"I thought you said you weren't supposed to drink," Rose said. Tommy nodded in agreement.

I didn't respond. Hell, I didn't have a response. After I'd been released from the hospital and was still beaming with the excitement of my newfound sobriety, I'd shared with them that having the disease of addiction meant that I wasn't supposed to do drugs or drink. However, it never occurred to me that they'd actually been listening to me.

Think fast, girl. Think fast.

Suddenly, an answer came to me.

"Ah, oh, ummmm, yeah. Yeah. I did tell you that. But, that's because when you first get sober, they tell you that you can't drink because they don't want you to get too carried away. So, they wait until you get sixty-nine days clean before telling you that you can drink. Just today, in fact, V, my sponsor-you guys have heard me talk about V, right?-well, today, I'm celebrating sixty-nine days, and today, she told me that I could drink."

They stared at me; quizzical looks still on their faces. They weren't falling for it.

"But I can only have wine."

That limitation seemed to satisfy their doubts. So I continued while I was hot.

"And, it has to be natural wine."

"Well, then," Rose announced, obviously satisfied with my clarification. "Let's see if they got some natural wine here!" She stood up, spotted the waitress, and flagged her over to our table. The waitress angrily held up one finger informing us that she'd be over "in a minute." What, she really meant was, I'll get there when I fuckin' feel like it.

I sat for a few moments, trying to be patient. I had butterflies in my stomach and my mouth was suddenly very, very dry. I really needed a drink.

Maybe you should call V, the Voice again quietly stated. Maybe you should call someone in recovery.

Again, I ignored it.

All I could think about was getting a sip of wine. That's all I wanted-a sip. I'd just take a sip and leave the rest in the glass. I could control it. I mean, it wasn't like I was an alcoholic or anything. . . .

The more and more I thought about it, the more and more I wanted it. After about ten minutes, my patience had run out. I couldn't take it anymore; I felt like I would explode with excited anticipation.

Just as I stood up to go get the damn wine myself, I spotted the waitress walking toward our table.

"Yeah?" she snapped as she approached.

"You got any natural wine?" Rose asked.

"We got wine," the waitress impatiently replied.

"Yeah, but do you have natural wine?" Rose asked with such sincerity. "It's got to be natural wine."

I didn't care whether it was natural or not. But it was too late, I'd already told them it had to be natural. "I'll bring you the bottle and you can see for yo'self," the waitress growled as she walked away.

Damn, I hope that fuckin' label says "natural" somewhere on it!

"She'll bring us the bottle," Rose informed me-as if I hadn't heard the waitress myself. I sat for what seemed like forever. I thought the heifer would never return. But, I forced myself to sit still. I didn't want to seem too eager.

Finally, the waitress returned with a bottle of white wine. There on the label in large green letters it read, "Natural White Wine."

Hot damn! I could barely contain my excitement.

Rose took the bottle and carefully examined the label. I quickly pointed out the word natural.

"Uh-huh," she acknowledged as she continued her vigilant inspection of the bottle's content.

"Okay. It's natural, all right," she announced with finality, obviously satisfied with what the label revealed. "Here you go!" she chimed happily as she handed me a glass and began pouring me a drink.

I held the glass tightly so it wouldn't tip over as she filled it. The wine looked so beautiful, so alive as it splashed its way into the glass.

You should call V, the Voice calmly stated once again.

Ignoring it, I gulped down the wine. The Voice didn't speak again.

The wine was warm going down. It was good going down. Suddenly I remembered why I loved to drink. Why I had to drink. Instantly, I was happy. Confident and self-assured. I was hip, slick, and cool-once more. Sh-i-t! I wasn't an alcoholic!

I downed that glass of wine and quickly poured another. No one saw me gulp the second glass. They were all up on their feet, slurring, "Dat's ma jam!" as Billie Holiday begged for someone to give her a "pig foot and a bottle of beer." Sitting there watching everyone dance and feel good, feel good and dance, I began to drink even faster. I had to catch up with them-they'd all been drinking for a while and were already high.

