GTFO and the Temple of Doom

Rachel and I have learned so much from each other. I learned to recognize my disdain for close relationships as a self protecting mechanism. Rachel jokes that I come home from work, unable to speak, because I've run out of words. I small talk for a living, inbetween sets with clients, which is why I circuit train them, to leave them with little breath to converse with. But they are nefarious creatures who outsmart me with superior cardiovascular skills.

But ultimately I credit my success as a trainer to the intimate relationships I've built with clients after watching the care and nurturing Rachel puts into her friendships and her patients. 

It's not all one sided though. She's learned what I like to refer to as--Wrap It Up. Wrap It Up is an art form; a specific phrase or tone invoked at the right time that portrays, without rudeness, that any given conversation is seconds away from ending. It most likely begins with, "All Righty, well..." or is subtly brought on by an acute sense of purpose. It's important to get across that although the conversation is in fact important, there are more pressing things to do. Seeming annoyed is the best way to get this across. Not annoyance at the obstacle in front of you, keeping you from being elsewhere, but a general pissiness that shows hesitation is detrimental to future tasks.

There are times I have to swoop in on her conversations and institute an emergency Wrap It Up--- "Hun, we gotta go." Other times a simple glance from her tells me to shed my secret identity as mild mannered indifference boy and don the cape and cowl of GTFO, (Get The F$ck Outta Here), my alter ego; faster than a speeding conversation.

Lately she's been wielding her own brand of Wrap It Up, but still relies on the master. She'll inform me before going somewhere that I am to use my powers at will, which leads me to wonder why we didn't institute the "No Thanks, We Already Have Plans," scenario. Take last New Year's Eve. With my super interpretive powers I read between the lines of an email she received from an acquaintance inviting us to a New Year's Party. The email mentioned something about a pot luck dinner but added "bring your instruments for the ceremony afterwards." My instincts kicked in and I immediately called for the afore mentioned "previous plans" scenario but Rachel stayed open minded--Kryptonite to GTFO Man.

The party went off as planned. Everyone brought a meatless dish, clue one that we were headed for disaster. The conversation was stimulating, lulling us into a false sense of comfort. Before the promise of dessert, everyone was invited into the living room for the 'Ceremony.' The room was set up so that everyone could take a seat on the floor. I chose a seat. Accoutrements peppered the floor, including tambourines, maracas, drums, candles, and a huge pile of tobacco in front of the evening's master of ceremonies who I dubbed, Chief Arch Nemesis.

For three hours they chanted, prayed, and banged the drums. Three hours. As a recovering Catholic, the church never subjected me to three continuous hours, not even on Christmas. My powers were no match for the group, so I turned them on my side kick--Get Us Into Shitty Situations Girl.

My beams of resentment are still fixed on her...

So stay tuned because you'll never know what adventures we'll find ourselves in next...wait, what's that?Rachel inviting someone over for dinner? I must go...

Slippery Pete

J-1 has a row of phones fixed to the wall near the stairs. Three are in use. Inmates huddled close to the cradle press the receiver to their ears. I pick it up the only free phone and dial my grandmother. All I hear is the hollow sound of distant oceans. I dial zero, the operator ignores me. Busted? I shrug it off.

“You need a pin number,” my cellmate informs me as I pass him. “You need to fill out a request and get your numbers approved. What’d you think you could just pick up the phone and call whoever?” he asks.

I’d like to snap him in half.

“How do I get a pin number?” I ask him.

“Get a form.” He says, zipping off like a munchkin from Oz.

Rock is the day guard whose enormity causes me to wonder if he’s manufactured from the same raw material that helped erect the building. His tattoos are more like brandings, bright red lightning bolts that taper from his elbows, etched into his skin, warning he is not to be trifled with. He addresses inmates like a wolf in sheep’s clothing waiting for nightfall to shed his disguise and make a meal of us all.

The block’s tension is an unstable mixture. Rock’s gunslinger, twiddling fingers constantly threaten to activate the door controls. During my first week he lugs three people who fail to make it to their cells in time. The inmates segregate according to race with the occasional group of varietals considered untouchable, labeled sex offenders or rats.

Pete, one of the block’s Runners is part of the prison’s permanent work force. He's essentially, Rock’s gofer, running around all day, sweeping, mopping, and dusting.

