Finding Ultra (11 page)

Bam!
My next memory was the sound of crushing metal, cracking plastic, and a broken horn. Somehow, I'd just decimated the rear end of a small sedan.
Shit
. It took less than two minutes for the cops to arrive, but only seconds for them to haul my goose limbs out of the car and handcuff me to the bus stop bench on the corner. In L.A., the cops don't mess around. If you get pulled over, the assumption is
always
that the car is stolen, there's a warrant out for your arrest, you have a shotgun under the seat, and you're high on crack. And until proven otherwise, you're treated accordingly. In my case, harsh treatment was warranted. On the Breathalyzer, I blew a 0.29 percent—more than three and a half times the legal limit. Most people would be passed out at this level. In fact,
anything above 0.30 percent is considered lethal. But drive a car? Not just a bad idea, but close to impossible.

I was uninjured. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the elderly woman I rear-ended. She was taken to the hospital and ultimately suffered from severe whiplash and chronic neck and back problems. I wish I could say that the moment caused my heart to swell with shame, remorse, and compassion. But mostly what I felt was the fear that comes from contemplating going to prison—that and the painful pinch of the steel handcuffs that were cutting off blood supply to my hands. I spent the better part of the night in jail before my allotted phone call roused Adam Glick—my friend and former Skadden office mate now working as an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles. He was kind enough to come to my rescue, post bail, and get me home in one piece, just as the sun began to rise.

A day of reckoning? Not so fast. A scare, for sure. But a failure when it came to modifying my ways.
Everyone gets a DUI
, I told myself.
What's the big deal?
I gave little thought to the condition of the poor woman I hit, pushing the painful image deep into my unconscious.
Let the insurance company handle that one
. To truly consider my actions would require a change in behavior—something I wasn't yet ready for.

In fact, not two months later, I was driving home after the firm's Christmas party when the cops once again pulled me over—this time for driving the wrong way down a one-way street in Beverly Hills.
The wrong way!
It was 3:30
A.M
. on a Friday night. And this time I blew a 0.27 percent. After a stern lecture, it was back to jail for the night. My second DUI, just weeks after my first.

Come Monday morning, I was summoned to Skip's office. I knew something was terribly wrong when he shut the door behind me and looked me right in the eye.

“Take a seat. We need to talk.”

Uh-oh
.

“I got an interesting call yesterday from my friends over at BHPD. Driving the wrong way down a one-way street? A blood alcohol level of 0.27 percent? And from what I understand, this isn't the first time?”

Skip handled a lot of work for both the Los Angeles and Beverly Hills Police Departments. And these people weren't just his clients, they were his friends. In fact, Skip had a personal relationship with the very officer who arrested me. When I was booked, the officer lifted my business card from my wallet, noticed I worked at Skip's firm, and promptly gave him a heads-up call.
I'm screwed
.

“Are you firing me?”

At the time, Skip and I were knee-deep in preparing for trial in defense of the general manager of the Rose Bowl, who was being sued for sexual harassment. I'd devoted myself entirely to this case, spending countless hours with the client at the Rose Bowl, interviewing witnesses, taking all the depositions, and drafting all the pretrial briefs and motions. In classic Skip form, we had declined all plaintiff attempts to settle and were just weeks away from the jury trial I was meant to second chair.
My first trial
.

“I thought about it. But no. I don't take pleasure in getting into your personal life. But you have a problem. A big problem. I don't want to get any more calls. And I don't want to talk about it anymore. Just deal with it.”

He handed me a card for a top criminal defense attorney friend of his named Charlie English and made it abundantly clear that I'd be hiring him immediately.

“We're about to go to war. I can't have you in jail. I need to know that you can show up and do what's required.”

“I won't let you down.”

True to his word, that was the last we ever spoke about what happened.

I'd never been so scared in my entire life. And so I was determined to live up to my promise. The next day, I paid Charlie my first visit.

“You're probably going to jail,” he told me straight off. Intimidatingly tall, he was a silver-haired old-school hardass who pulled no punches.

“I
can't
go to jail,” I replied, quaking, my armpits drenched in sweat. Just thinking about it made me want to vomit.

“Why not? You're a criminal,” he replied. They'd do what they could, but with two DUI arrests looming, dodging jail time was a tall order, even for the best attorney. And he was the best.

While he was serving up the truth, he also pointed out that I was a straight-up alcoholic.

Of course, I
knew
I was. On some level I'd always known. It's why I never tried hard drugs. If I tried cocaine or heroin, I knew instinctively that I'd love it immediately. I was susceptible to the pull of anything that would take me out of myself. Yet Charlie was the first person to attach to me the label I deserved.
Alcoholic …
It was jarring. But on some weird level, a relief to finally hear. No more innuendo. All the cards were on the table.

“Get your ass to an A.A. meeting. Today,” Charlie commanded, and I was ready to oblige. But then I received an unimaginable stroke of good fortune: the West Los Angeles Courthouse had somehow misplaced the file on my first DUI arrest.
They simply lost the docket
. Thus, I was never prosecuted for that offense. “I don't know who is looking out for you from above,” Charlie said, shaking his head, “but this never happens. Ever.”

As for the second arrest, well, let's just say that the Beverly Hills court never discovered my October arrest. I ended up pleading guilty to the December DUI as a first-time offender and avoided jail time in favor of probation and mandatory drug and alcohol
counseling. As for the poor woman I rear-ended, I was sued. But my insurance settled the case.

