(Working title: Mike's Eye)
Chapter 1
I found myself sitting in a
group therapy function at a community center. This was not the first
time I felt the urge to get things off my conscience. To purge the
annual guilt that lingers in my bones all year, every year, that
seeps back into my blood in early November. The room I was in this
time was minimally brighter, and cleaner, than most of the rooms that
hold these kinds of gatherings. Usually the rooms are dank from the
stench of alcoholic tremor sweat, bodily excretions and expulsions,
and chemical mixtures that don't ever mask the smells as much as
they add to the naturally nauseating aromas. I was in a small town
outside of Memphis, where I had recently completed another new office
building networking installation. That was the kind of work I hadn't
planned on when my reason for going to these gathering happened. I
had been a junior in high school then, with hopes and dreams like
most other kids had in my graduating class. I was going to be a
computer graphics designer, with a focus on video games, or a federal
computer analyst, or anything that had to do with the wonder machines
that had just broken away from the simplistic word processors which
ruled the eighties. I had gotten the idea for the spell from an old
Atari game, and with the assistance of my old friend, Mike, got the
ball rolling. Things went wrong back then, very wrong. Now, ten
years later, at the age of 27, I found myself in these groups most
years. I didn't really belong at these meetings, as my poison wasn't
from a bottle, although I have been known to down some beers when I
think about that night. There is no group set up for my guilty
conscience though, and I rejected mental therapy after two sessions
on my father's dime, ten years back.
The meetings always start
the same, more or less. First people file in one at a time, over a
period that can last ten minutes, or an hour depending on what kind
of group it is. The court ordered groups are much more strict about
what time you show up. I avoided those, mainly because I don't
believe in big g god, and real AA groups require that you attend what
they deem the only true god's house. So I typically find the small
local gatherings of no affiliation. Where the people don't really
plan on quitting the bottle, or the drug of choice. More that they
feel guilty about something they've done, and want the chance to
speak their peace among fellow addicts. Hell, most of the time as
the meetings end, I've seen half the attendees walk to the nearest
bar or alley, in an attempt to wash away the memory they'd just
relived out loud for the first, or fiftieth time. When the meetings
start, and the doors are locked, I try not to go first or last, but
somewhere in the middle. This time was no different. I stood at the
front of the group after five of the thirteen at this meeting had
slurred their way through their ongoing addiction problem, before
saying “Hi, my name is Adric, and I have a problem.” After the
most alert of the bunch muttered “Hi, Adric”, I sat down again.
My full name is Adric Albrecht Filmort, and on this night, I wasn't
planning on sharing my story. Instead I listened to the sad stories
of driving a family, or wife/husband away, losing five jobs a year
because they can't show up sober to work, or the grim favorite of
murder by way of drunken use of a vehicular device. My story doesn't
have anything to do with alcohol, but it did kill my dreams.
When the sob stories were
done, and the head of the meeting thanked everybody for their
honesty, pleading halfheartedly to find a place to worship, I walked
back to my motel. I had no intention of hitting the replay button on
that memory tonight. It had been an early meeting, and with so few
in attendance, it had gotten out earlier than normal too. I grabbed
the keys to my rental car, as I didn't want to risk getting a ticket
in the work van, and headed out to find some dinner. Memphis has
your typical chain name options, but in my travels I've found that
the smaller, non national grub hubs are the way to go. Each town is
different in that way. The bigger the nearest metropolis, the better
the options. The smaller the town, the more likely options are one
of three fast food chains, the obligatory sit down slightly less fast
food dining by any hotel you see, and one or two truck stop diner or
greasy spoon. But being so near one of the two major cities in
Tennessee, I had no trouble finding a place named Deb's. I didn't
know what Deb specialized in, or if there was even anybody named Deb
working there. All I did know was that it didn't have a giant
flashing sign, and the mostly full parking spaces were occupied by
local license plates only.
What I found when I walked
in and took a seat at the bar, was that Deb did in fact work there,
and she was also my waitress. I ordered a local brew, and it came
with a menu. After ordering a platter of food, Deb put the order in
and came back to chitchat with me. It turned out that she had bought
the place years back, after working as a bartender for fifteen years,
and had no children to suck up all her tips. Now she preferred
working a counter that held more food than drink, and making sure the
staff was happy. When my food arrived, she went off to talk with
some locals who had come in, and I enjoyed some true southern bbq.
After one more beer, I settled up the tab, left Deb a decent sized
extra, and headed back to my hotel.
After taking a long shower,
I fired up the laptop, and turned on the television. I had just
finished logging in the job completion, and was watching the nightly
news when a knock came at the door. Getting off the bed, and putting
on a shirt, I opened it. Nobody was standing on the other side, nor
was there anything on the ground, or taped to the outside of the
door. I figured somebody had knocked at the wrong room, so I closed
and locked the door, and climbed back into bed. I'd done a pretty
good job of not thinking about that night years ago while awake, but
my subconscious had other plans. I fell asleep quickly, and then the
video player in my mind chose a popular repeat, and the directors cut
too boot.
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