Barren gums fail to dam Pete’s tongue so he slurs each syllable. Jailhouse tattoos resemble ink blots. A faded swastika on his right shoulder blade was haphazardly embedded with a sewing needle and pen ink. He killed a man point blank with a shotgun and claimed it was self defense.

Just after lockdown Pete and Rock exchange words. We scramble to the door. Our vantage point makes it difficult to see. Pete paces back and forth, into his cell and out. Rock is at attention, immovable.

Pete’s anger bounces off the concrete and reaches our door garbled. We fill in blanks where we can, something about a mop. Rock offers two options: to calm down or face the move team. Pete chooses the latter.

Rock turns his back. Pete disappears from sight.

Chaos ensues. The percussive rhythm of rolling thunder fills the block like a stampede. Anxious fists pound on doors and drum up tension as Pete emerges from his cell with a bottle of baby oil.

The anarchists fall silent with the echo of boots marching with clocked precision. The move team reaches the block in two single file lines. Clad in executioner’s black, each officer is synchronized with the collective. Singularity is set aside in the name of unity. The plastic face guards of their helmets gleam under the florescent light, flesh and bone are secure under layers of protective material.

Pete steps sinisterly backward and sprays baby oil. Once the move team is inside, a hush blankets the block. Rock manually unlocks the door with his key and holds it open. The move team’s tight formation is headed by clear shields that deliver a jolt that incapacitates on contact. The first two hit the baby oil and careen into the wall. The rest halt like the remnants of a decapitated body watching its head roll to the ground. The middle two, now in front, stand on the precipice of the slick and attempt to help their flailing counterparts. The team tightens their formation and takes shorter steps.

The commotion pours through the vents. Do not move! You’re only making this worse! Pete’s coffee cup hits the floor, gets kicked out of the way, and tumbles onto the block. Watch his other arm! Get it down! Cuffs, cuffs, get’em tight! They drag Pete out, cuffed, and slide him along the floor through the oil.

Back in formation, they lift Pete off the ground by his limbs. I can see the swastika veiled under his soaked cotton shirt, his muscles tense from the pressure.

My cellmate flops on his bunk, returning to business as usual. Rock cracks the cell of another runner and orders him to clean up the oil and pack Pete’s things up.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

Someone slides a newspaper under my cell door so I twist around to reach it without leaving the bunk. Dad's on the front page, elbows propped on the arms of a chair, fingers laced, supporting his chin. Handcuffs peek out from under his shirt. The headline reads: Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed.

His face is softer than I remember, his head shaved bald. I look for signs of stress but find none.

The article jumps from the page. I focus on what the judge said to dad before sentencing him to twelve years:

This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time.

The article concludes that during a robbery we threatened we'd kill the victim if he failed to report the robbery was committed by three black men.

I'm interrupted by the guards call over the loud speaker, “Canteen, A through M, pickup.”

The doors pop open. I’m sensitive to any and all stares, especially from the black inmates. Next door is Malakai and his cellmate Donovan. I argued with Donovan one night after he cut into my reserved phone time. He towers over me but is soft and perpetually sweating. A walk from his cell to the shower leaves him winded.

Malakai is surprisingly agile despite his gimp leg. He has no kneecap after his gun went off while he tried to pull it from his waistband. It missed his penis by inches before blowing a hole in the top of his knee. He’s the most boisterous voice on the block, pacing up and down the hall; spouting about the collective evils that make up the entity he calls “The Man.” The Man is racist and utterly corrupt. The Man is responsible for Malakai’s ability to procure a weapon and rob the convenience store that in turn robbed him of a normal gait. The Man is white.

He mills about the block, paying no particualr attention as I dart out the door.

I snatch up my canteen bags and hurry back to the block. I pass Donovan, sweating near the phones, the receiver pressed to his ear. Malakai emerges from his cell and limps toward me. I drift to the opposite side of the hallway to avoid him. He adjusts and meets me head-on.

“Excuse me.” I say and move to sidestep his intrusion.

“Where you going with my canteen, white boy?” he says.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“My canteen.” Malakai says.

“Our canteen.” Donovan reiterates over my shoulder.

“As a matter of fact you can drop that shit off every week from now on. White. Boy.” Malakai says, letting me know he read the article.

Other inmates take notice. My options disappear in thickets of dread. At the end of the hall is a door that connects the east and west sides of the building. A guard emerges, keys jingling from his belt.

