Toasting Jack

The AA meetings weren’t really working. Tommy was attending dutifully every Tuesday and Thursday night at 7 p.m., rarely absent except for his son’s baseball games. After all, a coach has responsibilities to the team to think about.
One of those responsibilities was to stay sober. Can’t be drunk around the kids, gotta set an example, they say. Can’t coach if you’ve got beer on your breath. So Tommy went to the meetings. The meetings gave evidence of his sobriety. The meetings meant time with his son.
The AA meetings were held in a church. Perfect place for them to gather—call on a Higher Power and all that. Nothing to it, they say. Gotta have God though, they say, can’t do it without Him. This particular church was on Old Main Street. The front door opened onto a chipped sidewalk with weeds growing between the cracks. Tommy followed this sidewalk from his house on Yogi Avenue, up two cement stairs and across a small paved patio into the foyer of the church, then down two flights of stairs, past the storage room, electrical box and janitorial break room, and finally through the door where his AA meetings were held.
The meeting room was white, all white. The chairs, plastic and uncomfortable, were orange and they were not arranged in a circle. Instead, the chairs were situated like classroom chairs—in rows—all facing the front. This was not a group discussion, a confessional, or a seminar. There were no group hugs, wet cheeks or breakthroughs, and there was certainly no sharing of feelings. This was, for all intents and purposes, a class—a class on how not to be a drunk.
They served coffee and donuts, offered on a brown table against the far wall of the room. The coffee was for the drunks, the donuts for the smokers. Keep the mouth, tongue, and throat occupied and maybe you won’t think about the burn you longed to feel there. Maybe you won’t think about the joys of rotting teeth and shriveling livers. Coffee, donuts, and God, they say—that’s what cures addiction.
Tommy didn’t believe it, so Tommy didn’t listen. He sat in his chair, organizing statistics, designing jerseys, re-planning the roster, managing the family budget, crunching numbers and thinking about alcohol. To everyone in the room, it appeared that Tommy was taking notes diligently. No doubt about it, Tommy was the best AA student there. Punctual, diligent, never failing a sobriety test. Tommy played the game.
After his Tuesday night meeting, Tommy walked the four blocks back to his house and had a late dinner while watching the Cubs’ game with his roommates. His two roommates were alcoholics. They did not attend AA meetings twice a week. They did not have wives or boys or girls. They had jobs but their jobs did not require faithful reports from their AA shrink, and so these roommates did not attend the AA meetings. They had more room for error. Tommy was not so lucky.
There was no alcohol in the men’s house for fear of random inspections. Random inspections keep you honest, they say. That was fine; there were other places to find alcohol. After the Cubs lost, Tommy took his keys from the coffee table, took a swig from his water glass and said goodbye to his roommates. Then Tommy walked the three blocks to his wife’s house and stood outside his boy’s window.
By this time, it was after ten, and the boy was resting peacefully in his bed. Tommy smiled and stood watching from a dark corner of the yard. The boy never closed his curtains all the way and Tommy was always able to watch as his boy slept. If they knew about it, they would probably call him crazy, sick in the head or something like that. But Tommy was none of these things. He was just a father.
After a few minutes of watching to make sure his boy was safe, Tommy retreated to his shed. His shed was in his wife’s backyard; it took up most of the back left corner of the yard, but did not invade his wife’s garden or his boy’s downsized baseball diamond. Tommy approached the shed, pulled his keys from his pocket, and undid the lock. Inside were his tools, his lawn mower, and his snow blower. His wife’s gardening supplies were in her garage, where his car was still parked.
Underneath Tommy’s workbench sat a miniature icebox. He had wired the shed so that he could have electricity and work at his workbench late at night. Leaving the door to the shed open, Tommy used the light of the moon to guide him as he took a glass from the ice box and dropped two cubes of ice in it. He set the frosty glass on his workbench, pulled out a giant bottle of whiskey from behind the ice box, and set it beside the glass on the workbench.
Remove yourself from temptation, they say, never let the thought of alcohol enter your mind. Tommy grinned bitterly into the silence. They didn’t seem to understand that an alcoholic can’t think about anything but alcohol.
Tommy popped the lid from the whiskey container and poured a small amount into his glass. He watched the ice melt around the edges and the outside of the glass begin to perspire, dripping onto the surface of the wooden workbench. He let out a sigh and slumped down on the edge of his stool, staring at the glass of whiskey. The deep, familiar aroma reached his nostrils and lungs. It enticed him, beckoning his hand, but Tommy did not move. The longer Tommy waited, the louder the whiskey screamed at him. It was no snake—the whiskey did not deceive. It told nothing but the sweet truth: the alcohol would set him free.
Outside, back by the house, Tommy’s boy, Jack, stood watching his father in the shed, silhouetted by the moonlight. The boy wore pajamas and was barefoot on the wet grass, shrinking against the side of the freshly-painted house, watching, pondering.
Hello, father, he could say.
Hello, son, his father would say.
What are you doing?
Drinking.
Why?
His father would have an answer. He always had an answer. Jack didn’t move. He didn’t fidget, start, or twitch. He stood silently, watching his father, slouched on his stool, a bottle of what could only be liquor and a half-full glass in front of him on the workbench. Jack didn’t sweat, or get upset. His face was smooth and dry, as were his palms and underarms. His body was still.
Back in the shed, Tommy checked his watch by the moonlight. He replaced the cap on the whiskey and returned the whiskey bottle to the floor behind the ice box. He heard a noise outside, but he did not turn. He stood up, took his wet glass and walked outside; he closed the door to the shed, replaced the lock and left the yard, his eyes on the drink in his hand. He did not stop by his boy’s window, knowing his boy was safely in his bed. He did not walk cautiously. His wife could look out the window and see him with his glass of whiskey if she so desired. He did not see the still, slight figure in the shadow near the back door.
Tommy walked the dark streets back to his house where his roommates were now in bed, and sat down on his front step. He set the drink, still untouched, down on the sidewalk in front of him, lowered his head between his knees and stared at it. His gaze seemed to cause the ice to melt faster. Tommy licked his lips. Then, in a seamless motion, he lifted the glass, dumped the contents on the bush beside the steps, and went to bed.
On Thursday, Tommy picked his boy up from school. Together they walked to his boy’s favorite restaurant and afterwards, Tommy took the boy home and went to his AA meeting. After the AA meeting, Tommy walked the five blocks to his wife’s house and the family played games. When the boy had soundly beaten Tommy and his wife in cards, Tommy tucked the boy into bed.
Will you go out again tonight; will you go to the shed? the boy asked from his bed.
Tommy looked away. Yes, I will go to the shed.
Why do you go to the shed?
To have a drink, Tommy smiled.
If you take a drink, you cannot coach my baseball team, or come to see me. You don’t go to the shed to have a drink. Why do you go to the shed?
It’s time for bed, son. Tommy stood up to go.
The boy looked up to his father. Dad, why do you go to the shed?
Good night, son.
Tommy left the room, headed down the hall, out the door, and across the yard to the shed. He repeated his ritual from two nights prior, and left after a half hour of contemplating the untouched drink on his workbench. He went back to his house, settled on the steps, set the drink down on the sidewalk in front of him, lowered his head between his knees and stared at the drink. His gaze seemed to cause the ice to melt faster. Tommy licked his lips. Then he raised the glass in a wordless toast, dumped the contents into the bush beside him, and went to bed.

Thoughts pending...