The Mess with the Chest

Literally five minutes after I read your post about the conversation with your friend who tested positive, a friend of mine, somewhat of a mentor figure with 21 years of sobriety, a Ph.D, and a prestigious career in AIDS prevention, called me.

“I wanted to let you know that I (garbled)…”

“…you what?” I asked

“I seroconverted,” he replied.

“Oh. Oh boy,” I said, rather dumbly.

There followed a few moments of silence, but then slowly, with many false starts and hesitations, I began talking, and he listening, and then more give-and-take, and before I knew it I was offering my mentor advice, encouragement, sympathy. It was an oddly energizing moment.

It made me think of AA. The 12th step is essentially about reaching out to others and helping them, once you have some experience with the prior 11 steps. There are many ways to do this, including sponsorship, a word I imagine is confusing to others outside of AA. Really, without getting too specific, it’s about being someone’s spiritual guide through sobriety. Bearbait is mine, and has been for a year and ten months. I could not stay sober until I started working with him. I needed someone to talk to when my head got nuts, someone who could stop the spinning before I flew off track again, who could break apart some of my fear and introduce me to a lot of people in meetings so I didn’t have to stare at the floor as much.

Anyway, you can honestly start sponsoring anyone at anytime, although as a general rule it’s suggested you have a year of sobriety. Newcomers are encouraged to listen to a lot of people at a lot of meetings and to find someone “who has what you want”, and ask if they’ll sponsor you.

So here I am at a year and ten months and I don’t have any sponsees. I’m not too concerned about it; I know I’m a pretty quiet guy and I know it will happen when it’s supposed to, but there’s always that nagging little doubt that I’m not doing something right. Then I start to wonder what I would do if anyone actually asked me to be their sponsor; a rather terrifying idea. Do I really have what it takes to help someone stay sober? What would I say?

The thoughts continue like this for awhile. But ultimately I know it’ll be okay, if only because I’ve noticed a funny thing: the few times I have talked to someone about sobriety, someone with less time, I’ve found that after a few moments of awkward hemming and hawing, the words start to come out, and my mind settles into this…all right, I’ll say it…serene place, and if I hear myself talk it sounds like I know what I’m talking about. Strange but true. Sometimes I even surprise myself at the passion in my voice; at the strong opinions I’ve come to hold about what works and what doesn’t.

And yet, I’m human.

Last night after a meeting I don’t normally attend, I was walking down a section of Market St in the Castro that I normally don’t visit much, when I see walking towards me this cute boy I’ve seen at meetings. In fact, I recently mentioned him in my post about visting the Lone Star with the Younger Half of the Studly Couple. (I’d link it, but Blogger’s not being very cooperating with inner-postage linkage on my site) He was the hottie with the beer in his hand; not really the greatest sign of stability in a self-confessed alcoholic.

A couple of weeks ago I saw him looking lost and vulnerable at a meeting so introduced myself and we chatted a bit. Nothing beyond that. So as he approached last night he smiled and stopped and we introduced ourselves again. He really is cute I was thinking. That was the devil talking. My other shoulder’s angel was saying “Tsk tsk, Michael, He’s a NEWCOMER. HANDS OFF!!”

The angel’s been pretty busy the last few months, as you may imagine.

It was getting late and I was tired and had a few blocks uphill to trudge. But he asked if he could walk with me, and who was I to say no? He fell into step with me, heading in the opposite direction from his original course.

“What are you up to?” he asked “Besides looking good in that jacket?”

Okay, I blushed. I’m out of practice. And he’s not allowed, I kept telling myself. Stupid angel. We kept walking, and before I knew it I was walking away from home, further into the Castro, supposedly in search of coffee for my new friend. I kept looking at his chest. I’m a sucker for a nice chest. He had a nice chest. And a New York accent and golden skin and a scraggly goatee and a nice smile. We kept walking. The angel was losing. I started thinking if I could justify this to myself somehow. “How much time do you have?” I asked, meaning sobriety.