I whisper, “I don’t want any trouble, you can have the bags. Just let me bring them to my cell so the sergeant doesn’t suspect anything.”

“Do that.” Malakai responds.

I rush to my cell and set the bags down. My hands shake. I pull a pair of socks from my locker and stuff one into the other then fill them with tuna cans pulled from the bags. With the socks wrapped tight around my wrist, I run out into the hall.

Donovan shouts out a warning, but it’s too late. I aim and take out Malakai first. The cans crash against the side of his head as he goes down.

Simultaneous with turning my sights on Donovan, the call goes out. The sergeant shouts into a receiver clipped to his shoulder, “Move team to east down, I repeat, move team to east down,” which means officers are suiting up in riot gear to take me by force to the hole.

The weight of the cans pulls my arm across my body. I wield the makeshift mace and aim for the porous flesh of Donovan’s shoulder but he turns expectantly and takes it in the chest. I swing them circular, gain momentum, and bring the cans down on his head.

I know the disciplinary committee will suspect this is a hate crime, perpetrated against a minority by a cold callous mind, so I turn the tuna cans on Ritchie, the closest Caucasian.

The ensuing quiet brings clarity. The shaking subsides. I kneel at the sergeant’s behest, interlace my fingers behind my head, and lay on my stomach per his demands.

Lack of Wits

 I considered some of the crowd friends, until they cheered for my opponent. Shawn Lachowitz, or ‘lack of wits’ as I called him when he was out of earshot, was a pipsqueak. I flipped him off after he called me a name, I couldn’t recall which, there were so many. It was something derogatory, Polak probably, that one always pissed me off.

The crowd cheered, hit him and knock him out, so succinctly it sounded rehearsed. Their faces blurred while I focused on Shawn and where the first punch might come from. It was left. My teeth clattered, one knocked loose. I covered my face. Shawn knocked the wind out of me. I gasped. He finished me off with a flurry of punches to the face and neck. I fell to the ground crying. The crowd dispersed in a shower of post fight commentary. He’s a pussy. Wasn’t much of a fight was it?

Someone helped me up. Blood trickled from my lip. I left the bulk of it in the grass. So much of my blood was spilled in the field behind the school it surprised me when dandelions didn’t spring up crimson.

I ran toward the woods, crossed the ramshackle bridge taking my hand off my jaw long enough to hop over the missing planks. I sighed at the top of the hill. Peace lay beyond, nestled in the rolling hills deep with vegetation. It was to me what the Fortress of Solitude was to Superman, my haven away from the tortures of life.

My brother saw me first. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“Shawn,” sounded like Slawn with my fat lip.

“That little pissant? You can’t take that little bastard? Jesus Christ!”

Mom came into the room. “Oh my god not again.” She rushed over and examined my face. My eyes filled with tears. “We should go to the emergency room,” she said.

“Aww Mom, it’s just a few cuts and scrapes, he’ll be fine,” my brother interjected.

“He will not be fine. Look at him.” She stepped back. They both looked me over.

“What are we going to do about this? I need to speak with his teacher again.” she said.

My brother rolled his eyes, “What, so he can get creamed again tomorrow? I’ll take care of this.”

“How?” mom asked.

“Just don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it my own way.”

“How? By beating the kid up? That won’t solve a thing and you know it.”

“Well, it’s better than talking to his teacher. Hello, we’re trying to avoid a beating not cause one.” He had an airtight case and she knew it. Mom still remembered some schoolyard logic.

“I’m not going to let you go and smack some kid around. Figure out another way.” she said.

“Clean him up. I’ll take him to talk to Shawn’s brother. I have shop class with him.”

He walked through the woods, I traipsed behind. My face had not finished rebuking me for getting in the way of Shawn’s fists. My brother’s hands were clenched. I was afraid there would be another fight.

“Will you catch up!” he snapped.

I ran but stayed behind. “Whub are youb ghunna doob?” I asked with my bloated lip.

“Just keep quiet. I’m going to smooth it all out. Make you two friends again.”

“But we aren’t fwends!”

“And then I’m going to train you to kick Shawn’s ass.”

“But howb amb I ghunna doob thab?”

“Shut up, will you. I need to think.”

