Girl Walks Out of a Bar

by Lisa F. Smith

  I felt myself nodding as he spoke. I wanted to store his words so I could tap them if I ever needed them.

  When I got home, Mark was sitting in front of the television watching financial news. After Gracie Square our relationship was only platonic, but he still hung around my apartment and supported me however he could.

  “That guy I’m friends with at Group relapsed again,” I told Mark that night.

  Mark was always interested in my Group stories, but without his having any emotional connection to the people, the bad news never distressed him. “Isn’t that like the third time he’s relapsed since you met him?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s terrible.” I plopped down next to him on the couch and lit a cigarette. “He keeps trying to quit and then BOOM! He’s high again.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

  “Addiction doesn’t make any sense. That scares the shit out of me. Am I going to end up getting drunk in the mornings again?”

  “It’s already been a few weeks and you’re doing great. You’re not going to blow it.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “If it were that easy, no alcoholic would ever drink again.”

  Mark rested his hand on my shoulder. “If you drink again, it will be a disaster.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I took a long drag of my cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Except for the drinking part.”

  23

  During the last couple of years of addiction, I lied to everyone in my life and cut myself off from a lot of friends. Managing a demanding job while I had a ravenous monkey clinging to my back narrowed my world dramatically, and frequent isolation helped keep my secret. Anyone allowed long looks might have seen the problem.

  Then there was the issue of friends in other cities, friends so far away that the lying had been effortless. Now it was time to start cleaning those messes.

  My dear high school friend Randi had moved to Los Angeles in her early thirties, and our lives had diverged profoundly. While I was crawling around my closet floor hoping to find a dropped bag of coke at sunrise, Randi was teaching yoga and performing sun salutations in the Santa Monica mountains. We spoke often, but the relationship had changed. From her side of the conversation came truth. From my side, it was all bullshit.

  Two months before Gracie Square, all wound up on coke, I had called Randi at two in the morning to tell her about a business trip I’d be taking to San Francisco in May. We decided that after San Francisco I should visit her in LA and that turned into, “Let’s go to Paris together!” The trip became even more exciting when Randi read that during our time in France, Sting would be performing in a small, converted movie theater in Paris. If Sting had asked her to, Randi would have launched herself off the side of those Santa Monica mountains. Then to make the plan even more delicious, one of Randi’s yoga students offered us her apartment in Paris’s Marais district. Suddenly, we were two girlfriends headed for a thrilling vacation. The wine! The nightclubs! The wine!

  But then I sent myself to detox, and now I had to tell Randi not only that I wasn’t drinking anymore but that I was an addict. “Randi, I’m a cokehead.” No, that didn’t sound right. “Sweetie, you know how I’ve always liked to tip a few cocktails?” Not quite. “Hey girl, I have some good news and some bad news…”

  Not long before, I would have prepared for an uncomfortable phone call by taking a deep breath and downing half a bottle of merlot. Now it was just me and deep breaths. In the first two minutes of the call, I blurted it in one rambling sentence.

  “… I’m an alcoholic and was also abusing cocaine, but two weeks ago I checked myself into rehab, got myself clean, and now I take meds and go to meetings and it’s working … I feel really good about it … my life looks completely different now and I—”

  As always, Randi responded like a burst of sunshine and rainbows.

  “Oh, Lisa, that’s so cool! I’m so happy!” Randi squealed. Well maybe not all rainbows. “But what the fuck happened?” she added.

  “I just kind of broke. It got so far out of hand. I thought I could control it but I couldn’t. One day I just decided that it had to stop, and I checked myself into rehab.”

  “I’m so glad you did it. I was hoping—”

  I bristled. “Hoping?”

  “I mean, for a long time I’ve thought you had a problem. I don’t know … there were signs. For one, you only called me when it was late, really late your time. And you’d ramble. You’d repeat things two or three times.”

