Excuse Me Sir, That Seat Was Taken

How do we DO this?! How do we stay sober?!

Big exam in Psych Statistics tonight, the kind where I pull out my hair while working my pencil, and end up getting an A. Killing myself, because that is what I do. (Let's remember, I did not get A's in college the first time around. I was into blackouts, cracked ribs, stealing cigarettes. And there was a tail-gate party that, as good drunks, we didn't party out of the trunk of the car; we rented a U-Haul cube to hold the kegs. I got mud in my braids, puked all over, and had to ride home in the back of the cube, which was scary and made me even pukier.) These days, why do it unless you do it right, which means full throttle, pull-your-hair-out-late-night-statistics.

There is an Indian dandy who comes in late when he comes to class, which is almost never. Wild hair and gorgeous black eyes, and a smell you'd imagine comes from his car, gassy and smokey and boozy. His skin should be lovely, too, but it's not, it's yellow, and there are bits of tobacco-like things in his hair. He chooses to sit by me, probably because it's the easiest seat to take when late and leave when early. (Some of you might say a higher power put him there, but I believe it's just a matter of logistics.) He takes off his coat and his smell comes to me, lets me know what he's been up to. On lecture nights, he raises his hand and asks questions that no one but the professor can understand, and she dismisses him because his questions will be answered two chapters down the line. The kid is in overdrive on some crazy Jim Beam-and-speed math ride, and the teacher can't keep up. Tonight is exam night, and he's drunk again, swaying again, and getting an A...again. How does he DO it?

And why couldn't I? That's what still can piss us right off. Why can't we be like "other" people? Why can't we drink like normal, and act normal, and have normal relationships with normal expectations and disppointments? Have a drink at Friday happy hour, toast the bride and groom at a wedding, have a few beers from the trunk in the Giants' parking lot? Well, we can't. We just can't. We've proven it over and over. We don't know more than we know, and we know we cannot drink at all if we are to live like "other" people.

Besides, the sotten Indian is not one of the "other" people, he is like me. He just doesn't know it yet.

Merci Beaucoup!

Did you know I went on a health clinic mission to Haiti? Guess I didn't hit you up for money to help pay my way, then. Anyway, I went. I missioned. I had the best experiences, and some of the worst, of my life, sometimes within the same afternoon. Reflecting, I get to look at what was really cool and grows daily in meaning, and what wasn't as important as I thought it was when I was in that particular moment. For instance, at the time I learned that FOUR other team members out of nine were alcoholics recovering through the 12 steps of A.A., I was blown away. I fired off e-mails to my A.A. gang at home, hoping to translate my breathless surprise and joy through typed language. Really, I was fired up. Nine days later, not so hot about it, more warmly appreciative. (Of course half the gang was in recovery; drunks and junkies do it UP when it's time to give back! No simple local food bank for us, we go to fuckin' HAITI cross fuckin' MOUNTAINS and save some LIVES, mothafuckers!) Looking back on what meant the most, my most defining experience could have happened in my own back yard, but I'm like Dorothy and need to travel around some and end up beat and vulnerable in a strange land before I can learn my lesson.

My travel companion was an acquaintance from work, our school's nurse, Pam. We've always been friendly within the confines of work; we made our plans to travel to Haiti together without ever having had a cup of coffee or any conversation outside school walls. We did not have each others' phone numbers, or e-mails. We weren't sure how old the other was, or how old the others' daughters were. General niceties gleaned some random bits, like one of her daughters was a tv producer, but which daughter eluded me. I called her husband Steve, when his name is David, so it was pretty much like that between us. One afternoon we booked flights to Haiti from her office, and I realized I might be making a real friend, and that was more frightening than the prospect of a Haitian kidnapping. Better to keep Pam at an arm's length, no matter what country we were in.

I guarded myself while we planned and shopped and gave interviews to the local news. We met each other at our front doors to swap boots and bug spray. We didn't mind that we might sleep in separate rooms, or that our airplane seats weren't adjoining. We were just two travellers, each on our own trip, happy for a companion but ready for individual adventure.

Once in Haiti, though, almost immediately upon landing, the dynamics changed. In the Port au Prince airport we found out that we needed each other, or things would go very badly very quickly. One would guard while the other gathered belongings, not individual bags, but our luggage, our supplies. We locked arms through the pressing crowds, and shared the trip through the city wide-eyed and astounded. We shared everything: matches, food, clothes, tears, tantrums, intolerance of stigma, frustration with dogma, dislike of others. Because of the heat, we were more comfortable undressed than clothed (which is really huge for me, I cannot walk around in my own living room with only unders on, I have to wear something more to hide my body, to protect me). We swam in our panties, we made up songs about other travellers, we laughed until we cried. We became the very best of friends, in spite of me. I didn't have to work or analyze or manipulate it, it happened, and it was, and is, beautiful.

The most meaningful thing I brought home from Haiti is a friend. At work, we share whispers and songs, and put silly stuff in each others' mailboxes. After hours we call each other on the phone, and write e-mails to add that one more thing we forgot in conversation. And even without talking or writing or holding hands through airplane turbulance, I know Pam is my friend. And I am hers. Haiti gave me what I couldn't give myself.

