“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 look around the room. Faces smile at me. An older woman sitting near the door quietly weeps. I feel nothing.
Bert gets up and wraps up the session. I watch as people slowly file 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 sums 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 look at him dazed. He punches me—hard, in my shoulder. “Just kidding cowboy.”
The cowboy nickname comes 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 asks.
I butt out my cigarette; knock back three inches of neat scotch and say without hesitation, “The Lone Ranger.”
Why I say it, I don’t know. It’s 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.
But, after this night we become friends and Bert calls me up every day and asks if I’ve had a drink. I hate that phone ringing. He ends 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’s the lady from the back. Her face is still tear-stained, although she’s been dabbing at it with a balled-up Kleenex.
I look at Bert and he gives me this I’m out of here look.
“Catch up with you tomorrow, cowboy.” And with that, he’s gone.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” she asks. Her eyes are 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 says yes.
Little does she know she's picked the wrong guy—I'm no super hero—fact is, I'm probably worse off than her, but if she finds that out it might give her some hope.
Not being the worst failure is some consolation, I suppose.