15.

The day before my first official day at Kapahulu Elementary, I was asked to attend their weekly faculty meeting so that I could be welcomed and introduced to the staff. The meeting ended with my introduction as the new Student Services Coordinator. Many of the staff members came up to me and introduced themselves, but there was one demure teacher who didn't approach me and even seemed to be avoiding eye-contact with me. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place where I'd seen her before.

Along with all the other paperwork that usually goes along with orientation at a new workplace, I received the school’s faculty handbook which included a phone list of all the staff members at Kapahulu Elementary School. On the list was a name that seemed to ring a bell with me, Darlene Wunderlich. Again, I couldn’t place where I knew the name from. I didn’t connect the name with the exotic dancer I’d met 7 or 8 months earlier. I hadn’t even thought about that night since the morning after, when I’d tried to remember what I had done and who this Darlene Wunderlich person was who gave me her phone number. Neither did I connect the familiar name with the familiar face I’d seen at the faculty meeting.

It wasn’t long before I knew that the familiar face belonged to Darlene Wunderlich. Still, I didn’t know where I’d heard the name or seen the face. My job as SSC required me to have a lot of contact with the Special Education teachers and Darlene ’s classroom was situated just below my office on the first floor of the same building. In those first weeks Darlene was always friendly with me, but she never gave me any indication that we had met before. Being attracted to her as I naturally was, and curious because of the nagging feeling that I had met her before, I went out of my way to spend time in her classroom and help her out in any way I could.

I wanted to find time to talk to her, maybe ask her out. The few times we did have time to talk, there were too many other people around for me to move beyond professional friendliness. Once she stopped by my office when no one else was around; she had a question about an administrative matter. I was able to give her the information she needed, then I took the opportunity to ask her a couple questions about herself. Where was she from? What was her ethnicity? I remember her little smile, as if she was humoring an absent-minded old man who was asking questions he should already know the answers to.

A few weeks went by; each day I would make a point of bringing Darlene a cup of coffee. I’d gently flirt with her at school and fantasize about her at night. She didn’t dress as you would expect a teacher to dress. Her job working with children with physical disabilities dictated that she dress for comfort, so it was not remarkable that she wore shorts and t-shirts to school. What was remarkable was the way they fit her body; short shorts and “baby doll” t-shirts. She had an educational assistant (EA) who was a hot little local Asian girl. I recall her with “Juicy” shorts and a tramp stamp, just visible. Frequently she would join Darlene and me in my nightly fantasy.

One Monday in February, the school had its monthly “faculty workday”. This means that the there were no students, but the staff came in to catch up on paperwork, develop curriculum, grade papers and do all the things they don’t normally have a chance to do when the students are around. In some of the classrooms workshops were being held on various topics of interest to elementary school teachers. I spent most of the day in my office, but late in the afternoon, I decided to go to a workshop that I knew Darlene would probably be interested in.

The district had sent a physical therapist to provide a refresher for teachers and their EAs on how to safely transfer students between wheelchairs and the floor or onto a massage table. The students at Kapahulu Elementary School's orthopedic unit sometimes had multiple disabilities and needed to be moved throughout the day for various activities and therapies. I was not likely to ever have to transfer students myself, but the information could be useful to me at some point. Besides, Darlene was there. It was near the end of the day, there were no students to deal with; maybe I could ask her to coffee after the class.

The class had just begun when I arrived and Darlene was already sitting in one of the second grade sized chairs facing a carpeted area in the center of the room where the transfer techniques were being demonstrated. An EA was playing the role of a student, while the instructor demonstrated how to safely move her from a chair to the floor and back into the chair again. The staff was then given the opportunity to practice the technique, working in small groups and taking turns playing the student.

Next, the instructor had a table moved to the demonstration area and asked Darlene to be his "student" while he showed us how to transfer her between a chair and the table. With Darlene on the table in the middle of the classroom, I had a sudden flashback to that night in the strip-club months before. I could see her in my mind’s eye in the blue bikini she wore (briefly) that night. I remembered her revelation that she was a teacher and our long conversation about the DOE. I remembered that after a while she had stopped dancing and we were just talking, though I continued to pass her dollar bills at appropriate intervals.

I finally recalled where I knew her from, and understood why she behaved around me the way she did: avoiding eye contact with me at that first faculty meeting, the way she seemed amused at my questions about her. After I had demonstrated my lack of memory of that first encounter, Darlene had become friendlier toward me. With my memory finally jarred by seeing Darlene up on that table I began to think of how I could delicately confront her about her other vocation and our initial meeting.

After the class, which was on the other side of campus from our building, I walked with Darlene back towards her classroom and my office. When we were far enough away from the other staff members that I would not be overheard, I said to her, "I remember now where I met you." I turned to look at her and saw a smile on her face, though she continued to look straight ahead. I didn't mention where we had met. From her expression, I knew it was understood. Instead, I suggested that we get together and talk about it. Maybe we could go for coffee after work sometime. She said she'd like that, but we didn't set a date.

14.

My pattern for several years had been to call my dad two or three times a week when I was sober and doing well. Sometimes I’d call when I was tipsy, thinking he wouldn’t know, but he always did. But with the cough syrup, he didn’t seem to know, at least not at first. He didn’t know what cough syrup intoxication sounded like, or even that there was such a thing.

I started to call him almost daily. I told him about the premonition that had come true. I told him about all the great new ideas I was having for screenplays, books and other creative endeavors. I had ideas for political reform and solutions to the traffic problems on Oahu. Each day, as I became more and more manic, I would pitch him a new idea or two. He was happy for me at first. He thought that in addition to my alcoholism, I’d been suffering from depression. At last, he told me, I seemed to be snapping out of it. He encouraged me to write down my ideas.

At the sober house and in my evening treatment meetings I was expending great effort in hiding my DXM abuse. I couldn’t just throw all my empty bottles into the trash at the house. By mid January I was going through two to three eight ounce bottles per day. I had to monitor when and how much DXM I took into my system; I didn’t want to be incoherent during my treatment sessions, in front of my housemates, or on the phone with my dad.

Two or three bottles per day wasn’t cheap, even if I stuck to the generic brands. I’d tried all the brands and found the most potent one with the least disagreeable taste. It also turned out to be the most expensive brand. I began shoplifting it from pharmacies and grocery stores.

I didn’t like to have to steal the drug, but there was no other way to maintain my habit while I was unemployed and collecting welfare. I didn’t think of it as a habit though, I considered it a tool for managing my sobriety. A sober life would be easy, now that I knew how to manage my mental well being with DXM.

Of course, if I kept stealing the stuff, it would only be a matter of time before I got caught. Also, I had car payments, insurance, child support and student loans that I was falling further and further behind on. I started to think about going back to work for the DOE.

I’d damaged my reputation in Honolulu District, but I hadn’t been fired and maybe I could get a job somewhere else on the island. My house manager seemed to think it was a bad idea for anyone in early sobriety to start work too soon. “Too much money, too soon will lead to a slip.” But my dad was very supportive of me looking for work. “Too much time on your hands can lead to a slip.”

The application process for the Hawaii Department of Education can be time consuming, so while I was working on that, I also went to a temp agency that was able to place me right away. Every day I would go to this big medical insurance outfit and punch numbers into a computer database. Sometimes I was so high on DXM, the computer screen would pulse and bleed green light. My boss seemed happy with my work and the pay allowed me to purchase an iPod. To do this I had to keep stealing my cough syrup for a while longer and put off paying some of those important bills such as child support and student loans.

With the DOE I’d put in applications with a couple of the districts outside of Honolulu for special education teacher positions. I was afraid that I had damaged my reputation in Honolulu district with my drinking and absenteeism. I was right about that, but wrong to think that principals in the other districts would not ask their counterparts in Honolulu about me. While there was a severe shortage of special education teachers, and I interviewed at several schools, it seemed no one wanted to take a chance on me.

I’d become resigned to doing the temp thing until my first book or screenplay was sold (the ones I had ideas for but hadn’t wrote a word). Working for the DOE wasn’t what I really wanted to do anyway. I’d been feeling constrained from using my true talents while I was with the department. Really, I was only now truly recognizing my talents. New ideas came to me each day, ideas for books, movie and TV scripts, letters to the editor. I began spending more and more time with Rod and Pahi, encouraging them in their own creative pursuits.

After about a month of temping, I got a call from the superintendent of Honolulu district. When I’d worked in his district, he was always friendly with me, but I didn't know him well. I was surprised by his call; he’d known about my problems and was willing to take a chance on me. He told me that he’d noticed that I’d applied with the DOE again, but not in his district. He said that if I was willing to work in Honolulu, I should call the principal of Kapahulu Elementary; the school needed a Student Services Coordinator right away.

The job paid much better than temping and I didn’t have to think hard about whether to take it or not. But I was determined that it would remain only a job to me as I had bigger pursuits in mind. With my head constantly buzzing on DXM, so many ideas flowing in and out, I was never able to focus on any of them. I didn’t recognize this as a problem though. I began to feel I was destined for bigger and better things, it was only a matter of time.

13.

