Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [43]
“What you see here, what you hear here, stays here,” says the chairman of the meeting. The single overhead light has been dimmed, and the meeting has officially begun. He goes through the AA preamble. The AA preamble is the same at all AA meetings, everywhere. Just like Big Macs. It outlines the purpose of AA, which is to help people get sober, and it explains how there are no dues or fees or politics. It ends with a few questions.
“Is anyone here today new to the Perry Street meeting?” he asks.
I raise my hand.
In rehab, we had specific lectures about raising our hands. “In meetings, always raise your hand to share. Volunteer for service. Get a sponsor. Do ninety meetings in ninety days. Don’t just fade into the wallpaper.” In AA, one must not be wallpaper but a colorful wall hanging.
“My name is Augusten, I’m an alcoholic and this is my first time at Perry Street.” People clap encouragingly. I’m an albino seal and I’ve just caught a beach ball on the tip of my nose and then bounced it through a hoop of fire.
The chairman then reads off AA announcements from the notes he holds in front of him on pink index cards. A Sober Singles dance next Friday night at St. Lutheran’s Church; more volunteers are needed to man the phones at the main AA office; would anyone like a free kitten?
I catch a glimpse of a cute guy sitting in the back, off to the side. He has cool sparkly silvery hair and these incredibly bright blue eyes. He looks exactly like Cal Ripken Jr. And at once I am very comfortable. I decide that this may become my “home group,” the AA meeting I attend regularly.
On the wall directly across from the podium is a large, framed poster, listing the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. But the Twelve Steps are misleading. It’s not like assembling a bookcase from Ikea, where once you’ve finished with the last step, you get to put all your books on it and then all you have to do is dust it once a week. Here, when you’ve finished with the last step, you go back and do the first step again.
“Is anyone here counting days?” the chairman asks. Until I have ninety days of sobriety under my belt, I’m supposed to “count days.”
I raise my hand. “Augusten again,” I say. “And today is day thirty.”
Not only applause, but a couple of whistles plus “Congratulations” from a few people around the room. I scan the faces. Just normal people. Normal New York people, which of course means freaks. Nobody is wearing a primary color, most of the men have pierced eyebrows and long sideburns called “chops,” and the majority of the women wear suburban 1970s hairstyles with irony. Everybody looks like they’re about to appear on MTV’s Total Request Live. But then I am in New York City at an AA meeting downtown on Perry Street, which is one of the “it” addresses. If I were in a Tulsa AA meeting, I might see a Sears sweatshirt or two.
“Our speaker here today is Nan. Let’s give her a warm welcome,” the chairman says.
People clap absently. I crave a cigarette.
Nan rises from her folding metal chair in the first row of the horseshoe, walks to the podium. She’s a striking woman, all bone structure and pewter hair. She impresses me as someone who tosses Caesar salads in a hand-carved teak salad bowl. I bet she reads Joan Didion in hardcover.
“I’m a little nervous here today, but I’m just going to do it. I’m just going to speak and not think about it.”
In rehab, it was called “thought dropping.” When your addict is saying, “It’s eleven A.M., let’s go celebrate with gin and tonics!” you drop the thought—push it out of your head.
“Well, today is my ninety days.”
A thunder of applause. You can’t help but feel a sense of excitement from the vibrations alone. Ninety days is significant for an alcoholic. It implies you are seriously on the road back to sanity.
Nan blushes and smiles, while averting her eyes.
Nan “shares.