Sovrano

by Michael Powers

  “You guys taking me to jail?” Eric asked quietly.

  Tim laughed as a natural reflex, even though he realized how confused Eric must be. “No, we’re not taking you to jail. We’re going to Woodhaven, a drug and alcohol treatment center. They’ll help if you let them.”

  “Ahhhh,” Eric nodded. He’d heard of Woodhaven. “How long will I be there?”

  They had avoided telling Eric until he was in the van because the answer to that question scared most drunks. “About thirty days.”

  “Thirty days!” Eric gasped. “I’ve got a trip to California next week. I’m meeting some friends in LA after my speech. The bank’s starting the annual planning process. I’ve got…..”

  “Eric, if you’re dead you’ll miss all those things anyway!” Tim shouted.

  An uncomfortable silence followed as Eric processed Tim’s words.

  Tim turned all the way around to face Eric. “I’m sorry for yelling, Eric, but this is important. If you don’t get help right now, you can kiss your friends in California and everything else good-bye! The bank will fire you. You’ll lose your house, your car, and maybe your life if you don’t sober up. It takes at least thirty days at Woodhaven to do any good. Now, either we put Eric Price on the temporary sick list or we retire him permanently. Which will it be, Eric?”

  Eric hung his head. “I’ll take the thirty days,” he mumbled.

  Tim and John ushered Eric into the office of Dr. Nelson, Director of Woodhaven Treatment Center. An observer from the Johnson Institute was also waiting for the threesome to arrive.

  While Tim, John, Dr. Nelson, and Dr. James were exchanging greetings and introductions, Eric glanced around. He smiled stupidly at the four sober men in the room. “Well, I can see the problem already! One too many for bridge. Why don’t I just wander on home?”

  “Not so fast,” Tim chuckled, steering Eric to a couch. “Dr. Nelson needs to ask you some background questions.”

  “When did you begin drinking, Eric?” Dr. Nelson asked.

  “I think I was five,” Eric chuckled.

  Smiling tolerantly, Dr. Nelson rephrased the question. “When did you start drinking for this most recent episode?”

  “Oh. About ten-thirty Monday night.”

  “What did you have to drink?”

  “Perhaps it’d be easier to list the things I didn’t have,” Eric joked. “I started out with brandy Manhattans. I had five downtown and one at home. Then I drank a gallon of wine while I was on the phone. When that was gone, I drank screwdrivers. The gallon of vodka was almost full when I started. When that ran out, all I had left was a quart of rum, so I made myself rum-and-cokes until the rum was gone.”

  All four men watched intently as Eric calmly recounted his alcohol consumption during the last ten hours. They were amazed he was still conscious. Half that amount of alcohol would turn out the lights on most men twice Eric’s size.

  “Do you have a problem with alcohol?” Dr. Nelson asked pointedly.

  “No, sir. I like it just fine!” Eric howled. Again, the four men had trouble hiding their smiles.

  Eric’s mood changed in a split second. His body sagged, his voice became soft, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “Yeah, I’ve got a drinking problem. A big problem. My father was an alcoholic and so was his father. I only meant to have a couple drinks last night, but I couldn’t stop. I just kept drinking until there was nothing left to drink. I get so depressed…and…angry. Sometimes I just wanna die, ya know?”

  When Eric realized how intently he was being studied, he mistook the compassion in their eyes for pity. Despising pity, his mood shifted again. Turning to the man next to him, he asked, “You a doctor, too?”

  Dr. James nodded.

  “Well, you must not be any good! Doc Nelson’s doing all the work. Or are you doing on-the-job training? Learning how to interview the whackos who stumble through the front door?”

  “I’m an observer,” Dr. James responded in an even tone.

  “And what are your observations so far?”

  Tim intervened. “That’s enough, Eric. You’re not conducting the interview. Dr. Nelson, do you have enough for admission?”

  Dr. Nelson nodded.

  Tim stood to leave. “If that’s the case, John and I will be on our way. Eric, is there anyone I can call for you?”