Shawn soaked his fist in ice water outside his rent controlled apartment building, his brother sat next to him, smirking. They stood when they saw us coming.

“Stay here.” My brother ordered. I obeyed.

Shawn’s brother, Stan, was tall and fierce looking with a scar that ran the length of his right cheek. I readied myself for a fatter lip when these two titans clashed. My brother’s hands unclenched, his shoulders slumped. He met Stan with a smile and a handshake and pointed me out with a thumb over his shoulder. Stan looked over and nodded. They shook hands again. My brother walked past me, I hurried behind.

“Whab you tell hib?” I asked.

“I told him you were sick and that beating you up was contagious.” he said sarcastically. “What does it matter, it’s all set. Shawn isn’t going to bother you anymore. Now I can teach you how to make his face look like yours.”

He seemed excited. The common ground we stood on was based principally on the fact that while he was interested in teaching me to inflict pain on Shawn, he wasn’t inflicting it on me.

“The Carnival will be here during April vacation, you’ll fight him then.” He said. It was one of those conversations I wasn’t sure if he was having with me or about me with himself. “Just walk right up to him and start swinging, and don’t stop!” he said forcefully, “there’s no way you can lose.”

I had doubts.

The next day he summoned me to the basement where his bench was set up. The floor was strewn with sand filled, plastic weights. “Lay down.” he commanded.

I complied. My rail thin arms reached up to grasp the bar. Two of the smaller disks were locked into place on each side. He helped lift it off and let go, it crashed into my chest. I kicked my feet and struggled to push it off.

“Come on! Push it up you pussy! Jeez, Mom can lift this much!” he chided.

He pulled it off just as I turned a light shade of blue. I sat up, gasping.

“Man, how can anyone be so weak?” he asked, “It’s all that crap you eat. You need to eat something that’ll put some meat on your bones.” he marched up the stairs barking at me to follow. “Sit!” he said, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table.

Mom sat opposite, reading the paper, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. My brother got a glass from the cupboard and a dozen eggs from the fridge, plunking them in front of me as he sat down.

He removed an egg and cracked it on the side of the glass. It oozed from shell and into the glass. He did it with another, and another. Three eggs clouded the glass.

“Drink it.” he demanded.

“No. Way.” I said.

“You want to get strong then you have to drink that.” He pointed to the glass.

“Never.” I reiterated.

“Drink it or forget about me helping you.” he threatened.

“Tell you what,” my mother said, “I’ll give you five bucks if you can do it without spitting them out.”

“Hell, I’ll do it for a fiver.” my brother said, reaching for the glass.

I snatched it away, “She was talking to me.”

A drop spilled over the rim and hit my thumb. It sat on my skin like mercury. There was no way the eggs would make it past the lump in my throat. I held my nose and closed my eyes. The stench of raw egg filled my lungs. My eyes opened wide, “Let me see the fiver,” I said to Mom.

She fished out a five from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table. I pinched my nose--three, two, one, gulp. The eggs slipped down my throat with ease. I gagged once before finishing them off. My mouth felt coated with ooze. I shot up and grabbed a Hostess Cupcake, tore at the plastic wrap, and shoved it in my mouth before collecting my five.

“Good, now let’s try that weight again.” my brother said.

For two weeks it caved in my chest. My brother gave up. I snuck down whenever he wasn’t home and just pushed the empty bar.

Trucks rolled into the field next to Eastman Gelatin. I watched the Carnies hop out and begin erecting the rides. The Skydiver was the first one to rise above the field. Even unassembled it looked ominous. Mistaken for a Ferris Wheel, the three story ride rotated at an alarming speed with each sealed compartment spinning on its own axis. The Bumper Car’s adjacent roof caught wallets, change, and lunches that fell freely. Carnies cleaned up all the unintended tips while the ride was running. A sign sanctioned the behavior—Not Responsible for Lost Items. It was the type of ride my brother and Shawn shouted obscenities from, and spit, hoping to hit someone like me.

They assembled the Tilt-A-Whirl, Round-Up, Haunted House, and The Flying-Bobs. Still the Skydiver cast a shadow over them all, over me. Smaller trucks hauled in the Mid-way. The ring toss awarded pink or blue stuffed teddy bears. The dart game gave out mirrors stenciled with clever clichés like, I’m so Happy I could just shit!

