Phillip pushed the bike toward the street, looking at the saddle bags to see if everything was in order.
Plastic bags, check.
Water bottles, check.
Protein bars, check.
Small towel, check.
Hand sanitizer, check.
Culver’s coupons, check.
Bag of shells and stones, check.
Pen, check.
Little spiral notebook, check.
Watercolor set, check.
Small block of Arches watercolor paper, check.
Assured he was indeed ready to go, he was about to hop on and then wondered if he’d remembered to lock the front door. He started to walk back to check, but he looked at the bike, and back at the door, and at the bike again, and at the front door again. This occupied him for some minutes. Stuck between checking and worrying about leaving the bike while he did it kept him in a state of paralysis, limbo, unable to move. Eventually he wheeled the bike back up the driveway, and he rushed to check the door. It was locked. Good. Of course it was. He would never leave the place unlocked. Except he had once and someone had gone in and taken his stereo.
Of course that was in a different city, a different time, a different life. But the experience had left its mark on Phillip. He’d always been a checking sort of man, and boy before that, but it was easy to do and had kept her from asking and him saying no. The torment of being asked again and again was only stanched by saying yes and yes again. Getting mad didn’t help, made it worse, in fact. Her doctor said she had OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder, but she wasn’t good about taking her meds. She would forget, no matter what she did to try to remember, or at least she said that. If he reminded her, she’d say, “I will, in a few minutes. But look at this!” And she would show him some piece of junk mail she’d gotten that was selling something interesting, at least to her. But of course it was old mail, and the company might not even be in business, but she’d kept it and was slowly making her way through a tall stack of mail that listed and threatened to topple onto the hallway floor. And eventually did.
They lived on the Lower East Side then and he had gotten away as fast as his seventeen year-old legs could take him to the Marine Corp recruiting office at Times Square. He’d bet a buddy over beer at the local dive they frequented that he’d get there first, and he did. The buddy never showed, and Phillip was at Parris Island getting his head shaved, and handed his clothes, and shown to his bunk in a strange place with strange guys, mostly from the South by the sound of them.
He was in country when his lieutenant took him aside and said he needed to go home, that his mother had died.
“Your ticket out, kid, so take it.” He told the looey he’d stay, that going back would only mess with his head.
“Not going will sure as shit do that too,” he’d told him. Probably, but back then making decisions hadn’t been that hard. He’d been firm, and the details had trickled back to him between recons and forays and the things that took up time not getting killed. It had been a fire. She’d died of smoke inhalation, probably from all the paper in the apartment, they’d said.
Too many months later, and too few in his head, Phillip was back on a plane in his uniform, flying into LaGuardia, seeing the cemeteries and apartment buildings and highways rushing toward him until he was at a baggage carousel grabbing his duffle and slouching towards the surface transportation lineup for a bus or cab to take him home. Of course that was out of the question. Where was home now? The Corps had given him a paper with some hotels that welcomed returning guys and he’d hoped the first one he saw wouldn’t be too bad.
Now, seeing as how the front door was locked, he turned the bike around and headed back to the street. Her voice echoed in his head to be sure to check.
“Shut up, Ma,” he said aloud since no one else was was around. “Go fuck yourself,” he added, but not aloud. He’d never had the guts to say it to her, and he hated to voice it now, but it still felt good to think it. She had been a piece of work.
She’d been buried in one of the big cemeteries in Queens he saw when his plane circled the city before setting down on the runway. He had no intention of going to see the grave. His aunt had handled everything, and her letters were scathing about his failure to show up for the funeral. Despite telling them he was in the middle of a war and couldn’t get away, she knew he could have done it, like his looey said.
He looked in a saddle bag for his gun. Of course he didn’t have one. He could get one easy at a gun show. Nowadays he figured he could get a concealed carry permit easy, too. A lot of the guys carried now. But he was unsure he’d be able to control his rage, even now, and not plug some jackass who crossed him somehow.
