George Pelecanos - Drama City

Ten minutes later, Mark returned, tossing his clipboard into the backseat. “I’m ready for lunch.”

“You go on,” said Lorenzo. “I got something else I need to do.”

“I ain’t never gonna be cured of this sickness I got,” said a light-skinned man with big freckles dotting his nose. “But I feel better today than I did yesterday. And yesterday? I felt better than I did the day before. So thank you for letting me share.”

“Thank you for sharing,” said the group.

“Anyone else?” said the guest host, an addict who had lost it all and recovered three separate times.

“My name is Shirley…” said the short young woman with the deep chocolate skin and almond eyes.

“Hey, Shirley.”

“… and I’m a substance abuser.”

The meeting room, in the basement of the church on East Capitol, was full to capacity. The holidays were especially tough on addicts and alcoholics, not only because it was the season of temptation, but because of the painful memories of families betrayed and lost. The chairs of all four rows semicircling the scarred lectern where the host stood were occupied today.

Rachel Lopez smiled hearing Shirley’s voice. In the same row, down toward the left side, sat Lorenzo Brown.

“I saw my little girl today,” said Shirley. “She was going into her school, over there at Nalle Elementary. My grandmother was walking her in. My baby was wearing this pink quilted coat I bought for her and a matching backpack for her books and stuff. I had it all on layaway. I’d been payin’ on it for a while, and I got it out before Thanksgiving. She looked real pretty in that coat today.

“I was standing behind this tree, the same tree I stand behind most mornings when I watch her go in. And she saw me there. Either she saw me or sensed me, I don’t know how. She stopped and said something to my grandmother, and my grandmother let go of her hand. My baby walked right over to where I was standin’. I’m not gonna lie, I was shaking. I didn’t know what to say. But she helped me out and said somethin’ first: ‘Thank you for my coat, Mama.’ I said, ‘You’re welcome, sweetheart,’ and she leaned forward then. I bent down, and she kissed me on my cheek, and I brought her in for a hug and smelled her hair. She smelled the way I remembered her. I was…”

Shirley’s voice cracked. She lowered her head.

“My little girl goes to Nalle,” said a woman in the last row, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room.

Shirley wiped tears off her face. “This here is gonna be the best Christmas I had in a long time. I got a job over at that big dollar store over on H Street. It’s seasonal employment, and I ain’t doin’ nothin’ but cleanin’ the bathrooms they got, but still. God bless all of you. And thank you for letting me share.”

“Thank you for sharing.”

“My name is Sarge…” said the grizzled man with the dirty Redskins cap, seated near Shirley.

“Hey, Sarge.”

“… and I’m a straight-up addict. I had a funny thing happen to me the other night, thought y’all might appreciate. I got this efficiency down by the Shrimp Boat, has this little common patio on the back. I was out there, cooking a rib-eye steak on that hibachi I got.”

“In the cold?” said a man.

“ You know that don’t stop me. I even had my music set up, this box I got plays cassettes and CDs. I was listening to this old song I like, by this boy out of Philly, singin’ on how he about to bust a nut ’cause he wants to get with this girl real bad, and he don’t have the control to put it off. ‘Love Won’t Let Me Wait,’ that’s the name of that song.”

“Norman Conners,” said the same man.

It’s Major Harris, thought Lorenzo. Nigel’s mother had the record.

“It’s Major Harris,” said Sarge. “Not that it matters, but I’m tryin’ to paint the whole picture for you, and the details are important. Now, normally when I’m cookin’ out and listenin’ to a little music, I get the urge, you all know this. And I ain’t talkin’ about the urge for sexual companionship, case you think I am. I don’t try to get with females too much anymore. I just do ’em wrong anyway.”

“Hmph,” said a man.

“I ain’t sayin’ I don’t like females,” said Sarge.

“You gonna tell your story?” said Shirley.

“I already did,” said Sarge, “in my roundabout way. I’m sayin’, I didn’t get the urge to get high that night, the way I usually do when I cook on the grill. And I guess what I’m really tryin’ to say is, well, you know I been critical sometimes, bringin’ negativity up in these meetings. But this shit here… this works. Anyway, it’s workin’ some for me.”

“’Bout time,” said a man, followed by some easy laughter from the group. Even Sarge cracked a smile.

“I ain’t done.” Sarge cleared his throat. “There’s been this one friend I made here, in particular, who helped me out…” Sarge’s eyes cut toward Shirley for a brief moment. He tightened his cap on his graying head. “I just want to thank that special friend. And all a y’all, matter of fact. Thank you for letting me share.”

“Thank you for sharing.”

“Would anyone else like to say something?” said the host.

“My name is Rachel Lopez…”

“Hey, Rachel.”

“… and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for three months and nineteen days.”

The group applauded. Lorenzo closed his eyes. He prayed for his daughter, and for Rayne and little Lakeisha, whom he had grown to love like his own.

“… I thought my drinking gave me power. I thought that in bars, at night, I could do what I hadn’t been able to do with my parents or my offenders. That I could exercise some kind of control. I had to hit bottom to see that I was all wrong. I had no power. I was just a drunk, and I was alone.”

Lorenzo said a prayer for all the people who had looked after him and were looking after him still: Mark Christianson and Irena Tovar, his grandmother, and Miss Lopez.

“… I’m dating a man, a police officer. I don’t know where it’s going, but it’s good today. And that’s what I’m focusing on now: today.”

Lorenzo said a special prayer for the soul of Nigel. When he was done, he opened his eyes.

“… so thank you for letting me share,” said Rachel Lopez.

“Thank you for sharing.”

The basket was passed around the room, and then the group gathered in a large circle. Lorenzo stood beside Rachel, her hand on his shoulder, his on hers. The group recited the Serenity Prayer, and then the Lord’s Prayer, and said “Amen.”

“Narcotics Anonymous,” said the guest host.

“It works if you work it.”

Outside the church, the group dispersed quickly, as the weather did not encourage loitering or idle conversation. Some got into cars with their friends and sponsors or walked toward their residences or places of employment. Others gathered in the Plexiglas bus shelter on East Capitol, out of the wind.

Rachel and Lorenzo stood on the edge of the parking lot as Rachel found a cigarette, lit a match, and cupped her hands around the flame. Mark Christianson had pulled the Tahoe into the lot and was waiting. They could hear muffled barking sounds coming from inside the truck. It sounded like more than one dog.

“That you?” said Rachel.

“Yeah. My partner was supposed to go to lunch. He must have made an unscheduled stop instead.”

From the driver’s-side window, Mark smiled at Lorenzo, then made woof actions with his mouth and wiggled his eyebrows.

“He looks nice,” said Rachel.

“He’s odd,” said Lorenzo. “But I guess he’s all right.”

Lorenzo looked her over as she smoked. A shock of gray had come into her hair, a thick streak against the black. It had appeared soon after the assault. There was a horizontal scar, a thin razor line on one of her cheeks, and a large circular scar, like a heat scorch, in the palm of one hand. That hand had yet to recover its full dexterity. The largest scars were on her chest. The stitch marks were prominent and would be there for the rest of her life. He could see part of them now, pink and raised, coming from the V-neck of her sweater beneath her open coat. She looked small. She looked like she had aged ten years.