I hate these meetings, still.
Don’t get me wrong, I see their worth. Not sure I’d be alive without them; certainly wouldn’t be walking around free. We talk about “jails, institutions, and death” in the halls. Meaning that, in the active grips of our diseases, we can reasonably expect to end up in one of the three.
There is a whole oral history here. A foundational vocabulary shared by members that facilitates an ease of discussion and disclosure. Short and powerful slogans, catch phrases, and communal stories. We share them all and pass them around like talismans to protect us from falling prey to our darker selves.
And it works. I am proof of this, if nothing else.
But that doesn’t mean it has stopped driving me nuts, even after almost two years.
The coffee is terrible, but at least it isn’t ‘truck stop terrible’. It’s the sort of terrible that leans towards strength. A typical cup is robust enough to set your teeth on edge, the filter of the pot previous filled by an individual with serious portion issues.
Sometimes, there are cookies. You know your grandmother’s sewing kit? That tin? These church basements are where the cookies that initially filled those tins go to die. Once in a while, I will even have a couple. Every time, I remember the fabric tomato my grandmother had, porcupined with pins, and wonder if the flavor of that might be preferable to the strange and somehow absent flavor of a Royal Dansk sugar pretzel thing.
There are hugs and handshakes. Short and social questions that demonstrate memory and knowledge and connection. These people remember spouses and illnesses and whether or not you were having a bad day last week…and they follow up.
I hate this most of all.
I have spent most of my adult—and all of my professional—life trying not to make connections, trying not to be remembered. Being in a place where the goal is the exact opposite is more than unsettling. It feels dangerous, potentially fatal in ways I can not articulate to a room full of people that are, essentially, strangers.
The initial arrival is the worst.
“Hey, Mark! Good to see you!” This is a hug interaction.
“Mark, keeping your chin up?” This one is a handshake.
“Hell of a week, amirite?” Another handshake.
I make general (and what I hope are polite and appropriate) responses to all of these, managing to find myself a cup of coffee, two cookies, and a chair in the back of the room without too much visibility.
Then my sponsor walks in.
A sponsor is someone who guides you through ‘the steps.’ The vetting process for this role consists of very little.
-Have they been through ‘the steps’ themselves?
-If ‘yes,’ are they either not a douchebag, or are they your particular flavor of douchebag? Can you work with them and be honest with them?
Two checks and, congratulations! That’s sponsor material. All you have to do is ask that person if they’re willing to sponsor you (guys with guys and gals with gals is the unwritten rule…when I voiced questions regarding this practice, it was accurately pointed out that I would feel more comfortable with a female sponsor, likely because I had a lot more experience lying to women…point made), and you’re ready to ‘do the steps.’
You’ve heard of them. You know some of them. There are a handy number of jokes and media representations. I am currently slogging through the fourth step. I am sure you are at least passively familiar. “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Like an emotional audit, but the agent in charge hates your guts. So, like an actual audit, I suppose.
The sponsor approaches. This is a verified hug situation. Jim seems to delight in my discomfort at physical contact, and I am sure he does this to get under my skin. No speculation here, by the way; he’s told me directly it makes him laugh.
“Mark. They’ll let anyone in this place, won’t they?” A fairly standard Jim greeting—he likes to lean so far into the dad joke that it somehow comes full circle past ‘cringe’ and inexplicably well into the territory of ‘genuinely funny.’ It works for him, but few could pull it off.
I like Jim, and hate that I like him. It’s a fun dynamic.
“Listen, pal, let’s grab some privacy and go over your notebook,” he says. This is also standard.
Obligingly, I grab my coffee (leaving the butter swirl sadness cookies on the folding table) and we head to a separate room in the basement. Storage here for the food pantry. We drag a couple of chairs with us and I pull out my notebook. I’m ready—I’ve actually put pen to paper over the last week (Jim and I touch base at this particular meeting every week to go over my progress on the fourth step).
Jim shuts the door, leaving us alone with a sixty watt bulb and walls of canned goods. He takes the folding chair opposite me; our knees aren’t touching, but it’s close enough to be uncomfortable. At least, for me. Jim and I both have issues with confinement, but I have no idea how well or poorly he manages his.
“I looked over your writing. You’re doing well; just keep trudging along and it will get done,” he says. “No, I want to talk about the Driehaus job.”
My face flushes; I hate being ‘seen’ at all. This is somehow worse. The unbearable agony of being known.
“Driehaus? That museum?” I am stalling.
