Commitment Issues (12 page)

There was a standing ovation. I saw that Wyatt was crying.

"He was there,” Wyatt said.

"Yup,” I agreed. “And you're here. Wanna meet him?"

"Naw, I'm good."

"Okay,” I said as we began walking out to the parking lot. “Diner?"

"Can't tonight,” he said. “Car's in the shop. I took the bus."

"Come on,” I said. “I'll drive."

"You are kidding, right?"

"What?"

"You're on your Harley,” he said. “Count the wheels."

"Two,” I said quietly.

"Somebody has stolen half of your car. You're supposed to have four wheels, but you only got two."

"It's a motorcycle,” I laughed.

"But,” he said. “Holy shit to mother of Jesus. What's that?"

"Handlebars,” I whispered. “They all have one."

"Not the handlebars. You have a pink Barbie doll squeeze horn that's supposed to go on a girl's bicycle."

I shrugged as I gave him my helmet. I can ride without a helmet, but I almost always wear one. I didn't have two helmets, so Wyatt got my only one. I got onto the bike as he strapped the helmet onto his head. After I made sure both passenger pegs were down, I told him to get on. He put one foot on a peg, and then he just waited.

"Hop off!” I said loudly.

"What's wrong?” he asked like he had done something awful.

"You ever ride before?"

"Okay, now I know you're crazy. Do I look like a biker bitch?"

"Sort of,” I laughed. “You can be my biker bitch anytime you want, but you have to learn how to mount."

"You won't let me mount you."

"The bike,” I said. “There's a way to get on the bike. You don't weigh much, but I feel every pound. It's no big deal, but you stood on the peg. We almost went over because I wasn't ready for you to just stand there."

"Sorry,” he said like I had shot him.

"Not a huge deal. Stand on the peg, but swing your leg over and sit down. We gotta stay balanced."

"Oh, okay. I get it."

"Only other thing is that I'll drive. I lean for curves, but you are just dead weight. Don't help me lean in the curves. Just sit there, and I'll keep us upright."

"Yes, boss."

I hit the ignition button, and the bike came to life.
Potato-potato
, it said.
Potato-potato.
I even squeezed the horn, and it went
eee-woo, eee-woo.

"When do I get to swim again?” he asked me as I started to pull out.

"I'm afraid to ask you,” I told him. “If I get you wearing next to nothing again, I won't be able to keep my hands off you."

"Nobody's asking you to,” he laughed. “Touch me all you want."

"I can't,” I said, thinking we'd discuss it.

"Fine,” he said. “Just take me home, and I'll be out of your hair."

"That's not what I meant,” I told him.

"Please take me home, or I can just get off and take the bus."

That went well, don't you think?

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... And now this nation of immigrants is facing the latest in a long string of immigrant waves. That's Perspective America. I'm Sean Roberts....

"And we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio intercom.

I poked around at the station and then went directly to the group. I was early and caught the tail end of a business meeting. Wyatt was sitting in the front row listening intently. He hadn't been sober long enough to be attending a business meeting. They can be contentious. The topic was the thirteenth step. The business meeting leader explained that the thirteenth step was when anybody with a year or more of sobriety made sexual advances on a newcomer with the claim that sex would help the newcomer's program. Great. Just great.

Part of me wondered if the meeting had been called because Wyatt and I spent so much time together. Maybe somebody saw how much I drooled when I saw him, how I blabbered when I tried to talk to him. Maybe they saw me coming up with poetry when I thought about his eyes or lips.

Wyatt didn't pay any attention to me. It was like I didn't exist. He saw me come in, but he just ignored me. The business meeting concluded with passage of a paragraph about the thirteenth step. It was going to be read at all the group's meetings for a month, and it was to become a permanent part of every Newcomer Meeting.

The business meeting adjourned, and there was still a half-hour before the eleven p.m. meeting.

"Can I talk to you outside?” Wyatt said.

"Sure,” I said, getting up and following him.

When we were on the parking lot, I reached out to him for a hug. He just stood there with one hand against my shoulder. He didn't want to hug. He didn't even want me close.

