You Got Nothing Coming

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  I swear these people just made stuff up sometimes.

  I often got the impression from some of the old-timers (who had lost everything) that they would love to see me hit bottom. To collect some YETs. To lose everything. For my own good, of course. So I would be more open and humble. Be ready to finally allow God to enter my life. To surrender.

  Sort of a "misery loves company" kind of thing.

  Since the only story I had to tell was my own, I told it. I forgot about being brief and to the point. I rambled and raved for the next forty minutes.

  I told how the origin of my alcoholism was a mystery to me. No one in my family had a drinking or drug problem. So I couldn't blame it on genetics. My parents were both loving and supportive, and if they had any dysfunctions I never noticed or heard about them. My brother and sister went straight from college to medical school and law school, respectively, without any breaks for drugs or madness. They were both successful and well-adjusted professionals today.

  "I was happy growing up," I told the A.A. meeting. "A great childhood."

  Many blank faces, like stone, looked back at me. Some looked annoyed. A few were glaring at me. This was not the usual script.

  Many A.A. members don't want to hear someone share about family unless that family was alcoholic, physically abusive, or, preferably, both. If you say you had a happy childhood, you are clearly in denial. You have more work to do to unearth your miserable inner child. You need to get honest!

  I talked a little about the sixties. The little that I remember.

  I've been thinking about who made that observation about the sixties. Maybe it wasn't Abbie Hoffman. Maybe it was Wavy Gravy, that quintessential sixties hippie, who had that great line about "the only people who remember the sixties weren't there." I don't remember much of the sixties, but friends of mine who do tell me that I missed a lot. That I may have lingered a bit too long around the communal bong, pondering Jefferson Airplane lyrics (and later, the suicidally depressing "Songs of Leonard Cohen"). That my inquisitive and intrepid spirit compelled me to try every mind-altering drug at least once.

  My basic research on Quaaludes alone demanded my attention for close to an inattentive year of my young life. (At the mention of drugs, Luther, a dyspeptic old-timer, started scowling at me from across the room.) Even as a teenager, in addition to a fondness for pot and hash and pills (the ones that make you larger— or smaller), I was open-minded about booze. Unlike some of my post-Beat buddies who looked down on alcohol as the province of parents, politicians, and "juiceheads," I had no such elitist pretensions.

  I was a longhaired teenage hippie desperately trying to conform to the freethinking hippie herds around me. Part of my job description was to be open to all potential mind-altering experiences.

  As an equal-opportunity abuser of mind-altering substances, in college I developed a fondness for Andre's Cold Duck champagne as well as the occasional (or frequent) glass of Boone's Farm apple "wine." And forget the glass— wrecks the bouquet. On my college campus a goatskin flask was the only way to imbibe. Then pass the flask. That was when I was still a "social drinker."

  Protected from Vietnam by a high number in the lottery, I took a semester off from Brooklyn College to drive a cab. In the early seventies it was a New York hippie rite of passage. We would eat Black Beauties (amphetamines) and pick up fares without a break for hours.

  Later we'd drink and take 'Ludes to come down. I would pick up my cab from the garage at Flatbush and Nostrand Avenue every day at 3 P.M. I'd work the Manhattan streets (harder work but more lucrative than the airports or hotels) until about two in the morning, pocketing as much cash as I could. The cab company provided the cab, the gas, and the insurance. In return they were entitled to 50 percent of the meter.

  On my first night as a cabdriver my union rep (an old-time Teamster) instructed me in how to steal.

  "Ya don't wanna book too much. Makes the rest of us look bad. Ya book maybe seventy, eighty bucks on the meter and that's it. The rest you leave the flag down. No fucking meter. Just make up the trips on the sheet. The customers don't mind as long as you give them a good discount on the fare. Fuck, they're New Yorkers. Above eighty bucks you keep the money. Here's your pancake so you can control the meter and the off-duty lights."

  The "pancake" was a simple coil of wires wrapped in electrical tape and attached to two stereo jacks, which could be plugged into both the meter and the overhead medallion lights. I could work both the meter and the off-duty light with a toggle switch. The union dispatcher also made sure I knew how to steal before letting me have the keys to the cab.

  After bringing the cab back to Brooklyn and handing in my fictitious "trip" sheet I would join my fellow thieves at a bar, where we would down boilermakers and swap tall cabbie stories till dawn.

  My cabdriving career came to an abrupt end when (a bit confused after miscalculating a combination of 'Ludes and Beauties) I crashed the cab into a fire hydrant on East 57th Street. Lots of property damage. And water.

  I spent that night in the Manhattan jail known as the Tombs, down on Centre Street. The cops had found Black Beauties and 'Ludes in the cab. There was talk of felony charges. Plus fines. Fire hydrant medical bills, I guess.

