Relapse
Word reached me through the ether of the Internet that Donnie, member of the Old Crow Book Club and two months sober, had fallen off the wagon.
And there he was on a Sunday afternoon, in front of the convenience store, down the sidewalk, dressed like Johnny Cash, kind of weaving. I walked up and said, somewhat yelling, “Donnie, what in the hell? You're back on the sauce? You were doing so great!”
I had no way of knowing if my voice was hectoring or encouraging or something else, but it was calling him out in a fashion and so be it. My voice certainly didn't register tones stockpiled in the pantry of canned bromides of the National Therapeutic State. I was going on no training on nothing but sheer gut instincts with a friend who had seemed on the verge of a complete reintroduction into a life of safety, nominal security and positive contribution.
Five days ago we had talked about my collection of short stories called Choice Cuts of Oregon Fiction. He particularly liked the Hallmarkesque Christmas tale involving a hunky homeless man and a hot social worker that naturally ending in bliss and a Doobie Brothers classic. I had given Donnie a copy of Choice Cuts after he asked me for another one of my books to read.
Donnie got straight and slurred to the point: he admitted to the relapse and I asked him what had happened. Twenty minutes later I knew the story:
Some who know Donnie believe his anxiety related to the possibility of losing his housing in the near future is a contrivance that excuses his drinking.
The people who believe this are living in nice houses.
I tried rallying Donnie to the best of my ability. I bought a copy of the newspaper advocating for the homeless off Donnie for a buck and tipped him a few dollars more. NO booze! I also told him to get his ass back to his house STAT.
He nodded and said he was on his way.