Page 92 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
I didn’t give a shit that I was the loser sitting at a bar, staring at three shots of whiskey, about to punish myself for my past. I didn’t give a shit that I was supposed to call my sponsor. Fuck my sponsor.
I closed my eyes.
And all I could see was blood.
Six years ago, I’d stumbled out of my car, fuzzy, not aware of what I’d done, and the horror of seeing him slumped made me throw up off to the side.
The jagged gashes on Ruben Rodriguez’s face gaped open where the glass penetrated his skull. His Big Dogs T-shirt had been so stained with his own brains and blood that I couldn’t read the writing.
Not that I was sober enough to read.
I’d tried to pull him from the car, but he was crushed. Dead on impact.
He’d been 47. Father. Husband. He’d worked as a heavy equipment operator for Caterpillar. He liked to watch the Lakers on television.
Holy fuck, what had I done?
Holy fuck, what was I doing now?
I wasn’t gonna drink this shit.
Not now. Not ever.
No fucking way. I’d learned.
Just like Jessica. I’d learned. We both tried to escape our past pain the same way—through checking out now.
No more.
I was gonna leave all that pain in the past.
“How much do I owe?” I asked the kid.
He told me, and I paid it. Then I passed the drinks to the guy to my left. “These are yours if you want them. Probably better to just dump them out and call a cab.”
My phone alert sounded.
Even if Jessica wasn’t going to be in my life, I was going to practice what I preached. Be the best self I could be. I drove to my meeting.
I stood up when it was my turn to share, and I told the story I’d told before to my sponsor, to the people in the room I only knew by first names. To remind myself.
“My name is Michael, and I’m an alcoholic. When I drank, I was a happy alcoholic. I’d party with my friends, go dancing, get drunk. It was fun. But it got so that I was drinking every night. I couldn’t imagine a life without whiskey. And I needed the rush, the stimulant, the hot burn of bourbon so that I could be the happy-go-lucky Mikey everyone knew and expected. Nowadays I lose myself in physical exercise, but it’s a good rush, not the rush I got with the bottle.
“Six years and about two weeks ago, I drove drunk after a night of celebrating the end of another school year. I’d been out with my friends, and it was late. I just wanted to get home. I didn’t think I would cause any trouble.
“On that road, I went too fast and lost control. I hit an innocent man and killed him. And I’ve had to live with that every day of my life. It is the biggest struggle I’ve ever had. But I owe it to him to be sober. He deserves my sobriety. And so do I.” I took a deep breath. “I stole his breaths for my own. I’m going to make them all count.”
I sat down, and the leader said, “Thank you for sharing.”
Then I looked across the room. Jessica sat in the back. She locked eyes with me.
Was there a chance?
When the meeting ended, she vanished.
While I hoped she’d come around, I knew that taking it one day at a time, I’d made it another day.
