Higher Powers

Higher Powers 

by David P. Hillgrove  

Chapter One (1) 

Everyone who’s ever been trapped in a business meeting of questionable importance knows escape is hopeless. 

One is trapped, surrounded by other listless participants, held captive by adults who thrive on hearing themselves talk. The boredom of this meeting itself was outdistanced only by the monotony of the speaker’s voice. On and on he droned, the cacophony of the sighing and weight-shifting challenging all present beyond their limits. 

His words were followed by even more uninspiring rhetoric. However, these words had meat.

 " … and so, a decision has been made at the highest levels to make some rather significant changes around here." 

Fourteen business-dressed attendees sat around a rounded-corner mahogany board of directors table. The owner of the table, McQuade Concepts, operated the top seven floors of a 20-year-old building in downtown Madison Grove. The 17-story marble-faced structure, home to Madison Grove’s third most successful advertising/public relations firm, was located in the heart of downtown, just an eight-block hilly stroll from the Lilly River. Madison Grove was a town like so many others in middle America, one which had undergone several changes in the past century. The Lilly River provided the transportation venue to make the town a marginal merchant port in the 1770’s through the later 1800’s. In the second half of the 1900’s it became a banker’s town, with no less four major firms here, anchored in the city of 220,000 or so.  Then, the time came when all four banks became victims of the all-consuming bank merging which took place at the end of the 1990’s. And Madison Grove, under the proper administrative leadership, transformed itself into a more artsy city, a town proud of the ever-growing community of painters, sculptors, theater troupes and artists of any form.  This change brought a change of business to Madison Grove, and that is one of the reasons that there were enough advertising firms in town for McQuade Concepts to rank at least number three in the Madison Grove metro area.   Significant changes…HAH, thought Helen. The year was 1999 and significant modifications had been threatened since 1997 around here. His Highness’s words were—as usual— filled with double speak. "Highest levels" refers to his father, the benevolent Henry McQuade. While it frustrated the new president, many who had known him for decades referred to Hank as “Sonny” or “Junior”. "Junior" needs to let everyone know that despite his whimpering and waffling, he has his father’s approval on this, so we’d better heed, Helen surmised. The "significant change" refers to something that is as frequent as the changing of towels in the bathrooms. From his graduate school textbooks, "Mr. Executive" surely thought that by modifying every little detail of his daddy's business he was proving his empowerment, "putting his stamp on the firm" as he called it.  Frankly, Junior is always changing something because he has no clue what it is that he is doing, Helen concluded long ago.   He’s constantly reinventing the wheel, clogging up some very creative minds with hyperbole and meaningless paperwork. If it weren’t for his father fluffing him into the V-P’s office years ago, Hank McQuade would be another wimpy pain-in-the-arse wannabe somewhere, without the advantage of having "Father" to cover his mistakes. Helen Wade, 29, is a creative person with the title of Creative Associate. She has been under the employ of McQuade Concepts for over six years. The first four and a half years Helen worked hard for Henry McQuade, the firm’s founder, and a fair man. He is a thoughtful man, a good judge of character and inspiring on many levels. A year and a half ago Henry had a heart attack and decided that he had delayed promoting his only son as long as he could. It was time for the Boy to become a Man. Hank became president, at age 36. Hank took his promotion as a badge of honor, ignoring the one fact that everyone in the office knew all too well: Hank McQuade wasn’t V-P material. He wasn’t president material; he hadn’t earned the position, he’d been born into it. His early company decisions showed his need for authority and control, rather than anything based on sound leadership principles. A classic example is dress code in the office. During the 90’s, offices across America saw a move to casual dress, business casual dress, or some kind of relaxed dress code. The intent was to reduce stress, reduce budget-busting clothes-shopping sprees, and to improve morale. Helen, a bit thin for her frame but not so much one needed to worry, generally wore skirts and little make-up. She didn’t see Hank’s input as much of a threat, but many were upset. Hank decides he’s "going to be on the front edge of change" and demands a much more structured office dress policy. He claimed it would lead to a superior work culture. It lead to two resignations and a lot of grumbling. He hardly noticed. His "modifications" continued. And they continue now, as Helen focused back into the meeting. "These changes involve everything from creative input, account assignments, and work schedules … right straight through to compensation" Junior paused. Heads around the table suddenly lifted up, attentions focused when the word "compensation" was pronounced. Something about futures and paychecks and take-home-pay now made this serious business.  He now had their attention, Helen thought. This better be good. Dozens of local firms had been going through cost-cutting downsizing. Several friends have been affected, finding little or no work in this semi-sluggish economy. Why would this firm be any different?   