"Why did you string me along?” he asked in a severe tone that I had never heard from him. His voice was biting and fierce.

"I don't know—"

"Bullshit. You did,” he said, raising his voice. “You never cared about me. You were just wrapped up in your own shit."

"Wyatt—"

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. I wanted you so bad. I wanted to be inside you, and you told me you wanted it too."

"But you're a newcomer."

"Yeah, I was,” he laughed. “I was a pansy little newcomer, but you never said sex with you would help or hurt my sobriety."

"But—"

"No, shut up. The rule about the thirteenth step is only when the guy with the most sobriety tries to tell the newcomer that sex will improve sobriety. You never claimed that. You never tried to thirteenth-step me. You just didn't want to have sex. Next time somebody throws himself at your feet, have the common decency to tell him you aren't interested. You strung me along like a cheap piece of costume jewelry."

"That isn't—"

"Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone."

And he walked away. He left and didn't come to the eleven p.m. meeting. He left me alone in the parking lot, wondering what I had done that was so wrong. Whatever I did or didn't do with Wyatt was for his own good. He was on the rebound from getting kicked out of a relationship, and he was still an AA newcomer. Any one of those things would mean I had to keep my hands to myself. There were multiple reasons why we couldn't be in a relationship, not now. Maybe we could later, but I knew that I was doing the right thing. Wasn't it the right thing? He said that I didn't want him, but that wasn't true. He said that I couldn't commit to a relationship, but I didn't think... could that be it? No, my intent was to protect Wyatt, to give him space to get sober and to live sober. Whatever, he made an abrupt departure from my life. He was there one minute and gone—poof—the next.

I didn't see Wyatt for three weeks at the eleven p.m. meeting, although my sponsor told me that he was going to the noon meeting. He was going to a meeting that was held when I was on the air. He had picked a time where he was positive that we wouldn't meet. He had given me the boot, and he put up every wall he could find.

Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic, and I fucked-up first class.

I was alone at the eleven p.m. meeting, and it felt awful. I never went to the diner but just went straight home. It was really awful. What had I done that was so bad? My goal was to keep Wyatt safe and secure, and he was punishing me for it.

I stopped going to meetings. I stopped everything except work and fast food drive-throughs. I even wanted to get drunk, and that hadn't happened for a very long time.

"I want to go get a drink,” I told my sponsor on the phone.

"Bullshit,” Sharon said. “You never wanted
a
drink in your whole miserable life."

"You're right. I want to go get drunk."

Sharon didn't speak. My sponsor just listened. She waited for me to say more.

"Hello?” I said.

"I'm here."

"Any words of advice?"

"Call the newspaper. Maybe they'll send a reporter right over."

"Don't be... I want to get drunk."

"Is this Sean? Is this the guy I've listened to for at least two years say he's an alcoholic?"

"You know it's me, but that—"

"If you're an alcoholic, I'd be surprised if you didn't want to go get drunk from time to time. Of course you want to get drunk. This isn't news, babe. Seems to be an occupational hazard for people like us."

"I haven't wanted to get drunk in so long. What am I supposed to do? I miss him so much."

"Rum? Baby miss his rum?"

"Wyatt,” I said through my tears. “I want to get drunk because I can't stand to be without Wyatt."

"Bullshit,” she said. “You want to get drunk because you're an alcoholic. Did you read anything from the Big Book today?"

"No."

"Did you go to a meeting?"

"No, but—"

"I'm starting to see a pattern,” she laughed into the phone. My sponsor was laughing at me, and I was starting to get pissed.

"Meeting's got nothing to do with Wyatt."

"You know about the Twelve Steps?"

"Sure."

"Forget about them,” she said. “Twelve is too much for you. I'm going to simplify the list for you. One, get on your knees in the morning and ask God to keep you away from the first drink. Don't ask for help; just ask him to do it."

"None of this has—"

"Two, go to a meeting. Three, talk to another alcoholic. Four, go to a meeting. And five, get on your knees at night telling God thanks for the day even if it was a crappy day."

