Chapter 7 Chapter 5 Preparing for Landing

When I opened the door to my apartment, I realized I wasn't ready for it.I've seen all this often enough, but I've never had it after thirty days of discipline -- empty Edwards bottles all over my room!Hundreds of them.They occupy all the empty spaces: on the kitchen counter, on top of the refrigerator... There are many under the table I use as a desk, only the place where the feet are placed is empty.They were lined up against the wall, eleven feet long and seven bottles high.There seemed to be a lot more than I remembered, as if they had reproduced themselves since I was gone. The air was damp and musty, and blowflies hovered over the mouth of the bottle, forming a black cloud on the ceiling above the kitchen sink, covered in dead flies like dust.

Clothes were strewn all over the room, covering the floor, chairs, sofa and bed.There was also a full bottle of wine on top of the microwave.This doesn't feel like the home of someone doing TV commercials at all. The scene in front of me can be described with only one word: dirty. No difference from the environment I used to live with that crazy psychiatrist. Fresh off my brain wash in the rehab facility, I took the bottle to the bathroom and held it up to the light.See this beautiful wine?Isn't it beautiful?Yes, very beautiful.I unscrewed the cap, poured the wine down the toilet, and flushed it twice.Then I thought, why did I flush twice?The answer is that I have lost consciousness.I can't promise that I won't stick my head down the toilet and drink like a dog.

I now have two options.I can sit and cry - it's my first instinct; or I can clean up the house - it's like winning the lottery.But in fact I did - I started cleaning. I kept my head down and toiled, stopping only to listen to the messages on the phone.The first message was from Jim: "Hey man, your rehab home is a joke, huh?" The music was blaring on the line, so I'm sure he was calling from a bar.I clicked skip and went to the next message. "Augustine, this is Greer, I just want you to hear my message when you get home." Greer's voice sounded like he was reading a rough draft, and I'm sure it was, Greer was that kind of guy.I once saw her scan her driver's license photo and twenty photos of hairstyles ripped out of magazines, and then she used Photoshop to paste her face into each hairstyle-she used this method to decide whether she wanted Keep bangs.

"Welcome home! That's a bit of a cliché, I guess..." Stiff laugh, "I just wanted to say, I hope you're doing well, I hope you're better now. I can't remember what you said It's time to get back to work, so give me a call and let me know? That's ok...then...ok...bye." Then came a message from Bracbust Video Store.He said that I hadn't returned the disc of "Burning Skyscrapers" after the due date, and I owed 80 yuan.The other was Jim's again, and this time he sounded sad and depressed. "Wow man, maybe you did go to rehab. I'm so drunk I don't remember anything, maybe you can teach me a little bit of the crap you just learned. I'm going to take a break now."

The remaining messages were broadcast one by one.The last one was from Pighead. "Hey, it's Friday, I know you're supposed to be back today. I was thinking, you could come over and I'll make you dinner. Maybe make sautéed liver with onions to commemorate your new life." belch. In total, the bottles were filled with twenty-seven industrial waste bags.After more than seven hours, I finally cleaned up, and I was already sweating profusely.I went to Kmart, a large American department store chain.I bought eleven herbal-scented candles, lit them, and began to scent the house.Forty minutes later, the room smells of artificial pine, and now would be a good time to go to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

I dialed 411. "Which city is it?" "Manhattan," I said, already wondering what to say next. "What category?" I clear my throat, reminding myself that I'm talking to a stranger I've never met over a fiber optic cable. "Well, it's the Alcoholics Anonymous conference call." I wish she'd either hung up or hadn't heard enough and let me repeat.I'm sorry, what is it?What anonymous? But she gave me the number right away.I dialed it. "Hi, I just got out of rehab and I don't know where Alcoholics Anonymous is in this town..."

