You Got Nothing Coming

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  "Luther, come off it! Talking about people behind their backs is what you do best! Gossip and coffee are your lifeblood!"

  "That's funny, Jimmy. Look, smart-ass, I'm just looking out for you here. This guy Dwayne— well, Shelly has seen him at A.A. meetings in Pleasanton. Johnny's seen him before at the Sunday morning step study in Walnut Creek. He always identifies himself as a newcomer, says it's his first meeting."

  "So? This is a crime?"

  "So, look, I'm not one to blow anybody's anonymity, but I've seen him at my Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings and Doris saw him at her N.A. meetings in San Ramon. Doris says he got disruptive at a meeting and they had to ask him to leave."

  "Luther, it sounds to me like this guy is just trying to get some help from wherever he can. Anyway, I already told him I'm not qualified to sponsor him." I pulled into my driveway, pressing the garage door opener. The wife (soon to be former wife) had left the outside floodlights on for me. All the upstairs bedrooms were dark.

  "You're right about that, Jimmy. Hey, this Dwayne sounds like a nutcase to me. Besides, from what I've heard, he's a druggie, not an alkie. A.A. is not for him. If you ever paid attention to the Traditions, you would know that. The Third Tradition states: 'The only requirement for A.A. membership is a desire to stop drinking.' If he doesn't have a drinking problem, then he can't be an A.A. member."

  "Luther," I whispered, "I'm in the house now and don't want to wake up the girls. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "All right then. Good night. You might want to think about your chair. Work on gratitude. And God. And humility. Get on your knees every morning and say the Third Step prayer and the Seventh Step prayer—"

  "Good night, Luther."

  Luther wasn't my sponsor. I had fired him. He just refused to get the message.

  Our pivotal disagreement was over the Fifth Step and my psychiatrist. The Fourth Step states that "we made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves," and the Fifth Step is the confession step: "We admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs."

  When it came time to do my Fifth Step, I had no problem admitting things to myself or God. I had resigned from the atheist and agnostic debating societies long ago. I had seen too many "coincidences" and had come (with the speed of a glacier) to agree with Einstein that "God doesn't play dice with the universe."

  In terms of management style, I perceived God to be a very hands-off kind of guy. Supremely indifferent to the state of our auto transmissions.

  As for the "other human being," no way was I going to bare the intimate, highly embarrassing details of my life to the obscenely indiscreet Luther. Instead, I made an appointment with my psychiatrist, Dr. Shekelman, the same one who over the last two years had prescribed a variety of antidepressants, tranquilizers, and sleeping pills. Shekelman explained he was treating my underlying disorders, extirpating the roots, confident the alcoholic branches would then wither and disappear. Shekelman's theory (which I had just inflicted upon an infuriated A.A. meeting) was that excessive drinking was a behavior— an undesirable one— not a disease, but a symptom. It was a theory and a treatment approach I very much wanted to believe in.

  It seems that shortly after I quit drinking I contracted depression, panic attacks, and insomnia. It was astonishing to me. I had never had a panic attack when I was drinking. Suddenly, at certain unexpected times, I would become deathly afraid of heights, of driving on the highway, or of just being in a room full of people. Not just afraid. This was the full-fledged terror of a racing heart and ragged breath, the white-knuckled knowledge that death was imminent.

  Astounding. I had thought that with sobriety everything would get better, not worse.

  Dr. Shekelman reluctantly agreed to hear my Fifth Step. After listening patiently to my heartfelt confession for almost forty-five minutes, he studied his watch and reached for a prescription pad. Chemical absolution.

  "Well," he said, "I hope it helped you to get all that off your chest. I think we should increase your Prozac dosage." Shekelman was not a fan of Freud.

  "That's all you've got to say? More Prozac? I just spilled my guts out to you! Revealed my inner demons! What about all the terrible things I've done?"

  "I've heard worse. Don't take yourself so seriously."

  When I informed Luther I'd already done the Fifth Step with a "human being" other than himself, he was hurt, then angry.

  "You're supposed to do that step with your sponsor!" Luther yelled at me over his plate of chocolate cake and ice cream at Denny's.

  "Where is that rule written, Luther?"

  "Not everything in A.A. is written, smart-ass! Some things are just understood. You do your Fifth Step with your sponsor. I did mine with my sponsor, he did his with his sponsor— it's what sponsors are for. What— what is it? You don't trust me— is that it?"

  "No."

  We agreed to part ways as sponsor and "sponsee." It's like breaking off a romance and agreeing to be "just friends."

  Now Luther just viewed himself as "concerned about" my recovery (as well as the recoveries of a dozen other people in A.A.) and called me almost every day. Sometimes with gossip, sometimes with well-intentioned advice.

