“Hi,” I said. “I’m Tom, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Tom,” the dozen people around me responded.
I hesitated. The people were all ages, from college students to senior citizens. Some wore cargo pants and sweatshirts; others were dressed better than me, in my windbreaker and jeans. Everyone looked, well, normal.
They gazed at me. Patient. Expectant.
“I, uh, I started drinking in college. Mostly beer. After I graduated, my first job was, well, pretty high stress, and there was a lot of drinking going on.” I closed my eyes, trying to keep track of what to leave in and what to keep out. “I, uh, got fired, and then I got divorced, and then I sort of spiraled for a long time. My girlfriend has been pretty tolerant, but she’s getting sick of me not coming home, or coming home too drunk to talk, and complaining about hangovers, and not being able to work much for two or three days after a good binge, so . . . here I am.” I spread my hands. “Trying to figure things out.”
Most of them nodded sympathetically. A few smiled. The man leading the group gestured toward the woman next to me, Black, with thick glasses and a plaid sweatshirt.
“I’m Simone, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said with a wave.
“Hi, Simone,” I said along with everyone else.
Instead of telling a story of drinking and drugging, she talked for a few minutes about her father, who’d also been an alcoholic but never recovered, dying in the hospital of liver failure. Growing up she assumed everyone drank themselves to oblivion most nights, so she did the same thing. She talked about the car crash that almost killed her, the son who’d given up on her, and her first sponsor in AA who refused to listen to her excuses. “Now I’m 10 months sober,” she said. “Best decision I ever made.”
We clapped, and the woman next to her cleared her throat and introduced herself.
After her came the man I was interested in. “I’m Robbie, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Robbie.”
He looked around at us, then at the floor,as if he was embarrassed to be here. “I’ve got two weeks today.”
Everyone clapped. Even me.
“I started drinking when I was 14. My friends got a case of beer, and I didn’t want to be left out, so . . .”
He spoke for about five minutes. Then we went on to an older woman next to him.
The stories were alike, but even so, each one was unique. Everyone remembered their first drink, and they all could tell you the date of their last—except some who were still drinking, trying to get sober, fighting the urge and losing more often than winning, but still coming back, determined to make it stick this time.
We got to the last person, then we all stood up and recited the Serenity Prayer. “Give me the wisdom to change the things I can . . .”
As the meeting broke up, Robbie picked up his coat from the back of his chair. A man in a three-piece suit put a hand on his shoulder and said something softly to him. Robbie nodded a thank-you, and they shook hands before he turned for the door.
I tossed my empty coffee cup in a trash can and snagged a cookie from the table. The three-piece-suit guy walked over to me. “Good to see you, I’m Phillip. Two Ls. First meeting, huh?”
“I’ve, uh, been to other meetings.” I kept my eyes on Robbie.
“Well, it works if you keep coming back.” He winked. “Here’s my number.” He handed me a three-by-five card with the 12 Steps of AA printed on one side, his phone number on the other. “Call me if you want to talk. Any time.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and headed for the door.
Robbie was at the bottom of the stairs. I tried not to be too obvious as I hurried down the steps after him. Out the door, I saw him walking up the street, swinging his arms, enjoying the cool evening air.
Robbie was Robbie Seltz, 39 years old, and his wife was my client. I’m Tom Jurgen, and I’m a P.I.
This had started out as the usual cheating spouse case. “He goes out two, three nights a week,” his girlfriend told me when we met at a coffee shop near my apartment the day before. “He swears he’s not cheating, he’s just taking a long walk or going out with friends. But he’s so vague about it. I don’t know what’s going on.”
So here I was, pretending to be an alcoholic, invading the privacy of AA to find out if Robbie was cheating on his girlfriend.
The good news was that Robbie wasn’t cheating. The bad news was he was an alcoholic. I wondered how the girlfriend would respond to that. At least he was trying to get sober.
I followed him down the street. We were in Old Town, a few miles from his condo in Lincoln Park. I couldn’t get too close, or he might spot me and realize I was following him. Or maybe he’d think I wanted him to be my sponsor or something. So I hung back as far as I could until he stopped in front of a bar.
He stood on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes, as if trying to decide what he wanted to do. Then, shaking his head, he pushed the door open and headed inside.
I waited a moment, then followed him.
The bar was busy for a Tuesday night, the jukebox singing and couples dancing in whatever space they could find. I took a stool near the door and ordered a beer as Kent grabbed a stool far from the door and ordered something. The bartender poured a stiff shot of Jack Daniels. He drank it down and immediately pointed at the glass for another.
I nursed my beer, my previous relief dissolving. This maybe wasn’t as bad as finding out he was having an affair, which happens a lot to me, but after an hour of hearing people spill their sad stories at the meeting, I couldn’t help feeling depressed for him. And my client. Sometimes I hate having to report the things I find out.
Robbie had three more drinks, then fumbled with his wallet and tossed two twenties on the bar. He gripped the bar for balance as he slid off his stool, and bumped into people as he staggered his way to the door. I dropped some money on the bar next to the half of the beer that I hadn’t drunk and followed.