Before Billie was through singing, I'd finished off the bottle of "natural wine." Since I couldn't find the waitress to order another one, I began finishing off the drinks others had left on the table. As Billie went off and the O'Jays came on talkin' 'bout how they loved music, I was on my feet, heading for the table next to ours where I'd spotted three unfinished beers and a half glass of wine. Before the O'Jays' stopped singing, I'd finished every bottle of beer or glass of wine whose owner was not sitting in front of it.

Luckily for me, everyone was so drunk, no one realized their glasses were empty. If they did, they didn't say anything.

Before long, I was bored.

"Let's go," I slurred. The wine was kicking in, but I'd need something stronger if I was to get my high on for the night. "Let's go where they got some real booze!"

Rose and Tommy readily agreed.

- I came to the next morning with a hell of a hangover. It had been a couple of months since I'd suffered a hangover. As I squeezed my head in an effort to stop the pain, I remembered how much I hated them. At first, I was disoriented and didn't know where I was. After a moment of lying there and looking around the room, familiarity began to return. I was in my own living room on my raggedy couch.

But how'd I get here?

My mind was reeling, trying to remember what had happened the night before. I couldn't. All I remembered was having a glass of wine at the Chat-N-Chew. The rest of the night was a blur. I tried to sit up, but the throbbing in my head and the way the room was spinning told me to lay my ass back down. So I lay there hoping that my memory would return, that the room would stop spinning, and that I wouldn't throw up.

Just then Tommy walked in.

"I see you're awake," he said solemnly.

"Stop your fuckin' screamin'!" I didn't know why he was yelling. I was less than two feet in front of him.

"I'm not screaming, Cup. You are."

It hurt to talk. All I could do was groan.

"It's no wonder you feel, look, and smell like shit," he said with a hint of disgust.

I didn't notice any peculiar smell until he brought it up. Once he did, I became aware of a putrid smell. I looked down and saw dried vomit all over the front of my dress. There I was, afraid I'd throw up and, apparently, I'd already done so.

"I threw up on myself?" I asked. Now it was my turn to be disgusted.

"You did more than that. You pissed on yourself as well."

I had no memory of either event. Before I could speak, Rose came bouncing into the living room.

"What's up, girl?" she asked. She was working my nerves. She was too damn happy.

I just groaned. After Tommy put an ice pack on my head and gave me two aspirin, I lay on the couch as he and Rose relayed to me what I'd forgotten.

They said that, at my insistence, we'd left the Chat-N-Chew and gone to another club. While there, I'd had several (Tommy believed it was three, but Rose swore it was at least four) gin and tonics. Then some fat chick, who was trying to squeeze past me, made me spill my drink. Apparently, THAT was a no-no. So I socked her. A fight ensued. I got put out.

"We started to act like we didn't know your ass and kept on partying," Tommy said. "All the way out the door, you were obnoxiously loud and ghetto."

"Yeah," Rose agreed. "It was truly embarrassing."

"Problem is," Tommy continued, "we love yo' crazy ass. And more importantly, we didn't know what additional trouble you'd get into. So we felt compelled to leave with you."

I could see the hurt and anger in their faces as they talked about the embarrassment of watching me get put out. Shit, I didn't care-getting putting out never stopped me from drinking. Only two things stopped me from drinking: running out of money or passing out. And though I was forced to leave, I was still awake (though in a blackout), and Tommy still had money. So I was ready to keep drinking and partying. Tommy said that he and Rose tried to convince me to call it a night, but I refused. I kept screaming that I wanted to dance. So, to pacify me, we went to another club where I gulped down four and a half Long Island Iced Teas, Cupcake-style: no ice and no coke. Tommy said he added the "half," because before I had a chance to finish the fifth drink, I loudly announced that I had to piss like a racehorse. Though I really wanted to go to the bathroom, my legs wouldn't cooperate, forcing him and Rose to half-carry, half-drag me there. Unfortunately, my bladder couldn't, or wouldn't, wait. So, my mind said, Fuck it, and I pissed on myself. Then, I threw up on some fat guy and cussed out the bouncer. Again, we got put out.

