But Patrick became relentless in pursuing, not only because he cared about Toby, but because he needed the highly functioning partner that Toby had always been. He had developed a genuine concern for his own safety while working with Toby, who had compromised his personal skills due to his drinking.
Finally, after countless attempts at getting the truth from Toby’s lips, Patrick decided it was necessary to take a different approach. They were driving down Eighteenth Avenue South in St. Petersburg one day toward Ninth Street, an extremely rough part of the city to be sure.
“Toby, we’ve been partners for a long time. You’re probably my best friend. You’re like a big brother to me. I know you’re hurting about Alicea. But lately, I’ve smelled alcohol on your breath, your speech is often slurred, you’ve been late for work, your running has really slowed down, and I don’t like covering for you. I think it’s time for you to get some help.”
Toby stared out the window at the busy gas station on the northwest corner of Ninth Street and Eighteenth Avenue South for a moment, thinking about the scores of times he and Patrick had responded to calls at this location. He flipped his blinker on and a moment later made the right turn south onto Ninth Street, heading for Lake Maggorie. Toby and Patrick never argued. They were two straight up men who always talked things out logically and civilly. The fact that Toby didn’t respond right away didn’t bother Patrick. He knew Toby’s ways and his silence only meant that he was analyzing the depth of Patrick’s words.
Nearly a mile had passed before Toby broke the quiet that lingered in the squad car. In a voice that was sincere and almost imperceivable, Toby spoke.
“I’ve heard everything you’ve said, Patrick, and it’s all true. I’ve felt myself slipping for months. I am drinking—a lot. At first it was because alcohol dogged the pain of worrying about Alicea. But recently the drinking seems to have taken on a life of its own. I’m not functioning right and I know it. I’m embarrassed that you’ve had to witness my decline. I appreciate that you’ve cared about me enough in the past several months that you kept trying to find out what was going on with me. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. Now you’ve pretty much figured out the whole deal. My problem is that I don’t know where to begin to go for help.”
“I have a cousin who’s bipolar, Toby. She’s been seeing a psychologist in downtown St. Pete. She swears by him. That might be a place to start.”
“It might be,” Toby said. “You see, Patrick, I’m not only dealing with the drinking, I’m worried sick about Alicea. My god, I wouldn’t know what to do if I lost her. I’m actually desperate to talk to somebody who might have some answers for me. I know I need AA too.”
They slowed the car as they passed the park at Lake Maggorie. About twenty cars were parked there with about thirty-five black guys hanging out talking and gesturing graphically about God knows what. There wasn’t a white guy among them. At 3:18 in the afternoon, nobody was causing any trouble, but about fifteen of the cars were later models and the officers wondered about what they might be planning, how many of them might have criminal records, who they might recognize from previous incidents, and how they could afford those beautiful cars.
“Always something going on at Lake Maggorie Park,” Patrick said.
“You got that right,” Toby concurred.
That’s how Toby was referred to me, that same day, by the time they reached Pinnelas Point about five minutes away.
“I want to do this on my own,” Toby said. “No department involvement. Will you stand by me with that Patrick?”
“You got it, my friend.”
* * * * *
It was only a couple of weeks later that I referred Toby to the AA meeting place on Turner Street. That wasn’t the first place that I was going to refer him. Toby lived in a two-story house on Snell Island, ironically, just a few blocks from the house that Christine and I bought when we moved to St. Pete. Toby’s home was expensive. To buy it, he needed his wife to have a successful nursing career, himself to be a highly decorated and oft promoted police officer, and for Alicea’s father to have been a highly successful surgeon at Ed White Hospital, who loved them both and loaned them $150,000 cash at zero percent interest to make the purchase.
Initially, I asked Toby if he wanted to attend an AA meeting close to his home on Snell Island or close to the St. Pete Police Headquarters, which was located between First Avenue and Central at Thirteenth Street across from Ferg’s Bar. His reply was, “Neither, Dr. McKenzie. I’d like to go somewhere up north a bit, where there is less chance of running into people I know. I’d prefer more anonymity being a cop and all.” I told him, “Sure. Let me look through my list and see what there is.” When I found the place off Fort Harrison, I asked him, “Do you mind driving thirty-five or forty minutes?” He said, “No. In fact, I might enjoy it. Even though time is precious, getting clean is the most important thing that I can possibly do so that I can be stronger again for Alicea and the kids.”
He had told me this nearly three months ago before I’d had my drunk driving experience. Now, when I reflected on his words about being stronger again for his wife and kids, I concluded that his words had been strangely prophetic for me. That was exactly what I needed to do for myself and my kids, even though my kids were young adults and away from home.
After I told him where the place was, he said something I could have never imagined he would say to me. He said, “Dr. McKenzie, I’m afraid to go by myself. Will you come with me the first time?” After I was momentarily surprised by what this big, strong St. Pete policeman had said to me, I quickly thought it through for a few seconds and said, “Yes I will, Toby.”
