48.

MY RELATIONSHIP WITH 12-step meetings had gone from indifference to boredom to obligation to love. I hadn't been able to find such genuine camaraderie and solidarity since bangin'. Everyone at the meetings was working on a relationship with "God," though each viewed Him (or Her) in his or her own way. There were Catholics, Baptists, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims, and people of other faiths I'd never heard of; there were agnostics and even atheists. What I thought was the coolest was that everyone respected everyone else's belief-even if it didn't agree with their own. And regardless of one's religious/spiritual beliefs (or lack thereof), everyone seemed to genuinely want everyone else to stay clean and sober. Unlike most religious folks I'd heard about, the people in the meetings never judged anyone else about their beliefs, nonbeliefs, or life/criminal history.

The meetings were occasionally repetitive, but that didn't make them any less fascinating. The stories people shared had common elements that cropped up again and again. For instance, I heard one person after another talking about how they could no longer hang with friends who were still using, and were no longer able to hang out at places where dope was present. I heard them, but I paid them no attention.

V also continually warned me to watch whom I hung with, the places I hung out at, and the things I did when I hung out. She warned that the company I kept would determine the activity I participated in. I paid her warnings no mind.

I wasn't worrying about getting loaded anymore. Since getting out of the hospital, I'd been able to fight off urges to use by doing the "one day at a time" thing. But V gave me several other tools because she assured me that the overwhelming urge to use would hit me sooner or later. The first thing to do, no matter what, was to pray. Then, depending on the situation, I could do one or all of the following. If I was in a slippery place, I was to get out of there immediately. Next, I should call someone-V, or another person in recovery-and then I was to get to a meeting as soon as possible. V said that every situation would be different so, except for praying first, I wouldn't necessarily use these tools in a particular order, or at all-the order wasn't what was important; what was important is that I used the tools. Again, I paid her warnings no mind.

She also warned me that if I had any reservations, I wasn't ready for recovery. I thought about it. I didn't really have any reservations. Well, maybe one: I didn't think I was an alcoholic.

I was nothing like the people in the meetings. Those people talked about having gone to jail for DUIs. I'd never had a DUI. Those people talked about not being able to hold a job because of drinking. I kept a job! I didn't do any of the things they did: I never sat on a corner begging for money to buy booze; I didn't drink every day (okay, I had drunk every day, but only to calm my nerves).

Still, I smiled and told V that I didn't have any reservations.

"Cup, are you sure? Remember, reservations get us loaded."

"Y-yes," I stammered.

- Shortly after I returned to work, Tommy started calling me again. I told him I'd been in rehab and was no longer getting high. He said he'd quit using too, that he'd even quit smoking cigarettes, and that he just wanted to be friends. Though I liked my new, clean friends, I missed my old, get-high ones. I felt like they knew me. I'd convinced myself that they loved me. So, convincing myself that I needed to be around such familiar people, I let Tommy pick me up every once in a while. We'd hang out or go to a meeting. Although Tommy hated 12-step programs, he'd endure a meeting for me. He thought that, by going, he'd have a better chance of getting back with me.

I didn't see Mona much, but I had begun hanging out with Rose. Though Rose and I used to smoke crack together, I felt she was now safe to be around. She'd quit smoking the moment she found out she was pregnant. That child, a boy, was almost six months old now, and Rose had stayed clean. I was proud of her. So we often hung out, which meant hitting the local swap meets.

Before I knew it, me, Tommy, and Rose were hanging out every weekend. I didn't see anything wrong with it. In fact, I believed they were safe because they knew I'd been in rehab and wasn't supposed to get high.

Because they hung with me so much during my first couple of months out of the hospital, Tommy and Rose often got to see me at my worst-usually as a result of withdrawal. Although I didn't have any more DTs, I still experienced various physical effects that I later learned were the result of my body still withdrawing: headaches, shivers, sudden sweating, and mood swings. But the most dangerous withdrawal effect of all was my uncontrollable anger, which usually manifested when I was silently fighting the urge to use. (It would be a while before I realized that the anger and the urge to use always occurred simultaneously.) We decided to go to a Dairy Queen to get some ice cream. It was an abnormally hot September day. I, Tommy, Rose, and her baby, Kevin, had spent the day hanging out. Kevin sat in his stroller, seemingly oblivious to the heat, while we adults were fanning ourselves with anything we could find in an effort to fight off the sweltering heat. I'd been thinking about how pleasant a nice cold beer would be. Though I was thinking it, I dared not say anything about it. I thought it was a no-no to think about drinking. So I kept quiet and silently continued trying to fight the urge to buy a beer instead of an ice cream cone.

