Our sober house is unstable for awhile. We're full. No vacancies, just as it should be, and it's been two weeks.
When the seventh and last bed is full, someone is going to flip out. Usually the new-comer.
But maybe not this time. There's one man--- from one of those Brigadoon-like, maybe ephemeral hillbilly towns---whom I suspect
is not an alcoholic or a junkie. Maybe he wanted a sure way out of the hellish half-way house where he'd been in a paralysis of misery for three months.
Philip is a painful case, even a real case. How many non-addicts get in that much trouble? Maybe he is a dunce, the son of a dunder-head.
He was in prison for a year, after repeatedly failing to pay child-support and never heeding the warnings of the Brigadoon judge.
Philip will speak out in wonder, marveling at the depraved stories he hears at meetings. On our drive home he seems to forget that I am an alcoholic too. It's funny. It would be more funny if he caught himself and said, "Oh! Sorry." Like a racist.
Which, by the way, he is.
He is always instructing me on the obvious. Colds are different from allergies. He's very earnest. Alcohol is bad for the liver and makes you do things, like steal, and lie. It makes you do things you wouldn't otherwise do.
He's shy and quiet and overly polite, which is how some people are after a year in prison. A slight fellow my own age, 45 or so. His father was an engineer and used to take him on train rides.
He sees "niggers" as a blight in our neighborhood.
I said, Philip, our neighbors next door are criminals and they're white. There are white criminals all up and down our street.
Yes, he said, but they're usually hanging out with niggers and Mexicans.
Philip, you're going to get in trouble if you keep using that 'n' word. Call them Watusies or Ubangies. Hell, call them darkies but don't call them that.
He is lonesome, not fitting in with the other Noobs and Griefers here. He sits in our downstairs kitchen with his arms crossed because he never learned how to smoke so, you know, he looks ridiculous just sitting there.
I'm stingy with my time and will only sit and talk for ten minutes or so. He opens up then, not about himself or about people, but How Things Work. That's good for me: I can be told why water faucets need washers for the 20th time in my life and then forget again.
One night I felt guilty after walking by the kitchen without stopping to talk. That night, while I was cooking up some frozen fried foods (shrimp, hush puppies, jalapeno cheese poppers) someone turned off the timer and the oven was turned up to 500 degrees.
So I've wondered if maybe Philip comes from a family of barn-burners. The small and weak can be the most dangerous people.
Drinking and driving is illegal because you could kill someone, he told me after a meeting at the Dead End Club. I think people should go to jail for that, he says.
____
So how do you ferret out the non-alcoholic in a Sober House. J'accuse! at Sunday night's house meeting?
_______
Living here could be so much worse. As it is, for two years I've loved it. I used to think of myself as a hermit. I do stay in my room a lot, but it's nice stepping out and having company waiting. Most everyone is an eccentric, of course, but they mix well as ne'er-do-wells, on the up and up in Recovery.
In two years, we've evicted ten people, either on the spot for being intoxicated, or after weeks and weeks of disruptive behavior (we call it).
In all this time there has never been any violence, until a month ago. That man was my age too, so I don't know why I'm so prejudiced against the youngsters under 30. All they do is steal your food.
This was Charles, who told us he was known as "Chip". He wasn't mixing in very well either, but he was fun, making wry observations about people at the club. I didn't mind him at all. He read and talked about books and current events. He was calm, stood up straight, and hadn't moved into the tramp stage yet. You could tell he came from money, and I noted that his family called everyday or so, especially his mom.
He was nervous about finding a job, but we weren't pressing him. I confided that this was a very tolerant group, which may have been a mistake.
"I'm a month behind on rent myself," I told him. "Have been for a year."
He was sitting in the downstairs kitchen one afternoon, flipping through the yellow pages. We got to talking and he told me he wasn't comfortable here. He didn't want to drink and was grateful for a place to live but he worried he didn't fit in.
He said, "I don't know what people here will think. I was a florist for 25 years."
"Terrific! There are lots of flower shops downtown. Have you applied?"
"I'm afraid people will think I'm a fag."
"Oh hell. Call yourself a horticulturist. Glib works at a fabric store and no one thinks that. Besides, if you were gay---"
"I am!"
I shrugged. Homosexuality never occurs to me, someone has to say and I always ask how do you know.
Now, it's easy to generate a reassuring speech about people's tolerance and our acceptance here.
"I suppose you might overhear the guys talking off-color about 'homos' or whatever, like anywhere else, but they'd accept you if they knew. It'd be a joke. Myself, I'm a nerd all my life. They don't bother me."
"I swear, I'm not attracted to anyone here," he said.
"That shouldn't bother any of these mugs," I said, thinking all of a sudden that this
could be a problem.
"I think that's great you have a trade and a specialty."
He began to talk about his years in California. He'd moved back to Kansas City and then went bankrupt due to his drinking. He had to auction off his house, and his antiques.
Now, relating all this, his eyes began to swell like he'd already been weeping. I thought, damn. This is a woman I'm talking to. A bearded lady about to cry.
I caught a whiff of
something but decided it was sweat. My mind jumped a small hurdle, that he might have been drinking.
"We're all unbalanced here. I have a couple of phone numbers for free counseling. Would you be interested, Chip?"
He said yes, so I went to my room to get the piece of paper that was still on top all the paper and unopened bills in my waste basket. I returned and he sniffed thank you and stood up.