Opening night, I saw her, waiting to get on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I turned and met her gaze and quickly turned away. The surly Carnie took my ticket. Nick read like ick on his grease blotched nametag.

I dashed to the steel half shell in the back and looked for her. She was dressed like a tomboy in camouflage pants with lots of pockets, black hooded sweatshirt, and a black baseball cap. Her soft, round face, was accented with rosy cheeks. Hair spiraled from under the hat in long curly locks of chestnut. The ride was full, ick headed toward me with her in tow.

“She’s riding with you.” he grunted.

“Sorry, I guess the ride is pretty full.” she said.

I stiffened, suddenly aware that my breath smelled like corndogs. “Whatever,” I said, trying to act disinterested, like my brother when he talked to a girl, but came off sounding curt.

“I’ve never been on this ride before is it scary?” she asked with a soothing tweet. Her hands braced the handle that locked across our laps.

“No.” I answered, searching for something smooth to say, “But some kid puked on it last night.”

She made a face like she bit into a lemon, “Ewww, that’s gross.”

Something swelled in me. I felt like I could scale the Skydiver, stand atop its highest point, and sing. “Yeah, puke is gross,” I agreed, catching the tail end of her rolling her eyes. “You’ve never been to the carnival?”

“No, I just moved here with my Aunt.” she smiled again.

“Cool.”

The ride jerked forward. I pushed the heel of my left foot into the floor to prevent from sliding. It sped faster, my knuckles turned white. I peeked at her. She giggled as our cart swung around.

The ride slowed and reversed. Now she would have to fight centrifugal forces to keep from hurling into me. My heart sank. Her grip gave out and she slid into me. My mouth went dry, bits of corndog dried and crumbled. An actual girl was pressed against me. Her body was soft and smelled flowery fresh. We were pinned to the side of the cart as it spun.

When it slowed she didn’t scoot away, didn’t seem repulsed by being close. She moved away as the ride came to a stop. Our eyes met, I looked away.

“Thanks for letting me share.” she said, tucking a wavy strand of hair beneath her hat.

“Yeah, well, I usually ride alone, but it’s ok.”

We stepped off the ride. She was about to say something when raindrops pounded the brim of her hat. I was startled to see her behind me after I ran for the arcade tent.

“It looks like a passing shower.” she said, looking up at the sky. Raindrops pelted the tent like a drum roll.

Billowy clouds hovered on the horizon. A dark gray patch loomed directly above. “Yeah, but the rides will be all wet now. I have to go home.” I tried desperately to restrain the prepubescent crack of my voice.

“Hold on I’ll walk with you.” she said while zipping her sweatshirt.

The storm passed. The sky opened up, a breeze swept up a mixture of lilac and asphalt. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, my feet dragged along the sidewalk.

“My name is Crissy by the way.” she said despite the gold medallion that dangled from her neck, her name spelled out in cursive.

“Cool.” I replied.

We reached her street. It wasn’t far from the school. The license plate of the car parked outside her house read Coco.

“Coco?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s my last name.”

“Crissy Coco? Your name is Crissy Coco?” I chuckled.

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.” She looked hurt so I stopped.

“Sorry,” I said still smirking.

“Are you going to the carnival tomorrow?” she asked once I wiped the grin off my face.

“I’m there everyday.” I replied.

“Maybe I’ll see you there?” she asked, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know. I have to lift weights tomorrow.”

“Oh, ok. If I don’t see you there I’ll see you at school.” she looked disappointed, and when she mentioned school, I joined her.

“Well, bye.” I said and ran away.

I don’t think my feet touched the ground on the way home. I burst through the front door and was deflated by the weight bench. Several of the larger weights were loaded on the bar from my brother’s last set. I stared it down. Bravado seeped from every pore.

I stripped it, slid on the tens, and lifted it off the cradle. My right arm shook uncontrollably, every muscle tightened. I unlocked my elbows and lowered the bar. There was no recourse if I failed. My brother would find me, choked to death by two meager weights and a long steel bar. My eyeball twitched as I pushed. It budged an inch before succumbing to gravity. Panic set in, I thought of Crissy, imagined her standing by my side, hanging on my chiseled arm. I pushed again, past that sticky one inch mark, and up to the top.

I sat up, elated. Was it the eggs? It had to be the eggs! I leapt up the stairs, two at a time. Three eggs cracked and ready---Three, two, one, gulp, Hostess Cupcake—one step closer to becoming an Adonis.