  The U.S. Army saved me. With the Vietnam War requiring a monthly infusion of new bodies, all sorts of legal problems could be forgiven. I was given the option of facing a criminal trial (and a probable prison sentence) or "enlisting" for a four-year stretch in the infantry. Charges would be dismissed. The record expunged.

  I opted for the four-year enlistment and never regretted it.

  I never made it to Vietnam. After basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina (and advanced infantry training at Fort Polk, Louisiana), I did well on some aptitude tests and was selected to attend the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. I studied Spanish there for six months before being sent to Panama.

  Political control of the Canal Zone was becoming a major issue in U.S. foreign policy, and the army wanted trained personnel there ("on-site specialists") who were also fluent in Spanish. I was assigned to Escuela de las Américas— School of the Americas. We were a training center for military units from Central and South American countries. Courses were offered in everything from infantry tactics to psy-ops— psychological operations. A lot of people would later charge that it was a U.S. "spy school"— a center for electronic intercept warfare and many other clandestine activities.

  I wouldn't know. I was an NCO in the administration center. I filled out supply requisition forms during the day and drank at night. Every night. (This got approving nods from the A.A. old-timers. Even sour old Luther beamed.)

  It was in Panama, in my twenties, while defending democracy from a barstool, that I developed a deep friendship with guys with macho names like Jack Daniel's and Johnnie Walker. I once (I've been told) leaped off a second-floor Panama City hotel balcony and into the swimming pool. I thought I was interviewing for a test pilot position with Jack Daniel's. (Laughs from the room.)

  Catholic in my tastes, I made room in that circle of friends for Comrade Smirnoff and Señor Cuervo. Beer and wine went down just fine too, but I preferred the hard stuff because it worked faster.

  I began to drink for the effect, not to be social. On more occasions than I cared to remember, I went into the NCO club at 5 P.M. intending to have no more than two drinks and ended up closing the place down at 2 A.M. Drunk beyond belief and all reason.

  And sometimes not remembering anything after the fourth or fifth drink.

  The blackouts were the scary part. Friends (fellow alcoholics) at the NCO club would assure me the next day that I was a happy, peaceful drunk, although very silly. Not to worry, Jimmy-boy! Besides, there's nothing else to do in this godforsaken country.

  Not remembering terrified me. The blackouts were what finally convinced me I had a real problem and couldn't drink at all. I began my twenty-year war with John Barleycorn.

  I would gather up all my willpo
wer, all the considerable strength of my (presumed) rationality, and quit drinking. For a month. Or a year. Then I would drink as if I had to make up for lost time. Drink insanely for two or three days or even a month before invariably coming to my senses and again quitting for months, or even two years.

  This pattern had gone on for a long time. For many years. The wife was pretty sick of it. I would come home from work at 6 P.M. and steadily drink Scotch in front of the TV until it was time for bed (which meant passing out). My little girls (especially as they got older) were both mystified by it and afraid of the transformation from Rational Dad to Babbling, Incoherent Dad.

  "Jimmy, why don't you go to bed?" the wife would plead.

  "Sure, yesssh, shune's this show's over."

  "Dad, puh-lease go to bed," the older girl would beg.

  Not a pretty picture— a very painful one and one I was determined never to present again to my family. Or to anyone else.

  If I had a bottom, it was the image of my older daughter's horrified face when I interrupted her slumber party one night by stumbling drunkenly around the living room looking for God only knows what. I had humiliated her in front of her friends, and my own subsequent humiliation and remorse and guilt were overwhelming.

  Pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization is the apt A.A. description.

  I could rationalize the harm I was doing to myself, but I could not excuse the pain I was inflicting on my loved ones. My demoralization and self-hatred were complete. I had reached what A.A. calls the "jumping-off point."

  So welcome to A.A., Jimmy. A.A. had a healthy chapter in Danville, lots of meetings every day of the week. Twelve-step recovery programs were in suburban vogue in the nineties, and, having experienced the sixties zeitgeist of excess, I was not about to miss out on the abstinence and spirituality trip of the nineties. Know what I'm saying?

  Of course, I had good reasons to drink (unlike "real" alcoholics who drank because of character weakness and moral depravity). Unique reasons. I had job pressures. Bills to pay. Financial concerns— the uncertain direction of my 401(k). My girls were going to need orthodontia. Probably college as well. The fed might cut interest rates and then I'd have to refinance the mortgage again. A nerve-racking ordeal! There were worries about guns in school, the environment, and the deteriorating (isn't it always?) geopolitical situation.

  My reasons for drinking were valid and endless.

  When concerned friends earnestly asked why I drank so much, why I got drunk, I had no answer. No answer that made any sense. I was baffled (and sickened) by my drinking behavior. The standard A.A. response to the question is a simple one, although not particularly explanatory: "I drink too much because I'm an alcoholic." This would be expressed in the same way that a diabetic might explain why he used insulin.