  “My boss,” Eric murmured. “Better tell him I won’t be in the office for a while.”

  John Heinz nodded. “I’ll take care of that, Eric. The bank will pay for your treatment and your salary will continue while you’re here. I think Tim was asking if you have any family or friends we should call.”

  Eric blinked back his tears. “I wish there was. I think you two now qualify as my closest friends and family. If you’ve got a pen, I’ll sign over all my worldly debts to you.”

  Even when they hit bottom, both John and Tim still had their families to fall back on. They had both known the isolation which accompanies chemical dependency, but they sensed Eric’s isolation was more absolute than most. A wave of sadness blanketed them both.

  Tim held his arms out to Eric and gave him a long hug. “Eric, do what they say. I’ll be back for a visit just as soon as it’s allowed, okay?” Tim stepped back to check Eric’s reaction.

  Eric nodded his agreement, then stood in the middle of the hallway, watching Tim and John until they reached the front door. He waved his left hand at them, with his right hand in his pocket. “Bye! Thanks you guys! Come back and see me!”

  As they walked to the van, Tim dabbed his nose and eyes with a handkerchief. “Jesus, I feel worse than a father who’s just left his five-year-old at school for the first time!”

  John wrapped his arm around Tim’s shoulders. “I know. The difference is most fathers know the kid’ll survive school. But this…it’s anybody’s guess. God only knows if Eric will make it or not. We’ve done all we can for now, Tim. The rest is up to him.”

  Eric stayed in a private room, joining the other residents for three meals each day and promptly returning to his room to sleep. The staff and residents made friendly overtures, but Eric simply glared at them. Eric’s superiors at the bank received daily reports from the director. On the third day after Eric entered treatment, Dr. Nelson expressed little hope for his recovery.

  Eric slept to rebuild his strength and because he couldn’t summon the will to do anything else. When he woke every few hours between meals, he felt deeply ashamed. He regretted not having pulled the trigger when he had the chance. He was certain he would lose his job. Then, one by one, the rest of the props would fall away and his life would collapse. He usually cried himself back to sleep, deeply resenting John and Tim. They had only succeeded in postponing the inevitable.

  On the fourth day, Eric could no longer sleep between meals. He left his room for the first time without being summoned. At the end of the hallway, he spotted a nurse’s station, so he wandered toward it. Two nurses sat casually chatting while they updated medical charts. They were both surprised to see Eric out of his room between meals.

  “Finally tired of sleeping, Mr. Price?” the nurse closest to Eric smirked.

  “Actually, I am. What do people do around here when they aren’t eating or sleeping?”

  One nurse quietly turned to call Dr. Nelson while the other nurse began telling Eric about group sessions, individual counseling, assigned reading, daily journals, job sharing, nightly AA meetings, and athletic activities. She tactfully omitted that most residents began this rigorous schedule on their first day, not their fourth. Eric would realize that soon enough on his own. Meanwhile, the first nurse whispered into the receiver, “Doctor Nelson, it’s Eric Price. I think he’s ready to join the living.”

  Jeremy Heath ambled into the sparsely furnished group therapy room where he reigned supreme. During his twelve years as a chemical dependency counselor, Jeremy had developed a firm, but compassionate approach. Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Jeremy mentally counted the residents in the room to assure an even
dozen. “Since everyone is here, let’s begin with the Serenity Prayer.”

  All twelve residents stood and formed a circle with their arms around each other’s shoulders. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  After the prayer, they hugged each other until everyone had hugged everyone else in the room at least once.

  “We have a new person in our group today,” Jeremy announced. “Would you please introduce yourself?”

  “My name is Eric and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Eric!” everyone greeted him.

  Eric smiled with difficulty. “That’s the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud…..I am an alcoholic.”

  “Do you believe them?” Jeremy asked pointedly, motioning for the group to take their seats.

  “I’m beginning to,” Eric admitted.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Well, I know I’m sick, and not crazy, so that’s a relief. Still, I wonder what’ll become of me if I can’t quit drinking.”

