Gods of Advertising

You sit with twenty or so others around two connected folding tables in the basement of a musty church. The usual cross-section, they’ve nothing in common save for a desire to stop drinking. It’s midday so many of them have coffees from the Starbucks next door.

Finishing her share is Dallas, a thirty-something woman with black hair striped in purple. Wrapped around her left bicep a tattoo of barbed wire. The tough exterior belies her fragility. A newcomer, she has five long-ass days and longer nights under her belt. But Dallas’s share is less about withdrawal than her rapidly changing world. “Now that I’m not drinking,” she says, “my friends don’t want anything to do with me.” She looks around the room. “But what kind of friends are those, right?”

People nod. They’ve all had to say goodbye to their drinking buddies. It comes with the territory, this new life. Dallas continues.

“Anyway, I decided they can all fuck themselves. My daughter’s the only person that matters to me. That’s why I’m here. Why I’m doing the deal.” She taps the Big Book resolutely. “That’s all I got.”

‘Thank you, Dallas!’ Chimes the group. It’s a good way to end the meeting – a newcomer with grit.

The first time you saw Dallas, at the loft, you didn’t think she’d get 24 hours. Yet, here she was. The secretary rings her bell then reads from the script: “As there are only a few minutes left in the meeting it is now time to ask if anyone has a burning desire.”

No hands go up.

“Come on, people. This is the time and this is the place!”

A pale-skinned man raises his hand. The black shirt makes him look like a skeleton. He wears sunglasses, which if this weren’t AA might have seemed peculiar. Here, it’s not uncommon, especially with newcomers. The second part of the program’s name is Anonymous. He clears his throat. “I have a burning desire.”

“Excellent!” The secretary responds. “The man in black has the floor!” The joke garners chuckles from the group. Why not? It’s Friday. We are not a glum lot is a popular phrase from the Big Book.

The man in black reaches into the gym bag sitting in front of him and pulls out two liters of Jack Daniels. One at a time he places each bottle on the table. “What I desire is for each you to have a drink.”

A gasp fills the room. But the man in black pays it no mind. He begins arranging Dixie cups into a neat row on the table. He opens one bottle and carefully begins pouring the whiskey into a cup, then another. The smell permeates the room.

The secretary rises. Like everyone else, she is stunned but somebody has to do something. This is her meeting.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says, her voice quavering. “But what in the name of God do you think you’re doing? This is a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous!”

Raising an eyebrow, the man in black merely smiles. He could be tending bar.

“Well, I’ve already told you, Mam. I want you all to have a drink with me.” With that said, he slides a full cup to the woman sitting directly across from him. “Starting with you, sweetheart! You look like you could use a pop. I hope you like it neat.”

April, a frail creature no more than 18 years old, looks at the drink and the man with terror. She can’t speak. She is literally shaking.

“I…I…”

The man frowns. “What’s wrong, darling? Jack not your drink of choice? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. I was the same way at your age.”

April whispers. “Please. If I drink again I’ll… I’ll die.”

In the room, shock has turned to anger. A few men push their chairs back. Enough is enough. They rise.

Undaunted, the man in black continues looking directly at April. He casually pulls a large handgun from his bag and points it at her face. Inches separate the barrel from her nose.

Everyone freezes.

“No, no, no darling, you’ve got it all wrong.” He says, clucking at her, twitching the gun. “If you don’t drink then you’ll die.” He looks at the standing men. With his free hand he indicates for them to sit. When they do he returns his attention to the young woman. “Now drink up, darling. It’s damn near closing time.”

With a shaking hand, April lifts the cup to her mouth and sips. It is her first taste of alcohol in almost a year. She grimaces. The man cocks the gun.

“All of it.”

When she is done she places the empty vessel down in front of her. Two tears collapse from her eyes, the mascara making them look like black rivulets. She sobs quietly.

“Like riding a bicycle,” the pale man cackles. “Am I right?”

A couple chairs down from the gunman, an addict named Roberto can no longer hold his tongue. “Please, sir, I beg of you-

The man in black wheels around and points the gun at Roberto. His voice remains calm, sickeningly so.

“Don’t worry, Senor. There’s plenty to go around. Matter of fact, you can drink straight from the bottle. We don’t mind.”

He slides the open bottle to Roberto. It stops alongside of his Big Book.

“I…I… can’t drink this!”

Undeterred, the man in black counters. “Sure you can, amigo. Isn’t that how you got here – drinking this?”

Roberto pleads. “But it’s been over eleven years!”

“Then you must be awful thirsty!”

Roberto stares at the bottle. He shuts his eyes. Prays. He reaches for the whiskey but instead of picking it up he pushes it away, slowly, until it is just past his fingertips.

“I see,” says the man in black. “Well, how about we start you off with a shot?”

He pulls the trigger blowing a whole through Roberto’s chest. He’s dead before the blood exits his body, which it does suddenly, gushing on the table as if spilling from a bottle.

“Any other requests?”

The man in black places the smoking gun on the table. He picks up one of the Dixie cups. “Salut!” He says, before downing it. “Now then, who’s next?”

You have been sitting quietly, just a couple chairs down. You reach over and take one of the full cups of whiskey.

The man in black grins, nodding in approval. “That’s right, son. If rape is inevitable you might as well enjoy it!”

He may have said that. Or at least you think so. It doesn’t matter. A centimeter from your lips is alcohol! For years you’ve wondered if there was a backdoor, a way that would allow you to drink with impunity, without regret or shame. Here it was, at last, at gunpoint! You lift the cup.

Then…

You are on your back. Breathing hard. You taste whiskey, remembering blood. But it’s so dark. And why are you in bed? Crickets, it’s your iPhone chirping. In the rooms they often talked about these nightmares. Called drinking dreams, they said you would thank God as soon as you realized none of it was real. The truth. Drinking with impunity is both a dream and a nightmare.