Out on the street he looked both ways, as if he’d forgotten where he was or where he was going. Then he made up his mind and started walking, weaving back and forth on unsteady feet, stumbling and catching himself until he reached a bus stop on North Avenue.
Two people stood under the bus stop shelter, a woman in her 60s and a young man in a long coat and sneakers. The woman held two heavy shopping bags. The shelter didn’t have a bench, so they all stood waiting.
Thunder rumbled, and a mild rain started to fall.
I stood behind the shelter, hoping Robbie wouldn’t turn around and recognize me from the meeting. From the way he leaned on the glass, though, I didn’t think he’d remember much from tonight. I probably wouldn’t be surprising his girlfriend when I called her tomorrow. She’d know the minute he walked in the door. That was some small comfort.
A bus approached. The woman reached down for her bags, lifting them with tired arms. The traffic light changed from red to green, and cars veered around the bus as the driver pressed the brakes to bring it to a stop. The young man in the long coat stepped forward, then turned and took a step back to let the woman get on the bus first.
Then Robbie reached out, grabbed her shoulders, and shoved the old woman in front of the bus.
She screamed and tried to struggle. The young man turned, staring at Robbie, frozen in confusion. The bus driver leaned forward, pressing his foot harder and yanking the big wheel of his vehicle.
The woman might have been only bruised and shaken If Robbie hadn’t held onto her. But once she was in the path of the bus, he didn’t let go. He stood there, rain pouring down over both of them, like he was waiting.
The bus skidded. The driver tried to jerk it out of the way. But the pavement was slick and Robbie held firm.
The bus hit them both. The woman toppled in front of the massive tires, but Robbie flew through the air, landing on the hood of a car trying to veer away. His arms flailed as he rolled, and then his body slammed down onto the street with a crunch I could hear six yards away.
The old woman lay face down on the pavement, and the bus went right over her, finally rocking to a stop halfway through the intersection with her battered body beneath it, her groceries strewn around her motionless legs.
Robbie lay on the street, his eyes wide open, his arms and legs motionless, slack.
Cops and an ambulance came in minutes. I watched as paramedics put Robbie into a bag and another team slowly pulled the woman out from under the car and lifted her onto a stretcher. They covered her face before sliding her body into the ambulance to take her away..
That was four years ago
“Hi, I’m Tom, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Tom.”
“I’m, uh, I think I’m just listening tonight, if that’s all right.”
People nodded. The woman next to me said, “Hello, I’m Susan. I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”
“Hi, Susan.”
No, I hadn’t gone back in time. I remembered the meeting I’d been to three or four years ago, the one that had ended in a drunk man pushing a woman under a bus and killing himself after going to an A.A. meeting. This time my client was the wife of Luke Kempton, who’d been sober for six months. But she wondered if he was really going to meetings.
“He’s had relapses before,” she told me over the phone. “I find bottles under the sink or in the garbage. I hate that I don’t trust him, but I just want to be sure he really is going to meetings when he says he is.”
So I took a PayPal retainer and arranged to follow Kempton tonight.
The meeting was in the conference room of a Lincoln Park library. Fourteen people, including me. Men, women, and nonbinary folks, old, young, and in between, spread out for social distancing, some of them wearing masks, all of them there to share their stories in hopes of staying sober.
I hoped it helped. I wanted a beer.
When Kempton’s turn came, he was brief. “I’ve got six months,” he said. “Before that I had eight months. Before that I had two months. In between, I went out and barely made it back. Hospital, detox, rehab—it worked for a while and then I was right back out. My wife—she wanted to kick me out half a dozen times. I’ve got to do it this time. For her. And, uh, for me.” He took a gulp of lukewarm coffee in a paper cup.
We ended with the meeting leader standing up to start us on the Serenity Prayer. He wore a necktie and a three-piece suit, the vest unbuttoned and his jacket hanging on the folding chair behind him, and he smiled as he started out, “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change . . .”
My memory clicked, and I remembered him. Phillip. Two L’s. He’d been at the meeting four years ago. He smiled, walking around the room as the meeting broke up, shaking hands, asking questions, offering encouragement. He put a hand on Kempton’s shoulder to speak for a few moments, then moved onto Susan.
He didn’t notice me. Probably he didn’t recognize my face or my name. It was a funny coincidence, but I knew people stayed with meetings for years, so maybe it wasn’t that unusual to see him again.
Kempton slipped on his coat and made his way to the door. I followed.
He was tall and broad, a little overweight, and he was easy to follow down the street. Not in any hurry. He paused to look inside a Thai restaurant, as if hungry—the meeting had run to 7:30, either too early or too late for dinner, as my stomach rumbled—and then at the display window of a New Balance store. Maybe he needed new shoes.
Then he stopped in front of a bar.
I waited, half a block behind, feeling like I was in a sudden flashback. Maybe I was traveling in time? Deja vu made my skin tingle.
I hadn’t thought about that night in years, but now it came flooding back—the meeting, the rain, the bus, the shock, and finally the guilt.
Could I have done something? Saved that woman somehow? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I’d watched her get murdered for no reason, and seen him die, and then had to report what I’d seen to my client. His wife.