  Like staying clear of Dwayne Hassleman.

  Good advice, Luther.

  * * *

  I first encountered the Monster over the phone.

  The night after the A.A. meeting, Dwayne called me at home— at three in the morning. I managed to catch it on the second ring, but the future ex-wife was already sitting up, looking alarmed. If expressions were literal, hers would read: Who died?

  Dwayne sounded unusually energetic for the middle of the night. Music was blasting in the background. He either had his stereo on at full blast or he was calling from one of those Ecstasy raves in San Francisco. (Which I would have dearly loved to attend if I wasn't too old and burdened by bourgeois respectability.)

  Dwayne was shouting over a pounding bass line.

  "Hey, pal, I thought you were going to call me! What's going on?"

  "Dwayne, what do you mean what's going on? It's three in the morning."

  "Oh, sorry if I woke you. I was just wondering when we were going to get together. I'm excited about you sponsoring me and all."

  I was waking up now. I found my glasses on the nightstand and put them on. I hear better when I can see. Something I have never understood.

  "Look, Dwayne, I never said I was sponsoring you. In fact, the opposite. Anyway, let's talk about it tomorrow."

  In the background I heard a crash. Like something brittle flung against a wall.

  "Dwayne, where the hell are you calling from?"

  "I'm at home. Hold on, I'm turning down the music."

  Then blessed silence except for the Monster's labored breathing over the phone. The wife mouthing, "Who is it?"

  "It's okay, honey, just a guy from A.A. Go back to bed."

  "All right. Remember to take the girls to the dentist after you pick them up from school."

  "I won't forget."

  "Jimmy, can you hear me now? Who you talking to?"

  "My wife, Dwayne. Look, I have to be up at five in the morning. I'll call you from work, tomorrow."

  "Fuck that, pal! You were supposed to call me today! How can you be my sponsor if you don't even keep your word about calling?" Here was the Monster. The Monster clearly on speed. There was no trace of Dwayne from last night— the funny, calm, intelligent guy who once played stoopball and skelly in Park Slope.

  "Dwayne, listen to me. I'm not going to talk to you when you're high. I'll call you tomorrow when—"

  "Don't you fucking dare hang up on me, cocksucker! You have no idea who—"

  I hung up.

  A few seconds later it rang again.

  "NOBODY HANGS UP ON ME, YOU COCKSUCKER! I OUGHT TO COME OVER THERE AND BURN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE DOWN, YOU PIECE—"

  I hung up and decided to leave the phone off the hook.

  It was a l
ong time before I could fall back to sleep.

  * * *

  The Monster apologized the next afternoon— by way of voice mail. I didn't retrieve the message until the following day. I never answered the phone at work. It was part of an efficiency system I had developed over the years. Let all calls go to voice mail. Then let the messages— especially the "urgent" ones— age at least twenty-four hours before even thinking about responding or taking any action.

  My experience was that 90 percent of the questions or requests would simply evaporate within twenty-four hours. Most issues and problems at work tended to resolve themselves just fine without my assistance. I was a scarred survivor of countless office wars. I had pretty much had all the proactive problem-solving propensities beaten out of me. It would not be unfair to say that after eighteen years I was a tad burned-out.

  I had been working on the computer the entire day. In the morning I played eighteen exhausting (but exhilarating) rounds of virtual golf. The game was called Mean Green, scoring a 63 at Pebble Beach— no mean feat. I was now battling the dealer in a marathon session of blackjack. The game, called Dr. Blackjack, helped the player learn counting tactics and strategies, and I was determined to master them before again confronting the live dealers at Las Vegas.

  In the cubicle facing mine, separated by a five-foot-high partition divider, an intelligent and pleasant young man (although a distinctly nonmarketing type of person) named Scott was drawing a cartoon and on the phone trying to get some newspapers to carry it. He had sat (mostly unseen) a few feet from me for years. Hidden behind the soft gray barrier. Cubicle life is like that.

  The name of the cartoon was Dilbert. He eventually got it syndicated.

  Across the aisle, cocooned in an extra-large cubicle, a few of the market research people were fleshing out the financial projections for their own planned research and consulting company.

  I loved the Dr. Blackjack program. Every year I would go with three or four phone company buddies (all marketing types) to Las Vegas for a weekend. Sort of an extended boys night out. Our wives were glad to get rid of us. We all fancied ourselves expert blackjack players (the casino's dream customer), and we would do other manly things— eat vast quantities of prime rib (rare) and steak and belch extravagantly after each meal.