He pushed the bike onto the sidewalk and swung his right leg over it. He headed toward Saint John’s Methodist Church for the meeting. It was still light out but it would be almost dark by the time he headed back home, pitch dark if he went out for coffee afterward which he did every once in a while. He pulled into a spot not far from the side door and went in
“Heya, Phil,” said Greg, tonight’s greeter. “How they hangin?”
“‘Bout like always,” he replied with a grin. “Low and slow.” They both chuckled and he went in and put his hat on a vacant folding chair at one of the round tables in the room. He spoke with a few other guys while heading for the coffee urn.
Phillip got his cup, light and sweet, and grabbed a napkin and a few cookies. As he limped back to his chair a woman said hello and he looked her way. Frankly, he was scared of women. Always had been, and God knows he had more than good enough reason. She was nice looking, probably about his age, and he’d seen her before at that meeting. Thought her name was Doris, or Dorothy or maybe Dee Dee. Some D name. He nodded at her and took his seat. He didn’t want to be rude, but he sure didn’t want to give her the wrong idea.
Up front the leader rapped his knuckles on the table, and the pleasant cacophony of male and female voices slowed and quieted to a hush.
“Welcome to the Sober Friends group of Alcoholics Anonymous,” the leader said. “My name is Dan, and I’m an Alcoholic.”
“Hey, Dan” the room said in unison. And thus the meeting got underway. After the Serenity Prayer, volunteers to whom Big Dan had passed out laminated sheets took turns reading “meeting approved literature,” The AA Preamble, “How it Works,” and the Twelve Steps. The usual warnings not to offer advice or engage in “crosstalk” or repeat who you see, or what they say and so forth, followed. The topic was gratitude, and someone read a page from a little book called “As Bill Sees It.” Then people spoke up and shared “as the spirit moved them”, or “Quaker style” and the meeting flowed along.
Phillip sort of settled down into his seat, comfortable enough, and began to tune out the speakers who shared on the topic. Sure he had some gratitude, but it was hard for him to recall reasons to be grateful most days. Jeffrey, his old sponsor, had told him the best way to practice gratitude was to make a gratitude list and read it every day. And add new things he was grateful for every week. He had done that at first, and it worked to a point, but the pain of his past, especially his time in the military, often drowned out any comfortable feelings, like gratitude. He thought about Jeffrey as the meeting wore on. Nice guy, very nice, in fact, and he’d welcomed Phillip into his family for Sunday dinners, birthdays and holidays. That was the first time Phillip had gotten close to another guy since the war. Jeffrey got how that was, having served in Vietnam. Even though it had been Afghanistan in Phillip’s case, a vet understood another vet like no one else could.
Beer, and whatever else was handy after they were out there in the middle of it, used to be his drugs of choice to drown out the screams and the blood and the absolute terror of being shot at by guys you never met and never would, and the possibility of IEDs exploding under your HumVee and decapitating the guy driving or blowing the guts out of the guy sitting next to you. Shooting some sniper coming around a shack only to find out it was just a kid, but after raking him with bullets. It had all happened. He could feel it and smell it now and the thoughts returned as vividly as if the war were happening to him again right now.
He grabbed the sides of his folding chair with both hands and breathed in and out deeply as his VA counselor told him to do when a flashback hit. “It ain’t real, guy. You got through it and it’s over. Just think about what triggered it so you can be better prepared next time.”
Triggered by thinking of dear, kind, fierce Jeffrey. He was gone now, dead of some kind of cancer from that Agent Orange. His wife Angie got some money from the government after he died, small compensation for her terrible loss. She still kept calling Phillip as Jeffrey had done, every so often, always made sure he knew he was still welcome to hang out with her and the kids and grandkids at special occasions and holidays. He was glad for her generosity. As he kept breathing and his heart rate slowed down and he became more aware of himself back in the church basement surrounded by fellow recovering alcoholics, he realized he was grateful for Angie. Okay, he thought, I’ll put that on the list. Maybe I’ll start a new one. It’s been a while.
