sponsor?”
“Tell me about that last night,” I said, “and then we’ll talk about it.”
“I went outside for a smoke,” Troy said, “and he was parked across the street, which was kind of creepy. You know what I mean? He wasn’t on the phone or anything. He was just watching our house. Terry never seemed like a sitting-in-the-car kind of guy. Usually, it was like he had his door open before the car even stopped. When he saw me, he got out, and we started talking.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Same as always. What it was like when he first got sober, how hard it was. Nothing he didn’t talk about at meetings, but I’ve thought about this part of the night more than any other. He talked about how everyone had been sick of him, how they’d wanted him to die and get it over with. And then he asked me ifI wanted to hang out. It was like he needed me more than I needed him, and I didn’t like that.”
“So why’d you go?”
“Because, you know, it was a privilege, too. Like we were going to be friends, and I wanted that at the same time I didn’t want that.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “This is me, remember? Where’d you go?”
“We went to Santa Anita, the race track? He said he was going to show me where he hung out before he got sober. He took me to this spot under the bleachers where his old bookie was, and he told me what this chump would be wearing and exactly what he would say to us. He was right, too. This is fifteen years later we’re talking about.”
It wasn’t fifteen years later. Terry had taken me on the same trip seven years ago, and I had been equally impressed. The bookie had said,
Eh, Whitey, how’s your pretty wife?
Even when I went, Terry hadn’t had a pretty wife in a long time.
“I was with him a couple of hours,” Troy continued. “The whole time he pretended that we weren’t looking for heroin. We were only taking a tour of all his old copping spots. I thought we were getting to be friends. Isn’t that fucked up?”
“And then what?”
“And then nothing,” Troy said. “We were supposed to look at some more places he used to cop, but he got pissed at me. I wasn’t up for any more Santa Ana. I talk big, but heroin scares the shit out of me. He started freaking out like, ‘You think I’mgoing to cop? You think after fifteen years of sobriety I’m going shoot drugs with an asshole like you?’ He told me I was a pussy because I’d only snorted it. He said that I had to be a recovering IV drug user to ride with him, and he kicked me out onto Orangethorpe near that TGIF. I thought he was kidding, but then he drove away.”
This wasn’t any Terry that I’d ever known. If it was true, not only had he abandoned Troy to his demons, he’d probably taught the demons a few tricks.
Troy paused to carefully fold the piece of paper with the quote on it. Then he stuffed it in his back pocket.
As he did this, I realized that the bench he was sitting on was the one that had been dedicated to DUI Dave, Terry’s own sponsor, whom I had never met. Terry had told me that Dave used the cuffs of his pants as ashtrays and that Terry had never known him to enter a building without smoking a cigarette outside first. A small brass plaque gave the date of his sobriety and the date of his death. Terry had paid for the plaque himself. If Troy had noticed, he might have said there were no coincidences, and then I would have had to drown him.
“I can’t stand the idea that a TGIF in Fullerton might be my last drink,” Troy said. “And don’t tell me that I can go drink right now. I
know
that. Will you be my sponsor?”
There was a time when I would sponsor anyone. The sicker and more annoying, the better. I thought it was my sacred duty to A.A. Sponsorship was also supposed to be the final step toward freedom from alcohol—the twelfth step, in fact—but I didn’t know if I believed that anymore. My own sponsor had been
“Tell me about that last night,” I said, “and then we’ll talk about it.”
“I went outside for a smoke,” Troy said, “and he was parked across the street, which was kind of creepy. You know what I mean? He wasn’t on the phone or anything. He was just watching our house. Terry never seemed like a sitting-in-the-car kind of guy. Usually, it was like he had his door open before the car even stopped. When he saw me, he got out, and we started talking.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Same as always. What it was like when he first got sober, how hard it was. Nothing he didn’t talk about at meetings, but I’ve thought about this part of the night more than any other. He talked about how everyone had been sick of him, how they’d wanted him to die and get it over with. And then he asked me ifI wanted to hang out. It was like he needed me more than I needed him, and I didn’t like that.”
“So why’d you go?”
“Because, you know, it was a privilege, too. Like we were going to be friends, and I wanted that at the same time I didn’t want that.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “This is me, remember? Where’d you go?”
“We went to Santa Anita, the race track? He said he was going to show me where he hung out before he got sober. He took me to this spot under the bleachers where his old bookie was, and he told me what this chump would be wearing and exactly what he would say to us. He was right, too. This is fifteen years later we’re talking about.”
It wasn’t fifteen years later. Terry had taken me on the same trip seven years ago, and I had been equally impressed. The bookie had said,
Eh, Whitey, how’s your pretty wife?
Even when I went, Terry hadn’t had a pretty wife in a long time.
“I was with him a couple of hours,” Troy continued. “The whole time he pretended that we weren’t looking for heroin. We were only taking a tour of all his old copping spots. I thought we were getting to be friends. Isn’t that fucked up?”
“And then what?”
“And then nothing,” Troy said. “We were supposed to look at some more places he used to cop, but he got pissed at me. I wasn’t up for any more Santa Ana. I talk big, but heroin scares the shit out of me. He started freaking out like, ‘You think I’mgoing to cop? You think after fifteen years of sobriety I’m going shoot drugs with an asshole like you?’ He told me I was a pussy because I’d only snorted it. He said that I had to be a recovering IV drug user to ride with him, and he kicked me out onto Orangethorpe near that TGIF. I thought he was kidding, but then he drove away.”
This wasn’t any Terry that I’d ever known. If it was true, not only had he abandoned Troy to his demons, he’d probably taught the demons a few tricks.
Troy paused to carefully fold the piece of paper with the quote on it. Then he stuffed it in his back pocket.
As he did this, I realized that the bench he was sitting on was the one that had been dedicated to DUI Dave, Terry’s own sponsor, whom I had never met. Terry had told me that Dave used the cuffs of his pants as ashtrays and that Terry had never known him to enter a building without smoking a cigarette outside first. A small brass plaque gave the date of his sobriety and the date of his death. Terry had paid for the plaque himself. If Troy had noticed, he might have said there were no coincidences, and then I would have had to drown him.
“I can’t stand the idea that a TGIF in Fullerton might be my last drink,” Troy said. “And don’t tell me that I can go drink right now. I
know
that. Will you be my sponsor?”
There was a time when I would sponsor anyone. The sicker and more annoying, the better. I thought it was my sacred duty to A.A. Sponsorship was also supposed to be the final step toward freedom from alcohol—the twelfth step, in fact—but I didn’t know if I believed that anymore. My own sponsor had been
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