I passed out in the car shortly thereafter.

I sat there in awe.

What had happened? I walked into that club knowing I had a drinking problem. And, at the snap of a finger, I was drunk. What the hell happened?

Any reservations I had before were damn sho gone-I was an alcoholic.

I decided to call V. I expected her to cuss me out and say she didn't want to work with me anymore because she'd conclude that if I drank, I wasn't serious about recovery. But she didn't cuss me out. And she didn't say she didn't want to work with me anymore. Nor did she accuse me of not being serious about recovery. Seriously, yet tenderly, she reminded me that alcoholism and addiction are diseases of the mind.

"Think about it, Cup. Where did the idea to drink first originate?"

I sat for a moment contemplating her question, replaying what I could about the night before. I saw myself sitting at the table and all of a sudden thinking that I didn't have a drinking problem.

"It had started with a thought!" I exclaimed. "I knew I was a dope fiend, but I'd convinced myself that I didn't have a problem with booze."

"That's what I meant when I said that we have a disease that tells us we don't have a disease."

Now I understood.

"And it's the first drink that gets you drunk," she continued.

"What?" I didn't understand, especially since with my high tolerance, it was usually the tenth or eleventh drink that got me drunk.

"If you never take that first drink, you'll never get drunk. Because you know that once you take the first drink, you won't stop until you're drunk."

She was right. Once I started anything, I couldn't stop. My relapse proved that.

V told me not to beat myself up for falling off the wagon.

"It's okay to fall. Just get back on!" she urged.

She then instructed me to go to three meetings that day. And at each meeting I had to announce myself as a newcomer. This, I didn't like at all. In 12-step programs, once you had achieved thirty days of continuous sobriety, you no longer had to introduce yourself as a newcomer. The last time I'd been in a meeting, I had had sixty-nine days. So what if I drank? In my mind, I was no longer a newcomer. Besides, introducing myself as a newcomer would let everyone know that I'd relapsed, and that would be embarrassing.

"Obviously, you haven't been listening for the last sixty-nine days, since if you had, you wouldn't have gotten drunk," V responded when I balked about having to tell everyone I'd gotten drunk. "Or, you would have at least called me before you drank.

Something did tell me to call her. But I ignored it.

"Besides, you need the humility, Cup."

"Humility? Why do I need humility?"

"Because pride gets us drunk. Ego keeps us drunk. Humility allows us to ask for help; it enables us to get honest about what's really going on inside."

I nodded as if I understood, but I didn't. In fact, it would be awhile before I really began understanding all of the things V said. But she told me that I didn't have to, and shouldn't expect to, understand everything immediately. She promised that, if I kept working the 12-step program, continued attending meetings, continued to build my trust in and relationship with God, everything would soon begin to make sense. But willingness was the key.

Sitting on the couch, I reflected on what had happened the night before. It didn't take me long to get honest with myself and realize that I wanted to stay sober. You see, all my life I had been coming to. But for those sixty-nine days I'd been clean; I had been "awakening"-and I liked it. I liked remembering what I'd done the night before. During those sixty-nine days, I hadn't pissed on myself or thrown up on anyone. I liked being in control of my bodily functions. During that time, I hadn't missed one day of work. I hadn't even been late for work. I'd been happy, gained weight, and began looking human again. As I sat there thinking about my sixty-nine sweet days, I got a moment of clarity: I didn't want to come to anymore. I decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life awakening.

I wanted it more than anything. Right then and there, I said a prayer. During those sixty-nine days, I'd talked to my concept of "God" enough to know that no special physical position was required. I also knew that my words didn't have to be anything fancy or eloquent. I'd just talk to Him like I'd done since the day behind the Dumpster: straight out and sincere. So, quietly and with all the genuineness I could muster, I promised God (and myself) that with His help, I would never, ever come to again.