  I had no answers. I had the ability to forget the discomfiture of one day's horrible hangover by 5 P.M. the next day. In the meetings they say alcohol is cunning, baffling, and powerful. That it is also the only disease that tells you that you don't have a disease.

  I did know that I deserved a drink. I worked hard, made good money, and paid the mortgage. I was, in the peculiar Jewish jargon of Flatbush Avenue in the 1950s, a Good Provider. A Good Provider is entitled to get shit-faced every now and then. A bit of well-deserved relaxation.

  And yet, despite my elaborate denial system, I didn't want any more YETs. I didn't want to lose my family, the love and affection (what still remained) of my wife and children. Didn't want to lose my job or have to get on a list for a liver transplant (which they won't give you if you are an alcoholic— unless you are Mickey Mantle, which I wasn't) or get drunk and kill someone while driving.

  I never wanted to hurt anyone.

  I certainly didn't want to kill anyone.

  * * *

  I stood at the podium in the church basement and (heeding Doris's urgent whispers) finished talking about my drinking history— what A.A. calls "qualifying." Of course, despite my best intentions, I had just delivered a lengthy drunkalog. I then launched into my uneven experience with the program, the steps, and sponsorship. My ongoing struggle to find a Higher Power that made sense to me. My skepticism about the whole process. The lack of role models in A.A. The strong scent of religion in A.A. not quite masked by the vanilla language of "spirituality."

  By this time the old-timers were shaking their heads in consternation. I had been babbling and rambling for almost forty minutes. Doris made an elaborate display of checking her watch and waving at me. She held up two plump fingers. But I was on a roll and hey, Doris, I didn't volunteer to speak. I plunged on, or, as the A.A. expression goes, having hit rock bottom, I started to drill.

  In the remaining two minutes I managed to work in the choice tidbit that the A.A. founder, Bill Wilson, had been fond of LSD. That the leader of the Oxford Group (which Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob belonged to) was a Nazi supporter. I may have said something to the effect that even the A.A. gods, Bill and Dr. Bob, had clay feet.

  With seconds remaining I quickly (and pompously) delivered a lecture on the benefits of getting psychiatric treatment and mood-altering drugs. My own shrink, Dr. Shekelman, had me on Prozac and Trazodone for depression, Xanax for anxiety and panic attacks, and Restoril for insomnia. I shared his philosophy— A.A. heresy!— with the group that alcoholism is not a "disease," but a symptom of other underlying disorders.

  A stunned silence in the room.

  Doris's face was a red balloon of outrage. Strangled noises were coming from her mouth. Most of the old-timers just stared at me, slack-jawed and benumbed. I figured it was time for a strong close.

  Always leave them laughing. So I ended my little talk with a joke.

  "What," I addressed the group through a thick haze of smoke, "do you call a dyslexic, agnostic alcoholic with insomnia?"

  Since no one would play straight man for me, I provided the punch line without help.

  "Someone who lies awake at night wondering if there really is a Dog! Ha! I love that joke!" Since I was the only one laughing, I turned the meeting back to Doris. "Thank you all for listening, and thank you, Doris, for asking me to speak."

  "Thank you, Jimmy." Doris favored me with a horrified look. "Keep coming back." She then took her place back at the podium and began reading more A.A.-related announcements from an A.A. Central Office flyer before addressing the group.

  "Does anyone have a topic for the meeting tonight?"

  Everyone must have been energized by my little speech, because hands were going up and people were all talking and shouting at once.

  "How about gratitude, Doris— that's always a good topic." Luther, the old-timer, always suggested gratitude. Luther was in his late sixties, with twenty-three years of sobriety, a full head of white hair, and two spare truck tires rolling around his midsection. He had a hacking smoker's cough and a bright red pizza face of burst capillaries. Luther was also awaiting trial for soliciting a prostitute (who turned out to be an undercover policewoman) in San Francisco.

  Luther had been my first A.A. sponsor (for about a month) before I fired him. He claimed he couldn't be fired because the job paid nothing, so he continued to act as if he were my sponsor, giving me unsolicited advice (including marriage, career, and financial counseling). Luther's favorite theme was my "denial." In addition to being a self-appointed A.A. guru, Luther attended Overeaters Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Smokers Anonymous, and now, at his lawyer's suggestion, Sex Addicts Anonymous.

  Luther liked to say that "a man can quit drinking but the disease just moves on to some other addiction— it's like squeezing a balloon."

  Paul, a starved-looking teenager wearing all black (including eyeliner and leather gloves with the fingers cut off), objected to the topic. Paul was court-ordered to A.A. as part of a plea bargain. He and his Goth-boy buddies had been caught attempting an (unauthorized) exhumation of a body from the local cemetery. Alcohol and drugs were said to be involved. (We all hoped so.) A.A. picks up a lot of new members this way
. It doesn't have to recruit.