We walked into the Dairy Queen and immediately became grateful for the blasting air conditioner. Two young girls were working behind the counter, one white and one black. Rose ordered an ice cream, and Tommy ordered some sort of ice-cream drink. The white girl ran off to start making their orders, leaving the black girl to take mine. I told her that all I wanted was a sundae. A simple banana split. That's it. She nodded her head and turned away from me. But she didn't start making my split. It was as if, for some reason, she hadn't understood what I'd said. I watched patiently as she slowly sauntered here and there behind the counter, doing what, I didn't know. All I knew was that she was moving too damn slow and she wasn't making my sundae. Suddenly, my patience ran out and I went off.

"Bitch!" I screamed, startling Tommy, Rose, and even little Kevin, who stopped inspecting his feet to look up and see what all of the commotion was about. Several patrons looked up from their various frozen treats.

"I said I wanted a banana split. Do you not speak fuckin' English?" I yelled. The young black girl, who looked to be about fifteen or so, stopped suddenly in her tracks and gasped at me, apparently in shock. The restaurant, moments ago filled with laughter and chatter, suddenly became eerily quiet.

"Aw, shit," I heard Tommy grumble under his breath next to me. "Here we go again."

"A sundae, bitch!" I screamed, ignoring Tommy's comment. "All I want is a fuckin' split! Do you know what that is?" Without waiting for her to answer, I told her.

"It's a fuckin' dish with bananas, ice cream, syrup, nuts, and whipped cream! Now do you think you can do that?" I was fuming.

The girl still didn't move. I wasn't sure if it was fear, shock, or both that kept her frozen in place. Nor did I care. All I cared about was getting my fuckin' split. And for some odd reason, this chick was taking forever to make it.

Suddenly, I decided to make it myself. And told her so.

"Move! Shit!" I hollered as I hopped the counter, pushed her out of the way, and began opening containers, slamming cabinets, and throwing stuff, trying to find what I wanted for my sundae. Suddenly, I started crying, not from sadness, but from rage. "I'll make it myself!" I screamed through snot and tears.

The white girl, who was coming out from the back with a slushy cup in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other, stopped in her tracks. Where she stopped, she just happened to be standing next to the black girl. Both of them stared at me in disbelief.

The place was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop-well, that is, you could have if it hadn't been for my ranting and raving, slamming, throwing, and cussing.

"Where's the fuckin' cherries?" I yelled, continuing to stomp around searching for ingredients for my sundae. The only kind of ice cream I could find was vanilla. I wanted strawberry.

"Is this the only kind of ice cream you got?" I don't know why I kept asking questions. No one was answering them.

Being unable to find everything I needed pissed me off even more. So I threw whatever I didn't want. I found some pineapple syrup. It wasn't what I was looking for. I threw it up against the wall. As the syrup flew across the room, every eye in the place followed it until it splattered. I continued searching, cussing, throwing, and slamming. Holding the place at bay, my whole ordeal lasted about two minutes.

Finally, my banana split was finished, although it didn't look like one. It looked like a mess from the haphazard way I'd thrown it all together into the little banana-shaped bowl. Satisfied with my creation, I hopped back over the counter, sat at a nearby table, and began eating it, as if my actions had been completely natural.

Finally, someone spoke.

"Call the police," the white girl tried to whisper. Her nervousness made her voice louder than she planned.

"What'd you say?" I snapped as I jumped to my feet. "Fuck the police. Come outside bitch and I'll whup yo' ass!"

The white girl picked up the phone and started dialing.

"Aw, shit," Tommy grumbled. "Cup, let's go," he snapped as he began dragging me toward the door. "Everything can't be handled by fighting!"

Why can't it? I wondered.

Once we were in the car pulling off, Rose finally spoke.

"Girl, you acted a fuckin' fool back there!" she said with disgust. "And I'm here with my baby and everything. I can't be fighting with my baby!"

"No one asked you to fight!" I snapped.

"Girl, you know I ain't gon' let you get into no shit without having yo' back. What if that white girl had jumped in? I'd've had to whup her ass. Girl, we too old for this shit."

Damn, I wished she'd shut up. She didn't.

"Cup, you've got to grow up. You've got to change your ways. You're not fifteen anymore. You're twenty-five and you need to start acting like it!"

Tommy readily agreed. They then began talking about my previous debacles. Of course, Tommy brought up the dinner cruise on our honeymoon.

"Yeah," Rose replied, "but she was drunk then. She's sober now and still acting a fuckin' fool."

I was still pissed and so pretty much ignored them.

They dropped me off and drove off, angry. Neither of them would talk to me or hang with me. I didn't care. I didn't see anything wrong with what I'd done. That is, until the next day when I told V about it. She went off on me.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she shouted. We were having our daily telephone check-in, so, although I couldn't see her, I could envision her facial expression: eyebrows all scrunched, mouth in a scowl, eyes glaring with anger. "You think rules don't apply to you?"