Hank McQuade—balding, with a comb-over—loved the attention his last statement brought. Surely now they would realize who was calling the shots. Finally, if even for a brief moment, he felt the control that belonged to him. He paused to drink in the power of his birthright. Associates shifted in their seats uneasily. He certainly had their focus. "We have had some moderate success here at McQuade Concepts. We are proud of the level of service we’ve given our clients. We have won a few marginal awards. We have a fine staff … some of whom have a considerable amount of talent," analyzed the 37-year-old President of Operations. He attempted to gaze at several so-called marginal talents. His downplay of the firm’s successes was designed to justify any changes he was about to suggest. "We pay salaries at or above average scale. We reward proper talent with sizable bonuses. We’ve managed to make several of you happy enough that you have worked for me or my father for over ten years. We’re doing several things right". Like the pause at a wedding when the minister asks "Is there anyone here who would object to this union?", there was an eerie, anticipatory silence in the room. Any time "salaries and compensation" are mentioned in the same breath, employees are reluctant to chirp smart aleck comments. "So we’re enacting a new compensation plan. We’re proposing to you a system that should allow you to make more choices about your focus and your concentration. As an employee of McQuade Concepts, you will not have to worry about the recent cutbacks that so many competing firms are experiencing. You’ll be able to make choices with your time, choices which can give you more time with your family, or less time at home … and a comp plan that in many ways allows you to set your own salary". The icy silence was broken by the sound of a few cleared throats. "Starting in two weeks, we will divide our accounts into Team Status and Floor Status. In many cases, we will certify our creative staff as Team-Eligible and Floor-Eligible. You will be notified of your particular status in writing, in the next five days. "Team Status accounts will be, of course, worked on by teams. In this general regard, there will be little or no change. The difference will be in the process of who works on which team. Or rather … HOW you are selected to work on each team. "Before I get to that, let me first tell you how we will process our Floor Status accounts. The smaller accounts, the newer accounts, the lower-maintenance accounts will be allocated for this status. These will be the accounts where heretofore ONE employee"—he held his index finger up in rehearsed, yet emphatic delivery—"worked them. Now … there will be ONE (the finger again) TEAM that works on them.  "This ONE Team may well "put their hands on" (cute finger quotes around his head) every account in Floor Status. As an assembly line worker put together the old Model-T’s, so too will McQuade Concepts process a higher volume … with greater quality … of accounts. "This should go a long way towards improving production costs, turnaround time, and creative morale." Junior paused, and attempted that "leadership-type o’eyeballing”. He was not at all good at looking sincere doing this. The sighs and the rolled-eyes elicited a few grins from those watching for reactions. Hank McQuade was so far into his canned speech he neither stopped to notice nor made mental notes as to his detractors. "But the real excitement comes with the concept of Team Eligible Creative positions. With each sizable account, there will be drafting of talent by Project Managers. The PM’s will choose who they feel they need for particular projects, and that Creative Talent will report to the PM and work as closely on the campaign as possible. In some cases, it will be the only campaign that the Creative will involve him or herself with. In others, one well-liked Creative may be on several teams. "Which of course, means more money," snickered McQuade. Poorly timed and poorly delivered thought Helen. This guy needs finishing school at Leadership 101. "Because a team shares the profits made on a project. So … it … behooves … EVERYONE to minimize mistakes, hit deadlines, produce outstanding work." Junior went on to over-explain three separate examples of how the new set-up would work better for the lowly employees of MC, Inc. and thus how their endearing loyalty will immediately be showered on the Deliverer of The Message, The Moses of The Plan. Basically, the idea speaks to a P.M. choosing who he wanted to work with. And the folks that the P.M. picks have Project-Based-Management-Power. So they can make critical decisions involving many ideas, from color through slogans. And every team that makes the firm money gets a post-production bonus. And, of course, it guarantees that the really popular or the obviously talented folks would go as "high draft choices". And that left little “unnoticeables” like Helen wondering if she’d ever be picked.  At the end of the meeting, Helen retreated to her cubicle for whatever peace and quiet she could find amidst the confusing thoughts in her mind. As she ends her twenties and moves onto her 30’s, Helen tried hard not to let her fears control her. She was as clearly concerned about her being selected on a creative team, as she was about maintaining her positive reputation as a hard-worker and valuable contributor to many projects. She also knew that sometimes she simply needed the world to rotate on its axis a few times in order for her to gain clear perspective of a situation. One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to let Hank McQuade rent any space in her head for free. Helen had lived in Madison Heights for almost all of her life, and certainly all of her adult life. This was not the first piece of disappointing work news she’d had to deal with. She knew that others would have opinions on the meeting. Before long, half-past five had arrived, and with few deadlines looming on the horizon, several of the staff decided to hoist a few over at Phil’s after work. Phil’s was across the street and three doors away, and had occupied the corner of Manchester and Craig for over forty years. Three generations of Youngs had run the place during that time, and Helen wasn’t completely sure who exactly "Phil" was. She ate lunch there occasionally, but it wasn’t often that she met colleagues for drinks after work. At least it had been a while since she had.  But today offered an opportunity for reviews of Toy Boy McQuade’s presentation. Criticism came easy for this staff when discussing Hank, in direct opposition to the gang’s analyses of the elder McQuade’s management style. In fact, many of the thirteen who adjourned for the Critique Up The Street session pined for the days when Henry the Elder was running the show. He offered respect: genuine and a-plenty and that—more than anything—is what most McQuade associates missed most about his office. They discussed this at length that Tuesday evening, amidst beer, cocktails and diet Cokes. If insults and criticisms were sticks and stones, Hank McQuade would be one bruised administrator. Helen spent an hour in Phil’s—more than usual—as she ate two different appetizers for dinner. She spent most of her time in long discussions with Patti Wright, Becky Brown and Tom Eubank, the three people whom she was closest with at the office. All were skeptical about the direction that McQuade seemed to be espousing, and all were clearly animated in their reaction to the announcements.  Patti, after two highballs, spoke loud enough for several tables to hear her, referring to McQuade in a number of derogatory terms. 

