Part III - Chapter 6 (or, ebook, 24). The Divine Switchboard

That morning after the meeting, I enjoyed the sweat of hard labor in the sun while digging a footing for a foundation. When I had something to mull over, this was the kind of work that suits me best. The things that were said came to mind throughout the day. They were somewhat trite at times; but, none of it sounded convoluted or arcane. Most of the slogans were so simple I might have missed their importance if I hadn’t experienced them first-hand, like; Keep it Simple; that first drink is the one that gets us drunk; this isn’t a debating society; One Day at a Time”; and a handful of other slogans. But mostly it was the things that were read from a book they fondly referred to as “the Big Book” that made me pay attention. I feared, “Oh shit, another group with a Book!”

I got home to a message on the answering machine from, John. “Max, come on down to the bar: we gotta have a talk.”

Word had gotten back to him about the tirade.  He wasn’t the sort of guy who would use an eviction notice. There was never a lease beyond that first handshake.

I jumped into the van and hurried to John’s Jon where he was seated at the end of the bar by the pool table with his usual cup of coffee. I took the stool around the corner of the bar from him so that we could face each other, eye to eye.

We sat there for a few long minutes before he grumbled, “So, what the fuck happened?”

“I have no explanation John…. drunk.”

“Drunk? That ain’t no fuckin’ excuse.” He spoke softly in that raspy voice I’d learned to respect. The man was an honest man and it tore me up to see the expression on his face that read disappointment more than anger.

We sat there for what seemed several more excruciating minutes. But then, a calm came over me before I spoke, “Yeh, I know. Let me repair the windows before I clear out of there.”

Several more minutes passed.

At last he grumbled, “If you stay…” He took his eyes off me long enough for a sip of coffee, “Don’t bullshit me, what do I have in order to believe it won’t happen again.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had nothing left in me for promises so, I said, “Nothing… I have nothing besides my word.”

I was gone and, in my mind, already loading the van.

“It won’t happen again?”

I was stunned he was even asking. I couldn’t say more than, “My word’s all I’ve got.”

“Good then: Keep it.”

I reached over to shake John’s hand.

He held his palm up, “Now go home and fix those fucking windows by tomorrow.”

I understood what it meant... It was a condition. Keep your word and then we’ll shake on it. 
“My word then… thanks, John.”

I wondered then what sort of cosmic karma was going for me now as I walked away that afternoon. Was it possible that there was something… a deity a vibration of some sort that resonates… knows and cares about my problems?

Fifteen years later John passed away and I visited his grave with gratitude for being able to keep my word, but more so because Jonn had always faithfully accepted it.

Meetings at the Alano Club were unlike anything I’d ever imagined. First, the leader gave a short talk about his, or her, own triumphs and problems. Rarely did I hear anyone preach the evils of drugs and alcohol. Instead, more often than not, a fondness; hell, a downright affection was expressed. Secondly, the leader only picked a topic but in no way did anyone moderate the meetings other than perhaps and occasional admonition to cut-off a windbag or maybe bring the discussion back to the topic. The leaders were just one of the members that was chosen each meeting. No one seemed to be in charge at all except for a secretary.

All lines are lit up with calls from countless stars and galaxies. God’s heavenly answering service on the Earth-Line takes calls faster than the speed of light. There have always been calls from; floods in Bangladesh, famines in Ethiopia, suffering from wars all over the globe… Iraq, Afghanistan, Nigeria… similar disasters on billions of other planets and all are handled by the same service. 

Miraculously folks get through right away, “You have reached the Heavenly Hot Line. If this is an Emergency of global proportions, press one. If it is an emergency of a personal nature, press two. If this is a matter of finding a parking space, a team victory or similar requests, press three. The Big Kahuna is no longer in the business of smiting enemies. If you want an enemy smitten you should hang up and call: 1-(800) 666-H-E-L-L. Your call will be answered in the order it is received.”

Then you are on hold for a remarkably short time with a Bach fugue played live for you while you wait, “Hello, welcome to the Heavenly Earth Desk, how may we be helpful?”…

“Oh, you want to quit drinking?”… 

“Uh-huh, you have tried AA?”…

“Uh-huh… once before.” …

“Uh-huh. Oh, I see, you want to speak with the Big Kahuna. Let me put you on hold again.” …

“The Big Kahuna is busy with other calls at this time but should get to you within a few minutes.”

