10.
I flew into Honolulu on a Wednesday evening. Like every other time I've returned to Hawaii, I felt a wave of emotion looking out at the island below. The sun had just set and the lights of Waikiki could be seen in the twilight. A backdrop of green mountains suggested the unspoiled paradise Oahu had once been. The nearer ridges and valleys were now covered with houses. Closer to the shore were hundreds of high-rises. Waikiki stuck out because of its dense concentration of high-rise hotels and condominiums, but twenty to thirty story buildings were sprinkled throughout the city. A smaller concentration of tall office buildings was visible in the downtown area before we banked around for our final approach.
As soon as the cabin doors were opened to the jet-way, the warm moist air engulfed us. The smell of tropical flowers wafted in and I was glad to be home.
My second night home I decided to go to a meeting. First, I'd called Jessica, but she said she was busy.
In my head, I knew that to stay sober I needed to get involved in fellowship and service in the recovery community. I would have to stick out my hand and introduce myself, volunteer to help out by cleaning up after the meeting, and continue to go to meetings so people can get to know me. This kind of involvement seemed to be working for Matt and his wife in Minneapolis. It had worked for me years ago when I’d first gotten sober. I tried to suppress the nagging feeling that it wouldn’t work for me as long as I “cheated” by using DXM.
I chose a social sort of meeting to go to on that Thursday night. It was one I'd been to many times before, where lots of fairly well-off alcoholics, who could afford to live in the expensive parts of east Honolulu, mingled and shared the message with van-loads of treatment center residents who would sit in a group in the back, some attentive to the speaker and others displaying various degrees of boredom.
The meeting was on the grounds of a church and parochial school. It was sort of out doors; there was a roof, but no walls. A podium with a mic stood in front of rows of folding chairs and picnic tables lined the perimeter. Once I'd grabbed a cup of coffee and some cookies I scanned the rows of chairs for a place to sit. I looked for a place with a good view of attractive women.
I liked this meeting because there were usually quite a few pretty girls there, but this time I was disappointed. I saw quite a few old-timers, some I recognized, none I wanted to get to know. I wanted fellowship, but I didn’t want to have to shake hands and talk with boring old farts. I was lonely for the company of the opposite sex and I couldn’t see how I could find it in this sort of place.
There was one beautiful local girl with tattoos across her back, over her shoulder, to her chest, and forming a sleeve that went halfway down her right arm. I found myself with a seat that offered an excellent profile view of the girl. I spent much of the meeting staring at her breasts and convincing myself alternatively, that she was out of my league, and that she was probably crazy and would be bad news and lead me to relapse. After the meeting I began to approach her, but she turned toward the older women who’d been the main speaker at the podium.
I decided to help stack chairs. This was my means of escaping the awkwardness of small talk as the meeting broke up. Small talk, apparently an innate skill for most people, only aroused my anxiety. I decided really didn’t have anything in mind that I could say to the girl with the tattoos or anyone else for that matter. I stacked a few chairs and headed for my car where I downed the remainder of a bottle of cough syrup I’d opened earlier.
It was still early and I didn't want to go home. I wanted social interaction. I've never had a group of friends, a group I can choose from and just call and say, "Hey, do you wanna hang out?" So I decided to go to Club Rock Za.
I ordered a diet coke and sat back in a booth while I took in the scene. I spotted the same Korean dancer who I’d shared tequila shots with just a few months before. Fit, tan and flexible, I caught her eye as she finished up a dance for another guy.
The song ended and the guy she was dancing for left his seat at the stage. I took his place and, as I watched her writhe around on the furry little mat she used to keep her naked skin off the stage, she would pull at her garter every so often as a signal for me to slide a dollar between the garter and her firm thigh.
After giving her about twenty bucks, a dollar at a time, I asked her to join me for a drink. She said she’d like that, but had a couple more songs in the set. I went back to my booth while she danced for a couple of rowdy Marines.
She told me her name was Sasha and asked for a shot of tequila. I ordered myself another diet coke and we sat close together, her hand rubbing my thigh under the table. My soda and her twenty dollar Jose Cuervo arrived and we toasted, her shot glass clinking my tumbler. Then Sasha tipped her drink back, only emptying half. She leaned into me as to kiss me; when my lips touched hers she opened her mouth and emptied the half shot of Jose' Cuervo into mine.
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