I've been writing short stories that I hope to connect into a larger narrative at some point. The stories follow a 30-year old man named David, sober in Delray Beach, Florida. A year off alcohol, he faces an existential crisis as he still has no ide...
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* The first part was intended to give readers a taste of what is to come. However, this is the true beginning of the story.
David W. sat on the edge of the middle row of a line of chairs in a dimly lit room inside of a one story building known as The Crossroads. His hands lightly clenched the bottom of his seat as he rubbed his thumbs back and forth along the leather cushion.
His brown eyes looked forward beyond the five rows of men in front of him. Paul G., a Boston man in his 40's, stood at the front of the dimly lit room to the right of a small table. Behind the table sat Johnny T., a New Jersey man in his early 20's, and on the table sat a tray of bronze medallions, all of them identical save for the roman numerals in the middle of each. Paul picked a medallion up off of the tray and held it up by his thumb and index finger to show to the room of roughly thirty men.
David, a New Orleans man in his late 20's, couldn't tell what numeral was on the coin from his seat in the middle row, but he knew it had to be six. Paul was the sponsor to Steven J., a New York man in his 40's, and Steven had just celebrated six years of sobriety two weeks earlier. David knew this because it was all Steven seemed to talk about.
Paul lifted up the medallion for the men in the room to see. The men were all quiet, which David found rather uncommon given the usual rowdiness of the group. Paul was ten years sober, however, and was one of the few faces that was present nearly every Wednesday night at the The Crossroads. Even the most rambunctious members of the group paused to show Paul respect.
"Steven-" Paul began before several young men up front began to aggressively clap. One of them shouted "AT A BOY STEVEY!" while another began whistling in a cheering fashion.
The guidelines of the meeting were that there was no interrupting of others while they were speaking, or no crosstalk as it was called. Yet most of the room seemed either unbothered or even amused by the display of the young men. A few of the long term members of the group, or old timers as they were often called, even let out soft laughter, seeming to enjoy the reaction.
To the old timers, it was appropriate given the fact that it was May 30th, Medallion night, where yearly sobriety anniversaries for the entire month were meant to be celebrated. Steven had been around a full six years now. It made sense for them to be celebrating.
David continued to sit in silence with his eyes on Paul and his hands on the chair.
"Steven truly is one of the good ones in AA," Paul continued once the commotion died down. "He came in right away, got a sponsor, got a home group, and just did the work. He learned in time that the truth will set you free."
"But not before it pisses you off!" shouted Bob P., a Boston man in his 60's.
The bulk of the room laughed at this outburst. David lifted his right hand off of the chair at this point and began fiddling with his short, black hair. He remained silent, his eyes on Paul and his left hand still lightly clenching the leather seat and his thumb rubbing the edge.
