Until the Darkness Goes

Everyone settled into the circle of chairs surrounded by the half-light of weak light bulbs. There was John from Hermosa, a retired hippie who managed to live by selling beads to tourists because he occasionally flipped a house for a buddy who made good in the Hunt brothers’ silver run-up in the sixties. Most of John’s money went toward maintaining his habit. He introduced himself as they each took turns. Hi, I’m John, cocaine and pot.” There were five others. The jittery girl was Suzanna that she pronounced with an “ah.” She was stick thin and her little trip to the girls’ room after her quick meeting with the driver of the squealing brakes rendered her mellow and slow speaking. The rest were guys between twenty and forty who were alcohol/pot; pills/meth and just plain meth/ alcohol/pain pills. Suzahnna was coke/alcohol so, Molly decided, she must have been well heeled, as meth was the odds out favorite for this crowd.

Gary, the leader started the round robin. “Hi, I’m Gary,. They responded with a lazy, or very casual–sounding, “Hi Gary.” “Hey, guys. I want you to meet a newcomer. Molly, why don’t you tell us,” he paused, “whatever makes you comfortable.” The guys all seemed fairly attentive, most sat up straighter, and alert. No one else so flagrantly violated the rules of using the way Suzanna had.

Molly cleared her throat, “Molly, meth.” She smiled a weak smile sent in no particular direction. “I’m court ordered, and I’ve never been to a meeting like this before.” She paused and looked down, picking at her cuticles. “Because I never used before.” She shrugged as if to signal Gary and the group of willing listeners that she was through for the night. Her immediate thought was no way am I wasting time with these losers.

There was a spattering of anemic applause made louder by the echo off the walls of the empty room.

“Okay,” said Gary as he looked from one face to another. “Do we have testimony tonight?” He looked for a signal that someone was going to step forward. Molly knew enough about this process, bleed their hearts out in plaintive chords about how it all came to be. How they, the beloved son, or big brother or errant husband with a good construction job or telemarketing gig with a real future got fucked up and became what you see here tonight. A hand was raised, first tentatively then more resolutely. It was the twenty-year-old boy in the clean black tee shirt with the small tear at the neckline.

“Tony. Great, dude.” Gary almost exclaimed in rapture. Otherwise, Molly sensed it would be Gary’s ass nailed to the wall for the evening’s entertainment if he couldn’t bag a quarry and get someone, anyone, to bleed out.

Tony obliged as he told them he was “pot/meth” and how the one led to the other and all of a sudden he was out of school, kicked out and then the next three years were, wow, man, out of control, you know, living up there in San Francisco with some really great people who, he figured later, were not so great. He told his story with eagerness, with a deep desire to be understood, to be congratulated for being clean and sober, this time, for ten weeks, and finally to be forgiven. He wasn’t disappointed because they all high-fived him, the guys anyway and Gary for sure.

“Good testimony, dude.”