About Last Night - Chapter 11
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 and Chapter 10.
March, 2018
The AA meeting is in a gym near the Barbican Centre that smells of sweat, rubber, and dirty socks. A bunch of fold-up chairs are set in a semi-circle, and, at one side, a coffee station is set on a rickety table. Some people are by the table, helping themselves with hot beverages, some are standing or sitting by themselves, blankly staring at something that wasn’t there, some talking in small groups, betraying nervousness with fidgeting hands. I take the seat close to the exit in case I change my mind.
More people come in. Some walk past me, some nod my way, and some even say hello. A young man in a battered leather jacket and a grey beanie stops in front of me and extends his hand.
‘Hey there, I’m Tom.’
‘And you’re Irish,’ I say.
‘Guilty,’ he says, with a sweet smile.
I squeeze his hand, feeling his calloused skin under my palm.
‘I’m Helena.’
‘I remember my first time,’ he says, removing his beanie, copper curls surrounding his head like a halo. ‘I was so nervous.’
He looks even younger now, with his fiery hair all over the place. Barely into his thirties, no doubt. His face has that childlike quality men only begin to lose long after they hit their forties.
‘I’ve never been much of a churchgoer,’ he continues, taking the seat next to me and putting an end to my exit plans. I can’t possibly leave now that he’s put all this effort into talking to me.
‘Me neither,’ I say, shuddering at the memories of the Sunday sermons in Amy’s father’s church. ‘I do hope I’m not expected to join in group hugs.’
‘Only if you insist,’ he says, and I blush.
‘What do you do, Tom?’ I say, wanting to change the subject. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re a shoemaker.’
‘I wish I was,’ he says and scratches the top of his head. ‘I’d certainly be making more money from that than from what I am doing now.’
‘I thought builders make lots of money,’ I say, doing what I do best. Assuming things about people.
‘I’m not a builder either,’ he says and I can feel my face turn red. ‘I’m an actor.’
‘An actor,’ I repeat, surprised. ‘Fancy that. Anything I’d seen you in?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not having much luck of the Irish at the moment, excuse the pun. Just the odd gig here and there. And I got cast in a West End play, but they cancelled it before it got on stage.’
‘What play?’ I say, curious.
‘Spider-Man. The Musical,’ he says, and I emit a loud snort. He nods towards someone he recognises.
‘Let me guess. You were Spider-Man?’ I say, giggling hysterically.
‘I was the love interest, actually.’
‘What?’
‘It was the inverted version,’ he rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘Spider-Man was supposed to be played by a woman.’
‘Shouldn’t it have been called Spider Woman?’ I venture.
‘That’s what I said. But they said no, it was a cross-dressing concept. All the male characters were played by women and all the female played by men. I was supposed to wear a dress, wig and all. What does that say about me for getting the role?’ he says, earnestly.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t a panto?’ I say, chuckling.
‘Aye. I’m sure. They’d try anything to be different these days.’
I make a great effort to muffle my laughter as I try to imagine him in his cross-dressing outfit. Laughing about it feels juvenile and delightful, a feeling I hadn’t had since high school.
‘I’m sorry that your show got cancelled,’ I say, finally able to recover my composure.
‘It would have been a disaster anyway,’ he says, dismissively. ‘It was a terrible play and I can’t sing to save my life. Do you want some coffee?’
‘Sure.’
‘Save my seat,’ he says and walks towards the coffee station. I notice he is not very tall, but he’s well built, with strong legs and an assured step. His hair is a tousled mess that could do with a comb. He is adorable in that kind of unspoilt way only children can be.
I look around the gym. Most people are sitting down now. A stocky black man with dreadlocks and a Starbucks paper cup enters the circle and takes the chair in the middle. He looks like the author of a very complex book that has been on my nightstand for months.
‘Hi everyone,’ he says in the exact deep voice you expect him to have and looks around the room. ‘I’m Nick. Thank you for coming tonight.’
‘Hi, Nick,’ says a chorus of voices.
Tom slides back into the seat next to me and hands me a Styrofoam cup. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper and take a sip. It burns my mouth, and it tastes disgusting. No wonder Nick opted for Starbucks.
As if on cue, Nick puts down his paper cup and takes out some handouts from the briefcase by his side. I am tempted to steal his beverage as he leafs through the papers before he finds what he is looking for. ‘Zelda,’ he says, addressing a woman sitting close by. ‘Would you pass these around, please?’ Then turning towards the audience: ‘We will start with the AA preamble.’ And then, in a soothing, late-radio show voice: ‘Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism.’
I listen, concentrating on the heat of the cup that warms my hand.
‘The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking,’ Nick continues in his documentary-narrator voice.
To be perfectly honest, I much prefer the numbing of my feelings to the avalanche of pain that came after I poured the whiskey down the drain. But something bigger than me has taken over since. And whatever it is, it’s pulled me by invisible strings into Christopher’s office to ask for help. And now I’m here, against my personal preference to anaesthetise myself to oblivion.
‘I don’t need to go to AA,’ I’d said to Linda, throwing a tantrum in her office. ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘Believe it or not,’ Linda said. ‘There are limits to what I can do. The support of a community is the most powerful healing tool and not something even I can offer. I’d strongly advise to take advantage of that. If you want to get to the other side of this personal crisis of yours, you will join AA and see me once a week. If you refuse, don’t bother coming back.’
Linda’s method of persuasion worked, since I have made it as far as walking in here tonight.
Nick looks around the room, his eyes brushing over me gently, with an imperceptible nod, and I feel goosebumps forming on my skin. I look around the room too. Almost everyone has a smile on their face like they’re under some kind of spell.
‘Do we have any newcomers here tonight?’ asks Nick, taking a sip of water from a bottle.
Some say their names. Jackie, Simon, Russ, Jonathan, Alison. Helena burns to on my lips, but I stay silent. I don’t want to make it official. Not yet.
’Welcome,’ says Nick, looking at me, as if he can read my mind.
The evening passes in a blur. People talk, and I listen, forcing myself to stay in my seat, sweating and squirming inside, but willing myself not to move. Not running is all I manage to do right now. Staying in the quagmire of discomfort has been the best I can come up and it’s more than I’ve ever done before.
‘Anyone wants to lead the Serenity Prayer?’ says Nick, signalling the end of the session.
Hands raise in the air. Nick nods towards a shaggy man with long silver hair and an old army jacket. The man clears his throat, stands up and says the words with a slight tremble in his voice:
‘God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.’
The crowd repeats after him. Line by line, word by word. The prayer goes through me like a gentle feather, and I feel just a little less heavy. Tom turns his head to look at me and gives me a wholehearted smile. I smile back like my life depends on it. Maybe it does.
Stay tuned for next week’s chapter!