Tom seemed to have the most philosophical bend on the issue, claiming this may be the one way folks could reduce the number of undesirable team members one had to work with. Tom could be philosophical about the issue; as Assistant Creative Director, he may well be one of the team leaders who is given the authority to select his team members.

 Helen spoke sparingly, afraid she may spew more of what Patti was speaking to, than participating in a positive direction with Tom. Afraid to be completely open, even with her closest work friends was a trait Helen had dealt with all of her life. For today, she was merely an observer. And not having any alcohol helped her to keep a lid on her public emotions. 

Now, if I could get a grip on my private ones, she thought.  

Higher Powers  by David P. Hillgrove copyright©1997 All Rights Reserved  Write to Dave  Chapter Nine  For apparent reasons, most colleagues in attendance at the Thursday 10:00 am advertising meeting were attentive and alert. This was the inaugural "green light session" since Monsieur McQuade announced his "radical new improvement" system. This was a kick-off session and it was a Prospective Client Meeting. That meant that all who attended would be required to develop ideas, strategies, concepts and outlines for the new potential client.  The topic: The PowerDrop lottery account.  So … according to the new McQuade Plan, all ye who entered the business meeting would be "competing" for a spot on the team which would compete against the other regional ad agencies for the multi-state account. In theory, it could reap many financial benefits. Of course, no one knew how much money it could mean for a particular team member, but one could always hope.  And fortunately for everyone present, Sonny McQuade was not to be present today, although the video tape camera was a-whirring. The upside is that the video tape recorder cannot prate dull and boring anecdotes like Mr. Aforementioned.  The introduction was succinct. The PowerDrop Lottery Board was made up of a five-state Authority, and it was interested in generating more revenue from the public gambling. Their perspective/perception concluded that if they had snappier, sexier ads, they’d sell more tickets. Since they get paid to run the operation, their decisions count for the public good, and so … they were in the market for a new ad agency.  New bids would be sent in the next three months. Litigation from the present ad agency would certainly commence shortly thereafter. That was not for McQuade Concepts to worry about. They wanted to generate some capital of their own.  And here was a room full of reasonably creative folks looking to cash in on a new incentive comp plan.  The meeting lasted for over four hours. Lunch was provided, in the form of cold cuts, cheeses and a variety of breads. Helen missed a noon time A.A. meeting at a nearby community building; that wasn’t near as critical as it would have been earlier in her recovery. She’d simply make a Commuter’s meeting at 5:30pm or one of the usual 8:00pm meetings. She made it a priority to stay in the McQuade meeting, if for nothing else, she wanted to see how this new process might shake out.  But they were given a forty minute break at one point, and Helen picked up two napkins full of sandwich goodies and left the room. She entered the elevator with the smokers, all gasping for a nictoine fix. However, she turned to the right when she got down to the lobby. She stepped outside into the sunshine and found her mark without any effort whatsoever.  "Miss Sunshine! How is my Littlest Angel?" bellowed a fifty-two year old man in day-old clothes, who looked every bit of sixty five years of age. "What’s Going On, Dearie?"  "You are", replied Helen, with a hug. She handed her goodie-filled-napkins to Al Hunter, who politely put them down while he sat down with his friend. It had been over a week since Helen and he had talked; as hungry as he might be, he had time to eat after they talked.  "I’m sorry I’ve only got a few minutes, Al. Career calling and all that," bemoaned Helen, almost apologetically.  They reviewed their week as they sat on the marble-faced wall in front of McQuade Concepts. It was here that Al Hunter sat many of his daily hours away. He was homeless, and had been so for over three years. He and Helen had met in a soup kitchen that Helen was serving regularly in. Early on they found it easy to chat and found a few things in common so they became fast, if not unusual friends. Fifty-two year old men do not usually attract thirty-two year old women, especially when one of the parties is homeless and the other alcoholic. But alcohol and drugs had never been Al’s problem and his heartfelt insights were warmly welcomed in Helen’s life. He was one friend that she had to neither weigh words nor measure thoughts when in his company. They had little else in common, but he felt comfortable with her as well. It was an unlikely friendship.  She spent most of her twenty minute break with him, hugged him and returned to "show time".  --------------- Green Light sessions can be rather enjoyable if one is in a room of creative people who take their job reasonably seriously. If the topic is right, and the deadlines aren’t too tight, a healthy "anything goes" idea session can be as humorous as it is interesting. The only "rule" for McQuade Green Light Sessions was that Anything Goes. No idea was too fruitless, too stupid, or too off base. That led to some rather heartless attempts at hard work in previous sessions, including those run by "Junior", himself. But today’s session was run by Mary Jane Heady, a sharp, intelligent "team player". She was a master at keeping folks on task, she was wonderful to work with and inspiring to work for.  Ergo, another good reason why Helen seemed motivated to remain in the long, taxing session.  