"But, she was moving too slo-" I tried to interject to explain why I'd done what I'd done. V angrily cut me off.

"I don't give a fuck what she was doing. Recovery is about changing your ways, not someone else's. You can't control what other people do. But you can control what you do. Cup, that type of behavior is unacceptable. I know that in the streets, cussing and fighting are tools of the trade. But you're no longer in the streets. It's time to find a 'new trade.' Furthermore, and more important, you're no longer a child, so those temper tantrums are unacceptable."

Is that what I was doing? Throwing a temper tantrum?

"It's time for you to grow up and learn to be responsible for your actions."

She was totally intolerant of my behavior. On and on she went, fussing at me for almost a half hour. When she was finally done, I felt an inch tall. For the first time in years, I was ashamed and embarrassed by my behavior, partly because I wasn't drunk, so I remembered everything I'd done, and partly because my conscience had sobered up and woken up-and it was telling me I was wrong.

V then asked if I'd been thinking about drinking or using when I'd gone off like that. I lied and said I hadn't.

"Are you sure? Because it sounds like you were craving and didn't know how to handle it."

Again I lied and said I wasn't thinking about drinking.

"Well, if you do think about drinking, it's okay. I mean, you've been drinking and using since you were eleven. It's unnatural to think it will never pop up again. It will. And when it does, you need to get that shit out. You hear me? Tell someone."

I told her I would, but knew I wouldn't. My ego wouldn't allow me to admit I still wanted to drink.

V then announced that I'd have to return to Dairy Queen and make amends to the two girls.

"What the fuck is an 'amend'?" I asked suspiciously. V explained that it was an apology. A sincere apology.

"Can't I just call 'em?" I whined. I did not want to go back there.

"Oh, now you're concerned about how you look?" she asked sarcastically. "You weren't concerned when you were throwing shit, acting a damn fool!"

She was right.

"No. You must make direct amends," she stated firmly. "From now on, whenever you wrong someone, you must make direct amends. The amends are for you, not them."

"But how will I know when I've wronged someone?"

"Well, this time, it's pretty obvious," she replied. But she did explain that I would eventually get to a step that would require me to take daily stock of my actions and conduct, and if I realized I'd harmed someone, I'd have to make direct amends.

The next day, V took me back to the Dairy Queen to make amends. Approaching the glass door, I could see the same two girls were working. They looked up and gasped when they saw me come in. The white girl grabbed the phone and got her finger ready to start punching buttons.

"Wait! Wait!" I yelled as I ran up to the counter. Startled, she held the phone tightly in her hand, her forefinger pointed at the dial pad, ready to go. Quietly, but sincerely, I apologized for my previous behavior. I started crying. I really did feel bad about the way I'd acted. I admitted that my conduct was unacceptable and wouldn't happen again. Then, I laid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and explained that it was in payment for my sundae as well as Tommy and Rose's treats (since we'd left without paying). Our order together couldn't have cost more than five or six dollars. But the remaining fourteen or fifteen dollars was nowhere near what they should have been paid for what they'd had to endure. Still, it was a small attempt on my part to show my sincere remorse. Surprised at my apology, neither girl touched the money, but stood staring at me, eyes bulging, mouths open. Humbled and humiliated, I turned and walked out.

V then made me make amends to Tommy and Rose. I hated apologizing to them even more than the girls at Dairy Queen because they'd seen me act a fool for years and I'd never apologized before. In fact, it was something we usually laughed about the next day. But, sick of my behavior, Tommy and Rose were no longer amused; their laughter had turned to disgust.

With V by my side urging me on, I apologized for my behavior and acknowledged it was unacceptable. They each smiled, but said nothing. They didn't believe I could keep my word. They'd seen me go off too many times. Little did they know, this time I meant it.

Years later, someone told me that the hardest lessons learned are the best lessons learned. Well, that episode at the Dairy Queen turned out to be my best lesson in anger management. From that day forward, I've never acted like that again. Oh, I still get pissed and you'll still hear me cussing every now and then. But no more physical violence, though I have often had to sit on my hands or literally leave the room to keep from fighting. I just didn't like the way belligerent behavior made me feel. I didn't like remembering my ignorant conduct. More important, I hated making amends.

A couple of weeks later, Rose and Tommy started hanging out with me again. V again warned me about hanging with old friends, but I figured she couldn't have meant Tommy and Rose. They were safe. They were also the people I wanted to be with to celebrate having achieved sixty-nine days clean and sober. (There was nothing really special about sixty-nine days. Most people celebrated ninety days clean. I decided to be different and celebrate sixty-nine.) "Let's really celebrate!" Rose said. She, Tommy, and I were hanging out in my living room. Bored.