The voice of the person on the phone sounded like Gap, a famous American fashion and leisure brand.Employees: crisp and kind.I'm pretty sure he's wearing a khaki suit and exudes summer vibes. "Where do you live?" "I'm on the corner of Tenth and Fifth Avenues." "That's a cool place," he said before giving me a list of seven different meetings.I'm only now finding out that New York is a great place to drink, not only if you want to drink but also if you want to quit, and there are so many meetings to choose from. He mentioned the Perry Street meeting, and I remember the "Valium Doctor" mentioning it to me.The next meeting will start at eight o'clock, so I decided to go to this one.

The venue was only a ten-minute walk from my apartment, but I set out immediately.Instead of sitting at home, it is better to go out for a walk.I got there in less than seven minutes, I was going so fast.I found I had an hour to kill, and Pighead lived five minutes away, so I decided to drop by. The gatekeeper was strangely excited when he saw me. "How are you there, Mr. Augustine," he said. "Long time no see." I wanted to grab him by the collar of his uniform and say, "What did Pighead tell you? Don't believe a word of it. I'm off to Madrid to shoot a commercial."

But before I could do that, he said, "Oh, your friend just got back from a walk with Virgil." Virgil is Pighead's aggressive white Derby.Virgil likes me better. I took the elevator to the fourth floor.Pighead's apartment is the last one on the right, at the end of the long corridor.But I could already see the door of his house open, because I saw Virgil's head sticking out, and Pighead's hand by his collar. "Go to him," said Pighead.Virgil came running down the corridor, screaming, and quickly bit my pant leg. I bent down and wiped his back with my hand. "Virgil, Virgil, what a good boy, what a good boy," I ran toward the Pighead door, Virgil running and calling at my feet.

I walked past Pighead standing in the doorway, walked into the living room, picked Virgil up and threw him on the couch.He bounced off the couch and immediately yelled at me again, and I threw him on the couch again.This time he ran to a corner of the room, came over with a rubber carrot in his mouth, threw it at my feet, and kept barking.I turned the carrot and threw it into the bedroom, and he rushed towards it immediately. "You bastard," said Pighead at last, seeing my face clearly, "I hardly recognize you." I took off my jacket and threw it on a chair in the dining room.

"Don't do that," he said, "hang it on the hanger." "What do you mean?" I asked as he headed to the closet to get the hanger. He turned around: "Want a coat hanger? The kind of Joan Crawford, a famous Hollywood movie star in the 1940s and 1950s, who often abused her children in various inhumane ways in her private life. Used to beat her children hanger?" "No, fool, not that. I mean how am I different? Tell me tell me tell me." He rolled his eyes, went to the closet and hung up my coat. "You look so different...younger...you've lost so much weight. You look great." He smiled, then looked away from me, seeming bashful.He walked into the kitchen and I followed. "What would you like to drink?" Before I could answer, he corrected, "I mean juice or something." "Oh God, is this the way it should be from now on?" I wailed. He took two glasses from the cupboard and opened the refrigerator.I noticed a bottle of Chardonnay next to the cranberry juice. "Actually," I said, "I'd like to have some Chardonnay, just a little." I made two inches between my thumb and forefinger. Pighead was a little embarrassed: "What, Chardonnay?" I leaned my butt against the stove with feigned ease. "Well, we're allowed to drink Chardonnay. Because it's not real wine. You know, it's just wine, and that's okay." He stood there with his hands in the fridge, looking back and forth between cranberry juice, wine, and me, bewildered. I grinned at him, "I'm just kidding." He poured us each a large glass of cranberry juice and carried them to the living room.He sat down on the sofa, next to the coffee table where he put his drinks.I sat next to him and rested my head on his shoulder.I muttered about some of my feelings, my confusion, happiness, sadness, depression and tiredness.He hugged my shoulders and rested his head on mine. "It's okay, it'll be fine," he said, "you're still a mess, but at least you're not a drunk." Virgil jumped on the couch and bounced onto my stomach, nearly pushing the contents of my stomach out.He