In other words, I dodged a serious bullet. But more important, I was finally ready to face my demons.

I didn't know anything about the real A.A. My only point of reference was rooted in bad television: that image of chain-smoking old men in trench coats sitting semicircle in a damp basement, heads hung low in endless lament about the sorry state of their broken lives.
Weak
was all I thought. Part of me just wanted to handle my problems on my own. But I vowed to Charlie I would go. And anyway, there was a pesky court order mandating my attendance.

My first meeting was at noon in a whitewashed, fluorescent-lit, windowless conference room in Century City's ABC offices. The plan was to arrive late, avoid eye contact, and just quietly take a seat under the radar. Preferably in the back. Grit it out for an hour, get my court card signed, and bust a move. So I awkwardly shuffled through the door just as the meeting was about to commence. Mission accomplished. But my first glimpse of the group shattered my preconceptions. Far from the bad breath and curmudgeonly scowls I expected, the room was bright and alive with smiling, mingling professionals: men of all ages in snappy suits, and chatty attractive women catching up on their lunch break over healthy salads and Starbucks lattes. Everything about it said,
Welcome. Take a seat. We're here for you
.

Oddly, my first thought was
Why are these people so happy?
I was utterly terrified.

Conspicuously keeping to myself, I naively assumed nobody could tell I was “new.” Later I would discover just how painfully obvious my act was. Judging correctly that I was a rookie, Eric, a
young, bespectacled lawyerly-looking guy, handed me a tattered blue book and requested that I read aloud a passage entitled “The Promises.” Not exactly what I had in mind.
Gulp
.

With hands trembling and voice cracking, I began to spit it out. “If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are halfway through.…” But before I could cull even the slightest bit of meaning from the passage's first sentence, there was an interruption.

“Who are you?” more than a few people called out in an overlapping imperfect unison; a disruption that sent bolts of panic up my spine.

“Uh, my name is Rich,” I managed to stammer.

“And what are you?” asked Eric.
What am I? What kind of question is that?
I flashed once again to my only point of reference—television—searching for the appropriate response.

“My name is Rich.… And I'm, uh
 … an alcoholic
?”

It was the first time I'd ever spoken those words aloud. And if you'd told me I'd ever utter them before a group of complete strangers, I would have said I was more likely to undergo a sex change. But the effect on my psyche was instantaneous, and unexpectedly profound. Even more curious was the group response that followed: “Welcome, Rich! You're not alone.”

It felt like a fifty-pound backpack had suddenly been removed from my shoulders, replaced with a warm blanket that deflected shame and enveloped me in a protective shield of community.
Maybe they do understand
, I thought.
Is it possible?

For the remainder of the hour, I listened attentively as people shared their stories.
What it was like; what happened; and what it's like now
, as it's called. Some people were a lot like me, and others were so radically different it was hard to imagine we shared one iota of common ground. Yet I was struck dumb by how much I
identified with what each and every person had to say. Not necessarily the
facts
of their experience, but the
feelings
. That sense of feeling apart. Different from.

But that doesn't mean I was suddenly struck sober. Yes, I began attending this meeting somewhat regularly. But I remained unwilling to jump in with both feet; instead, I resorted to my default modus operandi: skate through on the least amount of effort possible. I was what you'd call a
tourist
.

In A.A., it's repeatedly said that “half measures will avail you nothing.” But I thought I had them fooled on that one by stringing together a few solid respites from drinking. Thirty days here; ten days there. Even six months at one point. But these dry intervals were exactly that—dry, but far from
sober
. At the time, I didn't understand the difference. I assumed it was normal to suffer uncomfortable teeth-grinding periods during which I'd resist my powerful urges while simultaneously plotting the day that I'd inevitably drink again. Unfortunately, that day appeared at regular intervals. Time and time again I relapsed, often in dramatic fashion, picking up not just where I left off but sometimes in a place that was far worse.

They say the best way to ruin your drinking is to have a headful of A.A., and I can say that's true. Drinking was no longer fun. In truth it was awful. But it remained a necessity. I was beginning to grasp just how powerless I was when it came to fighting this demon.

A few months before the wedding, I came clean to Michele about my sordid adventures in the southland. Well, maybe not entirely clean, but I painted the general picture. I told her I'd been arrested for DUI.
True
. I left out the other arrest and spared her the painful
hairy details. Things like hiding my drinks. Missing work. And an occasional blackout-fueled dalliance. Then I dropped the bomb.

“The DUI made me finally admit that I'm an alcoholic. But this is a good thing, Michele. I've been going to A.A. meetings, and I've been sober now almost sixty days.”
Also true
. I was sober at the time and had every intention of staying that way. Even if it was
my
way.

“Uh, that's a lot to take in, Rich.” She was a good sport about all of it. She put on a smile and tried her best to be enthusiastic, but eyes don't lie. It scared the crap out of her. Of course, I'm sure she knew on some level that I had a drinking problem. After all, I was tanked when I met her and drunk on almost every occasion we went out together. But who wants to suddenly discover they're about to marry an alcoholic? Her trepidation was more than understandable.

But I was in love with her. And determined to prove that I could stay sober and earn back her quickly dissolving trust. Clarity became my priority. I decided to set aside my reservations about A.A. and give it an honest go. Because I finally had a reason outside myself to remain sober. The introduction of another person—someone I cared deeply for—made the stakes that much higher.