Sovrano

by Michael Powers

  Eric made up his mind early in the program to deal with his alcoholism and sexual preference separately. In one of the AA directories at Woodhaven, Eric spotted several gay groups and memorized their addresses. He became a regular at gay AA meetings after he left the treatment center. What he saw and heard shocked him initially, moved him deeply, and changed his life profoundly.

  For the first year of his recovery, Eric usually spent five nights a week at a gay AA center. It was only six blocks from his home, yet he had never noticed it before he went through treatment. He was stunned to see familiar faces. He spotted men he had gotten drunk with, slept with, and even men he’d met during treatment. Eric and Steven were surprised to see each other at the same gay AA meeting several weeks after leaving Woodhaven. After that, Steven spent so much time at Eric’s house that when he became Eric’s housemate, it required little change in either of their lives.

  Exactly one year after Eric checked into Woodhaven he celebrated his complete and total abstinence from mood-altering drugs. July 15 was designated as Eric’s sobriety date and was treated much like a birthday, complete with parties, greeting cards, gifts, and speeches. Eric asked his gay sponsor, Princeton Lee, to present his one-year medallion.

  Eric met Princeton Lee moments after entering his first gay AA meeting at a rented hall in the heart of the Minneapolis gay ghetto. Shared by two dozen groups of recovering gays and lesbians, the place was called Gamma Center. Over time, the distinct boundaries of each group blurred. With so many groups, a person could wander into Gamma from noon until midnight, seven days a week, and find an AA meeting either about to start or already in progress.

  Eric stood a few feet inside the door when he showed up for his first meeting, desperately wishing he could be invisible. Wearing a pair of faded jeans, an old sweatshirt, and running shoes, Eric hoped he could just slip in and observe for a while. Seeing only a handful of people, Eric glanced at his watch. It was 7:15 p.m.

  Dreading the prospect of sitting alone or talking to total strangers for the next fifteen minutes, Eric decided to walk around the block to kill some time. As he reached for the door, a deep voice called across the empty floor, “Dear, are you here for the seven-thirty meeting?”

  Eric turned toward the voice and saw a large, bearded man rising from a chair to greet him. As he strolled leisurely over to Eric, his smile lit the room. “Your first time, hon?”

  Eric nodded. “Yeah, but I bet that’s what we all say.”

  Lee chuckled appreciatively. “Ah yes, another gay AA virgin. I’m Princeton Lee and I’d like to be the first to welcome you to Gamma AA with an official hug.”

  Eric had become quite fond of the AA hug during treatment. He gladly slipped his arms around Lee, who vaguely reminded him of Grizzly Adams. He was large, but not fat. An older man would have been called portly, but Lee was only in his thirties.

  “And you are…?” Lee prompted for a name.

  “Eric Price. Just paroled from Woodhaven yesterday.”

  Lee’s eyes twinkled. “And you came right to a gay AA meeting? Strokes for Eric Price! Woodhaven. Isn’t that the country club treatment center with the twelve-step, eighteen-hole program?” Lee teased.

  When Eric blushed, Lee softened his approach. “Welcome home, Eric, dear. They did their job. Now we’ll do ours,” Lee promised.

  After the meeting, Eric offered Lee a ride home. They talked into the wee hours of the morning in the first of many marathon conversations on the way to Eric earning his one year medallion.

  The mid-week meeting drew a standing-room-only crowd of about a hundred. After the opening prayer, introductions, and general business, Princeton Lee took the floor. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a silver dollar-sized medallion and moved to the center of the circle.

  “My name is Princeton and I’m a gay recovering alcoholic.”

  “Hi Princeton!” came the obligatory chorus.

  Princeton stroked his beard thoughtfully, searching for the right combination of words. “This is truly a special occasion. Every year I probably present fifty medallions to recovering alcoholics. Each one is special because it represents a miracle. Tonight is particularly special, however. It is my privilege to present Eric P. with a one-year medallion.

