"...So," my grandmother yawned from the passenger seat, "this man invited me to go to a meeting with him, and had to go." The bags under her eyes were more pronounced, sixty-seven years of the constant in-out of breaths compounded by twenty hours of plane flights and bad food, but she was still disturbingly aware. "I found out later that he'd invited me to a closed meeting--" the eyes shut, cheeks and lips straightening into the taut critical frown that was almost beautiful in its' expressiveness until it was directed at me-- "god, I could have killed him, he invited me to a closed meeting--and all these people were smoking like chimneys and drinking coffee like there was no tomorrow, which, if you ask me, was just trading one addiction for another."
As always, I chuckled, hands on the steering wheel even though I'd stopped the engine five minutes before.
"So, everyone there was telling these stories about how they'd ended up in this gutter or that gutter, and I was just panicking, thinking 'what am I going to say to these people?' And, when they finally came to me, I just said 'this is my first time at an A.A. meeting, and everyone left me alone."
"Saved by the bell," I said.
"Well, not quite," she replied, face softening into a smile once more. "They paired me up with a sponsor."
I looked at her; she was staring out the windshield at the passing cars snaking their way toward the mailboxes, Lexuses and Volkswagens piloted by people twice my age or older, most staring down at some envelopes they were last-minute-checking for proper postage or sealage. The smile had hardened into a grin, the angular one that reminded me of Allie in all ways save for the emotions behind it.
"They paired me up with a sponsor," she repeated, " and the first thing I said to her was 'I'm not an alcoholic,' to which she naturally replied 'oh, that's what they all say.'"
I laughed outright then, already writing the story in my head, imagining my grandmother in her late thirties or early forties, wondering if it was when she still smoked, remembering her house in LaGrange Park and the chocolate lab next door that scared the daylights out of me, the basketball hoop in the yard my father lifted me up to so I could slam dunk at age three, good Christ, it's been twenty fucking years.
"It was hilarious," Grandmother continued, "this woman would call me every day asking how I was doing, and I would say 'just fine.' After three weeks or so, she finally asked me 'What time of the day do you usually have your first drink?'"
She paused, and I wondered if she'd been distracted by something outside or was just gathering the proper facts from the jumble of years.
"And I said to her 'well, if I have a drink, it's usually a glass of wine with dinner,' and she yelled at me 'YOU'RE NOT AN ALCOHOLIC!'" She was laughing then, softly and tiredly, and then she wasn't the over-critical workaholic for whom everything had to be just so, tormentor to my grandfather and uncle and father, idol to so many women I'd met over the past five years, simply a woman in her mid-sixties sharing a story with her grandson. "So," she grinned, "this woman told me to 'never come to an A.A. meeting again!' and hung up."
"Which is what you wanted in the first place," I said.
"Right."
The transcendance of the moment was watered down, of course, by the fact that we'd always had such moments parked outside the post office, waiting for my grandfather to emerge with however many weeks' worth of mail, but at the time, it didn't much matter. I leaned sideways in the seat, stretching my latissimus dorsi and enjoying the grey sky.
As always, I chuckled, hands on the steering wheel even though I'd stopped the engine five minutes before.
"So, everyone there was telling these stories about how they'd ended up in this gutter or that gutter, and I was just panicking, thinking 'what am I going to say to these people?' And, when they finally came to me, I just said 'this is my first time at an A.A. meeting, and everyone left me alone."
"Saved by the bell," I said.
"Well, not quite," she replied, face softening into a smile once more. "They paired me up with a sponsor."
I looked at her; she was staring out the windshield at the passing cars snaking their way toward the mailboxes, Lexuses and Volkswagens piloted by people twice my age or older, most staring down at some envelopes they were last-minute-checking for proper postage or sealage. The smile had hardened into a grin, the angular one that reminded me of Allie in all ways save for the emotions behind it.
"They paired me up with a sponsor," she repeated, " and the first thing I said to her was 'I'm not an alcoholic,' to which she naturally replied 'oh, that's what they all say.'"
I laughed outright then, already writing the story in my head, imagining my grandmother in her late thirties or early forties, wondering if it was when she still smoked, remembering her house in LaGrange Park and the chocolate lab next door that scared the daylights out of me, the basketball hoop in the yard my father lifted me up to so I could slam dunk at age three, good Christ, it's been twenty fucking years.
"It was hilarious," Grandmother continued, "this woman would call me every day asking how I was doing, and I would say 'just fine.' After three weeks or so, she finally asked me 'What time of the day do you usually have your first drink?'"
She paused, and I wondered if she'd been distracted by something outside or was just gathering the proper facts from the jumble of years.
"And I said to her 'well, if I have a drink, it's usually a glass of wine with dinner,' and she yelled at me 'YOU'RE NOT AN ALCOHOLIC!'" She was laughing then, softly and tiredly, and then she wasn't the over-critical workaholic for whom everything had to be just so, tormentor to my grandfather and uncle and father, idol to so many women I'd met over the past five years, simply a woman in her mid-sixties sharing a story with her grandson. "So," she grinned, "this woman told me to 'never come to an A.A. meeting again!' and hung up."
"Which is what you wanted in the first place," I said.
"Right."
The transcendance of the moment was watered down, of course, by the fact that we'd always had such moments parked outside the post office, waiting for my grandfather to emerge with however many weeks' worth of mail, but at the time, it didn't much matter. I leaned sideways in the seat, stretching my latissimus dorsi and enjoying the grey sky.