Grief Groups

AA

The cookies are stale and the coffee is burnt. It's scalding hot and burns my fingertips through the styrofoam.

The meeting is over and the crowd dissipates—half of them make water-cooler talk next to the expired baked goods. The other half chain-smoke outside glancing at their cars. None of them want to be here.    

8:30 pm. Too late to attend another meeting. I burn my tongue trying to gulp down the coffee before lobbing the cup into the trash can two feet away from me. Close enough that I can guarantee it lands in the bin; far enough away that it's not embarrassing that I went for the throw.

Its a three-pointer and I call it a night. I retreat to the backdoor, anxious to triple check that paying for parking ends at 6:00 PM, and more anxious to avoid coffee drinkers blocking the point of entrance.

I slink to the backdoor, already queuing up in my mind the music for the drive home.

Laura stops me, gently (in her mind —in mine it feels invasive).

'Alex, you've been attending these meetings for over a year now'

    'I have'

'You haven't shared with the group or offered verbal support to any other members... There is no obligation or pressure to participate in these meetings but I know that in the road to recovery you must embrace a village, and—'

I cut her off

'Laura, this group has been instrumental in my recovery. In particular, you have been a shining light. I hope that you know that you are a lighthouse keeper guiding lost souls home. It would be easy to just call you the lighthouse, but you are more than that. You have taken it upon yourself to occupy the never-ending position of giving lost ships a beacon of light to follow home. Lighthouses don't exist without keepers, and a light without direction will sink the most seasoned sailer into the sea.'

It was heavy handed and I knew so as I was saying its but I had judged her caffeine intake as well as the 12 unopened notifications on her phone and knew it was just enough to give me an out without further questioning, and her both an out of further talking to an alcoholic as well as validation that her magnanimous efforts had not been in vain.

Laura's shoulders visibly relaxed, and as she backed away, hand reaching towards her phone, she told me that she was proud of me, and that she was happy that I was here.

At least she didn't ask me about my sponsor (non-existent.)

Clear of Laura, I dodge the smokers and head to my car. I check the meter (parking was free after 6 pm, but I like to make sure.) It's 8:50 pm now.

My car is pristine, There is no dust on any of the bits that love to collect dust. I open the dash and pull out a water bottle filled with clear liquor and take a pull. The flask that I hid in my notebook and strategically drank from throughout the day had long been emptied. I reach for my phone and check traffic. 12 minutes. No excuse not to go. I crack the windows and light a smoke, before deciding the soundtrack of the night. I've got four songs and ideally they'll be cohesive.

I can lean into the melancholy the dead at 27 club. The Eliiot Smith route feels like gilding the lily of AA. Leonard Cohen is too wail-y. I can only stand 7 minutes of Nirvana.

I settle on Harry Nilsson for tonight's usual haunts. I know it would piss him off, which only makes it sound sweeter.

I roll the dice in my pocket.