After a lengthy overview of various forms of media and strategies, Mary H. concluded that more discussion needed to be focused on the lottery. She surmised that more folks needed to share their own thoughts and feelings concerning the public game itself.  The banter began almost immediately, between HIM from Pennsylvania and HER from the Mid-west.  Him: "I don’t believe in The Lottery."  Her: "Well you’d better start."  Him: Why? I’ve got to USE the products that we write for? That puts me off of the tampon account … dang."  Her: "Not that … you idiot. It’s just that you’d better have some faith in the system."  Him: "Some people have way too much faith in "the system."  "Whatdoya mean by that?" inquired Ms. Heady, keeping the focus—and trust—intact.  Him: "I mean, that some people sink way too many resources into lottery tickets. Haven’t you ever stood behind some toothless woman, with hair in curlers at a convenience store … while she reads out ten sets of numbers?? The look in her eye says it all!"  Her: "So you would deny her that right?"  Him: "Deny her the right to spend child support or public dole monies on a game of chance in which she has virtually zero chance of winning?"  Her: "No! Deny her the right to spend her money on anything of her choosing."  Another young, twenty-something male joined the fray.  "You believe it’s her right to spend her welfare check on the lottery?" He asked it direct and emotionless. She responded more out of a defensive posture than from a logical one.  "I don’t believe that we have any right to tell her how to spend HER money."  Before the debate deteriorated into a discussion of societal values and the political spectrum, Mary Jane took the meeting back to regenerate some corporate focus.  She thanked her participants and asked if anyone can share some movie titles and plots which address the concept and mindset of any lottery.  For five minutes the discussion turned to the movie of a married cop who, when embarrassed that he had no money for a waitress tip, promises her that if his lottery ticket hits, he’d split it with the attractive employee.  It does, he does and his wife gets a little upset when half of her dream money is given away to the stranger. McQuade’s amateur movie critics sounded off on the quality of the directing, acting and writing of the reasonably-popular movie.  The conversation turned to the financially sound empire that has cropped up surrounding the lottery industry. Lottery magazines, lottery play strategies, lottery reporting businesses and lottery psychics are turning over millions of dollars.  One of Heady’s assistant’s reported some real-life news reports concerning lottery winners:  "When a New Jersey Police Officer correctly matched six Lotto Texas numbers in a 1994 Lotto drawing, he thought he had won $10.4 million. The Texas Lottery thought otherwise.  "They refused to turn the jackpot over to the Police Officer, claiming the officer had violated the law by purchasing his winning ticket from a multi-state ticket agent in Pennsylvania. He would have been on duty at the time of the purchase, and therefore had no business being out of state. The Officer sued.  "Finally, after more than three years, he prevailed and will receive a settlement of about $3 million.  Lottery officials say The Police Officer bought his winning ticket from the now defunct Pic-A-State in Croyden, Pa., near his home in Riverside, NJ. Originally, a federal judge in Houston sided with the Lottery and refused to pay the Officer. But the 5th U.S. Court of Appeals reversed the decision."  There was talk about the history of lotteries, where the fact that most colonial states generated money through lotteries emerged. Mary Jane’s crack assistant also had a statistic that most, if not all of these lotteries were proven to be crooked.  This generated a heated discussion on the role of government within the lottery industry, and of course, the role of advertising in the mix.  In an attempt to bring about a little more laughter into the room, Heady finished by asking for open comments on plans should one ever win the bulging jackpot. Immediately the mood lifted.  "What would you do with money?"  "Travel everywhere!"  "Get the hell out of this town"  "Buy my parents a house"  "Buy everyone here a car"  A chorus of Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’s brought a smile to everyone’s face.  "Leave my husband so fast, he’d get frostbite"  "He’d get half, you know?"  "I’d hide it from him. Some judge somewhere would understand."  "Elvis bought everyone Cadillacs"  Elvis discussion: did money or drugs ruin him? (chicken or egg). Soon             they were back "on task".  "Would you let the money ruin you?"  "Of course not"  "I know how to keep it from ruining me"  "How?"  "I would lend money to everyone"  "I would lend money to no one"  "I would set up a charitable foundation"  "I wouldn’t quit my job."  "I wouldn’t let them put my name in the paper, and i wouldn’t tell no one"  "You’d have to; it’s public money. Once you pay your two dollars, you have no choice because it becomes public information. Besides it’s HOT NEWS. People want to know all about the folks who won it. It’s their only ‘reward’         for having NOT won it."  The meeting carried on until just after two in the afternoon, where plans were made for an early week follow-up to today’s meeting. Research assignments were given to a few of the newcomers; given that team selection hinged on individual participation, many associates jotted notes as to their contributions next week.   Helen packed up her notebook and returned to her cubicle, where she had a deadline for a retail ad she’d signed on for.  The phone rang shortly after four. It was Dorothy  "Are you ready for tonight?"  "As ready as I’ll ever be. I feel good about it. Thanks for our talk. It helped."  "You bet, friend. I just wish I can be there for you tonight. My schedule is still nuts. I want to be there."  "You will be, Dorothy. You will be."   Next Chapter  Return to Table of Contents