The next day there was a spring in my step. My arms flared out to the sides as if I were a gunslinger. The sleeves of my t-shirt were rolled to expose walnut sized muscles. I even shaved.

She was playing Ms. Pacman under the arcade tent wearing skin tight jeans, white high top sneakers, and white socks with the jeans tucked in. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, same black sweatshirt, Crissy glittered from her neck.

She saw me and abandoned the game, flung her arms around my neck and squeezed. I was surprised she got her arms around me, I was huge.

“Come on.” she said, wildly excited.

She clasped my hand in hers and led me through the crowd. I didn’t care where. She stopped at the foot of the ramp to the Skydiver, “Will you go on it with me?” she asked.

My arms took their rightful place back at my sides. A breeze rustled my hair as the carts roared by. “The Skydiver? It’s not really that good.” I whispered so it couldn’t hear my insolence.

“Are you kidding? It looks like a blast. Oh please? Normally I’d be afraid but now I have you to protect me.” Her arm interlocked in mine.

She stomped up the ramp, I tip-toed. ick stood at the controls, manhandling the levers. His five o’clock shadow read seven thirty. I wanted to protest, to block my ears from the gears that screamed warnings to turn back. I looked up and drank in its enormity. Long luminous tubes of neon fired sequentially, in clusters, then altogether. It may have looked festive but I knew it was Morse code for Come ride the handbasket to hell!

The gears screeched out a final decree, leeeeeavvvvve nnnnnowwwww! ick pulled the safety pin. The cart swung open to reveal two youths younger than me laughing hysterically, screeching, “Again, again!”

“Come on, come on, let’s go!” ick shouted over the snarl of the generator.

Crissy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the cart. “Tickets!” he snapped and snatched them from her hand. He slammed the cage shut and sealed it with the pin. I watched him work the lever, a blast of air hissed from the compressor.

I grabbed the solid steel wheel to prevent us from spinning. Crissy wrapped her arm around mine, just like my vision, minus the chiseled arm. The cart climbed a few feet and stopped to load more people. The wind whistled through the grate and sent a chill up my spine. I held on with all my might. Another hiss and the cart climbed to the peak. I adjusted the wheel to stay upright. My arms ached.

“Wow! Look at the view.” Crissy shouted.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, the view.” The cart gained speed. No more stops.

I tried in vain to hold the cart still but gravity overpowered me. I cursed silently, then aloud. After five times around we stopped and reversed gears. Five more rotations, I counted. On the fifth it screeched to a halt, we were poised at the peak. ick was letting people off. I made it! No puking. No awkward high pitched screams.

The cart moved forward and pit us with the ground. I scanned the crowd. Adrenaline pumped freely. I was scared yet thankful to the twisted mind that engineered the ride’s solid steel construction. After this I would pet stray dogs, run with scissors, maybe even kiss Crissy on the lips.

My new found invincibility dwindled when I glimpsed my brother emerging between two trailers. I retraced his steps to the small crowd lurking in the shadows and knew one of them was Shawn. ick set us free. I scurried down the ramp and into the shadows between rides. It was too much to process, giant rides, soft scented girl, imminent danger. Crissy stood next to me, giddy from the ride.

“That was so fun, wasn’t it?” she asked before noticing I had gone pale. “Are you alright?” She touched my arm. I pulled away.

My brother strutted by in pursuit, stopped, then leaned back, “Gotcha!” he said, “Let’s go, its time.”

“Go where?” Crissy asked.

He looked her up and down dismissively, “They’re waiting, let’s go.”

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“My brother,” I whimpered.

“This is your brother?” She sounded surprised.

He grabbed my arm. I didn’t protest. It was either Shawn or my brother, maybe both in the end. We slipped between two trailers, shaking Crissy’s pursuit. I felt my eyes transition, light to dark. The festive sounds faded to a hodgepodge of background noise.

“Now remember, don’t even give him an opportunity. Just swing and don’t stop.” my brother repeated.

It echoed in my head. I heard it as a statement, a commandment, a mantra. I even heard as an answer to a logical question. How do you beat a bully? Just swing and don’t stop. It made sense. And in someone else’s hands, it might have worked.

