Death of a Boozehound

We’re sitting in a dimly lit warehouse. There are fifteen chairs, three of them vacant, and I drape my coat over one. It’s cold outside, a real Chicago nail-biter, and yet it’s too hot for a coat. My body’s on a fever course. My head is thumping like a loose pumpkin and my hands are dancing between slimy and shaky. I pour a cup of coffee, hoping the thick steam will knock my symptoms, but it doesn’t. I take my seat as Big Joe starts to talk.

“Morning, everyone. Thanks for being here. Sleet is a bitch outside- I almost pulled my C10 on two separate corners.” Murmurs, some nods.

There’s more chatter, but I can’t hear it- my ears are dented satellites and his lips invisible under the black bluff around his chin. Only when the echoes in the warehouse cease do I know it’s time to stand.

“Hi, everyone. My name is Justin T., and I’m an alcoholic. Still drunk now, I think.” I pause, meeting each pair of eyes. Their names are fuzzy things I wish I held on to.  

“Hit rock bottom again. Been so many times now I can point them out across the city. A curb on West Grand that still has my teeth marks. My buddy’s stoop in Bridgeport. A summer bender under an oak at Sherman Park. If I were famous, my celebrity tour would be the tits.” No one laughs, but a few smile. Big Joe is one of them, but it’s a sad thing. I keep going.

“Last time I met with the group was October. Had a running start- you fellas here were so helpful, getting me a job at 7-Eleven, a one-bedroom in Austin. You’d given me a reason not to drink, and I was thankful. I thought that was enough.”

I turn my eyes toward cement, polished gray. “On October 15^th, I grabbed a six-pack on my way home. No thought in it- I wasn’t fighting off memories or nothing like that... but I grabbed it anyways. Thus kicked off a three-month tailslide which brought me back here. Joe found me sleeping on some pizza boxes in Galewood.” I sweep back to Big Joe. His dark brown pupils are mystic and without age.

“I found that, even when I have a reason not to drink, I still do it. Maybe it’s my genes, or my habits, or the goddamn monotony of being human… but even when I tell myself no, I end up with that bottle around my lips. And I hate myself for it.” I sit down. Big Joe comes through in the silence, his voice a thunderclap in a clear blue sky. “Thank you, Justin. We’ll beat this thing together.” Everyone nods, not stating the obvious.

The rest of the meeting slogs by, and I still have trouble following it with the creeping hangover on my shoulder. I can tell it’s time to go when the others stand and exchange handshakes. I follow suit and turn to leave when I feel a heavy palm on my shoulder. It’s Big Joe, pulling me to the corner opposite the exit.

He smiles when we’re alone. “Justin, I’m glad you came in today. How are you?”

“Alright,” I say. “A bit of deja-vu, a bit of shame. Same old.”

“No need for shame, Justin. We’re all recovering alcoholics.” He waves as the final member leaves the room. “Deja-vu is an apt assessment, though. You’ve been here on-and-off since I became a sponsor, and yet you struggle to find success.” He fishes a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it to me.

“Which is why I want to try something new. On this slip is the location of my personal mentor. He’s been sober for forty years. Find him and see what he can do. You’re welcome to keep attending these meetings, but you might not need to. This guy’s the best.”

I push it into my pocket and thank him. “What’s so great about him?”

Big Joe laughs. “He’s unique, like you. Birds of a feather.”

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It’s Tuesday and I’m in Columbus Park. There was some confusion navigating the paper slip. I had expected a house address, and yet there were only two lines.

Sawyer Green. Columbus Park.

So I’m in Columbus Park, and I’m walking around, and I’m not sure where to go. I’m thirsty as all hell, and my feet are wet stones in the annoying, slushy January freeze, and I can’t find the guy, and did I mention I’m thirsty as hell? Exhausted, I park myself on a bench next to some old-timer and strategize my next move. There are thirty cooing pigeons at his feet. I take a chance.

“Mind me,” I say to him, “you wouldn’t be Sawyer Green, would ya?”

“Yes, I am. Who’s asking?” he croaks. He’s got a battered look to him, like a flag that’s survived a hurricane. His nose is boiling red, and under his white crown is a gaze that won’t be intercepted from his flock.

“I’m Justin. Big Joe wanted me to speak with you.”

“You an alcoholic?” He tosses some sunflower seeds- the birds flutter and dance.

“Yes. That’s what my parents call me. The state, too.”

“He’s always sending me the damn alcoholics. Why not someone proper once in a while? Don’t I deserve some untethered company?”

“No tethers here, friend. Just want to kick my monkey. He said you were the best to ever do it.”

He cackles unexpectedly and I freeze. It’s a demonic thing, an echo from a monster in a craggle-mouthed cave. “It’s not a skill you can perfect, kid. The babies and the senile do it every day. You just make the decision,” he throws another handful of seeds to the ground, “and stick to it.”

