The next morning I called my client.
I told Jenna Kempton everything, but I left out the flashback to four years ago. She sounded worried. “I’m glad he’s really going to the meetings,” she said. “But going into a bar right afterward? Is that normal?”
“I have no idea. If you want, I can follow him to his next meeting. It’ll be easier, actually, since he knows me now.”
“Maybe . . .” She thought for a moment. “He has a Zoom meeting tonight, so I know he’ll do that. I think there’s one tomorrow. I’ll let you know the address. Unless I change my mind? It feels funny, having you follow him. It’s not like he’s cheating on me, but going into a bar, like you said? I’d feel better if someone was with him.”
“He’ll need to get a sponsor for that. I can definitely follow him tomorrow night, but I’m not really qualified to help anybody stay sober long term.”
“Right. Okay. Tomorrow.” She hung up.
I spent some time looking up Phillip with two Ls. With his phone number, I was able to get his full name, Phillip Levering, and some details. He managed a carpet store not far from the church where I’d met him four years ago. He’d had some legal troubles—evicted from two apartments for nonpayment of rent, a restraining order from a girlfriend, a DUI—but nothing in the last year or so. No social media presence beyond a basic Facebook page with a profile picture and an image of a sunset. Or maybe a sunrise.
I had other work, a workers comp fraud situation, and was gone for a lot of the day. When I got back Rachel was eating her ice cream, and I started on dinner, since it was my night to cook. We drank a few beers, which felt funny after the meeting last night. Then I, uh, forgot about all that as we, well, you know.
So the next night I was back at another meeting. We were in a high school gymnasium this time, under the basketball hoop. The same folding chairs in a circle, another urn of decaf coffee and a tray of cookies, a similar group of people who looked like they could have been parents at a PTA meeting, not alcoholics trying to turn their lives around or keep it headed in the right direction.
I’d picked up Kempton outside his apartment building again. He was easy to follow, and I knew where the meeting was ahead of time, but I still hung back as much as I dared. He knew me, after all, even if I’d just been mostly listening to him.
I recognized a woman from last night, Asian and elderly, and a person who went by Theo and offered the pronouns they/them. The rest were new to me, but I imagined the same people showed up at different meetings everywhere.
Phillip was there too. Not leading the group tonight, just waiting for things to get started.
We read from the !2 Steps and 12 Traditions book, step four: “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Rachel would have been better doing that for me. I read a few paragraphs, then started my own list in my head: stubborn, reckless, easily irritated by stupidity, too willing to believe the unbelievable, not paying attention—
Why was everybody looking at me? Oh, right. “Hi, I’m Tom, and I’m an alcoholic. I think I’ll just listen tonight, if that’s all right.”
People shared about DUIs, abusing their partners, throwing up at wedding receptions, and other stuff. Others talked about how working on their lists with a sponsor helped them overcome the character defects that contributed to their drinking. It could be a positive experience, apparently. I wondered if I should try it.
Then we stood and recited the Serenity Prayer, and the meeting was over.
Kempton said hi to me but didn’t talk about anything else. He seemed embarrassed. He helped fold and stack chairs, so I did too. When we were close to being finished, Phillip came up to me. “Hi, I’m Phillip. Two Ls. How you doing tonight?”
“I’m, uh, I’m okay. I didn’t drink today.” That was true, at least. So far.
“Great. Keep coming back.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “It works if you work it sober, like they say. Here.” He pressed a card into my hand. The same one he’d given me four years ago—same timeless 12 Steps, same phone number. “Call me if you want to talk.”
“Thanks.” I put the card in my pocket. Kempton was putting his jacket on. “I’ve, uh, got to go.”
“Sure.” He let go of my shoulder. “Keep coming back,” he said again.
“I will.” I looked for my jacket to follow Kempton.
I hurried out behind him, then hung back again. This time he might get really worried if he spotted me on his tail after the meeting.
Following Kempton, I began to feel—funny. Jittery, like I was having an attack of nerves. I checked behind me, wondering if maybe I was being followed too. Or just being paranoid. It’s an occupational hazard.
Then I almost lost Kempton, and that made my anxiety jump. I caught up to him, breathing hard, then dropped away as he turned to look back. Damn it. Was I losing my edge? I’m usually pretty good at tailing people.
