rep, Donut-middle. It was like, Huh? My favorite phrase was “Two-Cs-in-a-K.” This referred to the standard packaged goods commercial. It stood for Two Cunts in a Kitchen.
I say, “There seems to be an alcoholic language and I don’t speak it.” I have never had an ear for languages, which is yet another reason why I should leave right now.
People chuckle knowingly.
David smiles.
I turn red and mentally scold myself for actually involving myself with these people. Better to sit quietly, avert the eyes. Do not ask the Iranian hijackers for an extra pillow.
David says, “Yup, there’s a language all right. You’ll pick it up really quickly. But if there’s some particular thing you heard that you don’t understand, just tell us and we can explain it to you.”
Marion briefly departs her world of low self-esteem long enough to smile at me.
I wipe my hands on my pants. They leave dark wet marks behind. I am feeling so out of place and uncomfortable, not to mention threatened. Like it’s the first day of high school and I showed up in a red Speedo. I swallow hard. “Well, this woman here . . .” I point to the woman who had just “shared.” “Helen, is it?”
She nods.
“Yeah, so Helen, she said something about ‘in the program’ and I guess I was wondering what a ‘program’ is.” Somehow, I do not think a program in any way resembles something Julie from The Love Boat would dream up.
“Would anybody like to answer Augusten’s question?”
Pregnant Paul smiles at me, looks like he’s about to open his mouth.
“Sure. Hi Augusten, I’m Brian and I’m a drug addict,” says a guy who has been silent the whole time. He has been not only silent, but borderline smirky.
“Hi, Brian!” says the room.
“A ‘program’ is basically AA terminology and it refers to the steps. You know the Twelve Steps?”
I shake my head vaguely and shrug. I only know the first step, which seems depressing enough: admitting I am powerless over alcohol, even bad sangria. That there are eleven additional steps is daunting.
“Okay, well, when you ‘work your program’ all that means is that you’re doing everything you can do to stay sober, according to the steps. You’ll see. You’ll see a lot of AA when you get out of here.”
That should be interesting. I’ve always wondered what an AA meeting is like. The reason I’ve never been to one—aside from the fact that you can’t drink at them—is because I’m afraid what I see in my head might be close to the truth: Held downstairs in the dank, unused basements of churches, I envision a shamed group of people wearing long dark coats and old Foster Grant sunglasses, sitting in folding metal chairs. Everyone is clutching a white Styrofoam cup filled halfway with bad coffee. Filled only halfway so the coffee doesn’t slosh out, due to the fact that
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