the conveyor belt that would transport the food to the cash register. He noted a pattern. Certain words and phrases that appeared over and over again.
Meals for one. Solos. Single serving.
23
THESE PEOPLE WERE INSANE
It was a church basement set up with tight rows of folding chairs and a folding table off to the side set up with a coffee urn and foam cups. There were about forty chairs, and roughly half of them held occupants—mostly white with a scattering of other races, and about equally split with men and women of different ages.
A fiftyish woman with frizzy salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a maroon velour tracksuit stood up. “My name is Martha and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Martha,” the group responded in unison.
A teenage girl with a bright red patch of acne engulfing her chin stood up. “My name is Pearl and I’m an alcoholic.” Thegroup welcomed her, and Pearl added, “I also enjoy crack and hydrocodone.”
A man with muttonchop sideburns went next. He said his name was Walter and that this was his first meeting. Even though he elected to forgo the usual declaration, he was welcomed heartily. Then there was an older woman whose finger was set in a splint and wrapped with white gauze.
Helen wondered if the woman with the finger splint had fallen and broken her finger while she was drunk. And the girl with acne was downright odd. It was like she was placing the worst sort of personal ad:
I like sunny days, long walks on the beach, and I also enjoy crack and hydrocodone. Let’s get together.
And speaking of odd, hadn’t muttonchops gone the way of Jack the Ripper? Helen was more certain than ever that she didn’t belong here. Maybe she could slip out before it was her turn to stand up. Or just do like Jack the Tippler and say that it was her first meeting, thank you, and keep on moving. Yes, she could do that, but then everyone would think of her just exactly what she had thought of old Jack: that he didn’t yet have the balls to say it, to say that he was an alcoholic.
Maybe she could try explaining to them that she had been one of the invisible victims of radiation poisoning.
Taped on the wall above the coffee urn was an edge-worn poster. It listed the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Step one stated:
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
Okay, right there, Helen already had a problem. Yes, fine, she was an alcoholic. She had come to terms with that years ago. And if it made these people feel gushyinside, then she could stand up and state just that. No problem. The issue was that her life was certainly not unmanageable. She was a college graduate. She had obtained her doctor of veterinary medicine degree. She owned her own home, her own vet practice. Hardly the hallmarks of a skid row derelict straining Sterno through a befouled pair of underwear. Yes, she was an alcoholic, but she was a
functional
alcoholic.
Step two:
Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Sure. Why not?
Step three:
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Okay. Fine. God is great. God is good.
Step four:
Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
She could see where that might present a challenge.
Step five:
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Hold the phone. Do what? Fuck that shit. She’d just finished covering up a crime; confessing that to somebody didn’t seem the most prudent course of action. These people were insane.
Helen quickly scanned the remaining steps and thought,
Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of shit to do
. No wonder AA worked for so many people—who would have time to drink? It was just too much. Coming here had been a horrible mistake. A stupid mistake. She wasn’t in her right mind. She was sweating. Her heart was racing. Her hands were trembling. It had to be the radiation.
It was her
Meals for one. Solos. Single serving.
23
THESE PEOPLE WERE INSANE
It was a church basement set up with tight rows of folding chairs and a folding table off to the side set up with a coffee urn and foam cups. There were about forty chairs, and roughly half of them held occupants—mostly white with a scattering of other races, and about equally split with men and women of different ages.
A fiftyish woman with frizzy salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a maroon velour tracksuit stood up. “My name is Martha and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Martha,” the group responded in unison.
A teenage girl with a bright red patch of acne engulfing her chin stood up. “My name is Pearl and I’m an alcoholic.” Thegroup welcomed her, and Pearl added, “I also enjoy crack and hydrocodone.”
A man with muttonchop sideburns went next. He said his name was Walter and that this was his first meeting. Even though he elected to forgo the usual declaration, he was welcomed heartily. Then there was an older woman whose finger was set in a splint and wrapped with white gauze.
Helen wondered if the woman with the finger splint had fallen and broken her finger while she was drunk. And the girl with acne was downright odd. It was like she was placing the worst sort of personal ad:
I like sunny days, long walks on the beach, and I also enjoy crack and hydrocodone. Let’s get together.
And speaking of odd, hadn’t muttonchops gone the way of Jack the Ripper? Helen was more certain than ever that she didn’t belong here. Maybe she could slip out before it was her turn to stand up. Or just do like Jack the Tippler and say that it was her first meeting, thank you, and keep on moving. Yes, she could do that, but then everyone would think of her just exactly what she had thought of old Jack: that he didn’t yet have the balls to say it, to say that he was an alcoholic.
Maybe she could try explaining to them that she had been one of the invisible victims of radiation poisoning.
Taped on the wall above the coffee urn was an edge-worn poster. It listed the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Step one stated:
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
Okay, right there, Helen already had a problem. Yes, fine, she was an alcoholic. She had come to terms with that years ago. And if it made these people feel gushyinside, then she could stand up and state just that. No problem. The issue was that her life was certainly not unmanageable. She was a college graduate. She had obtained her doctor of veterinary medicine degree. She owned her own home, her own vet practice. Hardly the hallmarks of a skid row derelict straining Sterno through a befouled pair of underwear. Yes, she was an alcoholic, but she was a
functional
alcoholic.
Step two:
Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Sure. Why not?
Step three:
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Okay. Fine. God is great. God is good.
Step four:
Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
She could see where that might present a challenge.
Step five:
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Hold the phone. Do what? Fuck that shit. She’d just finished covering up a crime; confessing that to somebody didn’t seem the most prudent course of action. These people were insane.
Helen quickly scanned the remaining steps and thought,
Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of shit to do
. No wonder AA worked for so many people—who would have time to drink? It was just too much. Coming here had been a horrible mistake. A stupid mistake. She wasn’t in her right mind. She was sweating. Her heart was racing. Her hands were trembling. It had to be the radiation.
It was her
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