A bit of reflection:
At last night’s Chicago Bloggers function at the decidedly non-divey Black Beetle, I used the term “hotbox” for, like, the first time ever. If you are too old or too young or did not attend a college where the air was fucking redolent of the Chronic, then hotbox might be a new one for you. Basically, it refers to the smoking of pot in a completely sealed room. Simple, evocative.
But why was it in my head, waiting to spring forth? I’ve never “hotboxed,” been a “hotboxer,” or gone “hotboxing.” So, what the fuck? The mind is like a grandma’s closet. You reach in, pull out an old box of Sunsweet prunes, and say what the hay and dive right in.
A bit of fiction:
It’s only eleven and I’m already hacking from the cigarette smoke. No matter how many meetings, how many late nights, I’ll never get used to this nasty stink. In the clothes, in the hair. But I remain true to the mission.
When I got to number 12, the last step, I thought that I’d feel free but that’s when the real work started. I truly did have a spiritual awakening and try to spread the word to others. And that’s why I’m here, in the one place where my sponsor thinks I shouldn’t be, where my family is scared for me. A bar.
I’m in bars about three-four nights a week. I’ll pop in around nineish, stay until one. I drink water or cola only. I have never once wanted to drink in a bar again. That was never my thing anyway. I preferred bathtubs.
I sit and I watch. I keep a book or magazine handy when there’s a lull, but usually there isn’t. Because there’s always some guy or woman who needs to hear the truth. So I wait until that person has to go to the bathroom. At a particular volume, alcohol ceases knocking and resorts to pounding on the bladder. It’s a matter of waiting.
When the person exits the bathroom, sometimes still zipping up, I emerge. This is how my speech starts:
“Do you want me to tell you what none of your friends will say?”
The person always mumbles. A man might sneer also. A woman will ignore me.
“Do you want me to say what you already know?”
It’s cryptic enough to get attention. I think a lot of people might interpret this as a weird religious thing. I guess it is, in a way.
They’ll say: “What?” Always elegant. Erudite!
“You’re a drunk.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, a drunk, not just intoxicated.”
And here’s the good part. This will always get them. Why? Because I can spot you so easily. I used to be you and it makes me nauseous.
I put my hands on their shoulders and make eye contact. Sometimes this is hard, because eyes can swim as easily as fish.
“Someday, you will accept who you are, but you will not be proud. You will tire of falling, feeling feverish, breaking things, and regret. It will be difficult, but I believe in you.”
A handful of people have burst into tears. I’ve gotten punched twice. But most of the time, I’m on the receiving end of a cocky, shit-eating grin that looks great only under dim lighting, in the glow of an Old Style sign.