I had liked Toby as a person from the first time I met him in my office. If we had met in one of countless other social situations, we probably would have become fast friends. In fact, the more I got to know him, the more I wanted to be his friend. He and his wife were only a few years younger than Christine and I, and they only lived a couple thousand feet from us. How convenient it would be to be friends with him and his family. And as friends we could contribute so much to each other’s lives. But I resisted the urge to be friends outside the workplace and keep our friendship as professional as possible. But since I was highly prejudiced in favor of this guy and his success over alcohol, I jumped at the chance to hang out with him a little extra time away from the office. I also concluded that just maybe a thing or two might come up during our time together on the road and at the AA meeting that I might be able to convert into better serving him as a therapist.
The first time I went with Toby was for a 7:30 meeting. The room was a large several hundred square foot auditorium, with the stage on the south end. There must have been 150 people there the night we drove there together from St. Pete and acclimated ourselves to the building, the people, and their systems for letting the alcoholics tell their stories. And stories there were. One after another the pain and angst of each alcoholic poured forth. Toby watched intently as I wondered when he would jump in and take his turn. He was nervous throughout the meeting, leaning forward in his chair most of the time and wringing his hands repeatedly. He did not jump in. He did not speak. In fact, after we left the meeting and got into my car before heading home, he said the first words he had spoken in over an hour and a half.
“I’m sorry, Dr. McKenzie, that I didn’t break the ice and tell my story tonight. I guess I was feeling embarrassed about opening up. I know I can do it next time. Will you come with me one more time for moral support?”
I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I said, “I’ll go with you one more time, Toby, but after that you’re on your own. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said. We drove home talking about the Bucks and the Devil Rays.
Oddly at the time, I was thinking mostly of Toby and his upcoming battle to get sober. Though I had heard the words that Christine had told me, though I had moved out of our marital home and bought
a condo at the Beaches of Paradise, I still didn’t believe that I was an alcoholic, nor did I have a single clue as to what it took to initially admit that to myself.
The second time I accompanied my cop client/almost friend, to his AA meeting was my last visit there for several weeks. Toby spoke. He spilled his guts about Alicea, his children, and his absolute powerlessness over alcohol.
“I began drinking more when I found out Alicea was sick because I knew how good alcohol made me feel. It helped me to overcome my shyness and become the life of the party. Even though I probably had nothing cogent to say all those times I was getting drunk on my ass, I believed I was being entertaining, that everyone liked me. And if in reality, I was being a big oaf, I didn’t worry about it the next day or the day after that because all I could think of was how much fun I’d had. I wanted to continue to have fun even though my wife was sick because if I wasn’t drinking I was sick to my stomach with almost constant anxiety over her. I could barely function as a husband, a father, or at my job, without being fortified with at least some alcohol to get me through.”
He was a natural born storyteller. Okay, maybe not naturally born, maybe he learned how to tell a good story by making up or embellishing real life stories for his children. However he got to this point, I was proud of him on so many levels. He had laid himself bare in a huge assembly room of strangers. It had taken a great deal of courage for a shy man. He had been protective of his privacy, not once revealing himself to be a policeman. Luckily, on this particular night, there had been no one there who had recognized him nor had he recognized anyone. He had moved people with his words. He had told his story genuinely and without enhancements. As I watched him speak I could feel the pain he felt at the potential loss of someone dear to him. His furrowed brow, slivered eyes, and relentless frowns were the outward indicators of his unrelenting inner angst. And beside myself, there was no other listener who could not immediately identify with his woes.
By the time Toby Magnessun had finished his introductory story to this new and accepting audience, tears had begun rolling down his rugged cheeks. He could barely look up and outward into anyone’s face, as some of those tears began hitting his shoes and the floor. I watched them fall as if in slow motion, not hearing his last several sentences, but being mesmerized by the cascading liquid emotion that was departing his eyes.
When he finished, his heartache drained for now, his head bowed with embarrassment and humility, the crowd erupted with applause. I joined. Slowly, the quiet speaker raised his head and peered through watery eyes to the applauding throng. He knew they cared and that he belonged. I was honored to be present at the beginning of a profound life changing event for this strong but gentle man.
On the ride home there weren’t a hundred words spoken between us. In fact, Toby asked me as we began the forty minute ride to Snell Island if I minded that we didn’t talk much for a while. I said, “Of course not. What you did in there was pretty impressive. I know it took a lot out of you.”
“It did,” he said, and we drove in complete silence until we said good night in front of his house.
Those first two meetings with Toby is how I found my AA meeting place. At the times of those first two meetings, I still didn’t think of myself as an alcoholic. I was reflecting on why Christine had asked me to leave, but I had begun only to think that I could fix myself all by myself. I wasn’t like Toby. My drinking wasn’t affecting my performance at work. I was never late. I didn’t have to chase anybody on foot. My speech was never slurred. I wasn’t an alcoholic like all the people in that room on Turner Street.
Christine was, in all likelihood, perceiving me to be an alcoholic. But I wasn’t like all those people. That’s what I thought then and for the next several weeks until I almost killed the female bicyclist in front of the Candy Kitchen. Only then did I begin to be honest with myself and start the long road to better and complete my utterly unfinished self.