Back in 1989, I caught a vicious 24 hour virus. I was newly married and my wife and I had plans to go out with friends that evening. I told her she’d have to go ahead without me. I stayed home, in our Waialua duplex on the North Shore of Oahu. I remember lying in bed dripping with sweat and feeling chilled to the bone. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the strange dreams I had seemed particularly real to me.

“What are you doing here?!” I jerked awake, delirious, when she came home and had climbed into bed. Joan looked frightened until I got my bearings and assured her that I was OK. I’d had a bad dream I told her, but I didn’t tell her what it was about.

*

By the beginning of 2005 I had been divorced from Joan for about 7 years. Drinking and drug use had set me on a downward spiral ever since. Now I was attending an out-patient treatment program three nights a week. Unemployed and collecting welfare, I was sharing a room with two other guys in a house with nearly twenty recovering alcoholics and addicts. I had trashed my career and ruined my relationship with my daughter. It seemed I’d lost everything.

It would have been easy to feel sorry for myself - to wallow. I probably would have, had I not discovered the spiritual uses of DXM. I’d been experimenting, on and off, with the active ingredient in many over-the-counter cough suppressants for months. Until December 2004 it had only been another drug for me. A way to feel okay inside my skin. I’d liked it because it turned me outwards, from introvert to extrovert, like alcohol, but without the impairment. If I watched my dosage, no one would know.

Between Christmas and New Years Day, I’d discovered that there was more to DXM. It had led me to a spiritual experience. It was the catalyst of my awakening to God, or at least to some sort of Divine Truth. I really hadn’t sorted it out, but I knew that there were more revelations to come.

I also knew that I had to be careful. The sober house had a zero tolerance policy toward drug use and the treatment center would view my continued use of cough syrup as a relapse. Fortunately, I soon learned that DXM is not usually picked up by the urinalysis tests we were required to submit to.

It couldn’t be just about not getting caught though. I mean, I was doing the right thing, wasn’t I? The twelve-step programs told me that I had to have a “Higher Power”; I was in need of a “Spiritual Awakening”. Cough syrup was just the vehicle for my Awakening. Where the twelve steps provide a horse and buggy, DXM was a rocket-ship to the Spiritual Realm.

*

One evening, in the double-wide trailer that served as the classroom for the treatment program, I sat in the second row with the drug providing a good buzz...but not merely a buzz. I was feeling the sort of contentment that came with acceptance of my current circumstances and Faith that better days were to come.

The counselor teaching the class, was an attractive lesbian named Alison. Looking at her I was reminded of my ex-wife. I was hit by sudden rush of sensations, a strange stretching, a warping of the classroom around me, then a déjà vu experience. I was taken back to the dream I’d had over fifteen years earlier.

In my fever, years ago - way back in ‘89, I’d dreamt of being in this very room with this same counselor. In my dream I’d not been with Joan for years and I’d been struggling with alcohol. But, in the dream, I also knew that everything was going to be alright. The whole dream was of just one moment in time, a snapshot of my own future consciousness. When Joan woke me up, it was as if she woke up Joe from 2005, instead of Joe from 1989.

Alison’s lecture continued as I recovered from the experience. I realized that the dream had been a premonition that I’d completely forgotten about. I had seen a piece of my life over fifteen years before it happened. I wondered if I’d had any other premonitions in forgotten dreams.

I would usually go outside with the smokers during the break, but that night I stayed back an talked with Alison. I didn’t mention my déjà vu experience, of course, but I felt I should get to know her a bit. Since she featured so prominently in my dream/premonition, she might be important.

It was a casual conversation. When I learned that she was living in Waialua, I shared that I had lived there as well. It turned out that we had a mutual friend named Charlie, who had been our neighbor in Waialua. Charlie was a crotchety old guy in A.A. who chain-smoked Camels. Charlie died in 2001 of emphysema. Alison had been Charlie’s roommate from the mid-’90s and continued to live in Charlie’s house after he died, the house just down the block from where I had been sleeping the night I had my dream/premonition.

At the beach meeting I heard announcements of openings at sober houses in the area and decided to investigate. I needed to spend time with others who were living without drugs or alcohol and I couldn’t continue to take advantage of Julia’s kindness.

I found a house in Kahalu’u that would take me in. A large oceanfront house with about 20 men living in it, my new place would require me to get into outpatient treatment and go to twelve-step meetings every day. The house manager explained that I could apply for welfare and medical assistance would take care of the cost of treatment. I would be discouraged from looking for work until I had established some quality sober time.

This felt like a new beginning for me. This time I felt like I was finally doing all the right things. Three nights a week I went to an out-patient treatment program. I even stopped drinking cough syrup.

I spent my days with the other newly sober guys I was was living with. We hung out together. We had sober house parties that were actually attended by women in recovery. We held a big thanksgiving pot-luck and I held an awkward, sober, conversation with an attractive girl named Lilly.

I became friends with a couple of of the guys in the house. My roommate, Rod who’s about ten years older than me, seemed to be a burned out relic of the seventies. Longish dirty blond hair and a generous mustache, he’d been addicted to just about every drug known to man. When I met him, he had a little over a year sober and still seemed somewhat spaced-out. Rod had played guitar for locally successful bands in southern California, and at one time was good enough to turn down an opportunity to record with Eric Clapton in England. He had fast fingers that had earned him the nickname: Lightning Rod.

My other friend was Pahi. Mike was his given name but everyone called him Pahi. He was a Haole from the Big Island; about ten years younger than me, he was a musician too. Pahi had been in a band on the island of Hawaii, playing local music at weddings and bars. He played ukulele and sang Hawaiian falsetto songs, but he was a rocker at heart.

It was nearing Christmas time as I was starting to get to know these guys individually. They didn’t hang out together normally, but they were on friendly terms. One day I found the two of them on the lanai, Pahi with his ukulele, Rod with his acoustic guitar, playing around with blues riffs and just having fun. I stood and watched, enjoying their improvisations and rapport.

Guys in the house started catching colds and I caught the bug few days before Christmas. None of my previous experiences with cough syrup had been negative. I told myself that alcohol was my real problem. Cough syrup is completely legal, even in the sober house. I should just watch my dosage so I don’t arouse suspicion. The idea that it would be dangerous to my sobriety to misuse the drug, did flit across my mind.

But more powerful rationalizations won out. I had a cold, damn it! And I needed relief. Besides, the DXM effects were fun and I wouldn’t be hurting anyone. I conceded to myself that it could become a problem though, so I vowed to be careful with my doses and stop as soon as my cold was gone.

I spent Christmas Day in a stupor, unable to focus on anything in the world around me with my eyes open. With my eyes closed I was treated to the same acid trip visuals I had experienced previously on DXM. Since I was in a clean and sober house, I really had to watch my behavior. I didn’t want anyone to suspect I was on something. I spent most of my time in my room until the cold was gone.

I was feeling better a couple of days after Christmas but had decided not to stop the cough syrup. After a couple of days, I’d found that I could regulate my doses of DXM so that I could function without anyone knowing, yet still feel the pleasant effects of the drug throughout the day. I’d take a large dose an hour or so before bed for an extra kick and some vivid visuals before I drifted off to sleep.

At night my brain spontaneously produced its own music; sonorous and richly produced songs, complete with lyrics, played in my head. Cartoon hieroglyphs performed elaborately choreographed numbers as they morphed into aliens and back again. When I wasn’t simply enjoying the show, my mind was working and I was praying. That creative side of my brain, the side I knew I had but rarely exercised, was brimming and bubbling with ideas. I had found a new channel to the divine, and I expressed my gratitude to God for the new insights He was providing me.

I felt reborn. I’d made a mess of my life over the last several years. I’d been unhappy for a long time and I’d been using alcohol to numb my feelings, to help me escape. DXM was a new tool. Unlike with alcohol, I was able to manage my doses so that I could function productively and unlike alcohol it connected me to God rather than cutting me off. It helped me to feel good, it sharpened my senses and it sparked my creativity. 2005 was going to be different; I just knew it.

12.

Back in October, the morning after I’d relapsed in Club Rock Za, I spent much of the morning looking for my car. I tried to retrace my steps from the night before.

After Sasha pressed her mouth to mine, letting the tequila flow from her mouth to mine, I went straight to the ATM machine. I was in "fuck-it" mode; I knew it and I wanted it. Really, I told myself - and it was true - I’d not been sober as long as I’d continued to drink cough syrup. The future, my plans, consequences...It wasn’t that they didn’t matter, they just didn’t exist.

I couldn’t remember how many times I hit the ATM. I didn’t remember leaving the bar, but I had a vague memory of going over to Daiei and picking up a bottle of vodka. After waking up on the side of the road, I headed back the several blocks to the Japanese store to look for my car.

*

I tried to drink in a controlled way for a couple of weeks after my relapse at Club Rock Za. I had no income and my funds were limited. I made fliers advertising my services as a tutor and posted them in coffee shops and community bulletin boards. I had the idea that I could work as a tutor part time and start a practice as an advocate for children with disabilities. Maybe I would get a part time job to provide a steady stream of income while I built my business.

After an initial flurry of activity, printing up and posting the fliers, I continued my drinking while I waited for the calls from frustrated parents to come in. I did get a call from one mother who wanted me to help with her teenage sons math and English homework. I managed to slow down my drinking for several hours before we met at a coffee shop in Kailua.

