Step One

Step One 

I stare at the building for a moment before entering. The bricks rubbed down, aged. Comparing them to myself thinking that though I’m but 23, the marks of my choices are carved into my exterior just as deep as they are inside me. I exhale and reach for the handle, hesitating as though it might give me a shock. Shaking my head, I take a step forward, grab hold and thrust the door hard, the weight pushing back against my frail tired body. 

Stepping through the threshold of the church, my senses are whelmed with the scent of burnt coffee and bursts of laughter. There’s a 70 something years old lady dragging chairs into a circle, a barrage of tattooed server types peppered in black clothing seeming to still be smeared with their work of the day, men tailored in suites and a young guy sniffling, being comforted by a lady I’d describe as Karen, a once upon jock that’s probably close to 50, and a lady in a wife beater and drop jeans. Everyone is socializing. The Karen peeps her head up, catches my eyes and says, “Welcome home.” A tattooed server says, “Hey.” And the 70 something pushes an extra chair up, gives me a half smile and a little nod. I sit down where she’s just made space for me. I immediately take in the cotton candy aroma of a vape. Surprised to think someone is actually using that in a church but recalling the group I’ve just surrounded myself with, I think I ought not put anything past these guys. 

Someone mentions the time and everyone settles into a seat, almost as though they’re assigned. Coffee mugs in half their hands. Some keep them up, rested in their lap, hands clasped to them for dear life, while others shove their cups under their chairs along with chip bags or cookies. I suddenly am aware of my heavy worried breathing as the room falls quiet, all except the shuffling of some papers by the wife beater chick and the ticking of a clock on the wall. I pull at the velvet scrunchie on my wrist, then start picking at my chipped slime green nails, eyes diverting to the floor with panic of the silence loudly filling the space around me. I shuffle my feet underneath the chair then back out and foot by foot, tucking them back under again. The pull of running is cutting into me. My mind begins romanticizing busting right back through that screechy heavy door I shoved through to get in. My eyes dart around, scanning the bodies near me, weirded out about who would want to be here, why they’re smiling, how could they possibly be laughing in a time like this? I silently judge each of them and what likely brought them to this creaky old building, creating fiction in my mind of each of their lives. Completely deserted into myself, trying to hold my body still like the others, I manage to find a half comfortable position by tucking both my legs into the chair and sitting criss cross. 

The wife beater chick begins speaking, seemingly reading off one of the papers in a red binder she’s halphaseredly flopped over her lap. She’s barely looking at the words like it’s a song she’s memorized the lyrics to and the printed words are just a recap for where she has left off. I’m not listening at all and now worrying more that somehow I’m about to be called on and unavoidably will fail to answer correctly. The sniffling young guy has mostly stopped sniffling. The Karen type, smiling widely at the wife beater chick. The black clothed tattooed server types sitting in random places about the circle, surprising me that they didn’t stick close with what I would have perceived as their clique. As I’m over analyzing the lot of them, my old chemistry teacher clambers through the door. Looking flustered as he always did, he waves to a few in the circle and nuzzles in a chair between Karen and a suited man after the two pulled away to make space for him. The 70 something year old yell whispers, “Hi, Craig!“ with an over enthusiastic wave. A tattooed server type says, “Glad you’re back.” I wince internally, hopefully not outwardly, that they know him, that he’s here, that he knows me. That this idea of anonymity is suddenly muddled and false and flushed down the drain. 

By this time two more people have been called on to read off separate sheets of paper. And I hear the wife beater chick announce, “Continue with introductions.” Craig speaks, then a suited man, the sniffling guy, a tattooed server, and I’m next. This could be my first time stating this outloud, the question I have yet to know the right answer to, the moment that could change my past and future forever, my first day of placing responsibility on me and fighting the urge to absolutely burn whatever life I have left. I’m clinging to the fail safe knowledge of the quick route I could run, right back out that door. I feel the circle of randoms staring at me, each with light and courage in their eyes, knowing mine must look dead, haunted. I’m suddenly thrown into the flashbacks of what brought me here, the sirens just 2 nights earlier, the lights flashing midday, knowing the neighbors would all be peering through their blinds thinking of what the hell I’m up to now. My moms morbid screams and cries. My nephew confused and hiding behind his mom, asking, “Is Mattie gunna be okay?” My sister in law squeezing my hand as they pushed me out on the stretcher saying, “Baby, you’re gunna get through this.” I’m close to tears now and I can’t hold my breath any longer. My palms feel so wet I wonder if sweat might start dripping from them down the edges of these old church chair armrests I’m wringing. The knots in my stomach pumping adrenaline through my body feel like metal coils stabbing and probing in all the wrong places. Bereft of air and dignity, shakily I let out a hard breath, thinking painfully hard of not vomiting and with as strong of a defeated voice I can muster, I utter, “Hi. I’m Mathis. I’m an alcoholic.” 

Logan Daks