Chapter Ten (10)

She was more than a little bit nervous, and it showed as she put on eyeliner and lipstick. She said a silent prayer that she could and would be open to heaven’s will. She also prayed to keep her ego out of the mix tonight.

One could never tell which was more powerful when one spoke at an AA meeting: the impact one has on listeners, or the impact one has on self. Helen knew that whenever she spoke, she heard some of her comments for the first time herself. Despite beginning her talk by believing she knew what she was going to say, Helen was always surprised (usually pleasantly so) at words that came out of her mouth, which seemingly had never been thought heretofore. She attributed this to her Higher Power, and she has always heard that this was how it was supposed to be. In the perfect recovery speaking engagement, one was supposed to be open, and willing to speak God’s will. The Speaker is sometimes merely the vehicle for the message.

It is written in the official writings that “Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism”. In an attempt to bring recovery opportunities to those questioning their drinking habits, there are meetings scheduled in public and private rooms all across America and the world. Some have specific themes, some encourage attendance of a certain group and some are open to the curious and the court-appointed attendees. Most are general discussion meetings, where members share openly. Other meetings are known as Speaker meetings. Members are asked to speak to an attentive group by the chairmen of that specific meeting, a honor given for something as simple as signing up to chair. 

The speaker is also supposed to stick to a strict time schedule. Helen never had the problem of having too much to say. And it was embarrassing to come up a little short in the “fill-in” department. So she had to be on her toes with pacing.

