Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [22]
I notice he is wearing cuff links on his pinstriped shirt. Cuff links and loafers. But when you look at his eyes, all you see is destruction and emptiness. Something so sad it scares me. It scares me because I almost recognize it. He could be an ad guy.
“I had a car accident,” says another man who is wearing a cowboy hat. “My face went right through the windshield, thirty-two stitches,” he says, pointing to the scar that runs across his forehead, just below the brim of his hat. “Think that stopped me? Hell no. And you know why? ’Cause I didn’t hit nobody else. It was only me that got hurt, and I don’t count, see?”
Tom, the WASP, looks at the cowboy and nods his head. Yeah, he knows.
Car accidents, facial lacerations, paralyzed mothers . . . I am definitely in the wrong place. This is for hard-core alcoholics. Rock-bottom, ruined-their-lives alcoholics. I’m an Advertising Alcoholic. An eccentric mess. I fold my arms across my chest and look out the window at the lone tree in the distance. The tree looks homeless. It looks like—oh, I don’t know—an advertising copywriter who refused to go to rehab and got fired. A general sense of doom swells inside of me.
A woman says, “But Dale, you are important. It’s your disease that makes you feel you’re not.”
David looks at the woman who just spoke. He’s wearing a naughty face. “You know the rules Helen. If you have something to say, use an ‘I’ statement.”
Helen blushes slightly and stammers. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She inhales very deeply, slides her eyes up to the ceiling. “What I mean is that I could relate to your story because I have felt that my drinking was okay as long as it didn’t hurt anybody. But in the program, I’m starting to realize that I do matter, that I am somebody who is worth something and it’s the booze and the crack that make me feel I’m not. If I don’t use, I can’t lose.” Then she looks at the cowboy. “Dale, I’m very glad you shared that. And you too, Tom. I really got a lot out of what both of you said . . . so thanks.” She shrugs and smiles.
I’m thinking, In the program . . . thanks for sharing . . . if I don’t use, I can’t lose . . . What language are these people speaking? I remember I was really freaked out on my first day in advertising, because I could barely understand a word people said. It was as if I had taken a job in Antwerp: Storyboards, VO, Tag, Farm-out, CA, Rep, Donut-middle. It was like, Huh? My favorite phrase was “Two-Cs-in-a-K.” This referred to the standard packaged goods commercial. It stood for Two Cunts in a Kitchen.
I say, “There seems to be an alcoholic language and I don’t speak it.” I have never had an ear for languages, which is yet another reason why I should leave right now.
People chuckle knowingly.
David smiles.
I turn red and mentally scold myself for actually involving myself with these people. Better to sit quietly, avert the eyes. Do not ask the Iranian hijackers for an extra pillow.
David says, “Yup, there’s a language all right. You’ll pick it up really quickly. But if there’s some particular thing you heard that you don’t understand, just tell us and we can explain it to you.”
Marion briefly departs her world of low self-esteem long enough to smile at me.
I wipe my hands on my pants. They leave dark wet marks behind. I am feeling so out of place and uncomfortable, not to mention threatened. Like it’s the first day of high school and I showed up in a red Speedo. I swallow hard. “Well, this woman here . . .” I point to the woman who had just “shared.” “Helen, is it?”
She nods.