Chapter Seventeen #2
There are some tough-looking dudes in this Communion line, but they seem as pious as monks.
Thinking again about the line I stood in the day before, I shift uncomfortably.
Do these guys crave some kind of absolution the way I craved that tequila?
I hope the AA meeting after this isn’t going to push the God stuff too hard.
I don’t feel contemptuous of religion like my father does, but I’m skeptical that some savior “if He were sought” is anything more than wishful thinking.
I remember what my sponsor’s sponsor said to him: “Dale, you don’t have to believe as long as you believe that I believe.
” Or what Dale told me about his own belief: that the closest he comes to feeling the presence of a higher power is when he looks out at the vastness of the ocean when he’s surf casting.
My attention shifts to the three-man choir up front, one of them strumming a guitar.
The song is familiar, but I can’t remember where I know it from.
The middle singer looks familiar, too, and when he steps forward and begins his solo, I do a double take.
It’s that Jamaican guy, Jheri Curl, who tried to embarrass me the first day I went out in the yard.
To see Thee more clearly, love Thee more dearly, follow Thee more nearly, day by day.
He’s toned down his look for church—no eye makeup, no lipstick courtesy of strawberry Twizzlers.
And he has a damn good singing voice. The other two join in as the song wraps up. Day by day by day by day by day.
After the ones in line have been served, Dog and the three choir members receive their communion, then take their seats.
Jheri Curl’s is directly in front of mine.
I’m looking at the long vertical scar running down the back of his shaved head when I feel something hit my sneaker.
Glancing down, I see the kite. At the far end of my row, a bearish-looking bald guy is pointing at… Jheri?
“Him?” I mouth, and his head bobs up and down.
I tap Jheri on the shoulder and slip him the kite.
He unfolds and reads it, then places two fingers to his lips and sends off a kiss to the sender.
A hookup, I figure. Spirituality now and sinning later on , my father’s voice says. What hypocritical bullshit.
When church is over, about half the guys stay behind, stacking some of the chairs against the wall and arranging others in a circle. I’m surprised to see that when the priest takes off his robe, he’s dressed like the rest of us: tan scrubs, state-issued sneakers, prison ID pinned to his shirt.
A younger guy named Javier calls the meeting to order.
He leads the eleven of us in the serenity prayer and reads a couple of announcements.
When he asks whether anyone is new, I raise my hand, volunteer my first name, and tell the others I’m cross-addicted.
“Welcome,” some of them say. “Glad you’re here. ”
Javier passes me a Big Book and asks me to read “How It Works.” “Chapter five, pages fifty-eight through sixty,” he says.
I read the description of the twelve steps and end with that part about how, although no human power can save us from our addiction, “God can and will if He is sought.” Everyone else chimes in on that last part. They sound more convinced than I am.
Javier says his topic for today’s meeting is how we can resist temptation.
Most of the guys who share say a lot of the same stuff I heard at the meetings I attended before my sentencing: talk to your sponsor; pray for strength from your higher power; “move a muscle, change a thought.” One guy says he wants to remind us that while we’re sitting in here, our addiction is doing push-ups out in the yard, getting ready for the day when we’re discharged.
The priest, whom everyone calls Father Andy, shares that he got his fourth DUI on his drive back from a ninety-day rehab.
I half-want to tell them about my close call the day before, but I don’t know whether I can trust these guys and I don’t want anyone on my tier to get in trouble if someone ignores the “what’s said in here stays in here” rule.
Besides, I can’t quite say how or why I was able to resist at the last minute.
When my thumb poked through the bottom of that cup, had it been a voluntary act or an involuntary one?
I’m the only one who doesn’t share. Still, walking back to B Block, I feel pretty good about having gone to that meeting.
Calmer than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe I’ll put in a request to go back next Sunday.
It would beat sitting in our cell, worrying about how Emily and Maisie are doing or trying not to listen to Manny’s music or one of his monologues.
Last week I added earplugs to my commissary order.
“Where you been?” he asks when I get back from the meeting.
What business is it of his? I tell him, straight-faced, that the warden invited me over to her place for tea and cookies.
He looks so hurt by my sarcasm that I fess up.
He says he’s proud of me for going, which creeps me out a little. I sure as hell don’t need his approval.
Before lights-out, I read Dr. Patel’s letter for the umpteenth time. Reading can be a temporary escape from your restrictive environment.… There are many jobs available to inmates at Yates.… the prison librarian, Fagie Millman…