I showered and thoroughly brushed my teeth immediately before our meeting. I was feeling a bit queasy as I sat down with the single mother who was having trouble getting her son to do his homework. I don’t know if she detected alcohol on me, or sensed something wrong with me, but though she said she would call me once she talked to her son, I never heard back from her after our meeting.

Within week or so of more heavy drinking, and no effort to find income, I began to see my money run out and the hopelessness of my situation. To stretch my funds, I began to shoplift bottles of liquor from several different grocery stores. I knew this couldn’t continue, but I couldn’t stop; I didn’t want to face another painful detoxification process.

Finally, one morning in mid-November, I found myself feeling too ill to go out to get more liquor. I still had several beers and a little vodka. I weaned myself with the little alcohol I had, spending endless miserable hours in bed with the TV on. In a couple of days I felt well enough to go to an twelve step meeting. It was an early morning meeting that I’d been to before. The group met on the beach. As usual, I stayed to myself, arriving a little late and leaving the circle before the end of the meeting to avoid interacting with anyone.

I spent the next few days going to this and other meetings. I spent my days at the beach thinking about what I would do with myself. I didn’t want to go back to my family on the mainland, I had no income and hadn’t paid my rent for over 6 months. The house in Maunawili belonged to my close friend from law school, Julia, who moved to the mainland after she graduated. She’d cut me a lot of slack, but I couldn’t continue to live there.

April 2005


11.

Perspiration is the bane of my existence. I am a sweaty guy. I’m sitting in the back of a blue and white police car on Kalakaua Avenue. I’m done yelling. Some of the officers talk with each other while one interviews Jessica. Beads of sweat roll down my nose while I wait to be taken to jail.

Jessica looks frightened. I can't hear what she’s saying to the officer who’s taking notes. Tourists had watched the spectacle of my take down and arrest, but they’re beginning to disperse. I rub my sore ribs while I scan the scene for the woman who'd had her video camera rolling as the officer and security guard threw me down onto a lava rock wall. I don't see her.

While they were trying to put me in handcuffs, I had been screaming frantically to the crowd, particularly the tourist with the camera, about corruption and abuse perpetrated by the Honolulu Police Department. With one wrist cuffed, the cop, who’d been first to arrive to assist the security guard, viciously yanked my other arm back.

"Stop resisting! Stop resisting!" The officer repeats over and over as my arm feels it’s about to be pulled from its socket and my ribs are pressed into jagged rock.

"I'm not resisting; just stop yanking so hard, I'm trying to cooperate!"

Some of the members of the gathered crowd are sympathetic. I hear someone shout, "He's not resisting; you're hurting him."

It's twilight in front of the International Marketplace, on the main drag through Waikiki. DXM co-mingles with adrenaline in my system. This is not how I'd planned to spend the night.

How could this have happened. I was sure that I was on the right path. I had read all the signs. I’d been directed by God hadn’t I? Over the past six months I’d experienced revelations, new insights granted only a chosen few. Wasn’t I the chosen one for my age? Wasn’t I the next in a line of spiritual leaders, extending back into prehistory?

Abraham, Moses, David, Jesus, and Muhammed to name a few, these were my spiritual forebears. Of course, Divine Nature is not limited to Western Abrahamic traditions. From shamans to the Buddha, Divine truth has been shared with select individuals through the ages and throughout different cultures.

Had I misread the signs? Could I be mistaken about my own Divine nature. Are they all right? My dad, Julia, Jessica; they’ve all told me in one way or another that I’m delusional, that I need to seek help. If that’s the case, if I’m crazy, then I’ve really fucked up.

The thought is too much to bear and my mind switches gears. My thoughts are so fluid...It’s obvious to me now; all great Spiritual Leaders must suffer and many are persecuted before their Greatness is recognized.

I lean back in hard the molded plastic seat of the squad car and relax, resigned to whatever suffering may lie ahead.

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.

9.

I spent two months in Minnesota with Matt and DK. At the time, my mom was living with them too, helping to take care of their new baby, Frankie.

Shea came to visit and it felt good to spend some sober time with her. She was distant, reserved at first, but she warmed back up to me as she began to feel confident that I was my old self.

Matt had built a cabin on a lake up near the Mississippi headwaters. Shea and I spent a week there with my mom. Autumn had come early and it was particularly chilly. Shea and I would bundle up and drive around on Matt's little four wheel ATV. At night, we roasted marshmallows and made s'mores.

It wasn’t long before I had to send Shea back to her mom. I was grateful that I’d had this second chance to make some happy memories with Shea. I felt like I’d made up for some of the hurt I’d caused her, but I knew it was only a start. I promised myself I’d get sober for her.

Back in Minneapolis, I played with little Frankie went for walks with Matt's two energetic Huskys. I would take a skateboard with me to the bike trail around Lake Harriet. I'd get on and yell "mush". Quinn and Jolie would pull me around the lake at breakneck speed.

I thought about looking for a job. My parents were both urging me to stay in Minnesota, and I figured I ought to keep an open mind. Matt offered to pay me to help him paint his house, so I spent a few weeks stripping paint from the house in preparation for a new paint job. I went to some “twelve-step” meetings and I did some volunteer work registering people top vote in the upcoming presidential election.

Even though most of my family was there, and even though it’s where I grew up, I began to realize that Minnesota would never feel like home to me again...plus it’s was really fucking cold and it was only October.

Shortly after Shea left, I began using DXM again, but at a somewhat reduced rate. During the day I would only take small amounts, waiting for the evening when I would take a larger dose and enjoy the visual patterns that played before my minds eye after I went to the couch that was my bed in Matt's basement.

One night, after a particularly strong dose, the visuals went beyond just shapes and designs. I began to see iconic images, like cartoon characters and illustrations from 1960s' first grade readers. Some sort of happy folk music I’d never heard before accompanied the images. There was no message or narrative; the music had no words. The mental music videos were simply entertaining. The experience reminded me of my early experiences of dropping acid in high school.

In the daytime I felt sharp and clearheaded. I was no longer obsessed with drinking and I enjoyed a feeling of confidence that I wasn’t accustomed to. This self-assurance seemed to come directly from the steady, but somewhat lower, doses of DXM I now took each day. I hid my cough medicine use from my family. As harmless as it seemed to me, somehow I knew they wouldn't approve. I started feeling better about myself and my future and I started to think more about a plan for returning to Hawaii.

I talked occasionally with Jessica on the phone, but she was more distant than ever. That didn’t matter, I was surging with new confidence. I would get back to Oahu and work on starting my new career, what it would be I wasn’t sure, but I knew I would land on my feet. With my new “sobriety” I was assured of success. The “getting the girl” part would take care of itself. My obsession with alcohol was gone; my obsession with Jessica was gone; both replaced by this new obsession with starting a new entrepreneurial life...oh and with cough syrup.

While the door wasn't closed to me at the school system, I knew I could do better. I was feeling the freedom of having choices to make. Hawaii was my home and there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t be able to do once I got back there. I was ready to go home and get on with my life.

I didn't have much money, but I'd cashed in an annuity. If I were careful, I’d be able to get by for a month or so while I got back on my feet. My family, especially Dad, tried to convince me to stay for a while longer, but my mind was made up. The ticket DK had given me had an open ended return; I made my reservation for a flight in mid-October, almost exactly sixty days from my arrival in the Twin Cities.

It wasn’t long before Shea made it clear to me that she knew I’d been drinking and wanted desperately for me to stop. I came home one day to find that she had located a couple of bottles in my closet and poured them out. I was wounded, exposed. I couldn't deny my drinking, but I choose to scold her for invading my privacy.

The final straw came on an afternoon when I was supposedly at work. I had told Shea that I would be home early and we could go to the beach together. Somehow my good intentions meant nothing.

Though I no longer had a job, and the money Mark had paid me was really needed for food, rent, and other necessities, I decided to go to a strip club. I got to the club shortly after it opened at two. I’d already gotten rid of my morning hangover with the help of some cheap vodka. I figured I’d just pass an hour or so looking at titties and having a couple of beers.

A couple of beers turned into a couple of more, plus a couple of shots and a twenty dollar drink for one of the girls. My phone rang. It was Shea calling; I realized that it was after four. I couldn't answer it in the club with the music pounding. So I stepped outside and called her back. I told her that I was sorry; I got held up. But I was on my way home now. I stepped back into the bar to have one more drink and ask the stripper for her phone number.

I called Shea back when I left the bar shortly after five and told her that I got held up again, but was really on my way home now and would be there in a half an hour. Shea was clearly upset. I told her it was too late to go to the beach, but we could rent a couple of movies instead. This is pretty much the only thing we'd done together for the past few weeks. Shea said okay but, even through the haze, I could tell that she was worried. She was afraid for me and for herself. She was thousands of miles away from her mother or any responsible adult she could trust and her father was falling apart. She had seen me drunk before, but not like this, drinking all of the time.

It was after six when I finally drove into Maunawili. As I drove up to the house I realized that I didn't have enough alcohol to make it through the night. I decided run down to the liquor store before I went home for the night. But Shea was outside the house waiting for me as I began to drive past. She was in tears and ran towards the car. I yelled through the passenger window that I would be right back; I was just going to pick up a movie at Blockbuster. I could see her protest but I drove away anyway.