Meeting over, Phillip wandered around the church basement a few minutes, shook a couple of hands, fist bumped with another guy, trying to stay in the room. He was recalling how Jeff used to tell him not to be so quick to leave a meeting. “The fellowship is part of why it works,” Jeff would say. But his anxiety was going up again. He didn’t like being in a windowless space with a lot of other people. He was itching for a cigarette and felt for his lighter in his pocket. He headed for the door and when he’d made it up to the parking lot he was finally able to catch his breath. Sweat was beading on his brow as Phillip put a cigarette in his mouth and held it there, reluctant to light it. It would be gone in no time and he’d probably still feel anxious. He took it out and held the unlit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger for some moments.
“Hey man, got another one of those?” Jeez, it was Moocher Mike, always bumming smokes and rides or whatever. Phillip didn’t want to share but he couldn’t think of a way to refuse without being rude. As he silently mulled over the easiest way to handle this, he heard his name.
“Phil, glad I caught you!” It was Big Dan loping up the steps and heading over with his hand out. The Moocher backed away, probably in search of another prospect. “How do you feel about speaking next week?”
He cringed. “”I don’t think so,” he replied quietly.
“Aw, c’mon, man, you have a powerful story.”
“I don’t know, Dan. I have bad PTSD. I’m afraid I’d throw up or something. I might just not come, and then I’d let you down.” He felt like shit, ratting on himself that way but it was the truth. Both had happened many times. Whether it was a speaking commitment or a coffee date or an appointment with his counselor, Phillip had bailed on all of them more than once.
“Listen, I know how it is for you, and I guess I’m wondering when you’re gonna push the envelope. Only way to get better, right?”
“Tell you what,” he answered. “I’ll try. I’ll even talk about it with my counselor. But have a backup just in case, okay? And if I do talk, don’t count on it being more than a few minutes.”
“Sounds good!” Dan clopped him on the shoulder with his big hand. “I’ll call you the day before just to make sure you remember!” He paused. “You ever get another sponsor? I know nobody can fill old Jeff’s shoes, but you know what they say about a guy who sponsors himself, I sabotage myself.”
They shook and Phillip went to his bike and wheeled it away from the cars and towards the driveway. He hopped on and made tracks just in case anyone wanted something else from him today.
* * *
He had an appointment later that week with his counselor. Tempted to call and cancel, he decided to go anyway. He wanted to talk about his upcoming speaking commitment. How he was yearning to opt out of it somehow! It was a pretty long ride for him to the VA center, so he started out an hour before the appointment and when he got there he was dripping with sweat.
He sat in the air-conditioned waiting room and enjoyed the chill but also longed to be on the bike heading home again. He flipped through a couple of ancient news magazines, bored to tears. Pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked some things. He hated to use it too much since he had a stingy data plan, but it was a better way to pass the time than reading about old news. There was an email from his niece Patti, but he figured he’d open it later. His sister wasn’t well and it scared him to think what that email was all about. Patti hardly even reached out unless something was wrong. Why didn’t she just call him? Oh yeah, he’d been sort of rude the last time she did, trying to get off the phone. Then he stopped answering her calls. She’d leave voicemails that he never listened to. No offense to her, but he never listened to voicemails. When a guy from the meeting told him his mailbox was full, he thought, “good.”
“There he is,” boomed his counselor with a cheery voice. He hurried out of his seat and grabbing his bag with one hand and reaching for Bob’s greeting shake, walked ahead of him through the door to the offices in back. They went into Bob’s office and, door softly closed, settled into their usual chairs.
“You still biking it here, Phil?” Bob asked. “Hot day today. Florida summers, right?” He dragged a hand across his own forehead in supposed solidarity.
“Yeah.”
“What about going for your driver’s license?”
“Got one.”
“So what stops you from driving?”
“Don’t have a car.”
“Well, there’s that.”
They sat in silence for a while. Bob was better at tolerating it than he was, and eventually the emptiness caused him to open his mouth.
“Supposed to speak at a meeting in a couple days,” he mumbled as he looked out the window at a palm tree.
“Yeah?” Bob replied, being no help at all. He’d hoped this would lead to a lecture about how great it was to be asked and was he really going do it this time and so forth.