"But—"

"But nothing, Sean,” my sponsor said. “This is a deadly game you're playing."

"But what about Wyatt?"

"How many of those five things did you do today?"

"I'm talking to an alcoholic right now,” I said.

"One out of five."

"I don't want to drink because of you. I want to drink because I've lost the—"

"You want to drink because you're a goddamn alcoholic. You have five things to do every day, and I've never heard of anybody having the kind of problem you're having if they did all five things."

"I know the drill."

"No, Sean, you know the words. Get your head out of your ass and do all five things today. You got four more."

And with that, she was gone, and I was alone in my apartment.

What I didn't tell you was that I had a quart of vodka that I bought on my way home. I could open the bottle—which was what I really wanted to do—or I could open that fucking book.

"Chapter Five,” I read out loud. “'Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. ...’”

I kept reading for half an hour or so, and that was where I was when I woke up. I looked across the room and found that the vodka still had all its seals. I read myself to sleep, but I didn't open the booze. That fucking Big Book had bored me so much that I didn't drink. Nights like that, I'd take the help wherever it came from.

"You look like shit,” Janie Marroquin said.

"Love you too, dear,” I said as I tried to focus.

"You fall off the wagon?” she asked.

"No. Just a rough night. What's going on out there today?"

We talked about the news for a while. I did the show without any of my regular ad-libs. It was just her script and my voice. That had never happened before, and she saw it.

I tried to go out on dates, but it never worked. I just wasn't interested in men, and that was so not like me. It was just me and the job and a whole string of fast-food restaurants. I didn't go anywhere, and I didn't do anything. I went to AA about once a week, and I'd hear from friends who couldn't wait to share their latest Wyatt stories. He was doing great, they'd say. He had a whole new circle of friends, they'd claim. I wanted to throw up.

The group used a whiteboard on a wall to list AA birthdays, and it said Wyatt was coming up on his one year. One year of sobriety. It was a major milestone. In AA, that is probably the mother of all the big deals. I had known him for a year, and he'd stayed sober all that time. I wanted to be with him so much that I could almost taste it, but he had moved on. Seeing his name on the board reminded me that there was a hole in my side, and it really hurt. I wanted to be with Wyatt on his first anniversary. I wanted it, and I think he knew that I wanted it. He had moved on. According to everyone, Wyatt was happy without me.

I got him a birthday card and mailed it to him, but nobody ever mentioned it. I wrote my cell phone number in the card, but he never called. It was over between us, and it had never even had a chance to start.

What I had was a big wound in my spirit where Wyatt once was. When I rode the Harley over some bridges, I considered how easy it would be to crash through the barriers and end everything. Whatever was next couldn't be worse than having to live without Wyatt.

As I was riding, I tried to create a poem, but nothing came. I hated poetry, so I was back to being incapable of verse. Walt Whitman had left the building. Just as well on that. Maybe I could learn to do Ezra Pound or Ogden Nash. The way I felt, all I could guarantee would be Oscar Levant, maybe Edgar Allan Poe. That was so stupid because I did newscasts, and they didn't even let me write them. I had to have adult supervision. That's the only way anybody would let me close to a microphone.

I went out to the ballet with Chico one night, but I sat beside him and cried. He was nice, but I doubted there'd ever be a second date between us.

I rode over to a bar I used to like. It was the same tired old bartender. Some of the same tired old drunks were still sitting on the same half-broken barstools. I hadn't been to the bar in years, but nothing had changed. Nobody there was interesting, nobody I wanted to fuck. I went to the bathhouse and was so not interested in anything on that menu, and I didn't even bother to notice if anybody was interested in me. Everybody at the bar was drunk. Everybody at the “tubs” was on something, maybe meth. It was a recipe to keep me really bored. Drunks are no fun to be around if you're the only one sober. They think they're so cool or so hip, but they're really sad. So my drunk life had nothing that I still wanted, and my sober life was refusing to let me have what I craved. Ugggh. I was beyond anger, because anger wouldn't help anything. It didn't make me mad, just sad at my whole sorry life.