  “I could stand before you tonight and tell you how I’ve watched Eric stumble, struggle, and grow. I could encourage Eric to hang in there because things will get better. I could offer Eric the promises of the program and tell him all the hard work will pay off. Well, I’m not going to say any of those things.

  “Why? Because anyone watching Eric this past year knows this program works. With seemingly little effort, Eric walked out of Woodhaven, turned his back on booze, and created a new life from the ashes of the old one. Before July 15 last year, Eric was bankrupt physically, financially, spiritually, and emotionally. A trail of smashed cars, a sadly neglected body, an erratic memory, and a stack of unpaid bills were just a few of the legacies of his alcoholism. There’s no question Eric paid his dues to join the most expensive club in the world.

  “I’m not going to spend much time on Eric’s drunkalog. There are lots of folks who have car accidents, poor memories, out-of-shape bodies, and mountains of debt, and they don’t even drink! What’s so special about Eric? First, this man has been blessed with some very unique qualities, not the least of which is courage. He’s bright, witty, charming, and has a Texas-sized heart. For my money, he’s the best husband material in this room for all you single queens, but I digress. Second, and probably more importantly, Eric is undergoing one of the great spiritual recoveries of our time.

  “Being an AA sponsor is something most of us look forward to. When we’re asked to be a sponsor for the first time, it’s public recognition that we’ve recovered sufficiently to be helpful in another’s recovery. Yet, it’s a responsibility which can’t be taken lightly. Being a sponsor usually means a lot of hard work. Trips to the drunk tank to fish out sponsees who’ve had slips. Tear-filled late night phone calls. Long hours advising sponsees about the best way to make amends, resolve lover’s quarrels, or get along with co-workers. Sometimes the only joy in being a sponsor is the knowledge that you may have kept another human being alive one more day. Not so with Eric.

  “It’s been a joy to know Eric ever since he came to us a year ago. I could tell that first night Eric was out of his element among us. By day, Eric mingles with the rich and powerful as they shuffle their billions around the globe like Monopoly money. By night, Eric sits among us on our taped and torn furniture, sipping the same muddy coffee we drink. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t belittle us. He’s truly grateful we’re here.

  “And, Eric, even though you thought you were hiding it pretty well, I saw the horror on your face the first time a drag queen hugged you outside this building. I knew how uncomfortable you were when several of us went to a restaurant after a meeting and camped it up. I felt your shame when we walked to your car and some breeder boys drove by and screamed obscenities at us. I wondered how long you’d be among us. My worst fear was that you’d crawl back into your closet with a bottle, slowly sipping your life away.

  “I was wrong. Each time we met, you were more confident. Instead of shame, I saw anger. Instead of running, you were ready to dig in those pumps and make your stand. The compassion and generosity you display toward your people are real. God knows, I could carry on all night. You’re a miracle, Eric. You’re here for a reason and I’m grateful you are. Let’s do this every year! Now, come give me a hug and get your medallion, my friend.”

  Eric crossed the floor briskly and flung his arms around Lee as the group cheered and applauded. As they hugged, Eric stood on his toes and whispered to Lee, “Thanks!” Eric hated to cry in public, but didn’t try to rein in his feelings that night. When the applause subsided, Eric stood alone in the middle of the group.

  “I’ve given so many speeches in my life. I’ve used so many words to say so little. I’m alive. I’m sober and healthy. I hav
e two excellent sponsors, and you…..my gay family and friends. Beyond that, a man doesn’t need very much! You see before you a very grateful, recovering, gay alcoholic. Thank you.”

  “If you don’t need it, can I have your Mercedes, Eric?” someone shouted.

  Eric laughed with the group. “It comes with a ten pound book of payment coupons which I’d be happy to let you have!” Eric shouted. It occurred to him that a year earlier, he might have snapped, “Get a decent job and buy one yourself!” No wonder he felt so much better. Small wonder the crowd found it easy to stand and cheer the man who stood among them.

  Eric was shocked by the battered and torn lives of his new friends. He came to think of them as brothers and sisters. They were the family he missed so much. Because he thought of his new friends in those terms, he never had a sexual relationship with any of them. That would have smacked of incest to Eric.

