Girl Walks Out of a Bar (25 page)

Small things meant a lot that morning. Not throwing up within thirty minutes of waking up, being able to stand upright in the shower, and having a coherent early phone conversation with my parents to assure them that I was OK. These were all things I'd never expected to do again. I felt fortunate.

I arrived early for my 9:00 a.m. appointment at HopeCare. The location was ideal, just a few blocks north of my apartment
and to the west, which was on my way home from work. HopeCare itself was located in the basement. A large white sign with the facility's heart-emblazoned logo greeted me and directed me “DOWNSTAIRS.” It looked about right—like the crappy old church basement I'd predicted.

Two young receptionists sat in a large cubicle just inside glass double doors. There were a couple of oversized, stuffed faux leather chairs, along with a few folding metal chairs lining the wall. A small water cooler sat in the corner. Seedy as it was, it was a big step up from Gracie Square.

“Hi. I'm Lisa Smith! I have a nine o'clock appointment with Teddy Minter,” I barked like a cheerleader. In trying so hard to demonstrate to these strangers that I was not fucked up on that morning, my greeting might have had the opposite effect.

“Sure, sweetie, that's great. I'm Tracy,” said one of the receptionists. “You haven't been here before?” She looked at her computer screen and chomped a piece of gum.

“No, this is my first time.”

As Tracy searched her computer, I leaned over on the counter and unsuccessfully tried to see what was popping up on the screen. Clearly, they knew where I'd been and why. What did they have on me? Tracy hurried to hand me a clipboard and said, “Why don't you have a seat over there and fill out these forms?”

I filled out the forms, handed them back to Tracy, and then surveyed the room. The half-empty vending machine was from another era and looked to be filled with its original Mars Bars and bags of Skittles. Next to it stood a more modern looking soda machine with a sign that read “THIRSTY?” I let out a half-hearted laugh and thought, if I hadn't been so fucking thirsty all my life I wouldn't be here.

“He's ready to see you,” Tracy said, leading me to Teddy's office. She knocked on the door.

“C'mon in,” a calm, low male voice said. Teddy was seated at his desk, an old built-in that ran along a side wall and was almost completely covered in papers. Bookshelves were fitted around the desk and rose almost to the ceiling. Teddy pushed his rolling chair back and stood up. He was a tall, ruddy-faced man, stocky but not fat, graying around the temples, and slightly sluggish. In the way that he nodded slowly to me, I sensed that he'd had some life experiences similar to mine. He sized me up from under droopy eyelids.

We shook hands, and I sat in the metal chair at the end of his desk. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them as I waited for him to begin.

“OK, Lisa, how are you doing? Have you been OK since you left Gracie Square?”

I assumed that he was asking whether I was still sober. “Yes,” I said. “I'm OK. I've been doing OK.” My elation of the early morning was gradually darkening as I realized that I had an entire day to get through without drinking.

“Great. Then let me give you some information,” he said. “I recommend that you start in our Early Recovery group. It meets on Mondays and Thursdays from 7:15 p.m. until 8:45 p.m. I am the counselor for the group and act as its discussion facilitator. We talk about issues that people like you face on a day-to-day basis.”

“Sounds great,” I said. I had no idea what “people like me” faced, so I was interested.

“Good, good.” He started writing notes.

“I have a few questions, though,” I said. “Are all of the people in the group alcoholics? Or are there drug addicts, too?”

“Lisa, you probably heard this at Gracie Square, but an addict is an addict. Whether the person was addicted to alcohol or cocaine or heroin or painkillers, it's all the same disease.
The group includes people with the full range of substance abuse issues.”

“Will there be celebrities in Group?” I couldn't resist. Teddy furrowed his brow.

“I can't answer that,” he said. “Client confidentiality is strictly maintained here at HopeCare. Absolutely no exceptions.” I switched to a serious face and signed the required forms.

As I walked back out onto the street and lit a cigarette, a surreal sensation came over me. It was as if I'd spent a month in a foreign country only to return home and find that English no longer sounded familiar. I felt more clear-headed than ever, but my dominant thought was
what happened to me
?