  Once again, talking to a dear friend was making my face flush and my eyes wet with tears. But I didn’t want to look backward, so I directed the conversation to the future, the future that scared the hell out of me. I’d been sober for less than two weeks. How the fuck was I was going to travel and handle work meetings and then have to mingle through social receptions in San Francisco? And how the fuck was I going to survive vacations in Los Angeles and Paris without either alcohol or Group?

  “You’re going to have to help me out on this trip,” I told her. “I mean, Paris! I’m going to feel like the kid at Disneyland who’s too short to go on the good rides.”

  On the morning of my flight to San Francisco, I arrived at JFK with a pulsing skull and a sour milk stomach. I came very close to canceling the whole plan and going home to the new pajamas I had finally bought myself.

  Airports had never been good places for me. To me, a terminal was just one giant pub crawl with a convenient hallway to guide the way. Traditionally, I would arrive early enough to get through security and have plenty of drinking time before that dead zone of pre-boarding time at the gate. I wasn’t nervous about air travel, but that was my script before boarding and after takeoff. Who would begrudge a nervous flier six or seven calm-down cocktails? In-flight drinking required its own strategy. Those tiny bottles were useless, so I’d order two at a time, and after a couple rounds of that, I’d make my way to the back of the plane and ask a different flight attendant for two more.

  Everything about this trip needed to be different. Even though I’d already spent six weeks avoiding the pitfalls that would threaten my new life, somehow those seemed like child’s play compared to a six-hour plane ride followed by cocktail receptions, nights out in LA, a transatlantic flight to Europe, and then Paris! I was as nervous as a first-grader who’d been sent away to military school.

  Following “Fake it ’til you make it,” a tenet popular among Group members, I decided to pretend that I was something other than a traveler who would have traded her diamond necklace for a glass of warm champagne. Like a horse wearing blinders, I lowered my head and focused on the hallway as I walked through the terminal. My gate was directly across from a neon sign that announced, “COCKTAILS,” in the shape of a tilted martini glass, so sitting there was out of the question. I found an unpopulated gate nearby, read the latest People, and distracted myself with food.

  The time dragged, and I was running out of distractions. I really needed to get on that plane and away from airport bars. I wonder if I qualify as someone needing special assistance.

  One flight at a time. One flight at a time.

  The flight attendant called my row, and within minutes of boarding the plane, I stuffed my carry-on into the overhead, buckled my seatbelt, inserted my iPod earphones, and cranked the volume on my workout playlist. Two Twix bars, a large bag of pretzels, three Diet Sprites, a second “reading” of People, and a thorough examination of every unnecessary gadget in the Sky Mall got me through the flight. After the plane landed I put the blinders back on and made my way to baggage claim. Arriving at my San Francisco hotel sober, I felt as if I’d broken the tape in the New York City Marathon.

  “OK, one person, checking in for three nights,” the receptionist said as the bellman loaded my bags onto a cart.

  “Yes, thanks. And can you please double-check that it’s a smoking room?”

  “Let me confirm,” she said politely, but I was sure I could hear what she was thinking: you realize you�
�re in California, right?

  I tapped a drum line with my foot until she confirmed that my remaining vice was allowed. I wasn’t going to make it through this challenge without nicotine, lots of nicotine, any time I wanted it.

  She slid a tiny manila folder toward me and pulled out two keys. “Here’s your room key and this one’s for the minibar.”

  “I won’t be needing this one,” I said, sliding the smaller key back across the reception desk.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “You might want something late at night.”

  I can promise you I’ll want something late at night, dumbass. Spare me the upsell and keep your key to the gates of fucking Hell. “I’m sure.”

  I was barely settled into my room before I had to be downstairs for the first cocktail hour of the conference. I grabbed two of every hors d’oeuvre that passed by without even asking what they were.

  “Hi. Club soda with a splash of cranberry juice and a lime, please,” I said to the bartender.

  From behind me I heard a familiar voice. “Club soda?! Who are you and what have you done with Lisa Smith?” It was Lara, one of my colleagues based in another office. She was younger than I and had been a good party buddy at past conferences after the lightweights had headed off to sleep. Her straight black hair had been expertly blown out, and she wore an expensive dark blue fitted suit. A glass of red wine dangled from her hand.

