Poetics
by Todd
Christopher Cincala
A.A.
Four
light beers and
(I’ll be honest)
a
pretty fat glass of the Balvenie
conspired against me
on the way home
this past Thanksgiving Day
flashing red and blue in the rearview mirror
that’s why I’m here
now
today;
this is the eighth meeting of nine
I’m required to attend
by the mandate of the judge
and the state of Pennsylvania,
I sit nondescript
at the back
near the door
as I’ve done seven unmemorable times before
and once again
I’m hearing
the same
story—
this time from Bob
“I’m an alcoholic,” he says
“Hi Bob,”
the room responds
(if drugs had been
involved
Bob would have said,
“addict / alcoholic”)
Bob is forty-four
Bob has been sober for
THIRTEEN years
the room applauds
Bob
starts by saying it is still
a battle
every day
against
all odds;
some are worse than others
like today—
Bob was at his job
driving a forklift at the docks
when a rotten plank gave way
jammed his tire
tipped his pallet
“Forty some odd cases of red wine,” he says
the room gasps
(the
guy next to me
keeps crumpling something invisible
in his hands)
Bob’s
foreman didn’t know
he was a recovering alcoholic;
Bob’s foreman couldn’t know
how difficult it was for him,
Bob,
to be standing over a pool of wine
spreading at his feet like
(Bob’s words)
“a
blood stain”
Bob just wanted,
no,
needed to tell his story
to people who could
understand;
I am not one of these people;
the first step is admitting
you have a problem;
(I’ll be honest)
I didn’t know, really know
when I first started attending the meetings,
I had my doubts because
I’ve done things I shouldn’t
wouldn’t have done
if it had not been for my
“affinity,”
but now I can appreciate
the difference between
affinity and addiction;
after hearing Bob’s story
(and others
worse than Bob’s)
like Susan’s pincushion
impersonation in a VW
bus;
or Roger’s theft of his invalid
mother’s Social
Security checks;
or Mickey’s multiple vehicular
manslaughter charges;
my fears are put to rest
like a snake charmed
back
into its basket
by a
swaying pipe-player;
after every meeting,
while the others go home chain-smoking
to spend the night
scratching the paint off their walls
in their horrible, desolate battle
day by day
against alcohol,
I go to the corner bar
and order myself a drink,
knowing full well and relishing the fact,
I can take a sip
and leave it.
Remember
to Forget
The man stretched out
on the couch, remote
lying on the carpet
where it slipped
from his hand,
is not the
man
who cracks
his gum like
a grade-school girl
even though he knows
how it annoys you more
than anything in the
world, is
not the
man
who since
nine-eleven takes
exception to being
pulled aside in airports
points to the nearest
Arab-looking person
and says, SEARCH
HIM, is
not the
man
whom your
mother fears
will drive her
absolutely insane
when he retires
in a year or
two, he is
not that
man;
you must
remember
to forget such
things about your
father and never forget
to remember
he is also
the man
who was
the first in his
family to graduate
from high school (let alone
college then medical
school), he
is the
man
who would be
the first to admit
he could not have done
shit if it had not been
for your mother, he
is the
man
who saved
you from choking
on a Life Saver when
you were nine, he
is the
man
who made
your car accident
magically disappear
without any repercussions
whatsoever despite the
empty keg of beer in
the trunk, he
is the
man
who gave
you the very
chance to become
a man yourself so, once
again, remember to forget the
image of him lying there on the couch.
© 2003 Todd Christopher Czyk
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