barked, and I held his head in my hands and wiped his face vigorously. "Virgil misses him," Pighead said, and I looked at him, but he looked away at his hand. "I miss him too." I said softly. I picked up the drool-stained, squeaky rubber carrot and hurled it, whether it was going to hit a wall or a lamp or a painting.Pighead wouldn't care if the fine furniture and ornaments got smashed, and if any lamps got smashed, I know he wouldn't care, because I did.But if someone else smashed it, he would be furious.I feel very proud of this. "What do you want for dinner?" he asked. I was silent for a while, "I can't eat anymore. I have to leave in a few minutes, and I have a meeting." "Alcoholics Anonymous?" he asked, "but you just got back from rehab." Virgil brought the carrot to my feet again, and I ignored him.So he took it to the fireplace and began to chew hard, as if to kill the squeaky thing. "That's the point," I told him, "alcoholics have to go to Alcoholics Anonymous." "How long are you going?" he asked with concern, as if I were on parole. "I have to go every day for the rest of my life." "Are you kidding?" he said, raising his eyebrows. I told him it was unfortunate and it wasn't a joke.I told him that Ray had said that if I had time to drink every day, I would have time to attend Alcoholics Anonymous. His eyes widened in disbelief. "Oh, I know," I said, "I'm just as surprised as you are." "What did they say? 'once a day' or something?" He took a sip of his coffee. "Yes, once a day. I have to do this for the rest of my life." "my God." "Oh, we don't call 'God' anymore," My scalp was itching, so I just rubbed him on the shoulder. "We call it 'advanced strength.'" "Oh no," he said, rolling his eyes, "you're brainwashing me." We were silent.We sat quietly for a while.How comfortable it was to be with him, and yet... and yet... a feeling of loneliness, and another, more terrible, indescribable feeling came over me. "Pighead?" I said. "Huh?" He turned to me. This time I turned my face away, and I looked down at my thumbnail. "nothing." "what?" It's a weird feeling that I have so much to say to him, need to tell him, but I don't know where to start.Of course, all the feelings are weird to me because I'm not used to facing them yet.But this time it felt weird, kind of like the way I always wanted my parents to go to bed after I fell asleep when I was a kid.I need to be sure they're there for me, or I won't be able to sleep. "I have to go," I said, and got up from the couch. "But you're just here," he said. "I know, but I have to go, I just stopped by to see." I was so delighted to see him that I had to hurry to leave.It's weird, like there's a magnetic field at work. He tugged at a book on the coffee table. "Well, glad you haven't changed beyond recognition, you're still saying 'I've got to go. Everything's bigger than you, Pighead'." The sadness in his voice was palpable. "I have to go" is probably the four words I say to him most often. Usually the subtext of this sentence is "because I'm going to drink", but this time it's because I'm going to discuss whether I want to drink or not— It seems that wine goes with you like a shadow and penetrates everywhere. This room is very small, not even as big as a typical suburban kitchen, and it is not bright yellow, and there are no colorful baskets with spider plants hanging in front of the window.The room was very dark, and the half of the house facing the street was rented out, and a small fashion shop opened.Decorative curtains hung on the windows of the shop, blocking out the light from outside.In the center of the room there is a small rostrum against the wall, and behind it is a high-backed chair.Around the rostrum are a horseshoe of fifty or so folding metal chairs—custom-made chairs for recovering alcoholics.Over the chair an old ceiling fan was spinning, barely turning.The light brown paint on the uneven wall looks like it has a history of no less than twenty years. It is estimated that it should have been white when it was first painted. "Here, you will gain a lot." The chairman of the meeting said.The spotlights on the ceiling have been dimmed, and the meeting has officially begun.The chairperson delivered the meeting introduction first—the same one everywhere, as boring as a McDonald's Big Mac.Usually they outline the mission of the meeting—to help people stay awake—they also emphasize that the meeting is free and apolitical, and they usually end with some questions. "Anyone new today?" he asked. I raise my