knowles engaged the deadbolt. While alone, I stuffed my mouth full of sandwich and put another in my sweatshirt pocket. A few moments later, a man came alone through the door. I’d seen his type before: clean and shiny, shirt tucked, bit of a belly from too many donuts, but otherwise in good shape. So, I said, my mouth full, you’re going to tell me to lay off the sauce. I don’t care about your sauce, he said. He looked right at me, the way sober people will. I studied my sandwich. He said, How about we start the conversation with an introduction. His hand hovered in the space between us for a moment before I accepted it. He introduced himself as Paul Rivers, a recovered alcoholic. He said, Your mother asked if I wouldn’t mind speaking to her son about some trouble he’s having. Let me stop you right there, Paul, I said, because you aren’t the first reform-ee that my mother’s had over. The sandwiches are a dead giveaway. You’re wasting your time. It’s the only thing I got enough of to waste, Paul said, and as long as I’m not drinking and still aboveground, my time is a bonus and I don’t mind sharing it. He kept his hand vertical between us, palm flat, fingers steady, like he wanted to physically cut the conversation in half. For starters, he continued, I can’t offer you any advice. I don’t care who you think I am. You never met me and don’t know me, but I told your mother that I’d make the effort. You don’t want to talk, that’s fine by me. I got nothing invested in us, nothing at all. But I come from the land of plug-in-jug and I know how tough it is to stop. I was trapped under the bottle for twentyfive years. I lost my wife and my daughters. I never got the wife back, but I got the daughters and now I’ve got three grandkids I see every day. You don’t have to feel like this anymore. Like what? I said. He pursed his lips and said, Like a drunk.
194
RE: AL