  “Yeah, I know,” I fake laughed, kissing her cheek. “I had a stomach problem taken care of recently. I’m still on the medication. Can’t drink.”

  “What? You mean you’re not drinking this whole trip? That’s bullshit! We have a suite upstairs for after parties! You’ll still come, right?” Lara said, taking a long sip of wine. She was already rocking back and forth in her high heels which offered a preview of the hours to come.

  “Probably not. This medicine really wipes me out.”

  “Come on! Are you sure you can’t drink? I was really looking forward to partying with you! Just one?”

  Wow, I thought. Is this what I was like for ten years of professional functions, hectoring people to drink with me like a Cuervo-soaked coed?

  Back in my room, I flopped backwards onto the bed, kicked off my high heels, and threw my arms over my head. I wanted a drink badly, very badly. Oh that gorgeous crimson wine in Lara’s glass. Or a frosty cold martini just poured, its layer of sparkling ice flecks dancing around plump bleu cheese olives. Or a Long Island Iced Tea, all five white liquors joining forces and sliding down my throat to deliver a merciful blast of blood warmth and nerve cell ecstasy! Oh God, anything. A quick hit of whiskey, cheap tequila. I didn’t care. All I’d have to do is call down for that little key.

  “FUUUUCK!” I screamed into a pillow.

  STOP, I thought. Gracie Square, Gracie Square. YOU DO NOT PICK UP, NO MATTER WHAT. I scurried down to the lobby store and bought a Hershey bar. Thanks to the chocolate and three quick cigarettes, the urge passed. The booze cravings were like everything I’d ever heard about labor pains—they came on fast and hard, and if I could breathe and distract my way through a few excruciating minutes, they would pass.

  Until the next one.

  By the time I got to Los Angeles, I was both relieved to be with Randi and proud of myself for making it through a conference without a drink. Randi looked like a poster girl for the good life. Her skin was peanut butter brown, and blonde streaks brightened her wavy, brown hair. She had developed one of those yoga bodies that meant never dressing to hide. Wearing denim shorts and a tiny t-shirt with a Buddhist symbol, she looked as if she’d stepped right out of college. I hugged her hard. In my arms she felt like a ballet dancer—somehow both delicate as a baby bird and strong as a linebacker.

  We drove up the Pacific Coast Highway in her bouncy Subaru. The LA sun was brighter than I had remembered, and the ocean surface glittered like a billion pieces of magical glass. We chattered and laughed like the high school friends we had once been.

  Then I said what was really on my mind. “You know, it’s fine for you to drink while I’m around.” I kept my eyes on the glittery glass.

  Randi whipped her head toward me and then back to the road. “What are you talking about? I’m not drinking while you’re here.”

  “Hey, I don’t want to wreck this trip for you. Not drinking wine in Paris or getting buzzed for the Sting show? It’s a vacation.”

  “I don’t care. Drinking doesn’t mean anything to me,” she said. “I maybe have a drink once a month if I go to a party, and I don’t even feel good after one. Anyway, I’m not about to drink while you’re still going through rehab.”

  “That’s really sweet of you.” I said. “I just don’t want anyone acting different because of me.”

  “Don’t be a dope,” she said. “You just got out of detox. If it’s better for you to have people around you not drink, just say it.”

  She was right. This was all new to me, and I didn’t know how things were supposed to work. What should I expect from people? What could I ask for without being a social pain in the ass? I felt like a new vegetarian who doesn’t want to miss the barbecue and also doesn’t want anybody making special food for her but sure as hell doesn’t want to come home with a belly full of beef trying to slog its way through her intestines.

  I had taken several trips to Paris, but I’d spent very little of my time there even remotely sober. Why would anyone choose to stroll and eat and dance their way through Paris nights sober? On previous trips, I’d been on the Parisian Party Program: eat in world-class restaurants, drink fabulous wine, kiss French men, and troll for drugs in hip nightclubs. Don’t worry about tours or galleries or learning the history—daytime was all about sleeping off what I’d done the night before. Headaches, dehydration, street noise, and a shortage of ice kept me complaining as I tried to sleep through the world’s most beautiful city.

