All This Life (30 page)

“Mind if I snag a beer on my way out?” she asks.

He is raising his voice: “Lindsay Johnson. Not Lindsay Miller. Glass, send a message to Johnson. Johnson.”

If she were to draw a caricature of their night together, she wouldn't need to exaggerate anything. Him with his frog-feet and sunglasses, her with the bourbon and blackout.

“Can I have the beer?”

“Johnson! Johnson! Johnson! Johnson!”

He actually stomps one of his webbed feet, a techie tantrum. He never put on clothes and Kathleen appreciates that about the young man. He's comfortable in his own skin, and she admires that, is jealous. She might find him ridiculous, but that doesn't mean she can't see something to respect here. He's freshly tattooed and in a new condo and he's nude in front of a one-night stand screaming at his sunglasses, and he doesn't have one ounce of bashfulness. She's a drunken dinosaur who needs to turn off her twitchy mind. It's obvious who's enjoying a better life, and the beer beckons.

“I'll see myself out,” she says, dressing and leaving his room, walking down the hall into the kitchen. This place is ridiculously nice. Everything brand-new. State-of-the-art. Pretty soon, the whole city will be a wearable computer.

She opens the fridge and there are two beers. She takes out both bottles. She thinks about drinking one now to get this sad party started, then thinks better of it. The most important thing is getting out of here. She tucks the beers in her purse and approaches the front door.

He's still yelling at his sunglasses: “Johnson! Johnson!”

SHE AND THE
beers make their way down Valencia Street, in the opposite direction from her apartment. She's walking up to 24th, so she can slip inside what used to be her favorite bar before she got sober.

If she's going on a run, it might as well start in style, at a place she has fond memories of.

Of course, there really aren't any memories, in the traditional sense. Kathleen wouldn't be able to tell anyone about a certain night or day; she wouldn't be able to pinpoint a precise story. No, all these memories are melted like old mixed drinks, ice diluting everything to an unrecognizable cocktail. Yet despite all that, Kathleen holds this place in a broken regard, and she walks with purpose, which isn't easy considering her headache.

“Why don't you imbibe?”

These are the beers talking.

Yes, when you're a relapsed alcoholic on the lam from your life, beers talk to you.

She nods at the beers' solid suggestion.

She opens one and drinks most of it in a sip. Then she sets the empty bottle next to a parking meter for the homeless to collect—not that there are any of those left in the neighborhood, but in case one finagles her way back into the Mission before being deported.

She takes her cell phone from her purse. She has eleven texts from Deb and three missed calls. These will not be returned this morning. No, that's the last thing she can stomach. Deb will speak with reason, she'll be practical, and this isn't a morning for pragmatism. This is a morning for a bender.

She powers off her phone and tucks it away, burying it in the bottom.

Drinking with a hangover has always had one of two outcomes for Kathleen: Sometimes she can't get drunk the next day, no matter how hard she cocktails. She is impervious to spirits, so much swimming in her already that her system can't take any of it in. Other times, though, she gets wasted incredibly fast and this morning is proving to be in the latter subdivision.

A lone beer and she is cooked.

The one-night stand is gone. The headache is gone. The word
cunt
is gone. All that stretches out before her on the morning street is good times.

She turns on 24th Street, passes the BART station and McDonald's. It's socked-in, but there's not any wind. The sky is the color of raw shrimp.

At last she's here. It has been three years since she's been inside the bar's black walls. In fact, the whole place is pitch, even the floors. Many a night, Kat had been so wasted here that she rested her head on the bar, staring down at the black floor like it was going to swallow her, but it never did. The bar knew better than to eat its clientele.

The room even allows its customers to stargaze, bits of smashed mirrors pocking the ceiling. Everyone gets to pretend to look through a telescope, spying a better world.

As if the bartender expects Kathleen to walk in, he peeks up from his newspaper and says, “Did you hear they're tearing down the Elbo Room?”

He's an old-timer, somewhere in his sixties. Kat has talked to him many times, shut this place down with him, speaking in tongues. He owns the place and wears a shirt that says Spank me, it's my birthday. Legend has it that this bar burned down in the early aughts, and he rebuilt it, making it look exactly the same.

“Why are they doing that?” she asks.

“Putting up more condos.”

“They're ruining the neighborhood,” she says.

“We all ruin the neighborhood when we first come in,” he says. “I did. You did. Now it's a new set of assholes ruining things. Cities are moving targets, always taking fire. But don't worry: In ten years, the current assholes will get squeezed out and they'll be talking like us.”

“Small victories,” she says.

“It's been a while since I've seen you,” he says.

Kathleen can't think of a reason to lie. Bars can do that to you, especially in places black as confessionals. “I've been sober for a few years.”

“I tried that a couple times myself.”

“Bourbon.”

“Welcome back,” he says, pouring them both big ones.

They take their shots at exactly 8:56 in the morning.

“It's not just the Elbo,” he says. “The Attic closed. So did Pop's. They're pricing us out. There might not be any dive bars left in the Mission. Can you imagine? My landlord would love to shut this place down and open some boutique with gourmet cheeses and pedicures.”

“Is it really your birthday?”

“You don't need an excuse to spank me.”

“Can I have another shot?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you eaten anything?”

Kathleen shakes her head no, wonders what happened to the quality of service in this establishment. She's seen people asleep on pool tables, taking a catnap before bellying back up to finish the job—or start the next one. She's seen people ordering drinks with minds malfunctioning on liquor, talking like stroke victims. And now this guy wants to scrutinize the contents of her stomach?