hand. In the rehabilitation home, we have special lectures on raising hands. "In meetings, raise your hand frequently to share ideas; volunteer for others; ask for help. Raise your hand ninety times in ninety days, don't hide under the wallpaper and say nothing." Alcoholics Anonymous At the press conference, you should not make obscure wallpapers, but colorful and eye-catching wall hangings. "My name is Augustine, and I'm an alcoholic. This is my first time here." People clapped their hands with joy.I felt as if I was a white seal, holding a water balloon on the tip of my nose and throwing it through the fire ring to win the applause of the audience. The conference chair then held a pink conference note and read out the announcement: next Friday night there will be a bachelorette dance at St. I found a person sitting in the back row very cute. He has smooth silver hair and a pair of incredible blue and bright eyes. He looks a lot like Cal Ripken, a famous American baseball player. , making people look very comfortable.I immediately decided that I would come here for a meeting in the future. On the wall opposite the rostrum is a huge framed poster listing the twelve steps of the meeting.But the twelve steps are misleading. This is not assembling a bookcase from IKEA. Just complete the last step, put the books on it, and dust it every week.The truth is, the thing about quitting alcohol, when you take the last step, you have to go back and start all over again. "Is anyone here counting the days?" asked the Chairman. I was asked to keep counting the days until I had counted to ninety days without alcohol. I raise my hand. "It's me, Augustine," I said, "today is the thirtieth day." This time there was no applause, but there were a few whistles from around the room.I examine the faces.They are all ordinary people.Ordinary New Yorkers, of course, are also weird ones.No one is wearing the latest shades.Most of the men have eyebrow piercings and long sideburns; most of the women have funny 1970s country hairstyles.Everyone looked like they were going to Total Request Live, America's hit MTV show.programme. "Our spokesperson today is Nan. A warm welcome," said the chairman. People applaud absently, and I really want to have a cigarette. Nan stood up from the front row of the "Horseshoe" and walked onto the rostrum.She was a heart-warming woman, in both figure and ash-colored hair.She strikes me as the kind of person who tosses Caesar salad in a hand-carved teak bowl.I bet she must read the hardcover book John Didion, a well-known American female writer, and her representative book is "A Year Full of Fantasies".book of. "I'm a little nervous, but I think I'll keep going and not think about it that much." In rehabilitation homes, this is called "mind blocking".When your addict says to you, "It's eleven o'clock at noon, let's celebrate with a gin and tonic," that's when you stop that thought—get it out of your head. "Well, today is my ninetieth day." There was thunderous applause from the audience, and this kind of excitement made people unable to help but be excited.For an alcoholic, ninety days means a lot.It shows that you are really on the road to rational health. Nan blushed, and she smiled and looked away. Nan began to "share" her experience with everyone.She was forty-seven and had started drinking at sixteen. "Can you imagine getting kicked out of cheerleader class for being drunk at rehearsals?" Some people smiled and nodded slightly.One man nods desperately, as if he, too, knows what it's like to be kicked out of cheerleader class.Then, Nan talked about Xicun. Nan grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, and moved to New York when she was eighteen.She lands a job at a fashion magazine as a personal assistant to an eccentric and notorious senior editor.Two years later, Nan is a fashion editor herself. "I'm twenty, and I have a hot body... Anyway, I'm starting to be arrogant." I thought, me too. "You know, the fashion business is a crazy business...party, drink, party, cocaine, party, always drink...that's how I've lived for twenty years. But you know, it's everybody's life too. I've never I don’t have a hothead, do anything out of the ordinary. I don’t watch plays, I don’t miss work, and I behave myself.” I noticed that her long red nails were chipped.I like that.It hints something about the priorities in her head.In rehab, I was told that getting sober and calm should be your first priority.At this time, doubts gradually grew in my mind, did this imply