“Yeah.” Two could play this game.
After some time, Bob ventured again. “So, how can I help today?”
Phillip wasn’t sure of the answer to that question himself.
“Look, I don’t want to drive.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s the road rage shit. Not sure I could control myself if some jerk cuts me off. If I shoot him the bird or call him an asshole out the window or whatever, y’know, this can get you shot these days.”
He shrank into the soft seat. “Might shoot that asshole who cut me off myself. But got rid of my guns a long time ago, like we talked about.” He sat up straighter. “I could get one at the gun show this weekend, though.”
“Huh,” said Bob, looking at him evenly, no help yet again.
“Yeah.” He got ramped up and went on. “I read in the paper that a guy shot a guy at the light by the Wawa for something that pissed him off. And the shooter had a kid in the car!”
“No shit!” Bob’s eyes were big as he stared back at Phillip. “D’you think you’d do that?”
“No way, but what if some jerk waved a gun at me? I’d be so pissed I’d get in his face and grab the gun. Half those guys make a big show of carrying, threatening to use a weapon, but are scared to use it. Then I might kill him, and even if he didn’t have a permit and witnesses said he drew it on me, guess who’s going to jail?” He sat back in his chair, the fire gone out of him. “I’m too scared to have a piece, in case I’d be the asshole with a gun.”
“Well, I guess we have some work to do, old pal.” Bob scratched his head and returned to silence. Eventually he spoke up. “By the way I hate to see you riding that old trike in the Florida sun. Plus in the rainy season, like now, you gotta get soaked when you ride in the afternoons.
“It was my neighbor’s,” Phil offered lamely. “Easy to ride and no gas to worry about.” But he hated looking like one of those wizened up old men with their Publix bags in the basket, a flag on a stick in the back. Didn’t hate it enough not to do it, though. Pathetic!
“Sure.” Bob paused. “But you’ve got so much stuff in the back folks might think you were homeless, you know what I mean?”
He did. There was a woman who rode the same circuit he did, riding tall on the seat of a battered turquoise two wheeler, front basket full and bulging plastic bags dangling from the handlebars. Her skin was so tanned it looked almost dirty. Might be that, too. He once saw her turning into the parking lot of the church where he went to meetings, and once looking for a friend walked around the back and spotted her sitting at a picnic table reading a thick paperback.
“I might need some of this stuff,” he said, gently kicking at the fat canvas bag at his feet.
“Car has more room for all that, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Just saying.” Bob was a good at his job. Didn’t tell you what to do, just got you thinking, looking at the facts and coming up with your own plan.
They schmoozed a while longer, talked about his upcoming speaking gig and how he could choose a topic, read a little from one of the approved books or pamphlets, and stop when he’d had enough. They agreed that most people were so anxious to get their own two cents in that a short talk would be welcome.
The sun was high now, it being nearly noon. He hopped on the bike and peddled towards home. Thank God for bike lanes, he thought. After his long ride and the rumble of thunder starting up in the near distance in a sky darkening with low, gray clouds, he opened the garage door and wheeled the bike inside.
He had to admit he was curious about Patti’s email. What did she want now, or was she going to yell at him for not calling her mother, his older sister Jean.
In the house and with a cold Coke in his hand he plopped down on the couch and fished his phone from his pocket. He scrolled past the other stuff and found her message.
“Hey, Uncle Phillip, I hope you’re okay. I know the PTSD is hard for you, and I get that talking on the phone isn’t easy. But I hope you get this because mom passed away. She had lung cancer, and it was pretty fast. I did call a few times but you didn’t pick up and I couldn’t leave a voicemail. Anyway, I wondered if you’d like her car. It’s paid for, and Joey and I don’t need it.”
As the sky opened up and rain pelted the house, a tear leaked down his cheek. Go figure! The Big Guy at it again! Maybe that would be the topic, don’t give up before the miracle happens, as they say in the rooms.
(Please, if at any point you notice a flaw in the story, let me know.)
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