Smoke if you've got um.

The rug had been truly hideous when it was new in the 1970’s, but footsteps, dirt, and cigarette ash had dulled the original bright orange, yellow, and brown crazy quilt pattern to a almost uniform boring grey. My son and I sat in a sketchy booth, in a sketchy part of town, with a lot of very sketchy people. It is dark and dreary in the cave like room, with overhead ceiling fans moving the thick smoke in lazy circles that gradually lose their gravity and pour onto the thick wooden table top and the sticky naulgahyde covered benches on their journey to that rug. People that look like they had slept beside dumpsters last night and people dressed in business casual all tried to hug us when we came in the door. I realize that what is missing to make this the perfect rat hole of a beer joint is the alcohol. Even though it was 7:30 in the morning, I had a terrible urge for a drink, a desire so unlike me I have to believe I am an empath who channels the yearnings of those around me. Of all the fifty or so people in the room, we were the most interesting evidently, because all eyes were focused on us the majority of the time, fresh meat, I think. They are missionaries for a cause and the woman in the booth in front of me could only hold out for five minutes before she was on her feet, leaning over to whisper in my ear. I stopped her cold when I stated, “I am not an alcoholic.”

“Oh”, she said, lying and trying not to sound disappointed, “I just knew you weren’t one.” I volunteer something that makes her perk up immediately.

“I’m probably an enabler.” She smiles, sits back down at her booth, and starts writing frantically. In a few minutes she is back with a full page note containing her testimony, her first and last name, and her phone number. I thank her and tuck it into my handbag. She has added a star to her crown by finding a place for me in this club.

Soon the meeting starts and people are witnessing, just like in the old time revival meeting of my childhood. Men still in the full flush of youth, women from 18 to 80, and finally Old Blevins himself, they all tell their stories. For some this is a starting point, for others it is the end of the road, but everyone who spoke had the same message, this is your salvation. It is democracy in action, a cross section of the world leveled to one commonality, addiction. The faces that are speaking have eyes turned only on my boy, believing they are reaching out, but only pushing him into a far corner of his mind to escape. I don’t know what either of us expected from the AA meeting. He came because it was a dictate of the court to attend at least 8 of them, and I came because his license is restricted and he cannot drive about town at will. There is nothing here for him, of that I am sure. The meeting is endless, but the clock on the wall says only an hour has passed. A collection plate is passed and I fumble for a few dollars in my bag and am rewarded with another grasping of the flesh. We have one last horror, holding hands in a group and repeating the Lord’s Prayer together. I think about it, and rather than let them think I do not know it, I play hypocrite and mouth the words. The boy stands silent and defiant, but no one knows why but me.

Their hands are all over us as we try to exit, an Old Blevins blocking the doorway to testify again and a black man in a straw hat grabbing my son’s arm and lecturing him on his inability to admit guilt. We are both joyous to finally reach the car and exhilarated to leave the parking lot. My boy has been so much better since his sister’s visit, rarely drinking, joining us for meals, engaging in conversation, and up at dawn every day to run. I do not want to believe he has any commonality with the people in that dank room, but a wisp of a doubt is sitting in my brain like the smell of smoke that lingers in my hair and clothing. I roll down the car window, take a deep breath of fresh air, and sweep it away with my practiced enabler’s hand.