“I'm not hungry.”

“I need a guinea pig,” he says.

“For what?”

“Be right back.” He disappears through a black door by the bathrooms.

Kathleen sits there, enjoying the beer and the bourbon zooming through her, adding some carbonation to her flat life. It's not an exaggeration to say that Kathleen feels elated. The galloping demons are having a house party in her head. She wants to play the Beach Boys on the jukebox. She wants to dance. She wants to dance with every member of the Beach Boys. She wants to kiss every Beach Boy and thank them for their harmonies. But she'll settle for a
dance with the cranky barkeep once he's back. He might know how to cut a rug. This is what's been missing from her life, a release, an escape. Sobriety is all about being aware and available, and don't get her wrong, she likes those things, but not all the time.

The bartender comes out carrying a tray. On it are two sourdough bread bowls filled with clam chowder.

“It's a San Francisco classic!” he says.

“Why is this happening?” she asks.

“I've wanted to try this, and you need some food. I keep buying these bread bowls and they rot back there. I always forget about them. But these aren't that old, I don't think. At least, no mold I can see. This is perfect. The only way I'll keep serving you is if you put something in your stomach. Try this with me.”

He hands her a spoon and clutches his, holding it out for Kathleen to cheers with, and she does and there's a pitiful clinking noise and the bartender smiles.

“Fine,” she says, “I'll try.”

“Here's the twist. Here's what makes my chowder different from all the other joints.” He takes the bourbon bottle and floats a shot right on top of their soups. He stands there beaming at Kat and says, “Merry Christmas!” He mixes everything up in his bread bowl and digs his spoon in for a hearty mouthful.

“Surprisingly refreshing,” he says, heaping more of it in.

Kathleen sits there watching him and can still hear him saying “Merry Christmas,” though it's nowhere near December and nowhere near funny and his S
PANK ME
birthday shirt makes Kat even sadder, and since there's no official kitchen in the back of the bar, this soup is from a can—she hopes—and it should not be eaten, even with the guarantee that the bread isn't moldy, and all the elation that she had been feeling curdles. In fact, she despises the Beach Boys and their harmonies and dances in dive bars and morning beers and watching a bartender shovel alcoholic chowder in his face is the worst thing you can ever endure.

“I'll be right back,” she says, pushing herself up, getting her purse, wobbling toward the black door.

“You shouldn't leave me alone with your bowl,” he calls over. “I might help myself.”

“Go ahead and help yourself!”

“You first!”

“Help yourself!”

“Hurry!” he says.

Kathleen is outside. The whole world is the color of that chowder; the fog makes everyone on the sidewalk squint from its glare as they beeline to the BART station as they're starting their dutiful day, while Kat can barely stand up. She can't believe what she's done, what she's thrown away. Everything she's worked so hard to build is dead. She feels the decapitation of drunkenness.

Her hand is in her purse. Her phone is in her hand. Her phone is powered on and put to her ear.

“I've been worried about you,” Deb says.

“I'm drunk,” Kathleen says.

“Ah, girl. Where are you?”

“Can you meet me at my house? I'm on my way there.”

“I'll leave right now,” Deb says. “Don't beat yourself up. This happens. I've relapsed before. It's a part of the process. I love you and everything will be fine.”

Kathleen hasn't paid for her bourbon, but she can't bear the thought of creaking open the black door, seeing him lap that pallid bowl of chowder.

I'm sorry
, she thinks, and turns to walk home.

AS KATHLEEN APPROACHES
her place, Deb is on the front stoop. She's holding two coffees, and those steaming to-go cups make Kat crumble. She drops to the sidewalk and sobs.

“Get up,” says Deb. “You're all right. You're safe. That's what matters.”

“Why did I ruin my life again?” Kathleen asks.

“I'm not going to help you up,” Deb says. “You have to do it. Pick yourself up and come over here. Take this cup of coffee from me.”

“It's over,” she says, still on her knees. “It's lost.”

“It's in my hand,” Deb says. “Your coffee is right here.”

Kathleen looks over at her smiling sponsor. Deb wears a camouflage trench coat, a black beanie. She has on huge combat boots and is the kind of badass Kathleen hopes to be. She remembers when she first came to AA—that first meeting. She was so scared to walk into a roomful of strangers and beg for help. Her life was pickled and she couldn't go on living like that. She must have stood outside of sixty meetings but could never get up the courage to go in. But eventually, she did. Eventually, she entered that room and sat down in a folding chair that felt made of paperclips and listened, didn't say one word the whole hour, until the end when the group was asked if anyone had any announcements and Kathleen stood up and said, “This is my first day sober and I don't know what I'm supposed to do, I'm scared, please help,” and that was the beginning—that was the first time she truly understood the definition of the word
surrender
. She walked in and gave herself up and these people immersed her in their empathy.

Deb had approached her right after the meeting and asked if she needed a sponsor, and they've been in daily contact ever since.

And here they are now: Kathleen, decimated, liquored-up, heart-broken, and Deb waiting on her doorstep with hot coffee. The world can be horrible and beautiful at the same time.

“It's getting cold,” Deb says, shaking the coffee cup.

AFTER HALF AN
hour sitting on the stoop, not really talking, the coffee is gone, and it's time to hit a meeting. Kathleen needs a
shower first, a scrub from the toothbrush. Deb says she'll make some eggs and toast.

Kat opens her front door, and they come into the front hallway. Wes is standing there, in his lab coat.