that she did not do what she threatened? "I've since come to realize that I'm always the first person at parties to grab a drink and the last person to leave. I mean, I know I drink too much, but I don't think it's a big deal because, you know , nothing terrible happened. I spent my twenties and thirties just like that.” She paused and took a sip of the Starbucks coffee in front of her. “People always scoff at Starbucks, but I think it’s OK." Everyone laughed.Starbucks should give America's alcoholic a few free drinks as a thank you. "Starbucks is my senior strength." People laugh more. She cleared her throat and put her hands on the podium. "So, well, last year, I was in the shower one morning and I was thinking about what I was supposed to do for the day, like a meeting with Mike Koss, lunch with the buyer from Bloomingdales, whatever, it was all work. ’ She scratched under her right eye with her pinky finger. "Then suddenly one time, I felt a lump in my breast." Her voice dropped, as if she had just stepped into a quiet place like a church or a temple. "A big lump. Big." The ceiling fan was still running mechanically. "And then I thought, it's nothing, I told myself, nothing at all, just a lump. I told myself, can you imagine, I have a lump in my chest? I mean my sex life isn't that great. "Hearing this, people laughed even more unscrupulously. "But it doesn't matter how much I don't admit it to myself, I suddenly remembered that my mother died of breast cancer, and so did my grandparents..." Nan began to cry, and she couldn't control it anymore.Her head was buried in her hands, shaking her head back and forth from crying.But soon she regained her composure, and from nowhere she took out a tissue to wipe her eyes. "Sorry. I think you've guessed it. I went to the doctor and he sent me to an oncologist. They did a biopsy and sure enough it was breast cancer. I did a lot of tests and saw a lot of doctors and the news was even worse Not only my breasts, both breasts, but also my liver, stomach, lungs, and lymphatic system, all spread with cancer cells." She sighed heavily. At this time, someone's pager made a harsh sound. "Look, just like that," Nan Yu said sarcastically, "just like this pager, which suddenly called the police to you one day. But you have no way to recover, and your time has come." Everyone laughed, as if they had heard some funny joke.We all find it hilarious and lighthearted that this person, suffering from terminal cancer, is here to poke fun at her imminent death.She knows us alcoholics don't like sour displays of affection, and I love this Nan. "When the doctor told me I might have four months to live, my first reaction was, I'm going to go get drunk in an Old Town pub. But then I thought, I can't die like an alcoholic, I Find a way to live your best life. You see, I used to drink and say nothing bad happened to me, and now it's happening. I wasted too much time, in bars, with people who didn't belong to me. I've always been drinking instead of lying comfortably in bed reading the "Sunday" paper and living comfortably. Always drinking endlessly, so you see, I finally got my comeuppance. I wasted my life, So I'm going to fix it." I think she's really smart, and I'm so shallow.If I were her I think I'd go to the Old Town pub right away and I'd be so drunk I don't know where I am. "I haven't had a drink in ninety days today. Maybe tomorrow it will be ninety-one days, and the day after tomorrow it will be ninety-two. I can't live a day. You know? I'm at peace now, and I'd rather be sober for a day, Don't be drunk for a hundred days. The audience applauded.Clapping is a common thing at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, like we used to toast each other. She smiled and her eyes were moist.After she finished speaking, people raised their hands one after another. Someone got up and asked, "Nan, your story really made me appreciate my sobriety now. I've been drinking for fifteen years...I think you're so brave." Nan laughed.Then she clicked on me and asked me to talk. "Hello, Nan" I said, "I just got back from rehab and it was horrible, like, I..." I didn't know how to go on, as soon as I opened my mouth to express, my thoughts died down up. "I mean, I feel like I'm totally turned on. I was thinking about these things when you spoke, and I think I'd be pretty drunk if I were you. I don't have as much guts as you do, I don't have as much of a life as you do So grateful. I mean, being sober really makes me feel good, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to deal with a situation like yours." Nan asked, "How many days did you say you persisted?" "thirty." "Congratulations, you're doing great. But I want to tell you that at thirty days I was still a mess, at sixty I felt better, and I really feel at peace today. I'd rather be here than Not going out to drink." She pointed outside with her head. "Thirty days ago, if I had heard a story like mine, I would have thought the same as you. You have to insist on coming here every day." I really want everything she has.I looked around and saw patches of calm on the faces, without despair or trembling. Then we held hands and repeated the prayer of Sinead O'Connor, and then we all sang the hymn: "Keep coming back, if you work hard, there will be rewards, so work hard, you deserve it." It's such a fun meeting, a group of complete strangers in a room talking about something impossibly personal.It takes at least a few months of dating to say these things, but people here are honest with everyone right away.I was bathed in a sense of security, as if I finally had a place to talk about anything.I couldn't help but be thankful that I was an alcoholic, and it was a strange feeling, the way my friend Suzanne described the birth of a child—the shell of the soul being ripped away. When I got home, I sat on the couch in my spotless apartment.I'm still being pounded left and right by my chaotic life, it's like I'm back to my old life.How could I have been like that before?How did I not realize it before?I was really stupid and lazy, and now I just come to my senses and start from scratch.So a stupid, lazy alcoholic is worse than a hardcore heroin-addicted bum. The next day I go to the gym.After a month of absence, I found to my dismay that I could no longer lift forty-five pounds and was struggling to lift twenty-something pounds.But that doesn't matter, the important thing is that I don't drink anymore, and the depression just makes me want to drink more.I gained one thing but lost another.Am I not worth the candle? Stop this idea quickly, you idiot, I hastened to warn myself.To figure out what is most important and what is the priority. While I was doing tricep curls, a handsome guy was nodding and smiling at me doing curl squats.I hurriedly turned away my face that was flushed from exertion, I was in such a mess, I felt like a damaged product.Although I now walk in and out of public places in a dignified manner, I still face the danger of being spurned by people in society.I can even picture my conversation over coffee with him. Squatting Man: Tell me about yourself. Me: Well, I just got out of rehab and already went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.I have to go in my next life. Squat Man: Hey, that's good, buddy, good for you.Listen, man, I gotta go for a run.Very happy to chat with you.good luck.goodbye. Then he turned around and ran. You see, I'm just normal, but I'm an imposter.The truth is, I'll never be like them, I'm just in line with other alcoholics.Mr. Squat probably left and had a few drinks before coming home.He might even be called in for another drink on a Friday night, and then the next morning, he might be dizzy from the drink.And I, in the future, will be the exact opposite. I will probably be warned not to drink on Mondays, and I will never have the dizziness the next morning, the kind of dizziness I haven't seen since I stepped into rehab.A pleasant dizziness.An old friend is missed like a pair of faded jeans or a favorite sweater that has been pilled. I went downstairs to the changing room.I'm in the shower thinking, I can't drink anymore.Gone are my good days!It's really unfair. Today is my first day back at work and this is a painful time for me.I arrived at the office exactly at nine o'clock, and at a quarter past ten Greer knocked on my door, even though it was open. "Knock on the door, knock on the door," she poked her head in and said softly with a smile.It made me feel like I was shooting a pad commercial, and she came over and asked cautiously, "Kelly? Do you think it's time for you to change pads?" "Hey," I said, getting up from my chair. Greer had a smile on his face. "Hold me," she said, opening her arms dramatically. We never hugged.Although we have worked together for many years, we have never hugged each other.I was never used to hugs as I was raised by an irritable and apathetic alcoholic father and a manic-depressive and narcissistic mother.Greer, on the other hand, is a well-to-do American