Almost an hour later I came back with a movie and popcorn. I fortified myself with a swig of Smirnoff, which I left in the car for the time being and went into the house. Shea was on the phone in tears. I didn't know who she was talking to, but she was clearly talking to someone about me and my condition. I began to yell at her. Who was she talking to? It was her mom. How could she do this to me? I was more than embarrassed; my profound guilt and shame was expressed with anger at an innocent soul who was only worried about me and her own safety. Isolated from any responsible adults she did what she needed to do to protect herself in a disturbing and unsafe situation. She was in tears and conflicted because she couldn't trust me, but didn't want to betray me. And I felt betrayed. I told her so; I told her that she was ruining my life; by exposing me I wouldn't get to see her again; her mother would make sure of that. I was going to kill myself. Me, me, me, me, me.

*

Shea’s mom got her a flight back a couple days later. With her gone and no job, there was nothing to keep me from drinking all day, every day, except that I was running out of money. I had no plan. I sat at home drunk each day, feeling sorry for myself, watching TV. Everything made me cry even reruns of MacGyver and Bonanza.

I watched the coverage of the Democratic National Convention on July 27, and I bawled like a drunken baby as a young state senator from Illinois gave the keynote address. In my stupor I cried for our country, I cried for the hope that Barrack Obama inspired by the speech that made him famous. Mostly though, I cried for myself, at the state of my life, my own selfishness, the fucked up way I'd acted with my daughter.

I was out of options. I talked for hours on the phone with friends and family members who wanted me to get help. There was no way I could even begin to look for a job unless I was sober, and I couldn't stop drinking by myself. I'd been to a couple of out patient treatment programs in the last few years, but I hadn't finished them and I always found a reason to drink. Now treatment didn't seem like an option. I figured that without medical coverage that comes with having a job, I wouldn't be able to get into a rehab program.

My father and other family members were urging me to come back "home" to Minnesota. I hadn't lived in there in years and when I'd visit, it hardly felt like home, but I didn't know what else to do. My sister in law, DK, offered to have me come and stay with her and Matt. She had enough frequent flier miles for the ticket and there was room at their house. I made it clear to everyone that this was not a permanent move; I would stay long enough to get my act together, then I would return to Hawaii.

On Sunday, we we went to an Independence Day celebration at Marine Corps Base Hawaii in Kaneohe. There were rides and live music and fireworks. I noticed there was a big tent where beer and wine was served. Shea and I rode rides on the carnival midway and ate concession stand pizza and hot dogs. I felt fine with a heavy dose of DXM running through my system.

As it began to get dark, we staked out a good place to watch both the band and the fireworks. With people partying all around us, I began to feel cheated. Why shouldn’t I get to enjoy a couple of drinks on the Fourth of July? Besides, the DXM was beginning to wear off and I’d left the cough syrup at home.

Eventually, my obsession got the best of me. I told Shea to wait while I went to the bathroom. I walked away in the direction of the porta-pottys, and checking that Shea wasn’t watching, I made my way to the concession stand. The limit was two drinks per customer, so, on the theory that wine packs more punch than beer, I ordered two plastic cups full of the cheap white wine. I went straight to the back of the next line where I downed the wine quickly and waited my turn to buy two more.

I was feeling good when I got back to Shea. The warm fuzziness saturating my body and soul protected me from the sting of any guilt I might have felt for letting my daughter down. I had a good time watching the band and the fireworks. Under different pretenses, I left Shea two more times to sneak drinks. I didn't get real drunk that night, but I’m sure Shea had an idea that something was going on.

Those several drinks on the Fourth set me back into an alcoholic spiral. I stopped using cough syrup, but began drinking steadily every day. I was committed to try drinking in a very controlled way; the DXM affected my tolerance to alcohol in a way that made it even more difficult than usual to predict what might happen, or at what point I might lose all control. I did, after all, have a child to care for. So I limited myself to wine during the day, and planned to only drink hard liquor after Shea was in bed at night. In my mind, this seemed like a very rational plan.

My first full week at Mark's office I came in sober, if a bit hung-over. After some initial instructions the first few mornings, Mark left me to work on my own. I worked hard the first week despite my drinking, but by lunch time my mind would be consumed with thoughts of alcohol. I had trouble concentrating on my work and time seemed to move unbearably slowly. At lunch I bought a couple of single bottles of wine to get me through the rest of the day; it helped me to almost feel normal again.

On my way home each night, I'd stop off and buy a bottle each of wine and vodka. I resumed my habit of rotating through different liquor stores, so no one would know how much I drank. I also resumed a futile habit of many alcoholics: chewing sugarless gum and sucking on Altoids to hide the alcohol on my breath, especially from Shea.

At home with Shea, I’d stopped being that dad I’d been. Instead of taking her to the beach or doing other things together, I would order dinner and we’d just watch TV. I'd run up to my bathroom often, where I’d sneak slugs of wine throughout the evening. Once Shea was in bed, I could go to my own room and hit the hard stuff.

This pattern continued and progressed through the month of July. After the first week I took to drinking throughout the day. I’d battle my hangovers with doses of wine I took at set intervals. I’d just left my secure state job and could not risk losing this one, yet, I was compelled to drink.

And so it was, that by the end of the second full week I had missed an important pre-hearing meeting that Mark had asked me to attend. I was coming in late daily because I couldn't pull myself together in the morning. I was often both too drunk and too hung-over to get anything done. This had been my pattern when I was with the school system, but then I had been tenured and had plenty of sick leave and vacation days.

Having had enough of my behavior, Mark paid me for the month and said that he couldn't afford to keep me on. He hoped that I would get some help for myself.

I decided to let Shea think I was still going to work. I would leave the house in my aloha shirt and khakis and head straight to the liquor store. I'd spend the day in the park or at the beach. Most days I’d drink till I passed out for an hour or two, but always I was trying to find just the right level. When I went home I didn't want to be too drunk, but I needed to feel well. I was too the point where I only had the two states, drunk or sick...sometimes both.

8.

In mid-June Shea arrived to spend her summer with me. I resolved not to drink while she was in my care; I continued with the cough syrup though. Most days, I took Shea to work with me and usually dropped her off at Kahala Mall. At thirteen, she enjoyed some independence and Kahala was a safe, familiar place near my work. She had a cell phone and I'd call her to arrange meet for lunch. Other days she would choose to stay home and play video games or watch TV.

My new job would start in July and I was wrapping things up at the school district, passing my cases along to my coworkers. It was summer and my workload was light. As much as I could, I’d cut out from work early. Shea and I spent a few happy afternoons at the beach.

I hadn’t seen Jessica since that last failed attempt at sex with her, but I’d been obsessing about her, about my impotency that night, and about winning her over. I decided to introduce Shea to Jessica and her daughters. I knew Shea would get along well with and Samantha and hoped that Jessica would warm up to me again. Jessica was polite. We all went out for dinner one night. My daughter got along well with hers. We had a pleasant evening, but Jessica was distant, quiet, restrained.

She hadn’t outright rejected me, but I decided to keep my distance again, thus allowing myself the illusion that I still had a shot with her. Besides, I had a new job to jump into, a new career that would help me to prove my worth to Jessica, and to everyone else. I also had my old standby obsession to fall back on, alcohol.

*

I began my job with Mark on July first, a Thursday. Those first two days before the Fourth of July weekend I spent organizing my new workspace and familiarizing myself with the cases that Mark was assigning to me. I came into work early and stayed late. I apologized to Shea, who stayed at home alone for those first couple of long days. She had no friends in Hawaii and I was bummed that she had to spend the whole day by herself in the house.

The Fourth of July weekend promised a chance for us to spend some quality time together. But the alcoholic obsession continued to dog me. I hid this, or tried to hide it, from Shea; she’d seen me drunk before and knew it was a problem. We’d talked about my drinking before and she’d experienced it. (The last Christmas she had visited, I was pulled over by the police with her in the car. The officers took pity on Shea, and rather than give me a sobriety test, which we all knew I’d fail, they put us in a cab and told me to come back for the car after I’d sobered up.)

We got an early start and spent much of Saturday at the beach. By around two in the afternoon we’d both had enough. Not too tired, not too sunburned, and plenty hungry, we headed to L & L Drive-Inn for a plate lunch. On the way home, we stopped at Blockbuster, for some Jackie Chan movies, and then Long’s Drug, where I found a great deal on the extra large bottles of their store brand “Tussin” cough syrup. I bought two.

At home I guzzled half a bottle of cough syrup while Shea showered the beach off her body. I took a shower myself, and when we were both ready, we settled in to watch the classic Jackie Chan movie, “Project A Part II”.

I’d been buzzing lightly all day on the DXM, but that last dose of cough syrup put me into hyperspace. By the time Jackie found himself fending off the entire Axe Gang, my mind was careening off into realms unknown. I remained aware of Shea quietly watching the movie next to me while I phased in and out of sync with a parallel universe. At a couple of points Shea made comments or asked questions about the plot line. I struggled with appropriate answers.