"You know I can't do no stuff!" I snapped.

"Girl, ain't nobody said nothing 'bout dope. I'm talkin' 'bout going out-to a club! Let's go dancing!"

I hadn't been to a club since getting clean. I loved to dance and I loved to club. It sounded like fun.

Something told me I should have called V and told her about what I was contemplating. Something also told me to pray. But I didn't want to bother God.

Besides, what could it hurt? So we got dressed and went out.

- We decided to go to a juke joint called the Chat-N-Chew, a small hole in the wall located in an area of San Diego known as Barrio Logan. The Chat-N-Chew had been around for years-and it looked like it. The dirty old dilapidated shack looked like something left over from slavery. The windows were so dirty folks on the outside couldn't see in. Those inside could see out-that is, if they could see over the loads of cardboard boxes, trash, and other junk that were kept piled up along the building's exterior. Despite the dirt on the outside, the inside was kept pretty clean-at least the drinking glasses were.

In addition to being shabby and grubby, the Chat-N-Chew was also very small. Packed inside were a dirty brown counter that served as the bar, a few small round tables, and chairs. A pool table sat in one corner. A rusty old jukebox, which looked like it had played its last song, stood in another corner. The place wasn't large enough for a dance floor, so people danced wherever they wanted and wherever they stood. There was never a DJ-there was no room. Actually, a DJ wasn't necessary since the rotting ol' jukebox was filled with golden oldies: the songs of Smokey Robinson, Marvin Gaye, Etta James, Bobby "Blue" Bland, and numerous other blues and R&B artists blared from its tattered speakers, taking patrons back to "the good ol' days" and keeping them dancing all night.

Anyone who wasn't familiar with the hood would probably have been afraid to enter the Chat-N-Chew. Hell, most people that lived in the hood wouldn't go there. It was known as a rough spot where fights and brawls could (and often did) break out at any moment. It was my kind of place! The only thing I didn't like about it was that it didn't sell hard liquor-only beer and wine. So when I used to drink, before rehab, it was only a starting place for partying.

But this particular night, drinking, or rather taking a drink, was the farthest thing from my mind. I mean, I was thinking about alcohol, but only because its absence was the reason for the celebration-sixty-nine days of continued sobriety!

I walked into the Chat-N-Chew, smelling good, looking fly, and feeling fine. It was still early, so it wasn't very crowded yet. Rose spotted her aunt and some friends at one of the tables. We pulled up a table and joined them. Soon, a waitress came to take drink orders. Everyone began ordering. Rose's aunt and her friends ordered more beer. Tommy ordered himself a beer and Rose a glass of wine.

"What do you want, Cup?" he asked. Without hesitation, I replied, "A coke."

Drinking wasn't on my mind.

I engaged in small talk with those around me. I asked Rose's aunt about her children, listened to someone's story about a fight that had broken out at the Chat-N-Chew the night before. Then someone else chimed in that they could top that and told about a stabbing two nights before. We laughed and talked and enjoyed the music. We were talking and laughing loudly when the waitress returned with a small round tray loaded with drinks. As she sat down the bottles of beer and glasses of wine, I marveled at myself and how easily I'd ordered that coke.

Could an alcoholic have done that? No way! They sit on corners, begging for booze. They can't stop drinking! I've stopped and stayed stopped. I'd even ordered coke! What drunk orders a coke? Girl, you ain't no alcoholic. You just can't do dope!

Just like that, my mind flipped on me.

I wonder if this is what V meant when she asked whether I had any reservations? I asked myself.

Naw, she meant any reservations about dope. I answered. You've admitted you're a dope fiend. We're talking about drinking!

Who the fuck is "we"?

My mind was trippin'. Suddenly, I wanted a drink. I needed a drink.

Maybe you should call someone, the quiet Voice said.

I ignored it.

"Hey, y'all," I said loudly. Everyone around the tables had been laughing and chatting. At my announcement, everyone grew quiet.

"Y'all know I've been sober for sixty-nine days."

"Yeah, yeah," everyone acknowledged. Some nodded their heads. Whether they really knew it or not, I didn't know. Nor did I care. That wasn't the focus of my announcement.

"Girl, I'm proud of you," Rose said as she gulped down some wine. "You was fucked up!" Everyone busted out laughing.

"Well, I've got some more good news." At the mention of "news" the crowd grew silent, expecting to hear about yet another ghetto "throw-down."

"My sponsor said I can have white wine." Their dazed looks told me they had no idea about what I was talking about. The way they immediately returned to their conversations told me that they didn't care what I was talking about. But Tommy and Rose did.