We twisted through a maze of trailers to a clearing. The crowd parted to let us through. Shawn stood at the end, throwing punches at his brothers open hands. As we faced off my brother drifted away and stood in the middle of the crowd. Shawn’s brother joined him and I realized what my brother had done. This was a trial by fire. Like the time he tried to teach me to ride my bike by bending the training wheels up and forcing me down the neighborhoods tallest hill.

Just swing and don’t stop formed a beat in my head. There was no turning back. A loss ensured future beatings from anyone in the crowd. Just swing and don’t stop. Maybe the eggs would help.

I glanced at my brother. His patience was running thin. I thought of Crissy. Something other than fear coursed through me. It was the excitement of returning to school as the hero that beat Shawn Lack-of-Wits. One last glance at my brother heading toward me and I propelled myself forward. The element of surprise washed away Shawn’s snicker. He didn’t have time to put up his hands to block. I socked him right in the jaw.

The just swing and don’t stop offensive showed promise. I hit him a half dozen times until he readjusted and countered with swing and don’t stop’s only defense—bob and weave.

Bap bap bap, and it was over. My brother had to pull him off me before he knocked me unconscious. Something I’m quite sure he did so he wouldn’t have to explain to Mom why I was a vegetable.

Use, Abuse, and Dependence

Just like I’m not sure whey protein builds lean muscle or that steady state cardio burns fat most efficiently, I’ve never bought the disease concept of addiction. Twelve steppers will have a field day with this but the idea that I have an incurable disease whose symptoms will flare up at mere mention of using again doesn’t seem right.

I agree that AA is brainwashing and, let’s face it, we could all use a little brainwashing. First and foremost, the program gave me a place to be that was safe. Somewhere I could step outside my own thinking and be with people that are doing what I couldn’t do alone. Second, it gave me a plan, twelve steps, or commandments, that helped me put the pieces of the puzzle if not together, at least in order. It made me responsible for me.

But something struck me as odd about how adamant AA is about denying any religious affiliation. The word God is in six of the twelve steps. AA’s attempt to sidestep being tagged a religion is to follow the word God with, as you understand him, suggesting any power greater than oneself will suffice, like the power of the group, or electricity. Some skirt the issue by saying, “I don’t know anything about God, I just know I ain’t him.”

There are other inconsistencies that led me to seek other forms of recovery. In one of the chapters of the Big Book, AA’s Bible if you will, it states that if the recovering addict avoids social situations where alcohol will be served then that alcoholic still thinks alcoholically and is in need of greater perspective. This made a lot of sense to me since I’ve never really had an issue being around alcohol but slide a mirror full of coke in front of me…

So I left the hallowed halls of AA in search of a deeper understanding of addiction. The problem I found was differentiating between Addict and Non-addict. The issue wasn’t with how they differed as much as how each addict perceived what an addict was or, more importantly, wasn’t. I couldn’t admit I was an addict until I reconciled my criteria with reality. When I studied addiction in school, I found that clinicians didn’t use the term addict or alcoholic, but instead tried to place each patient along a continuum. Some use substances with no life consequences, some abuse with varying degrees of consequences, and some are dependent. In the latter, tolerance is measured as a means of determining severity. Each point along the line has a sub-category that measures functionality or how much one’s use, abuse, or dependence affects their ability to thrive.

With all this advanced understanding of addiction, I’ve come to realize that for me, addiction was only a symptom of a larger issue. For me the twelve steps were like pruning a rotten tree’s bad fruit while ignoring the roots. I needed replanting. I engaged in intense psychotherapy.

It’s hard some days not to feel gypped. I wouldn’t give up my life experience for anything, feeling as though it makes me unique and worthy of the brand. Mostly I feel robbed, now more than ever, of the tools needed to weather the storms of life.

The behaviorist would say that addiction is only a behavior that has physiological consequences and that cessation of said behavior will end any suffering. That behaviorist has never been on the receiving end of a smoking crack pipe, I can tell you that…

On occasion, a student will ask if I will ever drink again. As an ardent rejecter of the disease concept, I feel somewhat hypocritical in saying no. The truth of the matter is I still have all the isms. I’m hopelessly addicted to sugar, can’t relax in a mess, you could eat off any surface of my car (when I own one), and can be a moody, cranky SOB if things don’t go my way. This keeps me from experimenting again or using recreationally, if there is such a thing.