By the time the movie ended, I was planted firmly back in the familiar universe with my daughter, but I was still buzzing hard. By “buzzing”, I don’t simply mean “intoxicated”. The effects of DXM made me feel as though my very soul was vibrating at some frequency verging on resonance with the divine.

I was a bit unsteady on my feet as I got up to change the DVD. I loaded up City Hunter, another Hong Kong production starring our favorite comedy martial artist. I threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and went upstairs to pee and take another swig of Tussin.

I brought sodas and popcorn back to the couch just as the movie was opening. Jackie Chan was talking to the camera as City Hunter, but the voice was someone else’s, an American accent. Shea seemed uneasy. I set the popcorn on the coffee table and asked her what was wrong. “Nothing,” she shrugged.

When I sat down she reached over and put her arms around me and gave me a kiss. Then she grabbed her popcorn and settled in to watch the movie. It crossed my mind that the kiss was a ploy to check for alcohol on my breath. I was pleased and disgusted with myself that I’d been able to fool her.

I finished the rest of the cough syrup in my car before going into Club Rock Za, the first of two, maybe three, strip clubs I hit that night; it's all very hazy and I don't think I'd remember it at all, but my memory was to be triggered months later.

Rock Za was crowded. I stood while the hostess went to get me a Corona. When she returned with the beer, I gave her two twenties and asked for a shot of tequila and the rest of my change in singles. The club has two large stages and a small one. A large breasted local girl was just climbing on to the small stage; not really my type. There were three girls on each of the other two stages. All but one of the dancers had guys sitting right in front of them, shoving dollars their way. The neglected blond was past her prime, too skinny and desperate looking.

A tiny Filipina made eye contact with me from the stage across the room. She smiled at me as she shoved her ass toward the guy she was dancing for. Then I noticed a guy getting up from his seat near me. The hard bodied Korean who’d been dancing for him slid her thong back into place and began gathering up dollar bills from around the cushion she’d been kneeling on during her “dance”. I moved into the seat just as my drink and my change came.

She smiled at me, then motioned to the hostess who’d just set down my drinks. While she traded a thick stack of singles for several twenties, I tried to see if I could find the scar from where her implants had been inserted. I could find none; still her breasts were too firm, too erect to be real. I’m not a huge fan of implants, but they seemed to complete this fantasy woman. Her completely smooth, hairless body, was evenly tanned and perfectly toned. Yet, in the minute or so it took her to make the exchange with the hostess, I noticed the beginning signs of aging. Hands of a thirty year old, maybe thirty-five; through the dim light and her makeup I could see lines around her eyes. Thirty-five maybe...it’s so hard to tell with Asian women. She was still in her prime, but I wondered if she had a plan for the future. I threw back my tequila and took a sip of beer.

Finally, with her smaller roll of larger bills firmly strapped into her garter, she turned her attention to me.

“I’m sorry, that was my last song of the set. Would you like to buy me a drink?” She was bending from her kneeling position on the stage. Her hair brushed against my face as she spoke into my ear. The combination of her perfumes, the ones she had applied and the natural scents of her body, combined with her slightly husky Korean voice and her proximity to me and caused my dick to be suddenly engorged with blood.

“I don’t buy twenty dollar juice for strippers.” I told her. Lot’s of the girls at strip clubs and hostess bars will have the men buy them drinks at inflated prices. The girl then takes a kick-back from the bar. This is a standard practice that I simply accepted. Some girls (understandably) wanted to stay sober as they plied guy after guy for expensive drinks, so they’d stick to tiny glasses of pineapple juice. I’d be damned if I’d pay twenty bucks for a glass of pineapple juice.

She put her top back on, straightened whatever other small strips of cloth she was wearing and held her hand out so I could steady her as she stepped off the stage in six inch clear platform stilettos. When she reached me at the bottom, she said, “I drink tequila.”

Jin Hee was her name and I bought her a couple of tequila’s as well as a couple more for myself. She was attentive at first, but soon seemed distracted. She told me she would be back; she had to say “hi” to one of her regular customers.

Jin Hee eventually found her way back to my table to work me for another drink. This is what she did; this is how she made her living. I knew this coming in; I wasn’t new to the scene. But, somehow it all seemed transparent to me at that moment. Jin Hee was clearly getting drunk as she took my money, but there was no way I was going home with her tonight. That fantasy would never happen. When she next rotated to her other “client”, I left the bar.

You’d think, after that brief moment of clarity, I’d have had enough of strip clubs for one night. Instead, I soon found myself a couple blocks away at the Crystal Palace where I met, for the first time, Darlene Wunderlich.

She had a light complexion with exotic features, ivory skin with dark hair and eyes that suggested an Asian background. I asked her, as I would sometimes do, to tell me about herself. Where was she from? What was her ethnicity? Was she a student? Did she have ambitions beyond gyrating for horny men?

Some girls will share some personal information, others keep things all business. Darlene turned out to be of the former type. At least on this night, she was very chatty. She seemed a bit tipsy already when I first stepped up to the stage in front of her. I learned that her family was from Idaho. Her father is German and her mother Japanese. The whole family had moved to Honolulu when she was in High School, but her parents had moved back to Boise a few years after Darlene finished her undergraduate degree.

“A college graduate! Working here? What did you study?”

It turned out that Darlene had a Masters in special education. She was a special education teacher at Kapahulu Elementary School and she worked with severely mentally and physically disabled children.

I learned all this between songs and I shared about my own experiences in the special education field. She would dance, grind, and writhe around during the songs as I stuffed dollars into her garter. Standard strip bar behavior. During the quite moments between songs we talked. When her set was over she came to my table and I bought her a twenty dollar drink. We talked about the challenges of working in the field, children with difficult behaviors, parents with difficult behaviors, limited resources and support from the school system. I told her of my plans to leave the DOE and begin working with Mark. She told me that she too was thinking about leaving.

The next morning I woke up bleary and hung over. I had blacked out the night before; I remembered starting out at Club Rock Za, but I didn't remember where I ended up. By my bed was a slip of paper that said: "Darlene Wunderlich" followed by a phone number.

At the time, I didn't remember my conversation with the gorgeous stripper/teacher. I thought, "Darlene Wunderlich, I don't even want to know a Darlene Wunderlich." I threw the paper away.

The next night, I met Jessica at her favorite pupu bar. We’d met there several times before to snack and chat. This time I ordered myself a beer and Jessica seemed to approve. We each had a couple of beers and went back to her place. With only a few beers in me, and a good DXM buzz going, I felt great...in control...powerful even. Unfortunately, when we got back to Jessica’s place, I found the combination of alcohol with DXM had destroyed my ability to get hard.

We'd continue to see each other for a while longer, but that was the last night I'd spend with Jessica.

*

My drinking increased as my DXM use decreased. I continued to drink cough syrup in the mornings; it seemed to ease my hangovers. It also reduced my tolerance to alcohol, so I would drink less most nights. I mostly drank at home, where it was safe, and watched porn.

My cough syrup habit was getting expensive and I started to really look at the labels for DXM content and compare brands by potency and price. I also looked for brands that didn’t taste so godawful as your regular Robitussin. I was getting practice managing my dosages so that I could function, yet always had a good feeling going on.

I was especially pleased with how well I was able to manage my drinking. My obsession to drink wasn’t quite so strong since I was able to manage my steady DXM buzz. I felt generally less inhibited and found myself able to flirt naturally with women in normal daily situations. When I did drink, I didn’t feel the need to drink so much.

Feeling cocky, I left work a bit early one Friday afternoon. I stopped at Longs Drug to buy some more cough syrup and I sucked down about half of the eight ounce bottle. Then I parked near the Waikiki Shell and changed into the shorts and t-shirt I kept in my car. I cruised Waikiki beach and Kalakaua Avenue, chatting up tourists and soaking in the sun.

Eventually, I met a pretty Japanese girl who spoke decent English. Yuki was taking a picture of the Duke Kahanamoku statue and I offered to take it for her so she could be in the shot. We stood there talking and smiling for a bit. Finally, inspired by the statue of the famous Olympic athlete and Waikiki beachboy, I suggested we go over to Dukes Canoe Club for a beer and a bite to eat.

From our table on the lanai, we could watch the thousands of tourists and locals on the beach and in the water. Beginning surfers flailed around the inside breaks, while those who knew what they were doing (and maybe a few that didn’t) were way outside enjoying the big waves of another summer swell. Canoes full of tourists caught waves dangerously close to the surfers and older Hawaiian men paddled around on their surfboards, standing up with paddles.

It seems that if you ask a single Japanese woman what she does for a living, she will almost always say: “Office worker”. If you ask her what she likes to do, she will say: “Shopping” Yuki was no exception. She and her friends had spent a week here in Hawaii and had spent very little time on the beach. Her paper white skin was undamaged by the sun.

It turned out that this was Yuki’s last day in Hawaii. She would be leaving early the next morning with her friends. But Yuki had visited several times before and intended to come back soon, maybe next winter. She told me that she would like to come here to go to school, but she couldn’t afford it.

“What would you study?”

“English” Her “l” contained only the slightest hint of an “r”.

“But your, English is so good. Why do you need to go to school?”

“Student visa... But school is very expensive and I have to work.”