I stare at the doe-eyed pigeons. “The sticking… that’s my issue, Doc.”

Sawyer grunts. “Here’s the challenge I give every bloodshot drunk that asks for my help: come to the bench. When you feel like drinking, come to the bench. After work, come to the bench. Midnight on a Friday, bench. An hour during lunch, bench.” He shrugs. “Do that for a year and you’ll never drink again.”

“A year?” I mutter. “Does it work?”

“Not sure,” Sawyer says. “Many have tried. Only one man’s ever done it. Joseph Bratzman.”

There’s a bolt of shock after hearing his full name, yet I don’t look away from the feasting birds. I watch as they stumble over each other, fluff their wings and stare into parting day. A black one tries to chew on another’s purple leg- the victim coos mildly and pulls away. Brainless, I tell myself, but void of addiction. Joe found something in these birds- is there something here for me, too?

“Hell, I’ve got nothing to lose.” I dust my jeans and stand up. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Sawyer.”

“I hope so, Justin,” the man chimes back.

I smile as I walk away. I wasn’t so thirsty anymore.

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When you chain up a boozehound, things can get ugly. And that’s exactly what happened those first three months at Columbus.

Sawyer was right: the decision was the easy part. Reluctantly, so was Tom Petty: with the waiting being the hardest. That first stint, I spent more than six hundred hours on that bench, including thirty-six-night visits, two cop calls, nine liquor runs (with zero dollars spent), twenty-seven titled pigeons, and three amicable conversations with Sawyer.

Not that conversation was Sawyer’s cross to bear. I was a disagreeable, anxious, neurotic, melodramatic, insatiable down-on his luck wino; all attributes the old man mirrored without any drink in his veins. We clashed on everything- the type of feed for the pigeons, how to tie shoelaces, the weather, the Soxs, the Bears, the Cubs, Chicago politics, world politics, religion, life.

I even fought with him on the location of our bench. I spotted a better one across the pond, a softer looking pad with fatter armrests and some shade for incoming summer, and I pitched the idea of moving. He just shook his head. “You can sit there,” he growled, “but this is my spot.” I ballasted him for two days, never leaving his side.

After that, it got a little easier. It was neat to see the park blossom and grow green- the lily pads thawing one by one, the passerby following suit. There were dogs and frisbees and picnics and love, all more attractive than a swig of whiskey-water. I started to enjoy my spot at the bench, a window into the meanderings of every day.

Sawyer seemed happier. He gave the pigeons more bread in those blue mornings, telling them “they deserved it after such a hard winter.” He also loved to point out families- the big ones, the small ones, the ones on vacation and the ones who were regulars. I tried to ask him once about his own family, but he never said much. I didn’t pry. Rock bottoms were universal for alcoholics, and I always assumed Sawyer had one, too.

I learned a lot about myself that fall. Namely that not drinking was boring as hell. There were only so many squirrels and bass and pigeon brawls one could point to before craving a little more edge. Every time I heeded his warning, though, and headed to the bench. And when I’d see Sawyer Green, droopy eyed and grinning mildly, holding his bag of David’s and a stumpy wooden cane, I’d understand what Sawyer understood- that life is a lubed-up staircase. The crazies and the junkies run headfirst, slipping and cracking spines, begging for a second chance, while the survivors take it step by step, enjoying the descent, until they’re standing at the bottom, smiling at how far they came. I used to be one of the crazies. I’m glad Joe and Sawyer helped me back up.

I made it to January, the second sobered alcoholic in Columbus Park history. Sawyer never said congratulations, and he didn’t need to. He fed the pigeons a Honey-Bun that day. Watching those birds rip it apart was the happiest moment of my life.

That was ten years ago, and why I’m writing this letter. It was Big Joe’s funeral today. They held it at a church house down in the city. The place was slammed- a good man like Joe deserves a full house- and I’ve never seen a more touching affair. I brought my family, and they had to watch their poor daddy cry for a man they never knew. C’est la vie, or as the English say, tough titties.

But I was thinking about you, Sawyer. I thought there was a chance we’d bump heads, and I was looking forward to it. I owe you something- a present, a hug, a Honey-Bun- and yet I know you’re not one for sentiments. I settled on this letter. I’m placing it at the bench we used to frequent, hoping you take a peek.

If you’re reading this, Sawyer, I want to say thank you. For my wife, my kids, for a guide down the stairwell. Behind those creased wrinkles and pigeon feathers is a golden man- I pray that you know that. I’ll leave my number in the signature if you want to catch a coffee or a sunrise at Columbus.

And if you’re not Sawyer… well, know the world is full of angels. They’re not on your TV or in the movies; probably not at the pulpit, definitely not at the bars. They lie in the daylight- at work, stores, the park. Find them when you begin to slip and hear their stories. I found mine at this wooden bench. You may find yours here, too.

Full Heartedly,

Justin Timon

(773)-492-0693