“Cut the shit, Mark,” Jim seems genuinely pissed. It’s somehow satisfying. “There are a dozen reasons I know you were part of that nonsense. Even if I hadn’t followed your career before we even met, I’ve made my way through half of your fourth step with you; I’m at least a bit familiar with your style. Asshole.”
Now, I’m getting pissed, “You cut the shit, Jim. There was no part of our fucking deal that included not working. You’re my sponsor, not my fucking guidance counselor. Not my fucking life coach. Stay in your lane. Asshole.”
“Jesus Christ, Mark. This isn’t about employment. This is about sponsorship. This is action partner shit, right here.” He seems somewhat calmer, sitting again.
‘Action partners’ in Underearners Anonymous serve as witnesses and accountability resources. They call you on your shit, when you need it. Not convinced I need it.
“I want you to work. To earn. That’s the whole thing,” Jim says. “The problem I have is the fact that your disease is glaring. It was obvious in the Driehaus job.”
“What are you talking about, Jim?” I know what he’s talking about. I already know he’s right, and I hate it.
“How much time did you spend planning it? I get that you only had your part; but how long did you spend getting ready?” Jim says. He’s not smug—not exactly; but he’s certainly smug-adjacent. He knows he’s right. Worse still, he knows I know.
I’m ready to be done. I don’t want to admit it, “Yeah…OK. I get it.”
“I’m sure you do, but let’s point it out so it’s just crystal clear to both of us,” Jim says. I hate this part.
“You gave away your time by over planning this thing. That undervalues your worth. Considerably. And why did you over plan? Because you compulsively need to prove yourself.” Jim is really getting into his groove now. “And you’ve got nothing to prove, man. There is no one in this country, and probably further, who can do what you do. You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“I’m not out to prove anything, I just take pride in a job well done. It’s not like…”
“Bullshit,” Jim is out of his chair again. Face red, drops of spittle flying, “You stole a fucking ebony grand piano. A piano so recognizable that you can’t possibly sell it in this fucking lifetime.”
“Allegedly,” I say. I know it’s going to set him off more, but I can’t help it.
“Fuck. You. This is exactly what we’re talking about here. Exactly what they’re talking about in the other room. That fucking piano is the textbook fucking definition of a useless possession.” Jim is quoting the ‘book’ at me now, “And you’ve got it now, why? You planning on busting out ‘Chopsticks’ here and there in your shitting third-floor walkup? You don’t even play piano, Mark! And you’re sitting here in ten-year-old sneakers and a god damn goodwill coat.”
“My ‘shitting’ walkup, Jim?” I can’t resist.
“Stop deflecting,” he says. “All this bullshit is trauma, plain and simple. Trauma that isn’t your fault, but you’re making it your fault when you pull shit like this.”
I am silent. I don’t want to add to his anger anymore. He’s stuck a nerve and it’s annoying enough as it is.
“I’m guessing from what I read in the ‘Tribune’ that you experienced some unnecessary conflict with coworkers at the end of the job?” Jim has a pure gift for understatement.
“Something like that.”
“Mark. This is a pattern for you. It’s your pattern. Time and time again,” Jim says, not unkindly. “When is it going to stop? When is the pain of this pattern going to be bigger than your fear of change? Why not today? Why not now? You don’t have to live like this, man.”
I think about the piano. The stupid piano. All the work in transporting. Disassembling, reassembling. I couldn’t even dream of getting it tuned. Even if I did play. “I don’t know, Jim.”
He doesn’t let up. “Here’s the other part of this little dance you do…This is the part where you avoid changing but sinking into a little hole of shame and guilt. Stuck. Don’t do that this time.”
I have no words. I hate this feeling; raw. Vulnerable.
“Let’s look at your fourth step, while we’re here,” Jim says. “Tomorrow is a new day, and you’ve got that Daniel Levy Jewelry thing coming up, right?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“That’s an opportunity to break your patterns. To apply some of our principles. Put them in action,” Jim says; hopeful now.
We look at my notebook for awhile and then hit the last half of the meeting; after the requisite five minute break—which I spend dodging any interaction beyond surface level.
The meeting closes with a prayer. I say the words, looking around to see if anyone is keeping track. All I see are bowed heads and bent spines.
Walking to my car after the meeting, I pause to check the time on my new pocketwatch. Whoever made this for King Ludwig II of Bavaria was apparently a better jeweler than a watchmaker. This thing is a gorgeous display of gold and jewels, but can’t keep time for shit.
Matt Greene 
Leave a comment