While on hold, the service Angel calls in on a special line; “Big Kahuna? I know you are busy but Max down there is on the Earth Line calling from Santa Barbara and wants to get sober. Can you help him? He sounds desperate…. oh, I see.”

Taken off hold, the Angel says, “Yes, the Kahuna is dealing with some serious disasters right now, an earthquake here and a tsunami there…and can’t get to you at this time; but, after you’ve gone to a few AA meetings…” …

“Oh, how many?” …

“I see, call back after attending ninety-meetings in ninety-days and we’ll see what can be done for you.”

“There’s no charge for AA?”

“It’s the Betty Ford for poor people. Take a bit of free advice from one that has watched these things for more than a few millennia; be careful where you look for the truth. Any truth you have to pay for is an iffy proposition. It will liberate your wallet but rarely your soul.”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, that’s what we do here.”

The idea was an absurd one but I went with it anyway. What else was there for me to do? I had no insurance and I couldn’t afford to check myself into anything like a Malibu recovery spa. At least AA didn’t cost anything. Besides, maybe a few of these people were on to something after all. I remembered asking the Fu how sitting in a room full of admitted; liars, thieves and manipulators of every sort, could somehow fix anyone? But, after that morning’s meeting, I knew that I’d come to the right place because these people seemed to be authentic about the process and the Fellowship. If all I needed to do was to get over the hump anyway, maybe I could cut back on meetings then; maybe after I got some creative juices going… after restoring some confidence and able to handle sobriety like I did in Nicaragua.

Creativity: it took some time. I dreamed of getting back to it but I found that the Muse was a jealous mistress. She has to be your only lover or she’ll move on. I’d made an obsession of alienation and despair; of the oblivion of drugs and booze; of chasing that connection with the divine ache in my soul everywhere but where it could be healed. It was all a priority to me and more important than any vague relationship with a Muse. For this, I was lost on the Island of the Lotus Eaters and there seemed no escape from it. Like the crew of cunning Odysseus, I was sidetracked and bamboozled at every turn by forces beyond my control. That one-eyed monster; that single eyed tunnel-vision of Cyclops, had been devouring me in the darkness of its cave and I had surrendered to my fate until the Fu came along and rekindled the fires of creation. She was my Calypso. I was awakened by the paradox of a neurotic, and erotic, obsession for her to desire freedom.

The Fu helped me realize too that I needed to want to live more than anything else and that, though she had awakened my heart to love and then rejected me, she restored a commitment to a clouded idea of a better world. I had reason to be worthy of life... even the lives I had taken in the jungles of Central America or the abandonment of my daughter, Ariel. I instinctively knew that the Fu was only the fulcrum the Great Whazoo used to leverage me back onto a relationship with the universe that meant something.  I once laughed at the notion that the Prime Mover of the cosmos would even notice my speck of existence among all the atoms that make up the universe. It was too much to swallow to believe that a grandfather in the sky would care whether I drank myself to death or went on to a happy and fruitful life.

Two years later I went back to driving a taxi. I was still sober and still going to those damned meetings. I found myself sitting behind of the wheel of my own cab and hauling folks around Santa Barbara on the graveyard shift. I began putting money in the bank and damned near forgot all about my obsession with Adrienne. Sober enough for me to let go of it, the obsession, we became good friends before she went back home to France. I felt nothing but gratitude for her, as it was said before, and I believed she was the wedge that put my feet on this path. We weren’t done with each other yet.

It took a few more years for me to bury the hatchet with Celeste and, in my core, I never really could. We forgave each other but the resentment still simmered. I’d been able to make up for some of the lost time with Ariel. It is still hit and miss and I understand that it would always be hard for her to forgive me my absence. As it stands, she has decided it is too much for her to bare and I have to swallow it with a modicum of grace. There is no fairy tale conclusion along those lines but, through it all, I have begun to grasp a steady and powerful flow to life that I prefer to think of as nothing more than the universe conversing with itself. I believe that three-letter word, God, is too limited for me and carries a lot of excess baggage through the doors of sanctity. Besides, I’d seen too much suffering to accept a Pollyanna take on the sometimes violently explosive wonder in the way things careen around about the cosmos. I sense, rather than believe, that I could be in the flow of it and have a chance to come out on the other end with the love of the Muse. She is my one true love and I have recaptured enough of a vision, and fire in my soul, to court her now.

A vagrant came to the door that same day asking for spare change. He said he needed it to make a call to heaven. I gladly emptied my pockets saying, “I bet you will.”

Homer wants to be fed. Good morning...