I had no idea it was a promise we both would keep.

49.

HAVING MADE A promise to truly try to get a grip around recovery, I was like a pit bull-I refused to let go. I did everything V told me to do. Oh, don't get me wrong; I balked, whined, moaned, bitched, cried, and complained. But still, I did it-beginning with her directive to me the morning I called her to tell her I'd relapsed the night before. She instructed me to attend three meetings that day. Though I consented, I insisted on one change: since I didn't get drunk alone, I felt that I shouldn't have to go through the embarrassment of announcing my relapse alone. So I forced Rose and Tommy to go with me. We went to four meetings. At each one, I raised my hand and announced myself as a newcomer. Then, I shared about what happened the night before. Throughout the story, people in the meeting would bust out laughing or nodding their heads with familiarity, especially when I got to the part about convincing Rose and Tommy that the wine had to be "natural." Through it all, though, Rose and Tommy never laughed. Rose later told me that she didn't laugh because, every time I told the story (especially the part about my being able to have "natural" wine), she felt dumber and dumber.

The last meeting we went to was at Mesa Vista. I especially didn't want to go there, since I'd just gotten out of their rehab program. The people at those meetings watched me go from one day to sixty-nine days, sober. I felt that it would be especially humiliating to have to tell them that I, again, had only one day. I didn't want to do it. But I kept hearing V warn that staying sober would require me to do a lot of things I didn't want to. So I took a deep breath, placed (or actually forced) one foot in front of the other, and walked in.

As usual, my fears were unwarranted. Upon learning that I'd relapsed, no one cussed me out, called me a failure, or put me down. Instead, they welcomed me with caring hugs and friendly smiles and told me to "keep coming back." I vowed I would.

It was during that meeting that I noticed a handsome black man staring at me. I didn't know why he was staring at me. I didn't recognize him as anyone I knew. I mean, it was possible I'd robbed him, cussed him out while drunk, copped from him, or sold to him. Or, hell, he could have been a "business partner." I honestly didn't know. What I did know was that every time I looked at him, he was looking at me. He was about five seven, with a stocky build. He had a weird sort of sly but friendly smile. The way he smiled told me that if we had crossed each other's paths previously, it must have been a friendly encounter. No one I'd ever done wrong smiled at me-unless they did it while beatin' my ass.

After the meeting, Rose went up to the man and began talking to him. I could tell from the way they greeted each other that they knew each other. I was dying to know who he was. Tommy impatiently informed me that he was ready to go. He said he'd had enough fuckin' "program" for one day. I reminded him that we couldn't leave without Rose, and suggested he wait in the car while I fetched her.

As soon as Tommy was out of the room, I sauntered up to Rose and her friend. She introduced me as her "homegirl from way back." She said his name was Brett and that they worked together. As usual, he asked the routine question.

"Cupcake? Is that your real name?" As usual, I gave the short answer of "yes."

No one said anything for a few moments. Brett and I stood facing each other, looking each other up and down. I don't know what was going through his mind, but I was admiring his physique. He was very well built. It was obvious he worked out. His arms were muscular and well-defined. His hard, husky chest stuck out like a proud lion's. And although he had on long pants, the muscles in his thighs and calves were easily observable.

Rose must have felt the magnetic attraction that was happening because she gave some excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. She quickly disappeared, though a few moments passed before I noticed she had.

Brett and I engaged in small talk for a little while. He said that he was in Mesa Vista's thirty-day program and had been sober for about twenty days. I had to, once again, admit that since I'd just relapsed the previous night, I had less than twenty-four hours. He reminded me that he already knew about it because he'd heard me talk about it during the meeting.

Damn you, Cup! Why'd you have to be so honest!

But then he went on to tell me how much he liked and appreciated the openness I'd displayed as I talked about relapse and the humorous way I'd relayed it.