Punk / Counterpunk

[The following is a transcript of an exchange – respectively, a personal confession, and an immediate reaction – at the University of Pittsburgh during an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. The topic of discussion is “How to sustain relationships without alcohol”]

As observed and transcribed by S. Brughella

Punk:
By Bill

Bill, a white guy in his mid-twenties, says: Hi, my name is Bill – I’m an alcoholic…

In relative unison, The Group, about thirty strong, arranged in a square of seats, says: Hi, Bill.

Bill: Hi, everybody.

Well… wow. Relationships… yeah. I’m always a little shy at these things, so bear with me but… yeah. Shit yeah, man. Alcohol is a drug. Alcohol is a drug and it has taken me over and I admit I am powerless. Alcohol sure as hell seems to help relationships that don’t matter – random, meaningless friends at some bar – while hurting those that do matter. Am I right?

A black woman, whose crocheting in the group says: That’s right, Bill!

Bill: Yeah, thank you. Sure does make me think, too… Relationships are sacrificed for the bottle, 100%. That’s always where it goes. “I love you,” I’ll say. “I love you, I love someone else, and I love something else.” Then I’ll drink, drink more, and then I’m gone. The emotions are gone. Yeah – that’s the tale, man. Always. So yeah: I’ve got a story for ya’. Deep breath everyone…

[Twenty seconds of silence]

AA leader – bald man in his 60s, twenty pounds overweight: Go on, Bill. We’re here to help.

Bill: Alright. Okay, so last night, the love of my life, Cecelia, assaults me again with the dreaded “Why are we not yet engaged?”

So I say I don’t know; I’m too young. And she won’t accept that. Apparently, last evening, while watching some fucking gossip show… “Inside Edition” or some shit, she was thrown into a pit of resigned depression when she discovered Jude Law plans to marry someone two years younger that she is – Cecelia, I mean. Totally ridiculous in theory (I mean, have we come to the point in our society where we base our decisions on People Magazine headlines?) but ... understandable? Fuck, I don’t know. She feels she’s over the hill, needs to get on the horse, as it were, in terms of a lasting relationship. So she presents me with an ultimatum – you’re either in or out, Bill. Can you believe that? First it’s in and out, now it’s in or… yeah. Sorry. Fucking unbelievable.

So, getting to the point, I decline, resign, start drinking immediately – while still on the phone with her I cower to a closet. I reach for vodka in a plastic bottle and drink. And drink. Yeah I know. I lost it. I’d been sober for almost a month, and then just … couldn’t take the world without it.

Anyway. I think over the question – will you marry me? – again and again though sobs on her end of the line – her conversation with dead air – and I completely ignore her, only think of myself. I avoid. I retrace, deny the idea in triplicate – commitment and ... that question. She continues to bring it up and I’m unable to deal without inebriated help.

Some background: We’ve been dating three years, if you want to call it that. Spats occur often. The marriage question has been asked (and regretfully reneged once, by me – I suspected her), to no avail. No conclusions have been met over three years. We lived together for a period lasting over a year when both she and I considered moving out on many occasions – we’re both selfish, childish, inconsolable in despair, but pathetically lonely without each other in a loving relationship. This brings about more problems – I consider on many occasions that I serve, to her, no more purpose than an animated teddy bear; she considers that I see her as a toy.

So we discuss briefly over the phone, get no where. I go to bed very drunk – drunker than usual. I hang up on her mid-sentence, shut off my phone, allow my worries to cease in a haze.

About 4 a.m., I rise and stumble outside. I need to stroll. The air is crisp, not cold. Lampposts line the street as I move on, so it’s not dark, even though it should be. I walk farther, farther still, heeding time as a beggar I want to kill, not caring how far I need to go, or where I need to be, when I begin to feel sick – like something inside me has given birth, grown old and declared war. The ache escalates – shards of shooting pain rise and rise again, peaking without nadir and the wind grows colder as I begin to sweat. The fear comes and goes and I can do nothing. When it begins to hit me – I am gagging. Am I fucking gagging? Gagging on what? I haven’t eaten in a full day. This is not ... pain ... again ... more and more ... a frightened rise, more discomfort than I’ve ever felt when I arch my back and scream to the sky – death, I think, true terror, a horrific end in sight, a flow of excruciating suffering; agony, torment, torture rising within, something about to erupt, swelling, a river of fear… And then it surfaces. I begin throwing up gallons and gallons of blood – completely gruesome, frightening, no other words will do; the flow of blood is so intense I can still actually hear it right now, as I relate this story to you, like a flowing creek moving from my brainstem into my stomach, then out – out in a vicious, forceful horizontal geyser and I don’t know what to do. The blood stops, then comes back. I feel weak, ready to pass out or die, so I start hobbling, sobbing, completely drained, blood flowing from my mouth as I trudge into a house I don’t recognize, needing help. More blood falls from me and gathers in a pool. And as I walk in, fall through the doorway, there’s someone there who starts caring for me, trying to help, pulling me toward a car to get me ... somewhere. Blood everywhere. And I don’t recognize who he is, but he’s certainly not Cecelia and I look up and recognize the person as a figure I can only describe as Jesus-like, with long hair, gentle, helping, making everything alright, comforting me before telling me “life is blood pouring unto you in a disease-ridden shower” and leaving me alone where I conclude death is imminent, before I realize I’m not awake, and that all I have to do is bring myself to consciousness. And then I’m warm and in bed and the alarm’s going off and I’m late for work. So I decide it’s time I got some help. I call Cecelia:
“Cecelia, baby, I need you –”

There’s a pause here where pain hits me again, like in the dream. And I say: “I ... think I ... have a ... drinking problem.”

“Fuck you,” she says, and hangs up. I pick up the vodka bottle again and finish the little that remains on the way to work. And that day, I decide Alcoholics Anonymous is the only spot I can go. She’s gone. And you guys are all so helpful. So hopeful. So here I am.

Relationships, man. Yeah.

AA leader, alone, says: Thank you… Bill. Does anyone have anything else they’d like to share?

Counterpunk:
By Sally

Sally, a housewife, who introduces herself as “a woman with some issues,” says: Uh… Hi, my name is Sally, and I’m an alcoholic.

Hesitantly, The Group responds: Hi … Sally.

Sally: And, uh… Jesus? Jesus. I think there are alcoholics and there are psychotic folks who drink too much. And you, Bill, are a psycho. You need a lot more help than AA can offer. I’m outta here. You’re all crazy.

The Group says: Thanks, Sally.

[Sally grabs her coat and leaves]