Passing several liquor stores, I looked longingly into the windows, my heart swelling at the lineup of beautiful glass bottles that I knew so well. I longed for them in the way that normal people ache for puppies in a pet shop.

I tried to find the upside. Well, the idea of being in a rehab program did sound kind of badass. And then there was the part about surviving a near-death experience—that might earn me a few cool points. But oh, hell. I could try to dress it up however I liked. I was still going to be sitting in a dingy basement next to some toothless guy named Clyde.

21

I'd been counseled strongly against going
back to work too soon. Dr. Landry advised against it. My father advised against it. I think the falafel guy on the corner of 45th and 6th might have advised against it. But I felt that I had no choice. I had to stick with my story of having been out “for a minor procedure,” so now it was time to march my imperceptibly repaired self back onto the battlefield. Of course, if anyone noticed that I looked just a little fresher, stepped just a little lighter, that would be fine with me.

I was awake again at 5:30 a.m. on Tuesday. It was way too early to go into the office, so I sat on my living room couch, drank a pot of coffee, smoked a few breakfast cigarettes, and watched the sun rise outside my windows. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen a sunrise without despising it. When coke and booze had kept me up all night, there was no joy in the dawning of a new day. Of course I took it out on the day, not on the drugs or the booze.

At about eight thirty, I rode down the elevator of my building with a few other people heading for work. They all looked
clear-eyed and ready for the day, briefcases and newspapers at their sides. My hand instinctively covered my mouth, and I smiled, remembering that there had been no booze to cause booze breath. I could put my hand down. Incredible.

Outside my apartment building, the mid-April morning in New York was bright and filled with the normal sounds of kids squealing, cabs honking, and jackhammers rattling. I lit a cigarette. Making my way west to the Union Square subway station felt like a new route. As always, I noticed the dogs with their owners walking them. But this time I didn't think the dogs had it better than I did.

Union Square station's oddly low ceiling amplified the wail of trains screeching in and out as a crush of people proceeded along its stairways and catwalk platforms. I walked calmly toward my train, still not believing that I was moving among normal people on a normal commute on a normal Tuesday morning. Just taking public transportation to my job, not racing uptown in a cab because I was late again, not choreographing my gestures to hide my trembling hands, not sweating on a frigid winter day.

I slipped into my office on the twenty-third floor overlooking the flashing billboards of Times Square and closed the door behind me. Even though it was after nine o'clock, the firm was still relatively quiet.

As my computer booted up, I glanced around my office.
What a disaster
. Piles of paper lay everywhere. They littered my desk, the shelves, and the windowsill. As if in tribute to the trees they had once been, the paper piles seem to be growing. Taken alone, these piles wouldn't have been enough to alert anyone that there was something very wrong with the occupant of this office; many a lawyer's office looked as if the cops had torn it apart looking for stolen jewels.

But the Post-it notes—they were a giveaway.

Covered in scribble resembling a child's first attempt at the alphabet, they were everywhere—sticking out of folders, nestled inside legal pads, hanging limply from my computer monitor, and huddled in odd shaped piles next to my telephone. Above my desk, they lined up like a short order cook's tickets. They even formed illogical patterns across the floor, like the work of some kind of psychotic board game designer.

As my addiction had grown more severe, my memory had become less and less reliable, so I made detailed notes on legal pads to keep track of just about everything. What information do I have to track down? Who do I need to coordinate? What's due? And when? But in short time, I began to lose track of which notes were on which pads. So I turned to the Post-it. Electric yellow and easy to position with trembling hands, they helped me keep the most important information organized. And when my notes became incomprehensible, I'd just add more Post-its. Now looking at the hundreds of little yellow slips of paper around the room, I could only shake my head.

Disgusted with the scene, I threw myself into a thorough cleaning of my office. After a half hour, I was exhausted, frustrated, and angry—thoroughly pissed off at the old me. I hadn't consumed any booze this morning, so I felt entitled to a bright, shiny new work space.
Why should I have to be the one to clean up this scene of wreckage?

Just as I was about to recklessly start dumping files into the giant recycling bin, my friend Rick from down the hall knocked on the door. All wrapped up in his barn jacket and ready to smoke, he squinted his sharp blue eyes at me as if to assess my condition. “Hey, man. Welcome back. You OK? Go smoke?” he asked.