Before long, she was settled in the room at the auditorium of a hospital on the outskirts of town. In her hand, Helen had a coffee mug that was given to her on her second day of sobriety. This would bring her serenity through memory cues.

She listened as Jennifer put pressure on her with a warm introduction. She stood amidst applause and hugged her friend, who was chairing this meeting as she celebrated her third year in the program.

Helen looked down at her shaking hands.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen.

“Thank you for that wonderful intro Jennifer. I’m limited by my humility steps to add anything to that, but you sure said some nice things about me. I appreciate it.

“My name is Helen Wade, and I am definitely an alcoholic.

(“Hi Helen!”)

“I am an alcoholic, and I am very fortunate to be sober.

“I am, quite frankly, fortunate to be alive.

“Five to eight years ago, I didn’t care if I was. I certainly never thought I would be alive AND this happy, some five years later. I had my toe tag for the morgue already filled out.

“I am empowered to speak with you tonight about how it was, what happened and what’s it like now. And I cannot do this without telling you a little Helen History.

“I was born in the later-70’s into the original dysfunctional family. My father was an alcoholic, and worse …  he was a drunk.

“And, as a drunk, he sought relief from inside of a bottle for every bit of pain he came in contact with. The apple didn’t fall too damn far from the tree in terms of that coping mechanism.

(Laughter)

“We moved a lot when I was real young, because my old man didn’t keep jobs. It seems that showing up drunk, and/or punching your boss is a deterrent to career maintenance. Who knew?

Scattered murmurs of laughter put Helen at ease a little bit.

“I was, quite naturally, the middle child. Neither the strong, empowered oldest, nor the cute, last-o’the-bunch baby child … I learned early on how to stay out of the way, because my opinion didn’t matter much.

“I also learned to stay out of the way because when drunk, my old man liked to slap around Mama and us kids a little bit. So, it was always best not to upset him and to definitely hide when you heard him launch into a fit. He was a non-discriminating abuser. He didn’t care if you were the cause or the effect of his anger; he’d wallop you anyway.”

Eyes glistened and heads nodded as compassion was shared in the audience of fifty-plus.

“You would think that this kind of environment would make for a close bond between siblings, or a close bond between us and our other parent. 

“It does on TV. Such was NOT the case in my family. 

“My eldest brother was killed in a motorcycle accident one week after he turned 17. The hope was that he would become everything my father wasn’t. He didn’t have time. While I have fond memories of John, I cannot recall him ever treating me like that wonderfully protective Big Brother that the movies love to romanticize. I think he was running for cover pretty often, as well.

“My younger brother and I get along well, but we ain’t no Hallmark card, let me tell you. (laughter) We’ve never had huge fights, nor have we had a lot of jealousy between us. But we were not in each other’s weddings and outside of some holiday visits, our lives and our paths don’t cross that often.

“Between my father’s ridiculous sense of reality, and my mother’s use of pills —I knew all about Mama’s Little Helpers long before my classmates did—I was left pretty much on my own to grow up.

“I did my homework and studies alright. I was neither a great student, nor a particularly bad one. I caused little or no trouble in school. Are you kidding me? Give that father of mine one more excuse to whip my butt with his belt? I don’t think so.”

Helen was gathering momentum and pulling the crowd in with comments that most could relate to as children.

“My mother and I never formed that strong bond that one dreams about as a little girl. I cannot remember her ever hugging me for absolutely NO reason, nor do I remember her ever coming to my defense when the old man was on a rampage. I guess she feared for her hide as much as I did, so she wasn’t about to interfere. I learned early on, that it was far better to be neither seen nor heard around my household. The path of least resistance—that was me.

“In terms of those special Mom-to-daughter “Call Home moments”, to give you an example …  I can remember the day I began menstruating. My apologies to those in the audience who are offended by this level of candidness. I realize this is not Femininity Anonymous … anyway … this horrific, incredibly shocking change is going on within my body. Do you think anyone bothered to tell me? Do you think I was prepared for this kind of upsetting moment?

“Not that I’m bitter or anything …”

The room ripped with laughter as the crowd sensed a need for release from the tension from this foreboding self-disclosure. The usually-shy and withdrawn Helen was now beginning to feel the power she normally generates when she shares her story with fellow drunks.

“So anyway … I put some toilet tissue in my underwear, not knowing what else to do. And I approached dear old mom to inquire as to the possibility that I might be bleeding to death, or at least, was a very, very sick child. And she laughed.