  As Eric came to know his new family, he saw recurring patterns which disturbed him deeply. Most were abused by lovers, spouses, parents, employers, co-workers, institutions, and other gays. Their emotional scars were worse than some of their physical scars. Common themes were loneliness, bitterness, chronic unemployment, and very active fantasy lives. Eric was stunned to learn how high suicide and chemical dependency rates were among gays.

  Eric was particularly fascinated by Ronnie Harold, also known as Ronda. Trapped in a male body, Ronda claimed to be the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe. Ronda grew up in Iowa on a steady diet of Marilyn re-runs, chocolates, booze, pills, parental neglect, and peer abuse. The fantasy world of Marilyn Monroe was Ronda’s only real escape. When her fantasy world was no longer enough, she fled the cornfields of Iowa and made her way north.

  Along the way, Ronda followed a scorched earth policy, leaving a wide wake of destruction from Des Moines to Minneapolis. The trail of unpaid bar tabs, stolen clothes, broken hearts, and empty booze bottles was singularly impressive for a twenty-year-old. When she finally lurched into a meeting of recovering gay alcoholics with wisps of platinum blond hair swirling about her heavily made up face, she was a miserable sight. Pale, overweight, scared, and suicidal, she was finally in the right place at the right time. Nine months later, she was a model recovering alcoholic. She shed fifty pounds, and settled on a unisex wardrobe, changing back and forth between Ronnie and Ronda with a variety of wigs. Her camp humor, flawless impersonations of Marilyn, and warm nature endeared her to almost everyone.

  Ronda was the first transsexual Eric had ever known, so he viewed her with polite reserve initially. He didn’t know whether to relate to Ronda as a man or woman, so Princeton suggested Eric simply relate to Ronda as a person. As Ronda became clearer about which gender she preferred to live as, it became easier for Eric to relate to her.

  Once Eric accepted Ronda unconditionally, it became easier to embrace other members of the LGBT community whom Eric had previously avoided. Eric finally recognized them for who they were: human beings seeking something he also sought. They were all looking for love and the right to pursue their lives outside the tradition-bound world of heterosexuals. Eric’s life became richer as his circle of friends widened because of this change in attitude.

  Eric considered how he could be most helpful to the LGBT community. He was convinced the political process was a waste of time since politicians exchanged empty promises for votes. Eric concluded economic power was their only hope. He realized to be most effective, he would have to continue working in heterosexual, white, male-dominated Corporate America a while longer.

  CHAPTER 7

  During the months following Eric’s return to work after rehab, InterNorth Bank suffered a series of setbacks. Several large foreign customers defaulted on their loans. The bank’s computer system was hacked, exposing millions of customers to identity theft. The bank’s credit card processing center burned to the ground. Key executives were fired. The hundred-year-old country club culture of InterNorth Bank was shattered as replacement executives staked out their territories. The in-fighting was vicious as the bank struggled to regain its position as a respected financial institution.

  Eric’s boss was one of the first to be fired. The new Chief Financial Officer, Richard Cranston, was an arrogant, ambitious executive recruited from a New York bank. Although their working relationship began well enough, it became obvious either Eric or his new boss would have to go.

  InterNorth Bank held board meetings on the third Thursday each month. Eric enjoyed providing directors with a concise, accurate picture of the bank’s financial condition. He used cartoons which parodied the bank, its executives, and national political leaders. The resounding applause of board members demonstrated their confidence in him and their appreciation of his showmanship. Eric continued giving the monthly financial report for six months after Richard Cranston’s arrival. The seventh month, Richard told Eric he would give part of the report. By the tenth month, Eric attended board meetings as a spectator, even though he and his staff continued to prepare the reports.

  When Eric’s staff complained the new CFO was ordering them to adjust key numbers, Eric confronted Richard Cranston in his messy office. Richard continued working on a computer spreadsheet even though he knew Eric wanted to talk.