“Yeah, definitely. Let's go.” I grabbed my jacket off the hook on the wall.

“So, how are you doing? Did you have an operation?” he asked, as we stood smoking just east of Times Square.

“No, no operation,” I said. I was ready for the questions. “Just had some shit going on with my stomach. I'm much better.” I'd considered being honest with Rick. I even thought he might have guessed, given our occasional drunken nights after work in Rosie O'Grady's across the street. But I decided that if I was going to tell him the real story, it wasn't going to be today.

“OK, as long as you're all right. It's good to have you back, man,” he said. He flicked his cigarette into a puddle on 46th Street. Rick always smoked faster than I did.

“Thanks. Believe it or not, I'm glad to be back.”

“So, you want to hit the bar after work?”

The words sent an electrical charge through every part of my body. I tried not to change my expression.

“I can catch you up on all the shit that went down while you were out. You're not going to believe the stories I have about that client event last week,” he said, shaking his head and laughing.

“I'd love to, but I can't. I'm on medication for at least thirty days, and I can't drink while I'm taking it. It totally sucks.” I liked this story because it was mostly true. I was on Lexapro and certainly not supposed to drink.

“You can't drink? For thirty days? Holy shit,” Rick said. “I can't imagine going a month without a drink. How long has it been?” he asked.

“Eight days,” I said, way too fast. “It's not so easy. You'd be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn't. You could just come to the bar and drink Diet Coke or something.”

“Nah, that would be depressing,” I said. I knew I wouldn't see nine days sober if I went anywhere near a barstool.

“Well, you'll save a lot of cash.” We looked at each other and laughed. A couple of weeks earlier, we had hit the bar after work and stayed for two bottles of wine past our plan. Rick charged the bill but he couldn't find the receipt the next day, and neither of us could remember how much we'd spent. When he called the bar and found out that our bar tab had been $200, we laughed like idiots.

“Yeah, so will you,” I laughed as I shoved him and we walked back into the building.

That night I emerged from the Union Square subway station and stood face-to-face with Shades of Green, a dark, smoky Irish bar across the street. It was a beer and shots kind of dive, perfect to duck into and throw down a few quick drinks before I had to be someplace in the neighborhood. I wondered if I was the only person to order a glass of white wine in that bar. I pictured myself in there, slugging cheap chardonnay at eleven in the morning, right after they opened.

That was just the first challenge on the walk home. I also had to pass the other bars and restaurants in Gramercy Park where I used to drink: Sal Anthony's, Verbena, Yama, and of course the granddaddy, Pete's Tavern.

It was painful peering into that long front window. Now Pete's looked like an aquarium full of exotic fish gliding past each other. It would be so easy for me to slide up to that bar, grab a quick glass of wine, and be on my way. I could get away with it. Nobody would know.

Gracie Square, jackass. You just got out of Gracie fucking Square.

My craving began to feel dangerous, so I tried to negotiate with myself.
Look at them
, I thought.
Poor guys, chained to that
bar. They have no choice. They have to drink. And they hate themselves for it and wish they could stop. That's not me anymore. I'm sober.

That didn't work for shit. There were plenty of people in Pete's Tavern who had a drink or two with friends and called it a night. They weren't obsessed with their next drink; they could take it or leave it. This truth was almost unbearable to me.
Why, why, why wasn't I born with that ability?

Overwhelmed with resentment, I resolved to change my walking route, so for the next three months, I didn't walk past my beloved Pete's Tavern. It was a small change, but it made a big difference to me. I had to practice trying to avoid reminders of the good part of drinking, all the joy that being in bars had brought me: my friends and me singing along to our favorite songs, feeling the night rev up at around eleven, clinking glasses like high fives after someone said something hilarious, just being part of the crowd, that uninhibited crowd bouncing with happy energy. Sigh. Would I find the same joy in a pot of coffee at five thirty in the morning?

Every time those happy drinking memories popped into my head, I would visualize my room at Gracie Square. I had become my own psych experiment, presenting positive and negative reinforcements to alter the subject's thinking.
No, you will not drink today. But you may get up, get dressed, and get with the program. Fuck.