by Ray, Lexie
Karla had said from the beginning that the only requirement to belong to this group was to want to stop drinking. That was a problem for me. I didn’t want to stop drinking. Even now, after listening to the twelve steps, I was craving nothing more than another taste of Willow’s hooch. I didn’t have any high hopes anymore for whiskey or any other liquor I’d had on the outside. I wanted hooch, plain and simple. It was attainable. I knew what I had to do to get it.
“We’re going to jump right into sharing,” Karla said. “I know it’s everyone’s favorite part.”
“Damn right.”
“Amen!”
I peered around, trying to spot the “amen” inmate. Was she really going to punctuate every statement with amen?
“Let me remind you that sharing can be no longer than five minutes,” Karla said. “Keep the focus on yourself, please. And please be respectful of your fellow alcoholics. Don’t interrupt during sharing. Now. Who’d like to begin?”
Nearly every single hand in the room shot up.
Why were people so eager to share? I could only assume that they were going to talk about their failings, talk about all the times they’d fucked up. Why did we have to witness that? Couldn’t we be content knowing that we’d fucked up ourselves? Why did everyone else have to know?
“Come on up,” Karla said, pointing at the GED inmate sitting beside me. She popped up, beaming as if she’d been chosen to get a prize.
“My name’s Desiree, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said, smiling as if it were some kind of good news.
“Hi, Desiree.”
“Hi,” she said again. “It’s exciting to share with someone new in the crowd.” She waved at me excitedly and I fought the urge to slump down into my seat.
“Alcohol is the reason I’m here in prison,” Desiree said. “I accept that. I realize that it was harming me more than I realized. I was a party girl. I loved all sorts of alcohol, but shots were my specialty. Tequila shots. Tequila shots were my downfall.”
Shit. The sweat prickled across my brow and I actually salivated at the thought of a tequila shot. There was such a ritual to it—licking your hand and sprinkling the salt on it, then licking your hand again. Expelling your breath and throwing the fiery liquor back, inhaling as you bit down on the lime. The acidity of the citrus cutting the curl of the alcohol in your stomach.
I would spread my legs for Tama right now, in front of all these people, if I could just have a shot of tequila. One. Fucking. Tequila. Shot.
“When I drank tequila, I felt invincible,” Desiree continued. “I felt like nothing could happen to me, that I could do whatever I wanted. One night, I nearly finished a whole bottle of tequila at the bar by myself. I knew the bartender—we fucked sometimes when I didn’t have the cash to pay. We called it my tab—just put it on my tab, Bob.”
There were some dry chuckles to that.
“He was awful,” Desiree added, her voice a little softer. “He was disgusting. He used me, and I let him. All for a drink.”
I stared forcefully ahead, aware that Marlee was looking at me. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that this shook me up. How could Desiree, a bright young girl, pretty as could be, sidle up next to someone disgusting? Was that really what I was willing to do, too? Was I looking at my future?
“That night that I’d had nearly all the tequila, Bob told me that I’d stay with him so I wouldn’t be out on the roads,” Desiree said. “We both agreed that I was too drunk to drive, but I didn’t want to stay at Bob’s. I had money that night, and I paid for every shot. I didn’t have a tab, but I knew he’d try to come collecting anyway. He’d force himself on me, and I knew I didn’t stand a chance—not with how drunk I was.
“So when he was cleaning up, counting the money in the register and stuff, I told him I was going outside for some fresh air, that I felt sick. He let me go because he didn’t want to clean up my puke right after he’d already mopped up the floor for the night, so it was easy enough to get to the car.”
Desiree gave a smile, but it wavered a little.
“Tequila made me invincible, remember?” she asked. “I’d agreed with Bob that I was too drunk to drive, but I told myself that I could do it. Never mind that I stumbled over my own two feet getting to my car. Never mind that I dropped my keys twice—twice—trying to even open the car door. Never mind that I hit my head getting in, shut my coat in the door, stalled the car out four times trying to get it started. Never mind that I sideswiped the entrance gate to the parking lot and scraped the whole side of my car, or that Bob came tumbling out of the bar, shaking his fist and screaming at me to stop, that I’d kill someone or myself.”
Desiree’s lips trembled. “I wish it had been me, sometimes,” she said. “Then I would’ve paid for my crimes. Not that nurse. Not her. I think about it all the time—how sleepy I was, how badly I wanted to be at home and in my own bed, how much farther I had to go. I must’ve passed out for a second, because all I saw was a pair of headlights, and I was bearing down on them. It was too late to try to swerve away. I hit the other car head on. She was a nurse. She helped people for a living. She was just trying to go home after finishing up on third shift at the hospital. She never made it. I kept her from it. The doctors at the hospital said it was a miracle that I didn’t die, too, but it didn’t feel like one. It still doesn’t.
“I killed that woman. I shouldn’t have been on the road that night. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I’m doing time now and facing my consequences. But I never want to drink again. It makes me sick when I get the urge to. Still, I’m six months sober. It’s helped me so much to be in prison, away from temptation. I’m happy that I’ve been sober, and I’m happy that I’ve found AA and the power to stop drinking. I just wish that it hadn’t taken an innocent life for me to see the errors of my ways.”