  Jeremy smiled warmly. “That’s what we’re here for. You’re going to start getting help right now, today. Before you tell us your story, who wants to go over the group rules for Eric?”

  A huge man waved his left index finger back and forth several times. Eric had noticed him in the cafeteria for two reasons. He was by far the largest person in the treatment facility. Being black, he was also the only non-Caucasian Eric had seen since his arrival. Eric guessed he was a professional athlete.

  Jeremy nodded. “Go ahead, Rosie.”

  Rosie? What kind of name was that for a man? Eric thought of a dozen wicked insults, but kept his mouth shut, as he suspected most people did.

  “Our number one rule is what we see or hear stays here. In this room we share our true thoughts and feelings about our chemical dependency. There’s no smoking, eating, gum chewing, or drinking any beverage in this room. Each day we begin and end with the Serenity Prayer and group hugs. If you want time during group, you have to ask for it. That’s about it. Welcome to our group, Eric.”

  Eric flashed a thank you smile Rosie’s way.

  “Why don’t you tell us your story, Eric?” Jeremy prompted. “A little about who you are, how you got here, why you think you have a drinking problem…..that sort of thing.”

  Eric breathed deeply. “Okay, here goes. I’m thirty. I had my first drink at age fifteen with a bunch of kids I worked with. I got drunk that first time and threw up. I went to a lot of parties over the next several years and usually got drunk, and I’d always swear off drinking forever the next day. I could go for long periods without a drop, then I’d be at a party and have too much to drink again.

  “When I was twenty, I enlisted in the Air Force. I was too scared at first to get drunk. I was afraid I’d do something stupid and get busted. When I did drink, I’d get wasted by myself, but I never got in trouble for drinking while I was in the Air Force.

  “After six long years with Uncle Sam, I was discharged, then moved to Minneapolis. Got a job at InterNorth Bank and rose rapidly through the ranks. I made lots of friends. We socialized after work, mostly at bars close to the bank. I was very popular, entertaining the troops with a collection of stories and jokes I picked up over the years. I knew a pattern was developing, and it worried me. At first, we only went drinking on Fridays, and I got smashed every time. Then, I began coaxing people to go out during the week, coming into work with a huge hangover the next day. I figured out how to nurse my hangovers so they didn’t interfere too much with my job. Gradually I got so good at recovering, I could get smashed almost every night.

  “Another nasty pattern developed. For my first four or five drinks, I was the life of the party. Then, I’d get very depressed, sometimes crying. I became desperate to talk to anyone who would listen. If I continued drinking through phase two, I’d rebound, and get very energetic and aggressive. If anyone disagreed with me, I became belligerent, even violent during the last phase. It’s gotten much worse this year. I picked fights with friends, bartenders, bouncers, and other customers. For the first time in my life, I was being tossed out of bars.

  “Some of the things I did really scared me. When the bars closed, I’d drive home and keep drinking while I called people all over the world. I’d wake up my old Air Force buddies or college classmates. At first, they were glad to hear from me, but after repeated calls at two in the morning, they began to get annoyed, so I spread the calls around. Most of them were polite, while I ranted on about how screwed up the bank was, how wonderfully brilliant I was, or how I missed them. It must’ve been awful to be on the other end as I droned on for hours, barely making sense.

  “I realized I was driving people away from me, but I couldn’t stop. To avoid making an ass of myself in front of my friends, I began drinking where people didn’t know me. I found myself in sleazy bars sitting next to people I’d never talk to during the day. I bragged about what a big shot banker I was, promising my drinking buddies loans and jobs, buying rounds of drinks in one crummy dive after another. It was terribly embarrassing when they began showing up at my office to collect on my promises.

  “I almost always woke up broke after a night of heavy drinking. The cash I didn’t spend on booze I gave away. I joined private, high stakes poker games, bet like a wild man, and became furious when I lost. When I ran out of cash, I used credit cards. I began leaving Minneapolis on weekends to drink and gamble in cities where I wasn’t known.

