I’m in the driveway of Oliver House in my sweats balancing my right foot against the security gate stretching for a four-block jog that’s really like a fast walk I do every night. I keep my leg straight and try to touch my forehead to my knee.
A man pushes three shopping carts heaped with crushed cans and empty bottles up Masonic Avenue toward the center. The carts are tied together, clanking loudly, and form a train like miniature freight cars. Three bloated trash bags filled with more cans and bottles hang from each cart. The man leans into his load, head down, arms outstretched and locked at the elbows. I raise my chin and he nods. Looks like he’s heading into the Haight. Likely will crash in Golden Gate Park. I’ve slept there more than a few times my own self. Man, just thinking about sleep makes me tired. Yawning, I look at my watch.
Five o’clock, but it’s December and already dark. A full pock-marked moon throws a silvery blue light over the street. Stars snap in and out of the sky like fireflies. My body must get fooled somehow by the early night, because although it’s early I’m beat and want to crash. Curfew starts at nine, but I’ll crawl into the sack by seven and sleep until morning. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I’ll heat some milk.
A warm glass of milk helps you sleep, my counselor told me when I first got here.
My bunkmate says anything white should go in your arm. I’m hip, I tell him, and we laugh. Our counselors warned us both against that kind of stinkin’ thinkin’, even as a joke.
Last week, my counselor suggested I take up running.
Exercise’ll give you energy, he said. You spend too much time in your room.
It’s been two weeks since some guy died here and my name came up on the waiting list. The guy had a seizure. Fell out of his chair in an AA meeting, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. At least that’s what I was told when I was in detox at Fresh Start. So I got his bed.
This is your last chance, Walter, Katie told me. I had to do major arm twisting to get you in. Don’t screw up this time.
The man pushing the carts stops at the house next door. He takes off his sweatshirt and ties it around his waist, wiping his face with his undershirt. I can see his breath. Two brown shopping bags piled in a blue recycling tub near a station wagon rattle with bottles as he picks them up and hefts them into the rear cart. The right rear wheel of the station wagon straddles the curb. Faded bumper stickers pasted on the back read take it easy and one day at a time.
Say! Say! Get away from there! Get away from my car! a man shouts from an open door at the house next door.
Cart Man freezes for an instant, cocks his head trying to see who’s shouting at him. Then he quickly sorts through the remaining cans and bottles in the tub.
Get away! the man next door shouts again, switching on the porch light. Someone broke into my car, goddamn it, now get the hell away! It was you or some other street son of a bitch, wasn’t it? You bastard. I should have you arrested. Now get away from my car.
The man steps out onto the porch holding a steaming mug in one hand, the other hand cupped over his eyes. He’s got on a suit with a tie draped around his neck. His clothes look like he slept in them.
It was probably one of you bastards, he says, giving me a look. You and your halfway house. Goddamn drunks all of you. I know.
He sets the mug down on a patio chair. I look away and start stretching my left leg, glancing at him when I think he won’t notice.
I see you out here running, the man says. It was probably you. A no-good drunk busting into people’s cars. I know. I said this would happen when they built your goddamn center.
I stare at the ground and try to touch my toes. The moon lights up everything. Brick houses and trim lawns, telephone poles and power lines, fence posts and empty lots. Wet leaves lie scattered over the street curled in puddles.
The man next door walks stiffly to the station wagon stopping at the driver’s side. He bends over, peers in. The man with the carts follows him, nods at me to come over. I go to the passenger side.
The radio’s missing, see? the man from next door says.
None of the windows are broken. The radio is gone but the interior isn’t damaged. A wallet lies on top of a coat on the passenger seat. I think I should say something, but I don’t need this guy in my face any more than he already is. My heart gets to racing. I become angry fast. My counselor says it’s because alcohol has fried all my nerves.
You think I did that? I say tapping a window. How the hell did I get in?
The man gets quiet, looks genuinely puzzled, and considers the window like he’s never seen it.
All right, maybe it wasn’t you, he concedes. But it was someone. Someone must have had one of those things tow companies use to open locked cars. One of those sticks they slide down the door and snap open the lock.
You’ll find your radio in a pawn shop, I say.
You wouldn’t get much for it. I know pawn shops, he says, opening the door and reaching under the front seat. The radio was one of those removable kinds. I always put it under the front seat but it’s not there.
He has trouble standing back up and leans heavily on the door. His breath smells of coffee and booze and for a second I feel light-headed. I wouldn’t call it a contact high, but the smell sure put me back on Sixth Street at Fred’s Liquor Store.
The man pushes past me and walks back to his porch, leaning a little to one side.
At least they didn’t take your wallet, I tell him.
He turns around, holding his mug.
What’s that?
He comes back to the car and sets his mug on the roof. I point at the passenger seat and he opens the door and grabs his wallet. He picks up his coat too, revealing a small, square, black radio beneath it. He hesitates, holding his wallet and coat.
Goddamn radio, how’d it get there?
He opens his wallet, makes a show of counting his money and credit cards, but his fingers shake and he drops the wallet on the pavement. I hand it back to him.
I always put it under the seat.
I didn’t take it.
I know. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I respect what you’re doing, getting sober. Really. I know. How long’s it been?
Not long.
But it feels long?
Yeah. Yeah, it does.
That’s how I felt. I made fifteen years. Fifteen. Jesus. It got too long for me and I just fell off. Man, I stopped drinking, made my meetings and then I just fell off and now I’m messing up.
He looks away and I see his eyes tearing up.
Look at me. I couldn’t find my goddamn radio under my goddamn coat. Christ. Don’t you just hate yourself sometimes?
I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t say hate. Not yet anyway.
Wait’ll you do the fourth step, the man says. Wait’ll you start making amends. You’ll see.
He sniffles and I hear Cart Man pushing his load away from the curb. The rusted wheels grate on their axles and the bottles and cans click, clack, click as he moves forward.
The man doesn’t pay him any attention. He holds his mug in one hand and jams the radio, coat, and wallet under his other arm. He’s still a little weepy.
You take care, he says. Take it easy.
I begin stretching again. I reach for my toes, trying to keep my knees locked. Then I straighten and twist from side to side, faster and faster. I lean back and roll my head. Stars explode when I blink my eyes.
Fifteen fucking years, I think. Fifteen. Jesus.
I start running. I pass Cart Man and a woman walking her dogs. A bus stops at Haight and Masonic and I listen to traffic somewhere far away. I splash through muddy puddles that stain my pants as I pick up my pace. I pump my arms harder. Moonlight carves the street into shifting, jagged shapes. Leaves stick to my shoes. The sound of my running bounces off houses, my breath coming in gasps until the ache in my chest is too much. I stop, bend over, hands on my knees, sucking in air. I hear Cart Man behind me and look back. I see the dark outline of the carts approaching, hear the noise of the cans like the tolling of bells, and I watch my neighbor walking up the porch steps, one hand on the railing. He looks out at the street like someone stranded on shore. He backs up, switches off the outside light, enters the darkness of his house, and closes the door. I hear it shut. The night closes around me and I start running again.