By day, I am a lawyer in a large Arkansas firm. Like animals, lawyers group in packs. Lions have their prides. Crows have their murders. Lawyers have their bars. I’ve always supposed that at the convocation of the first group of lawyers, one of the members posed the question, “Exactly what shall we call ourselves whence we are gathered in a group of three or more?” Another raised a stiff drink, chuckled, and noted, “Why not a bar?” This is, of course, a hypothetical account, but if the shoe fits and all of that.
Yesterday evening, my office hosted a local chamber of commerce event. The caterers and bartenders began to arrive at four, began to arrange the food and booze tables for Business After Hours. There were two booze tables, each with a pair of green Tanqueray bottles. The limes were cut; the sting of citrus hung like perfume near the table. I heard the crack and hiss of the tonic-water bottles, the prelude to the unwinding of bankers, lawyers, and business leaders.
It has been almost three weeks since my last drink, and the burning fire is not as constant. Now it sneaks up on me at the most inopportune times, which is what happened the moment I saw the twin bottles of gin. My stomach fluttered, heart sped. Perhaps this is the feeling of new singleness in the presence of an old and favored lover? Perhaps this is the blinding thirst of nostalgia? Perhaps it is nothing more than the physiological draw to the surefire numbing?
No one should crave poison, but addiction is about unlearning nature’s cues, and the body is far slower a learner than the mind.
Hunter attended the event—client and friend, an observant fellow with a healthy tolerance for the machinations and gamesmanship of business relationships. Knowing that I’ve decided to part ways with my most favored mistress, he found me in the corner of the room, looked down at my napkin-shrouded Diet Coke, and asked how I was.
“I’m making it,” I said.
“You’re doing well,” he said, “but you look like you’re jonesing for a stiff one.” Hunter has a way with words. Then he added, “Why don’t you get out of here? You’ve made your appearance. There’s a difference between being a gracious host and torturing yourself.”
A business acquaintance moved into our conversation with the gusto of a used car salesman, looked down at Hunter’s cup. “Whatcha got there?” he asked, hoping to compare liquor notes with Hunter. Hunter looked at me, drew a line down to my Diet Coke with his eyes, then looked to our new compatriot. “Tea,” he responded.
It was a naked lie.
There was whiskey in Hunter’s cup, and we both knew it. In that moment, though, he had chosen a more Franciscan way—make me an instrument of peace, he may well have prayed. Hunter understands the power of words, knows that there is power in the confession of some things, and power in the withholding of others. The word whiskey would have been a subtle prod, a titillating reminder of bygone days, and he spared me from it.
There are some in this world with a gift for understanding the internal gyrations of pain. There are some with rudimentary but well-practiced gifts of healing. I suppose I could learn a thing or two from men like Hunter.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. And make me an instrument of your peace.