I could see even from my row, way in the back, that Desiree’s face shone with tears, but she smiled all the same as everyone applauded. What did she get from this? Why rehash her past over and over again? It was like never-ending punishment. When was there the chance to really move on?
“Thank you, Desiree,” Karla said, standing back up at the podium. “Now, who’s next?”
All of the inmates who spoke had different stories, but they were still all the same somehow. They were all addicted to alcohol, though every circumstance was different. All of them had had a formative moment when they wanted to stop drinking. I couldn’t quite relate. Worrisome things had happened to me—and I might very well have done even more heinous acts, if my foggy memories served me correctly—but I still didn’t want to stop drinking.
As pathetic as it sounded, alcohol had become a constant for me, especially in the last few years at the nightclub. Things were changing, girls who had always been there for the business and me were leaving, and the bottle was always there. It was always there, always available, always willing to comfort me. If I had a bad day, I forgot about my troubles in it. If I had a good day, I celebrated my successes in it. And if I had a mediocre day, I broke up the mediocrity with a few drinks.
Why would I forsake my friend? Nothing too terrible had happened, had it?
Still, watching the meeting progress was something of an eye opener. These women were letting it all hang out—every ugly detail. I felt like there was a lot of over-sharing going on, but perhaps that was the whole point. Get it all out there. Lay it all out on the table for everyone to see. Don’t worry about judgment, because everyone in this room has been there, right where you are, struggling to stay afloat in a terrible situation.
Maybe that was the secret behind this. It wasn’t a constant punishment, the wounds reopened every time you shared. The wounds were bandaged even tighter, new skin growing over them, becoming less painful and less noticeable every time they shared their story. Every time they shared, they cried out for help, and every time, there was a roomful of people ready to haul them up to the surface for air.
If what everyone was saying was true, more and mor
e participants were learning how to tread water on their own, stay on the surface without sinking below it, drowning. They were all swimming in this together, trying to get past what had held them captive for so long.
“We have time for just one more share,” Karla said. “Remember, if you didn’t get a chance to share during this time, share with your sponsor or someone else in the group after this meeting is over. Marlee. Please come on up.”
Marlee rose gracefully from my side and made her way to the front of the room. As she passed the rows of inmates, some of them reached out and touched her hand or her arm, seeming to either pass strength on to her or borrow her strength for themselves. I wondered how many times Marlee had shared her story up at the podium, torn herself open, showed everyone her guts, and stuffed them back inside her body. How many more times would she do it? Would she ever stop?
“My name’s Marlee, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said, smiling grimly.
“Hi, Marlee.”
“I was sixteen years old when I went on a date with a boy I really liked,” she said. “I was nervous. I’d been on dates before, but none of them seemed to matter up until now. This one mattered. It mattered more than anything else.
“When he offered me alcohol to help take the edge off, to help me find my courage to kiss him, I took it,” she continued. “I’d never had a drink before, but I’d do anything to make this boy like me. He was older than I was, and I didn’t want to be the laughingstock of the school if anyone found out that I’d chickened out of making it with him. He was gorgeous—every girl wanted him. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the entire county.
“I kissed him first. The alcohol went right to my head. I wanted him, even if I didn’t understand what that meant then. I was a virgin. The most I’d ever done was kiss an awkward boy good night on my front porch. When he touched me, it felt wrong and right, all wrapped into one. I wanted him and I didn’t want to want him. The booze didn’t help my confusion. It just made things easier to plunge into.
“When he took our clothes off, I was too drunk to help. I’d been sucking down the booze out of nervousness, and I was very far gone. Still, I realized that this was the real deal, especially as he pushed his boner into my hip. That was enough of a shock for me to tell him no, that I didn’t want to sleep with him, reputation be damned. I wanted to go home, to sleep it off, to talk to my girlfriends the next day about it. I just wanted him to leave me alone. I was uncomfortable and shy and just not ready for all of this.
“I might’ve not been ready, but he was. Turns out he’d been planning this, and looking forward to it. I’d tumbled right into his trap, drinking more than enough for him to easily control me, practically giving him the go ahead to do whatever he wanted. I made myself the victim.”
Marlee’s face twisted. Karla raised her hand, but Marlee shook her head at her.
“No,” Marlee said. “I know that we’ve talked about this. I know that it was this boy who made me the victim, who plied me with alcohol and didn’t listen when I told him no.”
Karla nodded emphatically, and Marlee continued.
“He raped me,” she said. “He raped me that night, held me down, had his way with me. Looking back, it stuns me that I wouldn’t have steered clear of alcohol from that incident forward, but it became the only thing that numbed the pain. My reputation at school turned from good girl into drunken slut, and all the boys tried to convince me to go out with them. If they knew how to get booze, I did it. Even back then I started taking advantage of guys, just like I’d been taken advantage of. If they had something I needed, I’d get them to give it to me. It was just a simple thing to do. I used my body as currency.”
