When the phones rang, they snapped up the old fashioned receivers. With gentle soothing tones they expertly dispatched lost and lonely alcoholics to meetings around New York City’s five boroughs and parts of Connecticut, New Jersey and Long Island before slipping back into their whiplash, vocal-fried conversation.
Plenty of alcoholics will tell you what it’s like to drink again. The ones that make it back, never bring good news.
“I was ashamed that I’d been afraid but in the immediate aftermath of my attack, at my most paranoid and frightened, I believed she’d betrayed me and joined my attackers to torment me.”
“Stupidly, I moved out of the road up onto the narrow curb like a surfer trying to paddle around a shark—but it was too late. The wave crashed over me.”
“We traveled together on the ‘R’ train and said our good-byes with a mingling of tongues that made my tummy flip.”
I saw her snuggled between a sleek black Schwin and an angular, haughty red Raleigh, with a wicker basket—like models backstage at Fashion Week.
There’s still an unconscious counter in my head that resets to 36 and counts down every time I shoot a new roll of film. When I have a camera up in front of my face, the world is contained in a tiny rectangle; my perception of depth is altered—one eye is closed—and my concerns are on focus, exposure and composition.