She laughed.

You could’ve heard a pin drop in the room.

“She must’ve just had a mickey in her drink or something; this was before my brother had died, but she was already into numbing pain, even then. And she laughed.

“I didn’t see a damn thing funny about any of it. I was scared.

“She said she’d find some time to sit down with me and explain everything. I’m still waiting for that special moment to hear about it; it’s been over 20 years. She died when I was still drinking pretty heavy, so I don’t think I’m gonna get “The Talk”. 

“However, I have a pretty good idea what’s going on now, so you guys can stop volunteering to explain everything to me about that … take me on tours, share with me your special stories … whatever”.

The guffaws returned and that tension built with the mention of the speaker’s mom’s death had now subsided.

“Well, life trudged on, and I went to high school, and I met the social phenomenon known as Mr. Cold Six-Pack.”

Similar to a Revival’s call to Hallelujah in a tent in rural America, several “Oh Yeahs” could be heard throughout the room.

“Now, Mr. Cold Six-pack was an immediate hit with me, because it was introduced to me by people who seemed rather neat, rather cool, and I so wanted to be liked. 

“I don’t know why I wanted to be liked; I’m confused as to why. I’ve never been to Vladovostik and I have NO burning desire to go there. I was in unexplored territory, with this wanting to be accepted. I’d been okay without worrying about that for years.

“I don’t think … I’d ever been liked up to that point, but I did have some general idea that being liked was a better alternative than existing the way I was, so it seemed like a good direction to go into.

“And these potential friends offered me some beer one afternoon in the summer. If I say yes, maybe they like me. If I say no, maybe they don’t.

“It was a beautiful, sunny day, and there was really no reason to take a drink. The sunshine felt good on my face, we were near a nice pond and I could have easily enjoyed the smell of the fresh air. 

“But they seemed so happy and seemed as if they were having so much fun. They were laughing and frolicking gaily and I wanted to be like them. It was kind of a fluke that I had spent the day with them anyway, so I didn’t want anyone to DISlike me . . .  so, I said sure.

“And my life changed that day.”

Helen paused, to take a drink of water from the special coffee mug she brought with her to the podium. Either she was getting a dry throat while talking, or she was entering some particularly emotional material.

“Because there was something in that beer, in that alcohol, that made me a different person. It made me feel warm on the inside, for the first time. It made me feel accepted, for ONE of the first times in my life.

“I liked the new me. It must be the beer.

“I liked beer.”

Helen smiled a broad one.

“Most women you know, perhaps, cannot drink as much as men. I was the exception to that rule. I made friends …  because I could “hang with” the boys. They’d never seen anyone in a skirt drink as much as I could. And so I had newfound respect: I could DRINK.

“I could do something right. That alone was a good feeling.

“And it wasn’t long before they wanted to see what this drinker looked like out of that skirt. I wasn’t quite so open to that, but hey . . . I was willing to listen to anything.”

The laughter started early in her punchline and continued while Helen took another swig from her mug. She smiled and winked at Jennifer.

“That was in my sophomore year of high school. While I didn’t go out and knock off a liquor store that or any other week, I did manage to find a way to somehow always have alcohol. 

“It wasn’t very hard stealing it from my dad; he couldn’t keep up with all his use and when he got into a fifth, or a six-pack that I’d pinched from…?  

“Well, he just wrote it off to bad memory or faulty reality or something. He must’ve never suspected me, because I was never caught by my parents. That would have been something: being lectured by my parents against the evils of substance abuse.

Laughter.

“I’d pay to hear that one.

Real laughter, belly laughs and deep bellowing laughter.

“I had few problems with the law, either. While I was funny and humorous as a drunk, I was no smart ass. I had NO desire to spend my life appearing in court, so I watched my P’s and Q’s. I stayed out of trouble.

“And when my 17-year-old friends offered me a joint one day, I took about half as long —as I did with the beer— to say yes. I REALLY enjoyed pot and noticed that I could smoke that every day and not have blackouts or the runs. I liked that. I smoked it a lot.

“And, as you can imagine, my grades began to deteriorate. Not that anyone at home noticed. I’m pretty sure they knew what school I went to, but as far as knowing my teacher’s names, forget it. I signed my own notes, so I could skip whenever I wanted to. I had a liberal policy about school attendance. I went to school whenever it was cold or rainy. Otherwise, I might be out partying.

“You know the story.”