  “In the past couple months, my drinking has had serious consequences. I have trouble showing up for work. I’ve hit parked cars driving home drunk. There’s a pile of bills I can’t pay. My friends avoid me. I’m a physical wreck. I almost blew my brains out with a shotgun the night two of my co-workers brought me here.”

  After several moments of silence, it was obvious Eric had finished. Jeremy scanned the group. “Anyone have feedback for Eric?”

  A boyishly attractive young man raised his hand. Steven Arroyo was twenty-three, but looked as if puberty was still a few years away. A mere five feet tall, Steven was extremely insecure about his height and youthful appearance, so he earned a black belt in karate. He used his martial arts skill to convince opponents he was no child. Lurking behind the cherubic face and placid blue eyes was an enormous amount of anger. Each time Steven had more than three drinks, his rage surfaced. Faced with nine counts of assault, Steven’s wealthy parents flew him from LA to Minneapolis to get help. “I’d like to give Eric my feedback.”

  Jeremy and Eric both nodded their consent.

  Steven sat directly opposite Eric. He reinforced himself with a deep breath. “Eric, I got here the same day you did, but I doubt you even remember sitting next to me in the lobby. You were pretty drunk. I’ve fought guys ten times tougher than you, but you ripped me apart with your tongue so fast I didn’t have a chance to defend myself. Nobody’s ever hurt me like that before. What amazed me was how easy it seemed for you. I felt so worthless I wanted to jump off a cliff. The look in your eyes spooked me, too. Anyway, I saw a different side of you today. As you told your story, you were calm, you talked slow and soft, and you didn’t use a lot of big words. I felt like you were talking to me instead of down at me. It sounds like that was the first time in a long time you’ve been honest with anyone. I actually began to like you, Eric. You might be a big deal executive, but you’re hurt and you’re scared and you’re all alone. And you’re hooked on your chemical just as bad as the worst of us in this room! I just want you to know you’re in the right place. Welcome to the club!”

  Eric glared at Steven. He couldn’t remember sitting next to him the day he arrived, but he knew he would remember every word Steven had just said. Eric could not recall the last time he had allowed anyone to speak to him that way without striking back. It was humiliating to be judged by someone younger and less experienced, yet Eric knew Steven was right. Eric bit his lip to keep his anger in check. T
hrough a forced smile, Eric uttered a single word. “Thanks.”

  Jeremy guessed Eric was going to be a tough client. The smart, sophisticated ones learned how to play games quickly. The only chance for a successful recovery was to penetrate their tough defenses long enough to get at some of the truth which was killing them.

  “Anyone else?” Jeremy coaxed the group.

  “I’d like to go next,” Roxanne volunteered. “As I listened to you, Eric, I couldn’t help thinking what a tragedy it would’ve been if you’d succeeded in killing yourself. You’re bright, handsome, and obviously successful. I want to offer my hope this program will work for you. I also noticed you never mentioned a significant other. No family. No spouse. No lover or girlfriend. No best friend. Only people you work with. Do you have any close family or friends outside work?”

  Jeremy was pleased with Roxanne for exposing a critical issue.

  Eric wondered how honest he should be. He considered telling the group he was gay, but could not bring himself to take such a risk. “All my biological family are dead. I’ve never been married. You’re right. I have no significant other. Just my bank friends.”

  “Perhaps you’ll find some real friends when you let people know the real Eric. I hope that happens while you’re here,” Roxanne smiled invitingly.

  In a barely audible voice, Eric whispered, “Me, too.”

  Jeremy was hopeful. Eric made a lot of progress his first day. Later, Eric met privately with Jeremy to provide some standard background information. When Jeremy asked Eric if he considered himself to be homosexual, Eric looked Jeremy straight in the eyes and answered without hesitation, “No.”

  They had not yet covered the importance of rigorous honesty in a recovering alcoholic’s program.