Scudder 12 - A Long Line Of Dead Men by Lawrence Block

Author:Lawrence Block
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-03-12T06:00:00+00:00

17

The meeting was in a brownstone on Eighty-second Street off Second Avenue. An AA group had rented the second floor and held half a dozen meetings there every day, starting at seven in the morning and ending at eleven. In concession to their residential neighbors, there was no applause at the late meeting; one indicated approval or enthusiasm by snapping one's fingers.

The speaker was a construction worker with five years' sobriety, and he told a basic, straightforward drinking story and told it succinctly, wrapping it up in twenty minutes. Then there was a break with announcements and the passing of the basket, and then we continued with a show of hands.

I was glad of that. All he had to do was keep his hands in his lap and he wouldn't have to say anything. No reason he should be put on the spot at his first meeting, the way he would be if they went around the room.

When I first came in, the last thing I wanted was to open my mouth in a roomful of alcoholics. And I kept finding my way to round-robin meetings. My name is Matt, I said, time and time again. I pass. I'd have a dozen things buzzing around in my head, but none of them made it past my lips. My name is Matt. Thanks for your qualification. I'll just listen tonight.

At eleven we went downstairs and out. I suggested a cup of coffee and he said that sounded good. We walked to Eighty-sixth, where there was a diner he liked. I was hungry enough to order a grilled-cheese sandwich and an order of onion rings. He just wanted coffee.

He said, "I almost raised my hand. I was this close."

"You can, any time you want. But you don't have to."

"People say anything, don't they? I thought what one person said would relate to what the person before him said, but it doesn't necessarily work that way, does it?"

"You say whatever's on your mind."

"Around our house, what I always heard was, 'Don't tell your business to strangers.' I'm used to keeping things to myself."

"I know what you mean."

"It really works, huh? You don't drink and you go to meetings and you stay sober?"

"It works for me."

"Jesus, I guess it does. Ten years."

"The days add up."

What about God, he wondered. What about the sign on the wall, the list of the twelve suggested steps. You just don't drink, I told him, and you come to meetings, and you keep an open mind. Did I believe in God? Some of the time, I said. I didn't have to believe in God all the time. The only thing I had to do every minute of every day was not pick up a drink.

He said, "I shouldn't be keeping you. You've probably got things to do."

"I'm glad to have the company, Jim."

"You know, I was thinking. In the meeting, because I would be listening to somebody and my mind would wander. I was thinking about Alan Watson. The

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