BLOBS

Full story originally appeared in Dunce Codex.

Before the meeting begins we stand around a table heaped with store-brand cookies, bulk bags of sour chews, powdered mini-donuts, Twizzlers. These things are laid out in a grid, the care taken in their display evident. Each of us eyes this spread tentatively, almost begrudgingly, knowing we shouldn’t indulge. But we undoubtedly will.

Tonight we celebrate a decade sober for Big Don. Don’s had a tough go: diabetes, thyroid issues, bum knees, a hyperpigmentation thing that left his neck and forehead mottled with blue-tinged patches. When I first met Don about three years ago, he was doing well, laying off the Red Man Plug and eating lite. When he’d dropped forty pounds, we congratulated him with a sugarless carrot cake. Then he had a bad spell. We watched as the weight packed back on, plus maybe another twenty. But tonight he exudes joyfulness, shaking hands, beaming. Presented with his ten-year medallion, he gets up to stammer out a word of thanks.

There’s no big secret to it, he tells us all. Just working the program to the best of your abilities. Getting along with folks, trying to be a solid guy.

The podium is then surrendered to tonight’s appointed speaker. A hay-haired woman in horn-rimmed glasses greets us, then launches into her story. She tells us about lighting her hands on fire during a prolonged binge, then in sobriety discovering a new life as a reiki master. Reclaiming the latent power within her ravaged hands, she tells us, revealed to her whole realms of inner possibility. She asks us to imagine the full wonder of this transformation. And each of us, she pledges, is equally capable of such transformation.

After the meeting there are custard tarts, date squares, a pecan pie. We line up to load our paper plates and refill our coffee cups. The mood is pleasant and the pie is incredible: I wolf down two hearty slices topped with Cool Whip while assuming my usual spot next to the coffee urn, offering hellos to the usual folks. When I see Emmett coming over, I brace myself. As my sponsor, Emmett sees it as his mandate to always be pushing me, to always be giving me the gears. A jittery guy, he’s always in motion, constantly glancing over his shoulder, as if he’s being tailed. He approaches me now with one hand outstretched, the other gripping his perennial 500ml bottle of Pepsi. Though rail-thin, he drinks a lot of Pepsi.

How’s the wife? he asks as we shake. He asks me this every time we talk, and seems to never quite swallow my assurances that my marriage is a happy one. Emmett’s own wife is a successful intellectual property lawyer, working long hours while he stays at home with their two preteen daughters, both national contenders in rhythmic gymnastics. He devotes many hours chauffeuring them to early morning practices and interprovincial competitions, and is perennially torn between unwavering support for his daughters’ athleticism and deep umbrage at their incessant demands of his time. For solace, he does rockclimbing and listens to a lot of political podcasts. 

I ask Emmett if he’s had any thoughts on something we’d discussed last time, something I’ve been calling a troubling matter, on which I’d sought his advice. The guilt of this troubling matter of mine is twofold: the matter itself, with its uncertain implications, and my indecision about whether or not to discuss it with Seul-ki, my wife.

Look, he says, these are days of radical contingency, and the only reprieve is truth. Brutal, unsparing truth. Know what I mean?

I tell him I know, but I don’t really know, not actually. I get the feeling he’s once again giving me the gears.

Take a guy like Big Don, Emmett says. He suffers most whenever he loses sight of the truth. That’s the surest way to have it all go haywire, when you stop being honest. Uncompromising, rigourous honesty. With others, but more importantly, with yourself. What I’m telling you is, if you have any real understanding of your situation at all, you already know what to do.

Read the rest here.