Banksters 09: Addictions

“How long do you have?” I asked her.

“Just shy of two years.”

“Does it get any easier?”

“Incrementally. Three years is the threshold. Studies say that after three years of attending meetings, attendee stress levels are the same as a control group; after three years we’re only as stressed as normal people.”

“That’s a long time.”

“But it’s worth the wait.”

“Have you ever sponsored somebody?”

“Once,” she said, with a hint of sadness. “About a quarter of people make it to their first year. She didn’t. It’s hard. Because you connect with someone, someone who can understand those things no one else does. And when they fail, it’s hard not to take that one as your failure, it’s hard not to accept their weakness as yours.”

“Well I ask,” I swallowed for effect, “because I feel we have a rapport. Like I know you better than I possibly could, for the few moments we’ve been talking. Like you get me.”

“That’s part of the program. We’re all here because we can get each other. Because we know those dark moments we hit, better than most other people ever could.”

“But, I know it’s asking a lot, because it’s my first time, and I’m sure that makes my odds even worse than one in four, but could you”

“Yes,” she said, “of course. Do you think you’re ready? That you’d like to share, with the group?”

“I’m scared.”

“You will be. It’s hard to ignore that little voice inside that says you’re unlovable, that if only these people knew how dark your personal darkness really was, they’d shun you, maybe chase you out of town with torches and pitchforks. But these people will surprise you. We’ve heard some heavy things here. And sometimes people react badly. But the group, as a group, are really good at keeping things in perspective. We’ve done terrible things. We’ve all thought terrible things. But we’re still standing. We’re still here. And that’s what’s important. But if you’re not ready, there’s no pressure. We’ll be here for you when you are ready. That’s what you should take away from tonight. That there are people who care, people who want you to succeed, and who are here to help you succeed.”

“Could we get coffee?”

“There's stale coffee and staler snacks at the back of the room.”

“I meant someplace else.”

“Not if you want me to be your sponsor... and not if I want to stay married.”

“No, oh, sorry,” I pretend fumbled, “I didn't mean; I'm just not comfortable here, in this place. This whole thing's just still so intimidating, and this place...”

“I understand. There's a stigma. That addicts are failures. That crap about being powerless, that only makes people want to believe we're just hedonistic animals. I felt it when I first came here... that reluctance to believe that you're as bad off as these people here, dregs of humanity that they are. And what I came to understand was that they were so much better than me. They'd been coming here weeks, months, and those special few years, longer than I had. They were so much further along their recovery, so much closer to being whole people again. I hate to get biblical on you here at the end, but I wasn't seeing the beam in my own eye.”

I feigned offense at that, and started to stand, but she squeezed my hand to keep me seated. “But that takes time. I'm not here to rush you. I'm here to support you. And if that means a cup of coffee, I'm sure we can make that happen.”  

“There aren't as many coffee shops open this time of night as I'd have thought,” I said. Barbara was driving; I figured that would make her feel a little more at ease about being in a car with a stranger she'd just met. “I guess maybe a bar would have coffee.” She stared at me like I'd punched Anne Frank.  “Only kidding,” I said. “Just trying to relieve the tension caused by driving in circles looking for an all night java stand.”

“Cafe's probably our best bet,” she said, pulling into a parking lot.

I steered us towards a circular booth in the shadows, and scooted in close enough to titilate, but not enough to creep her out. And then I didn't touch her, not even a casual glancing knee colliding under the table.

After we'd ordered coffees, she spoke. “I'd like you to share. You can decide what, and how much, and which details.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“They always say you have to hit rock bottom before you can get help. So what happened to you to bring you here tonight?”

I thought for a moment. “I walked in on my friend shooting up with our boss. I recently got promoted, and it was my first time socializing with these people, and here he was, pushing heroin between the toes of somebody who the day before could have had us fired for not getting his coffee fast enough. Maybe he still could. But I don't know, something about that. When we were both lower level employees, shooting up on our days off, whatever. It wasn't a problem, because it wasn't interfering with our jobs. But walking in on that, it was just, it made me realize we have a problem.”

