A man leaves work early; stops at the gas station to buy his girlfriend two dozen roses to honor her birthday; returns to his apartment; showers, shaves, and puts on the set of good clothes; and waits for her in the kitchen so he can surprise her with dinner out.Shortly after five, the woman comes through the door and roundly scolds him for being there. She screams at him. She doesn't want him there, she doesn't want the roses. She lifts the phone and calls the police; they arrive and she has him arrested for harassing her and hitting her and, oh, stalking her.
His son is a cop, and he's out within a few hours. Before he's out, she is free to spend the evening as she has planned--with the new boyfriend across the way--though the man who pays the rent has taken a bit of the shine off of the day and later tells her to find a new place to live.
If I were this guy, I'd would have poured myself a drink. But not him; he is a regular at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. So he stopped at the church he attends regularly and had a meal of hot dogs and beans after the kids' choir ate. I was cleaning up with the night watchman when he strolled in. After he told me his story, he said "I didn't come to eat; I came to say 'hi' and go to my meeting--but, hey, it's nice talking to you--what's your name again?"
The hard chairs of the church hall could have been two bar stools; our Kool-Aids could have been strawberry daiquiris. We do the same things in both places: we tell the story and try to move on from the pain of it. A little sympathy, a little kindness, no moralizing--all we really need from our friends, even if we don't know their names. (more)
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Thanks for being here.