I couldn’t bring myself to send her an invoice.
I told myself it wasn’t my fault. Rachel, my girlfriend, told me the same thing, more insistently. “It happened in a second, right?” she said. “You couldn’t have stopped him. You’re not Batman.”
“No,” I had to agree. Even Batman couldn’t have stopped that bus. But I’d watched it all happen without doing anything. It nagged at me for a long time.
So when Kempton, after three seconds, pushed on the door and walked inside the bar, I hesitated for only half a moment. Then I went in after him.
A jukebox played classic rock for the dozen or so people sitting around the small bar, watching basketball on the TVs mounted overhead. A woman behind the bar in tight jeans and a sweatshirt rolled up to her elbows was pouring Kempton a shot.
I hurried over to him, out of breath and nervous. “Luke, right? Is that you ? From the meeting? I’m Tom.” I sat next to him.
He stared at me. The bartender looked me over, waiting for an order, but I shook my head and waved her away.
“You okay, Luke?” I glanced at the shot glass in his hand.
Kempton looked too, as if he hadn’t seen it before. He set it down, blinking, and rubbed his temples, shaking his head. “I don’t—I don’t know. I feel like I just want to get drunk. And kill myself.”
“You want to get a cup of coffee?” I asked. “Better than what they had at the meeting?”
He blinked, then shoved the glass across the bar and stood up. “Yeah. Thanks. Let’s go.”
I dropped some money on the bar for the drink and followed him outside.
I spent an hour with Kempton at a nearby Starbucks. He told me his life story in much greater detail than he’d shared at the meeting—tales of blackouts, DUIs, broken relationships, petty theft, and more, all common in the rooms and nothing I hadn’t heard before as a P.I. I tried to keep the focus on him so I wouldn’t get tripped up in too many lies. I told him I was a freelance reporter, after getting fired from the Tribune for drinking too much, which was only partly true—I was drinking a lot at the time, but that wasn’t why I’d quit. I made up some drinking escapades of my own, and told him a little bit about Rachel, and admitted that I hadn’t been to too many meetings lately, but I was glad I’d shown up tonight.
In the end I walked him home, and we traded phone numbers. I wondered if his wife would be able to keep a straight face when he told her about his new friend Tom from AA.
Back home Rachel was studying for yet another test while watching a reality TV show. She’s a graphic designer, sometimes my assistant, and she’s in grad school to become a psychologist. “How’d it go? Want a beer?”
“Actually, no.” After hearing Kempton’s story in detail, the thought of a beer made my stomach churn. “I need to check something.”
In our shared office I turned on my computer and started going back through my case files. Two years, three years, four—there it was. Robbie Seltz.
Details surged back to life in my mind as I skimmed the report. The big blue book of Alcoholics Anonymous. Simone, the alcoholic and drug addict. Did she ever reconcile with her son? The meeting leader—was he still leading the Serenity Prayer? The lukewarm coffee and stale cookies that seemed to be a common denominator for every AA meeting, or at least the few I’d been to.
Phillip. I found a scan of his card, the 12 Steps on one side, his phone number on the other.
And I remembered the woman. I never saw her face, but I could still hear her screams.
Out in the living room I sat next to Rachel and stared at the TV. A man and two women were arguing in a car. Something about a poodle, or maybe a chihuahua, and a swimming pool. I couldn’t figure it out without more background, and I didn’t want to make the effort.
At the break Rachel muted the TV. “You okay?”
Rachel’s my girlfriend. We’ve lived together for five years or so. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and killer legs.
And psychic powers. At least a little, sometimes a lot. She frowned at me. “What’s wrong?”
I sighed. “You remember a couple of years ago, there was a case where I followed a guy to an A.A. meeting and he ended up getting drunk and pushing a woman in front of a bus?”
She thought for a moment. “Yeah. I think so.”
“He left the meeting and went straight into a bar. The same thing happened tonight. Only this time the guy didn’t kill anyone, thank God. I went in after him, and we went out for coffee.”
“Are you his sponsor now?”
“Maybe.” I glanced at the TV. The show was starting up again, but Rachel didn’t turn up the sound. “The same guy was there both nights. Different meetings, four years apart, but the same thing, a guy leaving and heading straight for a bar.”
She cocked her head. “I bet that happens a lot.”
“Probably. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Using your psychic powers to read my mind?”
She snorted. “The ditzy woman in my show could figure out what you’re thinking.”
I chuckled. “Yeah. Maybe I’m just feeling guilty again.”
She nodded. “You were pretty upset.”
I’ve faced vampires, demons, mutant monkeys, and other assorted monsters across the course of my career. I just seem to attract them for some reason. But violent death is never easy to see.
“Yeah.” I stood up. “Is there any ice cream?”
“Don’t eat all the mint chocolate chip. I’m saving that for after my test tomorrow.”
“Got it.” I went to the kitchen, took a carton of french vanilla from the freezer, and opened the refrigerator door for a drink. A six-pack of Heineken stared up at me from the bottom shelf. I took a bottle of water instead.
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