“It sounds like you have two, actually. I had a friend who did the twelve steps at codependents anonymous. It seems like you can't talk about your addiction without mentioning your friend. Is he your excuse?”

“Just like your husband,” I said. I reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. She moaned softly, and shut her eyes; I wondered how long it had been since her husband touched her like that.

Then she swallowed, and took my hand in hers and brought it back down to the table. “You're reaching out. That's good. But if you let it become another compulsion, whether it's sex, or drugs, or alcohol, that's just trading addictions. And the last thing I'd want to do is enable your addiction. Maybe I should find you another sponsor, a male sponsor.”

“I'm sorry. I think there's been. I didn't mean for it to be sexual. And please, please, don't take this the wrong way, because you're way too young for it to be the literal case, but you put me in mind of my mother. You just have a maternal quality, that calms me. I feel safe when I'm talking to you, supported. So when I touch you, it's not, it's about feeling close.”

“And connected. I get that. Connection's important. We're all connected; and knowing you can draw on those connections, for strength, and support, that's what makes the difference between somebody who makes it a year and somebody who just shows up for a few visits. Now finish your coffee. We've already been through a lot tonight. But it's a process, not a marathon. You should revel in how far you've already come, but also, know that tomorrow's another day, and there'll be struggle in that, too, but no more than you can handle.”

“One step at a time?”

“Exactly. And if you need me, you'll have my number.”

She drove me back to my car, and got out and hugged me. I let it linger just a little long, and she was blushing by the time she I let her go. “Sorry,” I told her. “I just, I'm not used to needing people, in my life. Being connected...”

“It gets easier,” she told me, and got into her car.

I went home after that, and slept like an infant. The next morning Petra greeted me with a sour face. “A Julie Hendricks from security insisted I let her into your office. She said she was bringing you coffee... and promised she hadn't brought a car battery or testicle clamps.”

Petra felt threatened by Julie, which was understandable. “I'm sure it'll be fine,” I told her, and touched her shoulder.

She was sitting in the extra chair in my office, with her legs crossed. “Julie,” I smiled as I opened the door, “we didn't get a chance to formally meet. Mark Dane.” I put out my hand and she shook it. My chair had been deliberately moved from behind my desk, so it directly faced the one she was sitting in. I was curious enough about that that I didn't try to move it back.

There was a cup of coffee on the edge of my desk nearest me, and a complementary cup on the side nearest her. “Thanks for the coffee,” I said, with no intention of drinking any of it. “But I'm sure you didn't come here to serve drinks. What can I help you with?”

She smiled coyly at me. The movement began in her ankle, the one that was crossed over her knee, then shuddered up her calf, to her knee, which stretched out, until I was given a very clear view up her skirt. So that had been why she moved my chair. Her skirt was short enough that there wasn't much shadow, and I was certain she wasn't wearing anything underneath it. 

“I dig the fatal attractiveness. Little before my time. And a lot before yours. But I appreciate the gesture, anyway. Unless you meant to wear underwear and didn’t intend to expose yourself, and then I’m all kinds of embarrassed. But you're not blushing. Or averting your eyes.”

She crossed the room to me, and leaned in close, putting one hand against my chest; the other dangled precariously close to my crotch, which throbbed in anticipation of a touch that never came. But she was so close to me that her breasts pressed into my shoulder, and she was kissing my ear as she whispered. “They're in your desk.”

She spun on her heels, sexy silver stiletto pumps, and walked out of the room.

I immediately started opening drawers. She'd been through my desk. It was subtle. A few things moved from where I usually kept them. But the panties had been put in the least sensitive looking drawer, so as not to arouse my suspicions- just to arouse. I lifted them to my nose and sniffed. She hadn't just brought them wadded up in her purse; she'd worn them in. Points for dedication. And definitely F.