  The casino loved to comp us meals and drinks as long as we made donations at the blackjack tables. Those of us not on the wagon (in recent years, everyone but me) would guzzle down prodigious quantities of comped casino whiskey and beer. We liked going to any comedy show that featured foul and sexually explicit language, racial and misogynistic slurs, and scatological references. Occasionally one or two of our group might later find himself in a club featuring loud canned music and scantily clad women dancers who were always very friendly. The women were so friendly to tourists that they were happy to demonstrate their dancing abilities by gyrating directly on one's lap.

  An underappreciated art form.

  I instructed the computer dealer to hit me on a soft 17 (Dr. Blackjack was showing a king— I have to assume he's sitting pretty with 20). I busted. I was determined on the next Las Vegas trip to break the casino with my new computer-enhanced skills. Impress the boys. Maybe even get banned from the casino for counting— the ultimate respect.

  By three in the afternoon it was almost time to pick up the girls from school (our company prided itself on offering "flex-time" to all managers). I did about ten minutes of work, which consisted of deleting all of my new e-mails without reading them. My theory was that if an issue was truly important, the person would send me an urgent voice mail (which I could let age), page me, or, God forbid, pay an actual visit to my gaming cubicle.

  I then listened to yesterday's voice mails. The first message was from Dwayne. There was no hint of the 3 A.M. Monster in his tone.

  "Hey, pal, look… I just want to apologize for calling you last night and acting like a total jerk. I don't remember much of it but I feel like a total asshole, really sorry. I'll understand it if you don't ever want to speak to me again… It's just that I felt we really got along great the other night and I could sure use some help… Anyway, whatever you decide, I understand. Tell your wife I apologize for calling so late, probably woke everybody up… Well, that's it."

  I have had my own mortifying experiences with calling people on the phone when I was drunk. There was nothing more embarrassing to me than having that person bring up my phone call at a later date. Usually I remembered nothing of the conversation. Sometimes I didn't even remember making the call.

  I called Dwayne and he picked up on the first ring.

  "Jimmy, thanks for calling— I was afraid you'd never speak to me again."

  "You ever call me again all fucked-up at three in the morning and I won't."

  "Damn, I'm so sorry, pal. I probably woke up your wife and kids. Please apologize to them for me. I don't know what gets into me— not working, I don't know, just too much time on my hands."

  We agreed to meet again at Denny's on Monday night after the meeting.

  "All right, pal! So you're officially my sponsor?"

  "No, but I'll try to help you until we can get someone more qualified."

  "Listen, if there's an issue because you think I don't really belong in A.A., well, I used to drink too much and I do have a desire to stop drinking."

  Bingo! The magic words were spoken. Dwayne had done some research on the "only requirement for A.A. membership."

  "That's not what you told me the other night."

  "I was so nervous— I was going to get into it but we got off on the whole New York trip. So you will sponsor me?"

  "I'll be your temporary sponsor. Just show up clean and sober Monday night and we'll talk after the meeting."

  "No homework assignment?" Dwayne had clearly had sponsors before.

  I told Dwayne the same thing I had been told, many times. "Yeah, go to as many meetings as you can and don't drink or use in between meetings. Read the chapter on Step One. We'll discuss it at Denny's."

  "Jimmy, just promise me you're not going to pull the whole Higher Power God as I Understand Him trip on me— I already put in my time at Saint John's in Brooklyn. I've still got the scars on my knuckles from crazed, ruler-wielding nuns. I have no problem with God— I'm just scared shitless of some of His earthly representatives."

  I laughed. "I feel the same way. Besides, you're talking to a recovering agnostic. You should have gone to Erasmus— no nuns, Jewish guilt instead of the Catholic variety, and we all know there are no Jewish alcoholics or drug addicts."

  "I've heard that myth. So what happened to you?"

  "I guess nature just abhors a vacuum. Or a myth."

  "Speaking of whores, did you ever go to this after-hours club down on Atlantic Avenue…"

  We were friends again.

  As we used to say back in Brooklyn: "Everything is everything."

  * * *

  The Monster resurfaced about a month later. Right after Dwayne did his Fifth Step with me.

  We had been talking on the phone a few times a week and meeting at Denny's every Monday night after the meeting. Dwayne was working his way quickly through the Twelve Steps of A.A.

  "Might as well, Jimmy. I still have four more months of full disability pay, so now's a good time for me to focus on my recovery."

  I never really understood either Dwayne's work situation or his disability status. Once he told me that while working as a corporate consultant in sales quality, he had slipped in the lobby of a client's building and injured his back. ("I'm suing their asses off— they had just mopped and waxed the floor and there were no warning signs"). Another time he said he was a "senior account executive" for a San Francisco-based computer company. He had been at the warehouse, overseeing the delivery of some new high-end workstations, when a piece of loading equipment smashed into his shoulder.