After I dropped Toby off, my entire being yearned to stop at my beautiful old house and see Christine. It was nearly 11:00 p.m. Christine was probably home, maybe in bed or even asleep already. Those possible facts were not nearly enough to dissuade my spirit from longing to see my darling wife. But the wise side of me won out once again, reasoning that an unannounced visit would only hurt each of us. At that time I had only been gone from the house a few weeks. I had accomplished nothing in the way of changing myself for the better. I had not even started the process. I did not even know where to begin and at the top of my negatives list was the reality that I was in near complete denial that there was anything wrong with me, much less that I was an alcoholic like those people I had just left. I was the same exact man that Christine had asked to leave. What would be the point of seeing her and hurting her as well as myself?
I traversed nearly the entire width of St. Petersburg on my way back to the Beaches of Paradise. I thought mostly about Toby and the stunningly beautiful story he had told about his life, his wife, and his dependence on alcohol. And I thought, secondarily, about how much I missed Christine, attempting at every reflection of her to distract myself away from the thought by thinking of Toby, and occasionally, what I was going to use tomorrow as strategy for a couple of my scheduled clients.
By the time I got home it was nearly midnight. I fixed myself a tall glass of rum and Coke and went straight to the bathroom to brush my teeth and then straight to the bedroom after that. I opened my briefcase, grabbed my notebooks for tomorrow’s clients, and placed them on the bed. For the next forty-five minutes I would sip my drink and review the notes on the six people I would begin seeing in a few hours. By one o’clock, my drink was finished and so was I. I turned the light out and fell deeply asleep.
Sometime during the early morning hours, I dreamed I was sleeping peacefully and dreaming a pleasant dream of Christine. It was a simple dream. Christine and I were reconciled and on a cruise, outside our cabin on a balcony, watching a luxurious sunset while holding hands. It was an idyllic dream, quite possibly reflecting a scene I hoped to duplicate someday in my waking life.
Knock, knock. It sounded like thunder out of the clear blue sky of our cruise ship scene. The moment between Christine and I did not immediately dissipate. I squeezed her hand a little more tightly as if not only to reassure her that I was there if a storm should arise, but that by doing so I could cling to this scene a little longer. It did not last. A fear in my psyche had been triggered and my tranquil image of Christine and I was snatched away in a cruel heartbeat. Replacing it was the vision of my sleeping self waking up with a start at having heard the two malicious thuds that stole my Christine from me. My rudely awakened dream self opened his eyes and looked upward. Pinned to the ceiling spread eagle and ready to strike was Satan. He was his horrifying usual crimson self, except this night he held a long black pitchfork with blades like razors in his right hand. My dream self screamed in terror at the thought of another impending assault. I tried to roll over and scramble from the bed and the room but I couldn’t move. I was limited to my stare of the devil hovering above me. Lucifer stared back at me with glistening evil eyes but did not move. He did not move and I wondered why. We were locked in a horrifying glare. It was one of the worst dream moments of my life. Fear gripped every crevice of my being as I waited for whatever physical tortures he was going to inflict upon me. My fear of what might happen was far greater than the reality of what was actually happening. I wondered why he continued to remain motionless.
And then I realized what he was doing. He was playing a mind game with me. He was psyching out the psychologist. He was attempting to hurt me more by not attacking me than actually attacking me. As the dream moments passed, I began to believe he would never move toward me. As I continued staring, he and his pitchfork began to appear to be a horrible sculpture that some demented sculptor had suspended from the ceiling to be viewed by me every time I looked upward from my bed to the ceiling.
Then knoc
k, knock again like explosive devices and a different terror besieged me. The devil moved only his savage face toward the door. He seemed to be listening for more knocks. I thought if he heard them he would open the bedroom door. He neither heard another knock nor opened the bedroom door. Instead he looked back at me with his menacing glare and floated backward through the ceiling and out of my domicile. I was still paralyzed, waiting as usual for the Two-Knock Ghost, or whatever it was, to begin the process of assaulting me. But the ghost never showed and the dream bedroom faded slowly to black.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 10
AFTER FEELING THAT I had achieved a great deal during my first twenty hours of sobriety, I faced the night. Earlier in the day I had not only begun the list of things I needed to do to discover my real current self and who I needed to become, but I had also chosen a place to attend AA meetings. In itself I felt that was a huge decision. But when I got home that night, it began to feel like I was running an obstacle course of temptation for an alcoholic. All I wanted to do was make myself my favorite simple toast and cheese sandwich, maybe two. But when I opened the refrigerator door, I saw three cold cans of Coke staring back at me from behind the cheese. Immediately, I was reminded of the three ounces of rum that I had tossed down the drain the night before. I licked my suddenly dry lips as I grabbed the cheese and reached for the loaf of Publix Wheat Bread that I always kept in the fridge to make it last longer. I knew that I would have to get rid of those Cokes right away, because of the associative discomfort I was feeling right now, but after I ate.
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