“Jennifer said I might find you here,” I say.
“Jennifer?”
“Jennifer, Jen. From the meetings.”
John lifts his glass and sips, not caring to meet my eyes; his are defeated and lost, his focus gone.
The bartender approaches. “What’ll you have?” he asks.
“Diet Coke,” I say.
“Make that two,” the Old-Timer adds. “But throw a whiskey in mine while you’re at it.”
I sit, not bothering to remove my overcoat. “A little early, don’t you think?”
“Depends what you call early.”
I check the clock overhead: eleven a.m. A difficult and guilt-ridden decision made yesterday to clear a window in my schedule so I could hunt down John. A huntsman, a hawker, a friend.
“So. Is this how it’s going to be?” I challenge.
“Certainly looks that way, Daniel.”
We both sip our drinks in silence. I imagine my monkey colluding with the drunk one clinging to the Old-Timer’s back, now set free to do as it damn well pleases.
“Another whiskey,” he shouts, slamming his palm on the bar. “Make it a double.”
“Come back,” I say, “there’s a meeting in a couple hours. We can go together.”
The Old-Timer clinks my glass.
“No can do,” he says, eyes fixed on his drink.
“No such thing,” I reply.
He turns to me, rests his palm on my thigh, swaying a little. “You know, I thought I’d cracked it. Just one drink, I told myself. Just to take the edge off things. I thought I was safe. Then one drink became a bottle. Then a phone call. A score. A hit. And quicker than you’d believe, I was right back into it. Deep.”
He holds out his hand. Proof of the shakes.
I place my arm around him, remembering the times we’ve sat together and shared our war stories, shame melting because we were not alone in the struggle.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, John,” I say, suddenly crestfallen. “It’s no excuse, but I’ve had some things on my mind. I split up with my partner.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Over the years we’ve talked each other down off a cliff regarding our significant losses. For the most part, he was a beacon of the AA Big Book directive, his recovery steadfast and tight. A man with immense integrity whose bridge to normal living was both staunch and unyielding.
“Your monkey try and convince you that you’re no longer an addict?” I ask.
“Something like that,” he says, reaching for a smoke.
“One drink is never enough,” I say. “Your monkey’s a liar.”
The Old-Timer stares into my eyes and nods. “Well, you’d know all about that, right, Daniel?”
“Touché, John,” I say, standing. “Touché.”
He looks over at a couple ordering brunch. “Go,” he says. “I wanna be alone, Daniel.”
As I leave I turn back, reluctantly, and see John order another drink. He lurches on the barstool, no concern for my exit. His stoop not dissimilar from my father’s, content at the bar, shelling peanuts, a TV overhead blasting out talk shows and sports news. A glaze falling over his sad, lonely eyes.
The door now closed behind me, I recall my first and only relapse. I was twelve months sober and a week away from collecting my chip when the monkey on my back forced my desire sky high. I didn’t want to succeed, I wanted to get wasted, have sex. Sabotage all the hard work of the last twelve months because someone looked at me the wrong way. The look turned into defeat; I told myself no one cared. Clara was long gone, work was a drag. Just one drink, the monkey said. It’ll take the edge off things.
Like John said, one drink turned into a bottle, or three. Next, a cab ride to Soho. Cocaine in a bar, girls, more drinks, a hooker.
A shiver falls upon me. “I won’t allow John to give up,” I speak out loud, reminded of how he’s had my back, talking me off a ledge after that messy relapse when all I could think about was getting loaded after Clara’s death. How he had helped me find a sponsor. His grit was much greater than mine, his fight both determined and needed. “I will do the same for him.”
I spin around on my heel, burst back into the bar, and grab John by the collar.
“I’m taking you to rehab. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Leave, and I’ll come find you. Stay, and we’ve got ourselves a fight.”
John breaks down, slings his arms around my back, and holds on for his life. Purpose and survival forcing our spines to realign.
Outside, I race to my car, knowing I need to get to work by midday, pulling out my phone. I see I have two missed calls and a voicemail. Rattled, I press play.
“Dr. Rosenstein,” my receptionist says, “you need to come into the office immediately. Something terrible has happened. It’s Alexa Wú.”