She explained to me that many Japanese women liked to come to Hawaii, maybe meet an American man. On a student visa they can stay longer. If their family has money they can do this, but her family was not rich, so she can only afford to come for a week or two at a time.

It was a shame she had to go so soon after we just met. We’d shared a plate of seared ahi; she had a beer and I had two. The conversation wasn’t deep; it was that sort of just getting to know each other when we’re from totally different cultures sort of conversation. But there was a lot of stuff in the eyes, in the smiles. We sat close and touched innocently many times.

I wanted to spend more time with her that evening, but she said she couldn’t. She had plans to meet her friends. Maybe after? No, they needed to leave very early in the morning. We exchanged emails and parted outside her hotel.

The sun was low as I walked up Kalakaua, back towards my car. Now my senses seemed elevated. I stopped to take in the the extra-vibrant colors of the setting sun. The DXM seemed to have kicked up a notch, and so had something else. That feeling I had the other night with Jessica had returned, the feeling of power and control had returned...and so had my erection. I was looking at the sunset, thinking nothing sexual. As always there were girls in bikinis around, but I was only focused on the sky and my power. I’d been aroused earlier with Yuki, but not like this.

I stood behind a park bench to conceal my hard-on until the sun finished setting. As the sun finally vanished beneath the horizon, the blood began to leave my dick and flow normally once again. I’d had the sensation that while I watched the sunset, I was somehow fused with the universe. Fused with all creation, and infused with some sort of spiritual energy, energy that caused blood to rush into my penis. And now I felt more powerful than ever. I could have any woman on this beach. I could do anything. I could be anything, and I would. I knew at this point I was destined for greatness. So I decided to hit the strip-clubs to celebrate.

October 2004


7.

Perspiration is the bane of my existence. I am a sweaty guy. It's early, but I'm sweating like a pig. Yesterday I had sixty-one days sober (OK, I’d been drinking cough syrup for most of that time, but that doesn't get me into trouble like alcohol does). This morning I'm not feeling great, I’m still a bit drunk and I've lost my car.

Some homeless guy woke me up with his toe a few minutes ago. He told me I should get up before the police roust me. I don't remember passing out on the grass next to King Street, but the guy was right. It's a busy street; I'm lucky it wasn’t the cops that woke me up.

After getting myself oriented I begin walking. I’m nearly a mile from the last bar I remember being in last night. WHERE DID I LEAVE MY CAR? Miraculously, I still have over half a fifth of vodka in a plastic shopping bag, but I have no cash. I go to an ATM to check my balance and make a withdrawal. I'm sickened by the puny amount. The balance shows a few hundred, I should have well over a thousand. The ATM won't let me have any.

I vaguely remember leaving Club Rock Za last night after the ATM there stopped feeding me cash to feed the strippers. My shopping bag tells me I bought the vodka from Daiei, a Japanese store near the strip clubs. I take a swig from the bottle and start on foot to find my car.

I’d thought I was doing so well, putting my life back together. I had stayed for a couple of months with Matt after hitting what I thought was my absolute bottom. I'd been going to meetings, spending my days playing with my new nephew, Frankie, and helping Matt repaint his house. I just got back to Oahu a couple of days ago and now I'm in a worse bind than I’d been in when I'd left in August.

*

My life had seemed so full of promise last spring. I'd given John my notice and I was looking forward to making some real money in private practice working for Mark. I was making arrangements for Shea's summer visit. Though I'd backed off, Jessica and I continued to see each other. I knew that Shea would get along great with Jessica and her daughters.

In May and June I had more time on my hands. I was winding things down at work. Jessica less interested in spending time with me, and I was less interested in going to 12 step meetings. I began to focus my energies in other directions; I went to strip clubs. This was not a new activity for me, but one that I usually did when I was drunk (or wanting to get drunk) and lonely.

One Wednesday after work I went to Club Femme Nu; I just ordered Diet Cokes and spent about an hour (and $40) looking at the girls. Then Thursday afternoon I did the same thing, but after one Diet Coke, switched to beer. I'd been nearly 4 months without a drink, and I wanted to prove to myself that I could drink like a gentleman, so I left after just two beers. But I stopped on the way home and picked up a six-pack.

I was still using DXM constantly and was drinking one or two eight-ounce bottles of cough syrup per day. It was fortunate that I stopped drinking at the bar after just two beers because the interaction of the two substances really had a multiplying effect. Eight beers in one night would normally have been a very slow night before when I was drinking.

April 2004


6.

Jessica comes back to bed and I get up to use the bathroom and to sneak another dose of cough syrup. I return to bed, where Courtney's just looking up at the ceiling.

She looks at me and again says, "Hiii Joooe." Jessica tells her, in a mock gruff voice, to go to sleep. The three of us lie quietly for a while, with Samantha sleeping on the floor next to the bed. I'm facing Jessica whose eyes are open; Courtney’s on the other side of her mom, but I can’t see her face.

Seeing Courtney looking up at me had surely been enough to kill my hard-on, but it was already a struggle for me to keep it up. Unusual for me. Could the DXM, that I've been constantly using since my trip to the mainland, be causing this? I know I’m sweating more than I usually do (and I'm a sweaty guy). The seeping, sopping sweat is a distraction from lovemaking; so are all the brightly colored images flashing through my head.

In the dark, or whenever I close my eyes, I see bright squiggly lines and geometric shapes, like I did years ago when I used to drop acid. While I enjoy this show when I'm just lying in bed, it does seem to get in the way of my sexual pleasure. I wonder if Jessica can tell I’m high on something, but then I realize she has other things on her mind right now.

Staring at the ceiling, Jessica talks about how angry she is with all the doctors, the psychologists, and the school system. Courtney was autistic, they had told her. But now the autism diagnosis has come into question.

While I was on the mainland, Jessica had taken Courtney to a specialist. His tests confirmed that Courtney has a condition known as Rett Syndrome. Rett Syndrome is a genetic condition which is often misdiagnosed as autism; it almost exclusively affects girls. Children with Rett Syndrome develop typically for the first couple of years, then their skill development slows and eventually regresses. So, a girl with Rett may begin to walk and talk in their first year or 18 months, and then begin to lose these skills.

Many of the features of Rett Syndrome are similar to Autism (e.g. communication deficits, screaming fits, hand flapping), however, where children with Autism almost always prefer objects to people, girls with Rett, including Courtney, prefer people to objects and seem to enjoy affection.

As I try to comfort her, I think about all the dreams and aspirations I have for my own daughter; I try to imagine the despair of losing those hopes.

Jessica is a loving mother to both of her daughters. She's patient and consistent. Courtney who usually seems happy benefits from her care and attentiveness; I tell her all this. Unfortunately, I can't think of much else to say that might be reassuring. I've read up on the subject since Jessica told me that Courtney was being tested. I point out that ten-year-old Courtney has maintained many skills that other girls with her condition lose (or have never gained) by her age. Courtney is still walking and, though she has a limited vocabulary, talking. I realize that the best I can do for her is just hold her.

I think back on my trip to Minneapolis; it was fun, but Hawaii really is home for me. I miss Shea the most right after our visits, but it's consoling to be around Jessica and her daughters. Courtney and Samantha are really fun kids, even if Courtney has just interrupted our lovemaking. I’ve spent several overnights with Jessica and her girls since returning from Minneapolis and things seem to be going well. Sure, she’s made some comments that she doesn’t want to move too fast, but I know she’s the one for me. I crave her company and come over almost day after work to hang out with her and the girls. I try to be helpful by keeping them occupied while Jessica works in her room pricing jewelry for her kiosk.

Eventually Jessica interrupts the silence to tell me about a dream she'd had. "It's like you were stalking me." I wonder if she’s just a little superstitious or maybe she’s suspicious about how I’d just happened to run into her at her workplace when I first asked her out. Or, it crosses my mind, she might really be psychic.

I quietly begin to panic. She’s just ended a relationship with the father of her girls. It’s been less than two months since we started seeing each other and I'm trying to spend every moment I can with her. It occurs to me that my feelings are out of proportion with how well I know her. No, I really do love her...I think. It doesn't matter, I’m in love with the idea of her.

I try to reassure her. I apologize for pushing the relationship when she's made it clear that she wants to take it slow. I agree to give her some space.

While I lay awake, watching oceans of ever expanding purple and green checkerboards behind my eyelids, I think about my past relationships with women. Am I always the needy one? Not always...usually. I’ve pretty much stopped going to those 12 step meetings. I don’t see how they can really help me. They just make me feel guilty about drinking cough syrup. Now there’s something that seems to help. I feel more outgoing, more creative, more lucid even than I do without it. It gives me a good buzz and I stay in control.

It occurs to me that Jessica may have noticed physical or behavioral changes in me and I resolve to be careful how much DXM I take. She's never seen me drinking alcohol and doesn't really believe I have a problem. To her it's simply a matter of self-control. I think to myself that maybe if I had a few beers now and then I wouldn't have to use so much DXM and maybe some cough syrup in moderation will help me to keep my drinking in check.

4.

In the meantime, I continued to go to my 12 Step meetings, staying sober “one day at a time”. I also continued to think about Jessica. She was beautiful, smart, obviously a loving mother and she had made it clear at the IEP meeting that her ex was no longer in the picture... And, I knew where she worked.