I saw it coming. He said, "This doesn't mean anything except thanks". He put his arms around me. I am not a hugger. One of the reasons I stopped being a hippie was because I am not a hugger.
But what can you do.
"Yeah, don't worry, Chip. Colobocomo is the most tolerant town either side of Brigadoon."
Then I went to my room and started writing to a friend that someone had just confessed to me that he was a florist.
____
Fifteen minutes later Philip knocked on my door. "Chip is upstairs and I smell alcohol on him." (Philip would later reveal that Chip had also fallen out of his chair. He didn't tell me that now, though.)
Then I remembered the whiff of sweat. And the confessional. I said thanks for telling me. If he's drunk we'll find out soon enough. I'll be up in a little while."
A few moments passed and there was another knock. Gdmt. They were lucky I wasn't napping. There's a rule not to knock on my door when I'm here. Also if my lights are out, which you can see under my door. My lights were out.
Now it was Philip and Glib. Glib said there was no doubt: Chip was completely plastered. I got up and stepped into the hall. "We may as well put him out then. He seemed fine 15 minutes ago."
Chip appeared and came into the darkened hall. We let him pass and then followed him into the room he shared with Philip.
Glib told him the situation. "Chip, you have twenty minutes to get out."
"Get your things together, whatever you need," I said, "and then when you're sober you can come back for the rest of your things."
He got a little sarcastic. "You want to know where it is?"
"Yeah. Where's the bottle, Chip?" I said.
"Go ahead and search me!"
"Twenty minutes," Glib repeated. "You're out. We know you're drunk. You better call a cab, you don't want to go walking around this neighborhood now. It'll be dark soon."
He and Philip went back upstairs. I returned to my room, leaving my door open, and sat back down in my throne-like swivel chair, in front of my computer.
Suddenly he was in my door, rushing at me,
"You son of a bitch! You told them!"
He was apparently going to try and get his hands around my neck and shove me backwards so my chair would topple and he'd have the advantage. But he was slow and drunk and weak. I had time to straighten myself and catch his wrists. His knee caught the bone near my groin as I stood up.
I shoved him against the door jamb and started yelling up the register. "Hey! I'm being attacked. Get down here! Hey! HEY!"
Chip struggled but to my complete surprise it was an unequal test of strength. If he were sober he'd have prevailed. If he was sober he'd have been fast enough to topple me in my chair. He cursed me again, certain I'd told his secret and that he was being evicted for being a florist. He tried to bite my hand.
Glib, who is sort of tubby, finally arrived and got Chip in a bear-hug from behind.
"Call the cops, Philip," he said. "Can you do that?"
"Yeah. Kay..." He went upstairs although there was a phone in the kitchen.
Chip settled down. Glib wasn't going to let him go. Now the sneer and leer of a captured comic-book villain came over Chip's face and his eyes fixed on me.
This isn't the last you'll see of me, Marlowe.
You're all washed up. "Let him go, we'll shove him out the door," I told Glib.
"Naw. We can wait."
Chip put on an evil smile and started rotating his buttocks against Glib's front. "You like that, don't you. Hmm?"
"Oh yeah baby, sure." Glib said. "I'll close my eyes and think of your mom."
Do you want a bloody nose, I asked. Throw him down, Glib, and I'll kick him in the head.
"I don't mind," Glib replied, still oblivious that Chip might actually be getting some creepy jollies from this.
___
The cops are always nearby in this neighborhood. A pair with heavy boots came down the basement stairs and into the darkened hall. Philip was behind them, explaining everything, probably repeating himself.
One cop was as skinny as me (skinny), the other was linebacker size.
Philip said, "We don't want him arrested or anything."
"Like hell," I muttered. Glib sort of shoved his prisoner toward the cops, like he might spring back. But Chip relaxed and started toward them, obediently.
"Come on out here." Into the large, well lighted laundry room.
We all followed.
"What's the problem, did you have a little too much to drink?"
Chip stood there silent, glaring. "Do you want us to take you somewhere for coffee? Or to a shelter house or the bus station? Because you're going to have to leave."
"No."
"No what? Where do you want to go?"
"To jail," Chip said.
"Why would you go to jail?" asked the skinny cop.
"For this!" Chip wound up like he was going to throw a fast ball and weakly punched the skinny cop in the stomach. You could hear the badge and brass buttons clink-dink.
I went, "Whoa!"
Glib went, "Oooooh. Bad mistake man."
The cops went into serious action of course, both shoving Chip against the furnace and one pulling out his handcuffs.
"You want to be tazered do you?" yelled the bigger cop.
"Hoo!" I exhaled. That would be something, a bit too much even for that sexual hip-grinding he'd given Glib for three minutes. But now they had him and Chip naturally was satisfied with the cuffs. No torture necessary.
They were starting to pat him down and were going to reach into his pockets. I yelled, "He's diabetic and uses needles! He's gay! Be careful, watch out!!"
Glib looked at me.
Philip said, "I knew he was drunk. When I came in he fell out of his chair."
"What!" I said.
"He fell out of his chair when I got home from work. Remember I came down and told you he was probably drunk?"
The next day I felt bad. Chip could be a suicide case. Why did he return to Missouri after 25 years in California? Why did he prefer jail? He could have gone to the third floor if he'd just said the magic words.
_______
I told the Tramp-Steamer the story about Chip's confession and why he attacked me.
"He thought I'd told people he was gay."
"Yeah. Falling down gay," he said.