Finally Kempton reached his building. I leaned against a lamppost, catching my breath, grateful that now I could go home. Instead the anxiety rose more. I tapped my foot on the pavement. Maybe once I got home and had a beer—
I started walking to where I’d left my car. Two blocks away I stopped in front of a small bar. Smiley’s. The yellow neon letters in the window glowed like beacons.
Why not? I hadn’t had a drink today, like I’d told Phillip. I deserved one.
Inside I perched on a stool and looked over the beer taps. A bartender in his 20s with his hair in a ponytail and a Cubs cap backward on his head dropped a cardboard coaster in front of me. “What’ll it be?”
“Jack Daniels,” I heard myself say. I hardly ever drink hard liquor. But it somehow felt like something I needed right now.
The guy poured the whiskey. I put the glass to my lips and drank it down in one swallow, then held the glass forward. “Another.”
The bartender smiled and poured again.
I drank it down again. “Another one, I guess.”
He looked me over. “Okay, but take it easy.” He poured another drink. “Pace yourself, maybe?”
I chuckled. “Sure.”
I nursed the next one. For maybe four minutes. Then I ordered another. After a while I stopped keeping track. The bartender tried to keep an eye on me, but then a group of women in tight jeans and loose blouses came in and he got busy.
After a while I felt a buzzing my pocket. My phone. Rachel. I smiled. “Hi, Rach! I’ll be home soon.”
“Where are you?” She sounded suspicious.
“Just, uh, stopped off for a drink. Long day. You know?”
“One drink? You sound funny.”
I looked at my empty glass and waved for the bartender. “I don’t know. Another one, okay?”
“Are you drunk?”
“No. I’m not drunk. I’m just—having a few. I’m allowed, right?”
She said nothing for a moment. Was she going to be mad at me. “Rach, I’m fine, I’ll be home soon—”
“Where are you? Never mind, I can track your phone. Stay there. Let me talk to the bartender.”
“Huh?” He was pouring my drink. Less this time. “Okay. Hey, uh, my girlfriend wants to talk to you.” I handed the phone over.
He took it, annoyed. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay. It’s called Smiley’s. Yeah, okay. I’ll try.” He handed it back. “She’s on her way. And I’m not supposed to serve you anymore. And I’m supposed to keep you here.”
I slumped. “Can I at least finish this one?”
“I guess so. I’ll get your tab.”
My bill was—wow, it was a lot. I had how many? Liquor is expensive. I spent a long time working out a reasonable tip, then adding more to it because the bartender seemed like a nice guy. Then I shoved the tray across the bar and started to stuff my wallet back in my pants. I dropped it.
Someone ran into my elbow as I was bending over. Asshole. “Hey!”
The guy was big, with broad brawny shoulders and a thick head of black hair. “Huh?”
“Watch where you’re going.” I grabbed my stool for balance.
“What the hell?” He blinked, his eyes shifting from mildly annoyed to pissed off.
“You ran into me, asshole.” I jabbed a finger at his arm.
He pushed me, sending me staggering back against the bar. My stool fell over.
“Goddamn it.” I lunged forward, my fists raised and ready to hammer him, except I tripped and went sprawling to the floor. He laughed.
I rolled over, rage rushing furiously through my head, and then Rachel was standing over me, looking disgusted.
“Settle down, Tom. It’s okay.” She grabbed my arm as I struggled up to my feet, then smiled at the guy with a shrug. “Sorry. He’s not usually a jerk.” Then she looked at me. “Jerk.”
The guy laughed. “Not a problem.” Was he flirting with her? My girlfriend? I stiffened, but then a tall girl took his hand and led him to the door.
The bartender was watching us from behind the bar. “We good?” Rachel asked. “Does he owe you anything?”
“No, he already—” He picked up the tray with the receipt on it. “Wow. Thanks. Copy of the receipt?”
“Thanks.” She yanked it from his fingers and looked it over. “Very generous.” She punched my arm. “Come on, Mr. Moneybags. Let’s get you home.”
“Wh-how are you here?” I let her lead me to the door. “Oh, right. I called you.”
“I called you. Watch your step.” She held the door for me.
“Right here.” She had an Uber waiting in the street. “In you go.”
I tumbled into the back seat. Then everything went black.
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