  But this time I saw Paris, actually saw it. Up early each morning, I would buy a copy of the International Tribune and work the crossword puzzle at a café as I wired myself up on croissants and café au lait. This time I kept my eyes open and reveled in my time with Randi as well as my time alone. Many times I stopped and let myself enjoy a feeling of profound gratitude.

  My Internet search turned up several English-speaking 12-step meetings in Paris, and I decided to try one at the American Church on the Quai d’Orsay. The next morning, I navigated the Metro from the Marais to the Invalides stop, and as soon as I stepped outside the Metro station, I knew I was lost. At that early hour, there was almost no one around to ask for help, and anyway I wanted a break from seeing pained expressions on Parisian faces when I tripped over my clunky high school French. So I tried to find my own way to the church and ended up turning a five-minute walk into a forty-five minute labyrinth. Before long, as I stood on a corner trying not to look like a lost American, frustration and self-doubt joined the outing. I’m not an adventurer. I’m not self-sufficient. I have no sense of direction. Where the hell is this church? Forget it, I don’t need this meeting. Ugh, I look helpless. Why haven’t I kept up with French? What the hell was the point of taking it if I was only going to abandon it? Why is everything so fucking hard for me??

  And with feelings of insecurity came the need for a drink. Does anybody drink in the morning around here? They have 12-step meetings—they must have morning drinkers. What if I found a nice café and started by ordering a coffee? Then I could say something like, “Hey, I’m on vacation, let’s make it a Café Calva, heavy on the brandy. What’s that, barman? You’re a master of the espresso martini? C’est magnifique! I’ll try one!”

  Wait. How the hell did I switch so quickly from gratitude to coffee boozing? I had to get control of this head of mine. If I couldn’t switch off the static altogether, at least I could try to change the channel, so I repeated that Gracie Square wall mantra: “Get up. Get dressed. Get with the program.” And I visualized the day room. The memory of that cold, barren cell lined with the smell of sweat, piss, and disinfectant of
fered a dramatic contrast to France’s blooming spring trees and centuries-old architecture. So I reminded myself that on that lovely Paris morning, I’d gotten up and had gotten dressed. Now, I’d better get with le fucking programme.

  I refocused on finding the meeting and feeling grateful again. It was during that walk that I realized something enlightening about gratitude: I could make myself feel it by thinking about what’s good or by thinking about what isn’t bad. Yes, I was aware that it was a stunning day and that I was walking along La Seine, the one and only river right in the heart of the city of a thousand dreams. And I was conscious of my good luck to feel healthy enough to walk it and to be well off enough to pay for the trip. But the flash of awareness that really perked my mood was actually about what I was missing.

  On that morning, I wasn’t face down in a pillow soaked in saliva groaning as I negotiated with my stomach to please hold back the vomit because I just couldn’t bear to drag my wretched body to a toilet where I’d lie there, face on the seat, mouth breathing until another nausea wave passed. None of that was happening. I was lost in a foreign city, but I was standing up straight. Could I ever need anything more than that?

  I found the church, a Gothic-style structure with a soaring green spire and joined my fellow sober folk under the high ceilings of the room inside. What could a 12-step meeting possibly be like in Paris? In fact, it looked like a 12-step meeting in New York. The big difference was the chic. Man, I thought looking around at my fellow group members. Parisians roll out of bed looking more stylish than I do in my best black-tie dress. But in the meeting we were all very much the same, sharing similar stories and repeating the familiar expressions that illustrate what we deal with in recovery: “I’m struggling today,” “I feel so fortunate to be alive,” and “My worst day sober is better than my best day on drugs.” I knew these people and they knew me. What a revelation: 12-step meetings were like McDonald’s, you could find them just about anywhere in the world, and they always served just what you expected.