“I’m a Dad. I’m not a god, although some days I wish I were—I’m just a man. I have three grown children—all of whom are gifted—all of whom cause me enormous grief and make me want to run away. I don’t. I get up each day and do my best. Sometimes, it works and sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, I drink. My name is Dan and I’m an alcoholic.”
I looked around the room. Faces smiled at me. An older woman sitting near the door quietly wept. I felt nothing.
Bert got up and wrapped up the session. I watched as people slowly filed out.
Bert’s a good guy—that’s what his wife told him when she ran off with a co-worker. I’m sure on lonely nights her words give him some consolation. As for me, I’ve come to a firm conclusion—it’s wrapped up in the phrase, no help for pain. I read that somewhere in a poem and figured that just about summed up my situation—but Bert thinks I’ve got something to offer, and… well, Bert’s a good man.
“You wanna go for a drink?”
I looked at him dazed. He punched me—hard, in my shoulder. “Just kidding cowboy.”
The cowboy nickname came from a conversation we had when I first got to know him—in a bar, of course—not that Bert was drinking—he was doing his usual thing—listening .
Bert should be on that TV show, The Listener—you know the one, where the guy reads everyone’s thoughts.
“As a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?” he asked
.
I butted out my cigarette; knocked back three inches of neat scotch and said without hesitation, “The Lone Ranger.”
Why I said that, I don’t know. It was a boozy thing to say—sort of like Paul Butterfield singing, Drunk Again—it’s funny and you laugh, especially the part when he says, my wife left me and my girlfriend too. Well, maybe Bert wouldn’t think that part was too great.
So, after that night we became friends. Bert would call me up every day and ask if I had a drink. I got to hate that phone ringing. He’d end every conversation the same way—“Hang in there, cowboy.”
Well, I am—hanging in, that is…maybe, just barely. Some days are good and some days—face it, some days you just don’t want to get out of bed.
I’m still trying to figure out if life makes sense or is just dumb—let’s put it this way, so far Homer Simpson and Charlie Sheen are winning.
“Dan, can I talk to you for a moment?”
It was the lady from the back. Her face was still tear-stained, although she had been dabbing at it with a balled-up Kleenex.
I looked at Bert and he gave me an, I’m out of here look.
“Catch up with you tomorrow, cowboy.” And with that, he was gone.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” she asked. Her eyes were pleading—I’m always a sucker for that.
“Sure. There’s a coffee shop across the street. Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee?”
The relief in her eyes said yes.
We got coffees and took them to a window booth looking out onto the street. It was a chi-chi part of town—large, older homes interspersed with Reno’s and the local merchants had invested tons of money into the streetscape—it was like an upscale Greenwich Village.
She looked like she came from one of those houses—nicely-dressed, hair cut and styled—a classy, older lady. I was surprised by her opening words.
“I wanted to talk to you, Dan, because of all the people at the meeting, you seemed to be the one who had it all together—including the way you relate to your adult children.”
I almost choked on my coffee. As far as I knew, I had only said a few words about my two sons and daughter, and that in response to another woman in the group. I probably only said about a dozen words—twenty, tops!
“Did you miss the part where I said I still drink?”
She waved her hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “That’s to be expected—you’re in a horrid situation and as you said tonight, you’re only human. Besides, we’ve all got something.”
“Why do you drink?” As soon as I said it, I wanted to take the words back. Story of my life.
The woman never flinched—I have to give her that. “I drink because I can’t live with the guilt.”
There was a pained look in her eyes. I wanted to ignore it, but I couldn’t. Sometimes life demands something of you, whether you can give it or not.
“What do you feel guilty about?”
“I killed my baby, “ she replied—matter of factly, just like that
.
“When was that?” I asked, taking into account she was somewhere in her mid-fifties.
“Thirty years, two months and ten days ago.” She was about to cry again.
I figured there were two ways this conversation could go—I could tell her the situation was over and get on with her life, or I could sit there and listen to a privileged disclosure I didn’t want to hear. Being me, I opted for the latter.
You had an abortion?”
She nodded and looked away. All the world’s pain seemed concentrated in that face.
What do you say to someone wracked up with guilt—God loves you and forgives you—now, go away and be blessed? She was lying awake nights pining for tiny fingernails.
I had to say something—but what? It’ll be okay. I understand. I feel your pain?
Trite and dumb. It wasn’t okay. I didn’t understand her pain—or mine, for that matter, and I had no idea what was happening inside her. When we feel stuff were nobody but ourselves—this empathy idea was lame. No one can feel what we feel—they only think they can.
So, I told her. It was short. It was blunt. When I finished, she wiped her eyes, got up and thanked me. A different woman walked out the door.
She left me with my burdens and walked out the door free.
I chuckled to myself cynically. “That’s about right.”
I should have been feeling pretty down, but I wasn’t. I should have been looking for a bar, but I didn’t—I stayed where I was.
This lady, whose name I didn’t even know, had confided the secret of her life. I gave her the little I had to give. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Strangely enough, I felt consoled.
I stood up, dropped a ten-dollar bill for the waitress and started toward the door.
I’m a dad. I’m not a god, although some days I wish I were.
I smiled and caught my reflection in the mirror. Peeking out from the top of my shirt was a superman logo—my favorite t-shirt the kids gave me. On the outside, I look like Clark Kent, but I’m really Superman in disguise. All I need is a phone booth, a booth in a coffee shop, or someplace private to change into my secret identity.
The waitress who was clearing our table smiled back at me for my tip.
I waved her over and whispered slyly, “Can you tell me where’s the nearest maintenance closet?”