I jumped a little in my seat. I’d just thrown that at Marlee the day before. I’d had no idea at the time that it’d ring so true for her. I felt a stab of guilt. I hoped I hadn’t made her feel bad when I’d said it. It was simply my reality.
The more I listened, the more I realized that all these women were the same. None of them were unique. They all shared the same problems. Maybe that was what gave them power—the knowledge that they weren’t alone.
“And, of course, taking advantage of the men I didn’t respect landed me here,” Marlee said. “I’ve been sober for a year. I’m still working through the steps, of course, and I think I always will be. There were a lot of amends to make. I don’t mind. I can do that now. Everyone deserves a chance. You can’t just write someone off for something as silly as gender.
“I’m like all of you,” Marlee said. “I’ve been right there in that same bottle, drinking from the same glass, throwing back the same shot. I’m so thankful for this group of strong women. We can all get through this. We can all do this. We can all be sober.”
Everyone was on their feet, applauding Marlee as she left the podium. Inmates pounded her back and gave her hugs as she made her way back to the seat. I wanted to stare at her as she approached, but I stared at my lap instead. Who were these people? What was this program?
“Let’s end this meeting by standing up and reciting the Serenity Prayer together,” Karla said as Marlee returned to her place beside me. I stood numbly, not sure what the Serenity Prayer was, not sure what I’d just witnessed, not sure of myself anymore.
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” the inmates all said together, many of them closing their eyes prayerfully.
When it was over, they all opened their eyes and cheered. Some were weeping openly. Others broke off in twos and threes, talking quietly.
“Well, what did you think?” Marlee asked, taking my hands and turning me toward her.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It was—powerful. I’ll give you that.”
“Would you like to come back next week?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “But sugar, I just don’t know about myself.”
“Talk to me,” Marlee said. “Tell me about it. I’m listening.”
“You have to want to stop drinking to be a part of this,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t want to stop drinking,” I said, biting my lip. “I crave it even now. When everyone was up there, singing their guts out, all I wanted to do was drink all those cocktails they were talking about.”
Marlee laughed. Of all the reactions I thought she might have to this bit of news, laughter was the most unexpected.
“None of us thinks she wants to quit at the beginning,” she said. “And there are always urges—there will always be urges. That’s where the program helps. It provides support and accountability.”
“I just find it hard to believe that I’m an alcoholic,” I said. “It doesn’t seem like a problem for me.”
“Let me ask you some questions,” Marlee said. “I want you to answer them honestly.”
“All right.”
“Do you honestly think you could stop drinking?” she asked. “Like if you didn’t have money or access to alcohol, or if you just ran out of it and the stores were all closed. Could you stop?”
I thought about the possible scenarios. If I didn’t have money, I’d whore until I had enough to buy what I needed. If I didn’t have access to alcohol, I’d ingratiate myself to someone who did—which I’d done all throughout my teens. Once, when I’d drank the nightclub dry and we were waiting on the morning to get a new shipment, I’d sent one of the girls out to buy me a bottle to tide me over. I always had a contingency plan if something went wrong with my liquor supply. If I really thought about it, I’d probably roll a bum to get a drink.
But if I just didn’t have any? The possibility was as terrifying as it was unfathomable.
Wait—terrifying? I didn’t know how to react to that. Why would I be scared without alcohol?
The DTs—whatever they were—was one answer. My time in that holding cell had been terrifying, shaking and hallucinating and everything else. If I had to stop drink
ing, I’d be faced with the DTs.
Then again, I’d had vivid, horrifying hallucinations that night with the hooch. The sex with Johnny French—well, the idea of sex with him—had been all right, but it was still disconcerting to have multiple orgasms in the presence of a figment of my imagination. Mortified, I wondered what I’d been doing in the real world while that was happening.
“Wanda?”
I lifted my eyes to meet Marlee’s—inmates were filtering out of the room, heading back to their cells, and a couple were staying to put away chairs. They were nearing our row.
“I don’t know what I am,” I said. “And I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong. But I don’t think I could stop drinking. And that could be a problem. I don’t know.”
I didn’t want to pimp myself out to Tama. Women weren’t my thing. But I’d been so ready to just to score a few sips of moldy, disgusting hooch.
That was a problem. Before, in the first days of the nightclub, I made clear, calm, calculating decisions. But the more I drank, the fuzzier those decisions became. And those strange half-memories. What were those? Maybe I’d done bad things while I was drinking and not realized it.
Maybe I was—maybe I was —
“Would you like to come to next week’s meeting?” Marlee asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.
I looked at her for what felt like the first time. AA wasn’t a weird sisterhood. It was a lifeline thrown to those who were tired of drowning. The people who took part in it were just like me and understood the problems I was facing. I was one of them.
“Yes.”
Chapter Four
Getting into the prison routine had been hard, at first, but once I understood the rules—and all the little sub-currents to those rules—I started to fit right in. It had taken months, sure, but I’d instituted rules once, too, and I knew how to follow them.
I continued with the plan of having escorts all the time, especially now that I’d realized I really didn’t want to sleep with Tama—certainly not for the trade of hooch. Even that admission was tricky, as I still actually wanted the hooch, but Marlee was there every step of the way.