  Eric politely allowed his boss to continue working for a few moments while he studied the man. Richard Cranston was a curious mixture of inconsistencies. He wore expensive suits, diamond cufflinks, and Italian shoes, yet he had terrible personal hygiene. His crumpled suits smelled of urine and his office was an atrocious clutter. Notes protruded from all of Richard’s pockets. Though he was not physically handicapped, his open gait resembled a crippled duck, leaving the impression his body was out of control. Yet, this cluttered, indifferent attitude did not extend to everything. At age forty-one, Richard Cranston wore braces on his teeth to improve his appearance. His hands were meticulously manicured. A good-ole-boy drawl Richard picked up during his early career in Texas sometimes gave way to crisp Oxford English. It was apparent Richard Cranston was striving to create an illusion, but his signals were too confusing to determine what he really wanted people to believe.

  Eric considered it rude to make a subordinate wait. He prided himself on the respect he showed his staff. The two men were opposites in so many ways that a final confrontation was inevitable. The only question was when it would be.

  “Richard, we need to talk,” Eric announced flatly.

  “Subject?” Richard asked without looking up.

  “My staff said you ordered them to change numbers for this month’s board meeting. Why am I here if you’re going to go directly to them? Besides, presenting false and misleading information to the board is wrong. Anyone who knowingly participates…..”

  “Are you refusing to do your job?” Richard snapped, leaning back in his chair as he eagerly awaited Eric’s response.

  Having watched Richard maneuver his opponents into a corner, Eric proceeded cautiously, determined not to be trapped. “I am refusing to lie. I instructed my staff to use the correct numbers for the presentation on Thursday.”

  Richard knew Eric was bright and well liked. He viewed powerful subordinates as threats to be eliminated. If he played his cards right, Richard might be able to manipulate Eric into providing grounds for dismissal.

  “Eric, calm down,” Richard chuckled. “You weren’t around and the meeting is only two days away. I didn’t see any reason to add another layer to the communication process. The changes are really quite minor. I simply had them add enough revenue and income so this month’s earnings are greater than last month. While I’m CFO, each month is going to be better than the prior month, no matter how small the change is. It’s quite common in our industry to recognize income before it’s actually earned if you know it eventually will be.”

  Eric shook his head in disgust. “I hope you’re recording our conversation Richard because I’d love to know how the banks’ auditors feel about that policy. What you just told me is pure crap. For crissakes, I thought you were a
CPA. You can’t show revenue or income which we have neither earned nor collected as part of an income statement. You’re gambling the bank’s actual performance will catch up with your lies. If the bank’s performance deteriorates any further, the board of directors will wake up one morning and read that regulators have shut us down. There are SEC and accounting rules which prohibit what you’re doing!”

  The two glared at each other for several seconds. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” Richard scoffed. “If there’s nothing more, Mr. Price, you may leave.”

  Eric returned to his office and instructed his staff to use the correct numbers to prepare the board meeting Powerpoint presentation.

  Wednesday morning, Eric gathered his managers to check their material one last time before sending it to the bank president’s secretary. As the presentation progressed, his managers began muttering to each other.

  “What’s wrong?” Eric asked. “Typos?”

  “Worse!” Jean-Paul groaned. “Eric, this material’s been revised since we finished it yesterday.”

  Eric called Jack Gentry, vice president for corporate security. “Jack, old buddy, I need a quick favor.”

  Eric had saved the tough old bank cop’s budget several times. Though he was a great security officer, Jack didn’t understand financial matters very well. He had a tough time getting staff and equipment until he and Eric became friends through AA. If Jack could enlist Eric’s support, Eric made sure the chief cop had the resources he needed.

  “Name it, Eric, and it’s yours! Unless it’s one of them brandy Manhattans you once favored so much,” the bank’s chief cop teased.

  Eric chuckled obligingly. “Can you check last night’s computer log and tell me if anyone from Finance was in the building after hours?”

  “Hang on. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Jack hustled over to his computer terminal, punched a couple keys and waited. Twenty seconds later, Jack picked up his phone as he held the printout. “Four of you rascals was in here pretty late last night.”