Heads nodded in approval across the room.

“My parents couldn’t afford to put me through college, and given that I had found a new social agenda, as well as the fact that my parent’s didn’t give a rat’s ass about either of us kids after my brother died, I moved out.

“Into trouble.

“I now had the opportunity to drink every day, if I wanted to. And who was I to turn away from opportunity? I cashed in on every chance I had. I hit Happy Hours. I visited friends, merely to party. I drove drunk (was there any other way?). 

“And then love came to town.

“I met David at  a pig roast. I had begun to look somewhat attractive, largely because I had stopped worrying about how I looked. 

“Go figure.

“He was big and strong and six years older. He walked right up to me. He looked deep into my eyes. He talked a real good game. And he had a bag of cocaine that was seemingly endless.

“I was 19 years old. I have no idea why he even gave me the time of day, but we talked for hours that night. I guess the coke kept us up.

“Within a month I was in love.

“Within two, I’d moved in with him. My parents made this big stink about my moving too fast and doing things the wrong way, but remember who this was advising me. 

I had gained enough alcoholic cockiness to nod at them and go on. No one was going to deny me this man. I’d do anything for him.

“And I did. 

“Anything. 

“Lie to his boss about his whereabouts. Keep a job and keep him in groceries when he was out of work. Look the other way when he came in late smelling of the ladies. The only place I drew the line was him hitting me, but he wasn’t that kind of guy.

“I should have drawn the line on his drug use. He was a waste case.

“Here was this drop-dead gorgeous guy, sleeping in my bed, giving me attention sometimes, and I was living in denial that his drug use and abuse was as bad as it was.

“And by then, I was not so interested in drugs as I was with alcohol. I was a daily drinker, I passed out three or four nights a week. I was dwindled down to nothing, weight-wise. I had managed to hang onto a job at a law firm for some time. They liked me and I did good work. Remember: I was the master at staying out of trouble’s way.

“We existed together as ‘singles’ for two years. I don’t know why, but he asked me to marry him. 

“I do know why I screamed ‘YES’. I’d never find another guy like this one. The sun rose and set on him. We eloped, telling very few people. I think we sent my folks a card from the honeymoon. 

“Honeymoon …  hah!

“It was an excuse for driving a long distance to pick up large quantities of coke. This was the ’90’s ladies and gentlemen, and white collar coke habits were on the rise.

“Suffice it to say we lived a hectic married life. We were on the go, largely because Dave had made some pretty big connections and was always trying to keep his suppliers happy and his clients satisfied. He aimed to please.

“And even with all the drugs, I can now honestly say that I have been loved by another human being. And this man who loved me often took the time to tell me or show me. There were some times for me when life was really good. 

“Makes you wonder why I drank my face off during those times.

“I managed to keep my job and even managed to sign on with an advertising firm as a creative assistant. On the outside, things looked pretty good. On the inside, I was a wreck. Completely aware that I was NO LONGER a normal drinker, I began to hide my drinking.

“Hide it from a coke addict, no less.”

The laughter now was more in terms of the kindred-ship the group felt for the speaker, rather than for the hilarity intended.

“And there were very few attempts to try to cut back or quit. He was living such a fast paced life, always sweating getting busted when he wasn’t staying up three nights in a row, that it started to wear on me.

“And here I was … trying to live the role of Ms. Polly Pure Bred at work.

“I was 23 years old and I was having an identity crisis and I don’t know where to turn.

“And then Dave did get busted.”

Silence. Coughs. Helen sips.

“Ever wake up to a nine millimeter aimed at your head? It’s better than coffee for the alertness factor. It will definitely get you going . ..  in more ways than one!

“And in case any of you were a-wondering . . .  neighborhood cops and DEA agents are not necessarily the most polite wake-up call artists one earth. I think it has something to do with donut breath.”

Cheap shot. Old Joke. Roaring laughter.

“Fortunately, for some odd reason, there was no coke in the apartment when they raided us, so I wasn’t hauled down to lock up. But Dave was, for items found in a previous “search-and-rescue” and they set his bond at $175,000.

“Now I knew we were in deep stuff. They don’t set those kind of bonds without having a pretty strong case against a pretty big time dealer. And I realized only then how Big Time a dealer my lovely little bed partner/husband was.

“So we started making plans (Dave’s father put up some property to cover the bond), and we were a-scrambling. There were basically two choices: tell everything we know and hope for leniency, or … hope that some bigger fish were caught ahead