Tuesday Nights

The smell of incense reminds me of Sundays. When the kids still called me dad, and we used to go mass. I was in the choir, though I could never hit that C-sharp. That was before I Iost my job. Before the 3:00 PM in-house daily happy hours. Before the accident. Now, I sit in a dilapidated basement of a Lutheran church, and the smell of incense calls another feeling: shame.

"John, would you like to talk next? How was work this week?" Jenny, the AA host this week, asked, knocking me out of my daydream.

"Fine. Mr. Adams is still a raging…." I have to stop myself from saying what I really want, then continue, "Jerk."

"Were you able to control yourself?" she asked pleasantly.

There have been a few times where I've told her where to shove her questions. Told her about all the deep holes she could bury her little inquiries. But that was old me. That was when I first got out, and red was the only color I could see. Now I remind myself that this woman is a saint, trying to duct tape as many broken souls as possible in this broken basement.

"Yeah, yeah, Jenny. I bit so hard on my lip as I listened to him," I paused to throw up air quotes, "instruct me, that I almost tasted blood. But I just nodded and took it in."

I get a few nods from the others in the group. I'm not the only one that's lost their edge in sessions. We all know the feeling. So, the sense of appreciation isn't lost when one of us shows we can keep the dragon in the cave, even for a few minutes.

"Good to hear, John. As you know, there is no progress without change," Jenny offered with a soft smile.

Damn it, I hate her stupid little anecdotes, analogies, or whatever they are called. But she's trying, and what other weapons does she have to try to push us along? I give her a quick nod, and she replies in kind.

"Debbie, how about you? How was school this week? Soldering getting any easier?" Jenny asked a portly woman in her early thirties. Tattoos run down the side of Debbie's neck. They aren't artistic like a bunch of flowers or a school of fish. They are numbers. No doubt some reference to the set she ran with. I'll never find out. There are some questions you don't ask.

"I got an 'L' joint soldered to an extension pipe on the first go this week," Debbie said with a grin from ear to ear. 

This time the class busts out in applause. After years of taking nothing but losses, so many massive losses, we all understand how important it is to bag wins. Even something simple, and some might call stupid, as being able to connect two pipes with a tiny torch and some copper, is crucial. It's that rare feeling of decency swelling in your chest. It's that hope, that prayer, that something bigger is happening. Momentum. It might actually start being on your side.

"Alright, Debbie!" Jenny beamed as she offered a high-five that was met in kind by Debbie. The addict's cheeks look like apples pulled from a Washington orchard.

Jenny keeps making her rounds around the room. I usually try to stay present, I do, but the daydreaming kicked back in. It's been sixteen years since the accident and four since being released, and when the train of could of, would of, and should of's come slamming through my mind, it's tough to hit the brakes. 

I could have been a good father. Taken Jonny Jr to all his little league games. I could have taught him how to throw a curveball. How to talk to girls. Now, he doesn't return my calls. I still try every week. For Jenny, I could have shown her how to dance. I could have shaken her boyfriend's hands a little too hard when he came to the door. A gentle reminder that she was still daddy's little girl. 

I would have found a new job. My resume was still strong, and I had plenty of connections. All I would have needed was an introduction or an interview. Any sliver of hope for a new job, and I know I could have made it happen. I would have paid for my kid's college tuition.

I should have walked my daughter down the aisle.

There is another round of applause, and I snap out of my mental coma. I join in absently and look over to see George nodding a nervous nod. The kind that screams, he doesn't deserve the gratitude, but he will take it anyway. He's new. We've all nodded that nod. I give him a small smile. I don't have the faintest clue as to what was said, but I know that look.

"Alright, how about we take a quick fifteen-minute break? Then we'll give Tabitha the floor." Jenny offers.

The scratching of chairs against linoleum rang out in the echo-y basement as members quickly filed up the stairs and out to the back door. While we've all tossed the booze in our lives, most have found the cool relief of smoking as a tool to put a small dent in the need to run to the bottle. I pull a pack of reds from my breast pocket and light one. I exhale slowly as a white plume fades from my mouth.

"Hey John, are you Ok?" Jenny asked as she patted my left forearm.

I sparkled at the sensation. Human touch is not something that I get in spades these days.

"Um, yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I finally stutter out.

"You seemed to be a bit..." she paused to find the word, "Distracted in the session. You sure?"

I raised my eyes to meet hers. She's been doing this long enough to know when folks are blowing smoke and not telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Her eyes narrow as we finally lock horns. 

"I'm just having a day," I mumble and then look back to my cigarette. 

"John, you need to get over this, man. You need to get better, but only you can do it. How's Ms. Jenkins? She eating?" Jenny asked, referring to the lady at the soup kitchen that I volunteer at twice a week.

She was eating. She was actually talking too. In my old life, I was quite the ball buster, and getting a rile out of people was my specialty. Somehow Ms. Jenkins had woken that up in me. I would give her noise every time she came down the line for chow in the kitchen. It took months, but once I made a joke about Terry and his purple hat, she gave me a snort. A crack in the armor. From there, it was indeed a slow and steady barrage of jabs from yours truly. She laughed a little. Then put mashed potatoes on her plate.

"Yeah, she's coming around. She's a tough old bird, but she's starting to soften. Lighten up a bit, you know?" I say as I flick the ash from my cigarette.

"And Mr. Hashguard, how is he doing?" she continued.

That crazy old son of a gun had given me fits. He was the oneriest man I'd ever met. Seventy-four and still got in fights with other old dudes. In what world? But the walks had helped. We tossed our stories to each other like grenades. They blew up, and somehow, we could take it in some weird way. Because we knew we'd throw one right back. He's saved now. He spends weekends helping the deacon prep for service and tend to the church garden. Peace. What else in this crazy world do we need?

"John!" Jenny snaps to break me out of my daydream.

"Yeah, he's doing great, actually. A new man." I said before I took another drag.

"That's because of you, John. You are the one that woke them up. The one that brought them back and helped them find their paths. You!" She scolded before grabbing my arm.

It's not enough. It'll never be enough. I took that man's life in that accident, with his daughter too. It'll never be enough.

As if she could read my soul, Jenny scolded, "Forward, John! That's the direction you need to go. Enough of the self-pity BS, John. Move forward."

"I just, I…." I trail off. She knows the story.

"You think you are the only one that looks into a mirror that doesn't want to look back? Do you? Every son of a gun in that room is trying to sweep up hideous pieces of their life. But forward is the only way, John! It's the only way. Look at Debbie. When she was running with the 22s on the east side, did you think she would one day be working to become a refrigeration expert? Do you? But look at her! She's moving forward! Forward, John," Jenny scolded but finished with a gentle tug on my wrist.

"No, I guess she didn't. I'm trying, Jenny, I am."

"That's all I ask, John. Keep trying. But when you get lost in that pit of thoughts, try and remember the good things too. You must."

She's right. She's always right. I feel a ping in my pocket. I pull out my phone.

"Hey John, I got your voice message. How about Friday night for a discussion?" said the text from Johnny Jr.

Jenny sees the smirk on my face and looks at the phone. 

"Forward, John. You're doing better, and everybody is seeing it. Forward."

I smile at her. It's been a while since I've done that.

"Thanks, Jenny," I said brightly.

"You got this," she said as she extinguished her smoke.

She turned to leave before I blurt out, "For everything."

"I know, John, I know. I'll see you next Tuesday."

"See you next Tuesday."