Hijacked hijacker.

My new favorite word. Lately, I can use hijack for any situation, as in:

My project at work got hijacked by a short woman with a big ego and a european accent. You can't fight that bitch, gotta let the project go. I picked my battles; actually, I picked no battles, and guess it all worked out in the end. The kids seeded flower pots for Earth day, which was my original plan, so everybody won.

Also as in:

My oldest child is living a life for which she patiently waited more than 2 years. She is about to graduate with a degree she wasn't sure she should want or could earn. She's rented a 2nd floor walkup over a bagel deli/Domino's pizza, and her new home is filled with light and scented candles and owl paintings. (Also in this new flat is a nice guy who is rather cute and very much in love with her, but maybe too old for her, but maybe not, it's not for me to say.) She helped out a friend in need a few days ago, and now her life has been hijacked by an angry drug addicted lesbian who has been tossed out of rehab due to her "problems with authority". My child came home to lie on her old bedroom floor, pet her left-behind cat, and cry. I used to love the angry drug addicted oppositionally defiant lesbian; I guess I still do. I'm just really disgusted with the bad-behavior-in-rehab spiel. Look, kid, this is your third go round doing 28 days. Swallow that shit that comes out of your mouth so you can get help, or move along so someone who deserves your bed can have it. You're like a punk holding a knife to a bus driver's neck. Get arrested, already, would you? Yes, life is hard, I get it. No, no one understands you, I get it. Get locked up, you may finally be the one who gets it.

Today I:

Hijacked my diet with a trip out to the Stewart's root beer and hot dog joint in Denville. I didn't order fries, but you know I ate 10 or 12 of Steven's. Feeding the ends of my chili dog rolls to the dog does not count as discounting the caloric content of the meal; I am only kidding myself.

My final example:

I am a recovering hijacker. I hijacked the expectations for a somewhat normal life not only from the above child, but her two sisters as well. I did hijack the idea of unconditional love from their dad. I hijacked my father's pride in a daughter who could rise above bad luck and poor timing. I've hijacked hundreds of people's plans to have a nice day. I have hijacked conversations, good intentions, and interventions. I took over that plane at gunpoint and turned it toward Mexico more than once, let me tell you, and I am more like the angry lesbian than I am my own kid. That is, I was like her. Now, I am more like my own child. I can hand over the controls and say, that's ok, I guess this flight will just take a little longer than I had planned. Does anyone have extra peanuts?

Birds of a Feather

My heart is breaking for a friend, a crazy-ass drunk who's life is spinning away from him. Usually I don't have much sympathy for alcoholics who know how and where to get sober, yet choose to continue to drink dangerously and complain about "not getting the program" as a bigger attention getter. (I guess that's the German part of me, intolerant even while educated. ) I mean, really, why would you sit down, shut up, listen, and do what others tell you when you can swing from chandeliers, fall down stairs, swerve over the yellow line, and bang rails in the men's room of the County Line til 5 am? (Damn, when I think of cursing the birds at 5, because they were waking and I was NOT sleeping...well, that's why I'm here.)

So, my friend. Whom I took to immediately upon meeting him, because I recognized myself on his surface. He is searching religions for spiritual recovery, searching his sexuality for soul recovery, reading voraciously for intellectual recovery, switching up his exercise regime for physical recovery. This is where his spinning begins, increases, and hopes the end is coming pretty damn soon, or he knows he will whirl away to nothing, a no one, no where. He practices yoga while reading Voltaire. He stays up all night making an origami zoo, agonizing over the recipient, either the latina with the fuck-me smile or the young tough with the fuck-you eyes. He stays at home lately because he is tired of getting pulled over/beaten up/thrown out. He burns CDs with elaborate themes, like "If I Was Your Boyfriend", and "Volume Two", mixing Chicago with Zappa and The Hollies. Yes, Chicago. I mean, this kid is pitiful.

And I get it! I get him! The whole show! The search to try anything at all to bring sanity to life, except of course not drink. This guy gets nothing but sympathy from me, maybe because he tries so damn hard. He's not hopeless, he's got plenty of hope! "Life WILL get better, if only_____happens when I find ______ and can go ______ with ______!" His life is, like my life was, as meaningful as a blank Mad Libs page! And I love him. I wanna chuck him on the shoulder, pinch his cheek, "aw-shucks" him into recovery. Not baby him, so much as call him buddy and pal, and say things like "if-I-can-do-it-you-can-do-it". Which is all well and good if his name was Opie Taylor, but it isn't, and really, he is killing himself. And that is one really heartbreaking experience that folks in recovery have in common: We watch other people kill themselves daily. It's part of our collective recovery. I guess that is part of my impatience with so many drinking drunks, that part of me is freaking tired of watching them. Enough already! "If-I-can-do-it-you-can-do-it". It doesn't get boring, it just gets sickening. For me, at least. Except, with my friend, at least for now. My tolerance can turn on a dime. Maybe I will get bored, or sick, or tired of him. That might not be a bad thing--I got sober when I got bored, sick, and tired of myself.