About three weeks after the IEP meeting, I went to the International Marketplace. I had an excuse to run into her there. I’d decided to bring a gift from Hawaii to my thirteen year old daughter, Shea. She’d lived with her mother in Wisconsin since she was in kindergarten. The plan was for us to meet at my brother's house in Minneapolis during her spring break.

The International Marketplace is a sort of open air shopping center full of little kiosks selling jewelry, t-shirts and Polynesian knick-knacks. It’s located on the main drag in Waikiki, Kalakaua Avenue. I found a kiosk with a sign that says Jessica's Jewelry, but no Jessica. For the next few days, I returned to Waikiki on my lunch hour with the hope of finding Jessica at her shop.

Finally, on the third day I found her arranging earrings in one of her display cases. At first I pretended not to notice her as I browsed the trays of rings, pendants, earrings and other trinkets. After a minute or so, I turned toward Jessica in mock surprise. She looked honestly surprised to see me. She helped me pick out a pair of earrings for Shea and gave me a good price. I asked her about Courtney and sympathized with her difficulties getting appropriate services for her daughter. She seemed happy to talk to me. She thanked me for my help at the IEP meeting. Did I sense an attraction towards me?

I was here to ask Jessica out, but now my heart felt like it was beating through my chest; my hands were sweating. On top of the stress of asking a beautiful woman out, I also had my own position with the school system hanging over me. She was unhappy with the help Courtney was getting from her school and my job was (in part) to help defend the education that the school was providing. Conflict of interests, gossip, rejection; these were all on my mind.

I paid for the earrings and then gave Jessica my phone number, telling her if she ever needed to talk about the situation with Courtney and her school she could give me a call. I almost left it at at that, but fearing that I would miss my chance, I took the leap and asked her if she would like to go out sometime. Again, she looked surprised. And something else. Suspicious?

To my relief, she gave me her business card. "I'm really busy with the shop and my girls, but give me a call."

I called Jessica a couple of days later. We had a date, and then another. It wasn't long before we had our first kiss. But Jessica wanted to take it slow. She told me that she wasn't interested in a new relationship. She was busy with work and with her daughters; she had just ended her relationship with Courtney and Amanda's father. She didn't want drama in life right now.

We ended up seeing each other several times a week. She had just sold her small condo in Waikiki, and with her mother, brother and daughters, was moving into a much larger new house in nearby Kahala. I offered to help her move, but she refused the help. She did, however invite me to the new house to join the family as they performed a Chinese blessing of the house before they moved in.

A month later, when when I was off to visit my family on the mainland, Jessica agreed to take me to the airport. She drove from Honolulu to meet me at my house in Maunawili. I showed her the house and the view from the lanai outside my bedroom. Sheer, green mountains partially surrounded the neighborhood on one side. The tops of the mountains were partially shrouded by clouds. Orange shafts of light shot from the setting sun behind the mountains and though the clouds. On rainy days dozens of waterfalls gushed down the cliff sides feeding streams that were eventually funneled into canals into the ocean. On this day there were only a few narrow white ribbons of water On the other side of the lanai we had a distant view of the ocean and the peninsula that held the Marine Corp base outside of Kaneohe.

We went back into the bedroom and lay down on my bed. We hadn't had sex yet, but we had had our first kiss at the door of her apartment after one of our dates a couple of weeks before. We kissed some on the bed. Though Jessica was petite, there was substance to her body. She wasn't a frail little thing, but had strong arms that she wrapped around me.

I looked at her as she lay staring at the ceiling. "Do you believe in psychics?" she asked.

"I'm not really sure. I think so. I'm sure there are a lot of phonies though."

"I go to this one up in Nu‘uanu every year. I went back in January before we knew each other and she asked me 'Who is J?' I didn't really know."

"Maybe you know now." It was almost a question.

She showed me a small smile with no teeth. "Maybe.” It was a mischievous smile I was beginning to recognize; it said that she had more on her mind than she was willing to say.

It was time to go; she took me to the airport and we kissed goodbye.

3.

During those early months of 2004, I began to foster another relationship. This one with Mark Locke, a disability rights lawyer in Honolulu. I had known him for a couple of years. He represented many of the parents of children whose cases I’d been involved with. If Mark was there it usually meant that the parents wanted something that the school system was either not willing or not able to provide. It also meant that the parents would be filing for a due process hearing. Generally though, Mark didn't want a hearing, he preferred to use the threat of suit as leverage to force a settlement.

While my boss, John, was understanding of my difficulties with alcohol, I knew I was running out of chances. It wasn't impending, but I didn't want to risk getting fired. I was trying once again to stay sober. It occurred to me that I could make a lot more money in private practice working on behalf of parents and their children with disabilities. I think I also felt that in the private world the stakes would be much higher; I wouldn't have the security of a state job, so I would be less likely to relapse again. Clearly, I was not thinking clearly.

I think it was around February that I first approached Mark with the idea that I work with him. Mark's practice consists almost entirely of special education cases against the Hawaii DOE. As he told me early in our discussions, the DOE settles about 90% of the cases filed against them. Of those that go to hearing, he wins roughly 50%. The state is required to pay his fee in all cases that he wins or that are settled before the hearing is complete. Working for him, with the prospect of eventually becoming his partner, promised financial rewards and the prestige of finally practicing law (something I had not pursued since passing the Bar four years earlier).

During the years since law school I had stayed with the DOE but moved out of the classroom. Before I was a resource teacher I had been a Student Services Coordinator at a small elementary school. Like Muriel at Ala Wai Elementary, I was a key member of the team that would assess students for eligibility for special education and determine exactly what types of services a child might need. The team, consisting of parents, teachers, administrators, and other professionals, would develop an Individual Education Program (IEP), which would specify the student's strengths and weaknesses, and would specify goals and objectives for the student and the services needed to help the student reach those goals.

In some cases the parents and the schools have different ideas about what the child needs. A parent may believe that their child needs a particular form of therapy or placement in a specific school. The school administrator may disagree (or in some cases agree, but not have the budget to provide the school or the service) and offer the parent an IEP that does not include the therapy or the particular school.

When parents are dissatisfied with the placement or services (or any other aspect of the IEP) offered, they often approach Mark, or another lawyer, who then evaluates the case. If it seems strong enough, a small retainer is paid and a request for due process hearing is filed. It’s the disagreements between the parents and the schools over what should be included in an IEP that keep Mark in business.

Moving up from the school level to the district office gave me a chance to work with principals and other teachers all over the district. I helped schools and parents work together on some of our most contentious cases. I helped teachers to draft legally defensible (and educationally sound) IEPs. I counseled principals on how to protect the rights of their students, while not being bullied by parents, especially those parents who hired advocates or attorneys. I tried to model for teachers and administrators ways to work with difficult personalities and teach them to avoid traps that attorneys and advocates sometimes use to strengthen their case.

One of my responsibilities was to help with those cases where the parents had filed for a due process hearing against the school. In these cases I'd work with school staff and with the Deputy Attorney General assigned to defend the case. My special education background, combined with my legal education made me an ideal liaison between schools and their attorneys. I was able to explain the legal issues to teachers and principals and help our lawyers understand educational practices.

The knowledge and experience I'd gained while working for the DOE (and with their attorneys) would be valuable for a lawyer working on the other side. When I approached Mark with the proposal that I come to work for him, he told me that he had wanted to hire an associate, that he had more work than he could do himself, but that other young attorneys he had hired in the past had not worked out. We met a few times and exchanged emails over the next couple of months. Eventually it was decided that I would complete my current contract year with the DOE and begin working for him on a trial basis starting July 1.

“I’m not sure Sandra is coming;" Muriel interjected, "Ms. Lim hasn’t mentioned Sandra since the last meeting. I think maybe she can’t afford her anymore. She runs one of those kiosks in International Marketplace, and I guess they’re gonna have to shut down for some renovations. She’s separated from Courtney and Samantha’s dad; I don’t think he gives them any help.”

“How is she at the meetings without Sandra?” I asked.

“She’s polite, but demanding.”

Mrs. Arakaki added, “We’ve had a good relationship with Jessica. She’s an involved parent. She has another daughter in second grade here. Samantha’s a really bright girl. We don’t see much of the dad though.”

“The other thing is that I think the Skills Trainer and the Autism Consultant are friends with Ms. Lim. I think they’re the ones who’ve convinced her that Courtney needs a home based program.”

*

As it turned out, when we held the IEP meeting the next Monday afternoon, Sandra was not present. I was still sober and happily surprised to find that Ms. Lim was the beautiful Jessica that I had met three years earlier at the autism conference. Mrs. Arakaki asked her if Courtney’s dad would be attending the meeting. Jessica replied that he would not be involved in future meetings regarding Courtney, though he would be occasionally picking the girls up from school.

The meeting went smoothly. As expected, Jessica asked the team to consider a home program for Courtney. The Autism Consultant and Skills Trainer who worked with Courtney indicated that she had made much more progress at home during the previous summer than she was making now that school was back in session. I asked if they had any data to support this and they said that they had been collecting data, but would need to compile it to show the progress. The team agreed to meet again in a month to look at the data and discuss the option of placing Courtney in a home based program for at least part of the school day.