“Well, see that’s the thing.” he said. Inwardly I groaned. “It’s been two weeks since I did crystal, and I feel good, but, well, I’ve been smoking pot, you know, because I get anxiety attacks.”

The angel’s head was spinning around like Linda Blair’s by now. “I see,” I said. “Well, you know, you’ll be ready when you’re ready.” Appropriately vague and vaguely supportive all at once. The devil, meanwhile, was whispering, “Well, you know, since he’s not sober he’s not really considered a newcomer, so really, all bets are off.”

“Um, EXCUSE me,” said the angel. “Even more reason to keep your hands to yourself. He needs friends, not another guy to fuck.”

“Oh, shut the hell UP,” said the devil. “Obviously we all need to get laid. It’ll relax you.”

As Sybil continued her monologue upstairs, I kept walking with The Mess with the Chest. We wound up sitting on a bench and I continued to listen as he rambled from one scandalous story to the next; a chaotic journey filled with boys, men, drugs, bars, drag queens, and a 30-day cross-country road trip that included various combinations of all of the above.

“Oh God,” I thought. “He’s crazy.”

And I was tired. He kept talking. After an hour I think he sensed my change of heart, and he walked me to the last corner before my uphill climb. I gave him my number. The Angel told me to. The Devil never really gave up, just pouted in the corner.

Thus is my glamourous life here in the Big City. Eat your heart out.

It’s alright

I’ve been stuck in my head a lot lately; not always the wisest vacation spot. Thinking a lot about the last couple of years, the last six months in particular and how even though I lost so much, my life has never felt so full. This uncanny sense, too, that it’s just beginning; though I don’t particularly believe in astrology, my latest horoscopes, from two different sources, have mentioned the fun, sex, and joy coming my way, and somehow I believe it. The one in the paper said “…whatever the case, you will be very creative in the next year.”

I told you I’m afraid, though, that I’m out of fascinating material, and it’s true. Fear is a bitch; she’s happiest when you’re stuck in bed. All that fun, sex and joy: fear has sometimes been comforting, kept me out of trouble while I got my head straight, my blood clean. And now I’m ready for trouble; I want to risk something; not my sobriety, just my…domesticity, my routine, my bed.

I avoided Dore Alley again this year, telling myself I’m not quite up for it yet. I used to bartend right smack dab in the middle of the scene; Dore and the Folsom Street Fair were the year’s biggest money-makers for us. But it was also where some of my darkest days and nights took place, when the chemicals became the most important elements in my life; when my life was the size of a bag of speed. So I’ve stayed away, telling myself they will always be there. Next year. The Human Bullet will return.

Last night I was at Tower, tethered to one of the listening stations, head bobbing, when I glanced down and saw this CD, and adrenaline kicked through me. There was one left.

I hadn’t heard it in four years. Back then a friend left it in my car and over the next few months I held onto it. I was between jobs, not yet bartending, home days with a lot of free time while the Ex worked. And that was when the speed took over. I would sit on the computer with the music playing and try to write, but would usually end up online. I met you then, and spent a lot of time shooting the shit. I was a little lost. I remember I’d play track 2 over and over on repeat for hours; one day out of the blue you said you were listening to the same CD; the same song on repeat. There’s nothing quite as challenging as describing the emotional impact of a song, and nothing quite so boring to the average reader.

Speed made listening to the same song for hours not only possible but almost necessary. When I got sober I put away the CD’s I used to listen to when high; mostly house music; beats that could keep up with my racing heart. I’d catch sight of them in my collection and would literally feel grief over their absence; but I was afraid. Afraid of the memories hardwired in my blood by those songs; afraid to feel again the small and the dark.

I bought it last night, of course. I’m listening to it now; track 2 on repeat. It’s more like an old friend than a dangerous lover; someone who knows me well, someone whom I may have fought with but now, years later, is back. Someone who carries pain in their eyes, but who also knows how to laugh. Someone you drive with at night, dressed up, ready to dance, the dark streets opening before you.