I struggled to stay on task during the meeting. Jessica somehow captured my imagination in ways that few women have. Of course she was very pretty, but encountered a lot beautiful single women living and working in Honolulu. She was...she...I’m not a big fan of the French, but they know how to say it by not saying it...she had that certain je ne sais quoi and somehow at that meeting I felt a certain sense of destiny, an irresistible magnetic attraction to this woman who I’d only met once, years before.

She was clearly smart and cared for her daughter. Unlike many smart single parents I had encountered who had the additional burden of raising a child with a disability, she came across as very reasonable.

So many parents of children with disabilities are damaged in one way or another. Finding out that their child is somehow different can be a tremendous blow to a parent. And children with autism spectrum disorders often appear to develop typically for the first year or two. Their parents are often still coming to grips with the fact of their child’s disability at the same time they are beginning to have to deal with the bureaucracy of the public school system and other organizations charged with the care and treatment and education of their disabled child. They are unsure what their rights are as parents of a disabled child. By the time they fully realize what rights they have (or even that they have rights) in the process of determining an appropriate program for their child, and what treatment options are available for their child, precious months or years have often been wasted.

With many disabilities, and with autism in particular, early intervention is critical to helping the child to develop and learn to his or her potential. Parents, realizing that time has been wasted, begin to resent the professionals, the people they had regarded as experts.

In Jessica I detected this resentment, but unlike many parents I have encountered, she didn’t seem to take the resentment out on the school staff in any kind of mean spirited way. To be sure, she was advocating for her daughter, but she was civil, even friendly with the school staff. She had brought tiny “ladyfinger” bananas (something I had never tried) to the meeting for all to try. And she seemed friendly with Andrea and all the other school personnel I saw her interact with. When I suggested that the team need to look at data before deciding whether to develop a home program for Courtney, Jessica was clearly unhappy, but when the Autism Consultant agreed with the suggestion, she didn’t press the issue.

A couple of weeks later, John called me into his office. I’d been sober since he and Pauline had confronted me. Things were going smoothly; I was hitting "twelve step" meetings most days after work.

John told me that the Principal of Ala Wai Elementary had called him about a meeting scheduled to discuss the program of one of their autistic students. The mother in this case was a single parent and while she was polite, she was pretty assertive. The principal was worried that she might ask for services beyond what was normally available. At a previous meeting she had brought an advocate with her and the school was requesting some support.

Sandra Kealoha had started out advocating for her own son; she had the reputation of a pit bull, stubborn and mean. Some in the DOE felt she held a grudge against the school system for the perceived injustices inflicted on her and her son. Others thought she was just out to make a buck off frightened parents who didn’t trust the school system. By the time I’d met her, she’d been a paid advocate for some time, her son was an adult and out of high school.

Ala Wai Elementary had avoided any real contentious special education cases, at least in the the several years that Rachel Arakaki had been principal. John told me that she was concerned because she had never dealt with Sandra before, but was aware of her reputation for using stall tactics and obstructing the IEP process. She’d heard that Sandra’s involvement meant that the case was be sure to go to a due process hearing, a traumatic experience for everyone involved.

“It may not be all that bad,” John told me, “but she’s right to be concerned. I told Mrs. Arakaki that you’d get in touch with her SSC and set up a meeting. I think the IEP is already scheduled, so make sure you meet with them before that.”

*

I arrived at Ala Wai Elementary a little after eight on a Friday morning. I was clearheaded, having rededicated myself to a clean life in a 12 step program. Muriel, the SSC, filled me in on some of the details of the case while we waited for Mrs. Arakaki in the staff room. The child’s name was Courtney, she was diagnosed with Autism and seemed to be regressing. At the last meeting, Sandra, speaking for Courtney’s mom, had mentioned that the team should consider placing the girl at home for part of the school day and providing one on one services there.

I’d met Muriel before, but I didn’t know her well. She seemed to be very organized, which is an important trait for a Student Services Coordinator; they have a lot on their plates.

In Hawaii public schools, the SSC is the person responsible for setting up testing (and administering some of the tests) for students suspected of having disabilities. They also arrange for specific services for students based on what the IEP determines the child needs. For instance, if the IEP calls for 1 hour per week of physical therapy, the SSC will arrange for a physical therapist. The SSC is usually a former special education teacher and often a central member of the IEP team. I’d been an SSC before I became a resource teacher.

Mrs. Arakaki joined us around 8:30, after her morning rituals of greeting parents and children, making sure that every one made it safely to class and touching bases with individual parents, teachers and students. She was responsible for over 400 students at this urban school. Situated near several fancy high rise condominiums, as well as hundreds of low rise walk up apartment buildings, the school is both racially and socioeconomically diverse and has a somewhat transient population.

Mrs. Arakaki seemed certain that Sandra would come and demand that the child be given a home placement. “Can you approve district funding for a teacher to go into the home?” she asked.

She seemed to be hoping that, as a representative of the district, I would either approve a home based program at the district’s expense or be the bad guy and tell the parent that we would not provide such a program.

“It’s not up to me or anyone at the district to approve any placement or services in the IEP.” I reminded them “Remember, it’s up to the IEP team to decide what the child needs. If the team determines that the student needs a home program, and the school doesn’t have the resources to provide it, then the district will have to.”

“So if we give her the home based program you’ll make sure the district provides it?”

“Do you think she needs that type of program? Or can... What’s the kid’s name?”

“Courtney”

“Can your special education teacher meet Courtney’s needs in the classroom here on campus?”

“Yes, Andrea’s in her first year of teaching, but she is really good and she has an aid in her class plus Courtney has her own skills trainer.”

“So, she doesn’t need the home program.”

“But Mom will ask for it.”

“We just need to guide her through the process. If she thinks her daughter needs a home based program we need to ask her what “need” of Courtney’s would be addressed through the home program and how could we address that at school instead. The home setting is considered more restrictive than school...You know, you have the continuum with the regular classroom on a regular campus at one end, then you have the special ed classroom, the special school and home and hospital are at the most restrictive end. The law requires us to place her in the least restrictive environment that she can progress in.”

“But if Sandra comes she’ll demand that we place Courtney at home. I’ve heard how she can be.”

“I get along OK with Sandra,” I said. “She’ll slow us down, but she knows the rules. Just remember that as the principal you are the final decision maker when it comes to offering a program. If Mom disagrees with the IEP then she has her right take us to due process. We just need to make sure we follow all the procedures and don’t let Sandra slip us up.”

2.

I first sobered up back in 1987. After several alcohol related incidents involving Military Police, urinating in inappropriate places, and AWOL, the Army decided that I had a drinking problem and sent me to alcohol rehab at Tripler Army Medical Center.

Only 22 years old at the time, I could already see the self-destructive influence alcohol had had in my life, so I was enthusiastic about sobriety. My father and grandfather had both been alcoholics and had both gotten sober. After each of my early adolescent adventures with alcohol, like when I would meet my father at his front door accompanied by a uniformed escort, my dad

I met a woman Marine in the rooms of a 12 step program. My attraction to her kept me coming back to the meetings and eventually we got married. But, after we were married for a couple of years, I stopped going to meetings. The people in the meetings told me I needed a Higher Power, and I'd found her. What did I need meetings for. Of course, my marriage didn't last and neither did my sobriety.

My marriage ended in ‘96, the year I returned to school and the year I rediscovered pakalolo (literally “crazy tobacco”) and started getting high a few times a year. One one hand, I was trying to hold it together...law school was hard and I knew I couldn’t do it if I were drinking. On the other hand, there was nothing I wanted more than to be able to drink like a gentleman, to lose my inhibitions a bit but not loose complete control. Most of my fellow students at U.H were about ten years younger than me, good students, but they still knew how to party and have a good time. Smoking a little weed was my compromise.

I finally let the genie out of the bottle during my last year of law school. Disaster didn’t strike right away, it waited a couple months. I was arrested for my first DUI a few weeks before taking the bar exam.

For a few years I bounced in and out of the 12 step fellowship, always on the verge of completely fucking my life to shit, but never quite succeeding. I started treatment a couple of times but never finished it.

Still working for the DOE, my attendance record at work was terrible. As a state employee, I was allowed 22 sick days per year and I used nearly all of them. Sometimes, afraid to call in sick yet again, I would stop on the way to work and pick up a small bottle of vodka and some chewing gum just to get through the day.

It must have been just a week or two into 2004 when my bosses confronted me on my absences and told me that some of my colleagues were concerned. Pauline said some had told her that they had smelt alcohol on me in IEP meetings. John really liked me and, he said, I did a good job when I showed up sober, but I’d have to get my act together if I didn’t want to face disciplinary action.

I confessed to John and Pauline, the two administrators I reported to, that yes, I’d been struggling with alcohol, but I was seeking help again and going to meetings. I was sincerely contrite, as I always was when I had to face the consequences of my drinking. And I knew at some level that being sorry was not enough to keep me sober.

John and Pauline were kind to me, but I wasn’t sure that their threat of “disciplinary action” would keep me sober either. I was a union member after all. It would take a major fuck-up on my part for me to get fired...probably a series of fuck-ups. The already familiar sense of overwhelming dread intensified. My self-destruction seemed inevitable.