family from Connecticut with British Protestant ancestry, they keep hounds, and they vacation in Switzerland, so Greer doesn't like hugs either. We hug each other stiffly.She said, "You look great. Clean and healthy. I don't recognize you." Greer was cheering again.As soon as she cheered, the wings of her nose wrinkled comically from two tiny scars from rhinoplasty. (“It’s not a rhinoplasty, it’s a rhinoplasty. I have a bulbous nose that needs a little work.” Greer would have corrected it if he knew I felt it.) We sat down.I sat down at my desk and she sat down on the chair next to me.She crossed her legs and fiddled with the gold bracelet on her wrist. "Then... tell me everything about your side!" She exhaled, smiling like a gossip columnist, "Have you met any famous people?" "Well, only Robert Downey Jr., a famous American actor...he's there!" Greer immediately kicked his legs apart and jumped in front of me, clapping his hands on my thighs. "Oh my God, are you kidding me!" she exclaimed, "Robert Downey Jr.? I'm so composed! I was on People last week..." I waited quietly for her Go on.After a while, she realized that she sat back in the chair and crossed her legs again. "Oh, I should have known, how could I be so gullible? Stupid Greer!" She tapped her left temple with her hand, taking care not to mess with her hair. "Okay, so what's the actual situation?" she asked. Should I tell her about the girl who likes to have her lover cut herself with a blade?Or those two animal toys?Should I say I've been transformed, I'm awake now?I was overwhelmed with memories and didn't know what to say to her or anyone else. "Honestly, Greer, it's nice there. Really nice." I scratched my elbow and said, "I can't explain the details to you. It's too complicated, but..." "I understand, I totally understand. Don't feel like you have to say this." She interrupted me.Then she laughed, raising her right eyebrow. "Want to know how the company is doing?" she said with undisguised enthusiasm. It's a pity that she stopped pressing me to go into details, but I don't mind telling him about Kawei. "Of course, there must be a lot of work." Greer laughed: "You'll be so excited to hear that. Wixom wants us to do commercials for their beer! They're such a big company!" The old teeth gleamed. "A beer ad?" I asked.According to the mood map that Ray gave me, my mood should be a mixture of anxiety and excitement, and maybe a little panic, although I have not yet remembered the emoji. "What's wrong with you?!" Greer looked surprised, "You don't seem too...excited..." Greer tried to find an accurate word. "Oh, I'm... you know, you're talking about beer, and beer is alcohol... and I just came out of rehab." "Oh oh oh." It dawned on her, but then she turned around again, "Yes, but beer is not alcohol. It's just...beer. Right? Isn't it?" She had a guilty expression on her face, as if she had just Own purebred basenji terrier chewed on own bed sheet and threw it at the Humane Society. "No, beer is wine, it counts as wine!" Now Greer's expression is even more awkward and in a dilemma. "Sorry, yes yes, of course it does. Oh my gosh, I really didn't think of that." I waved my hand and said, "It's okay, I didn't say it was serious, I just said I have to be more careful." "Oh, we'll all be careful," Greer promised, "very careful." I have never seen such a strange expression on her face, and the blood vessels on her forehead seem to be beating.It's weird being with her because I always feel like she's always walking on eggshells.Like in one of those bad mixed race movies of the 70's where everyone was chilling and wary about white girls having black boyfriends.She makes me feel that way. "I need a cup of coffee, would you like one?" she asked nervously. "It's okay, I'll bring you a cup, decaf." She replied without waiting for my answer. It's my first day back, and I already have something to do with alcohol.Writing about beer is not the same as drinking beer, but it is hilarious.I see a green wine bottle on the table in front of me.The light shone from behind, reflecting every drop of wet luster on the bottle.If I can't hold it, what follows is an unsightly reflection of me licking the bottle cap and drinking the lager inside. I must be more careful!I must be careful!I had to be as careful as I was working in the tropics, in an Ebola-ravaged environment. Just after five, I thought I had had enough for the day and took a taxi home.Closing at 5 p.m. in the advertising industry is like leaving get off work at 11 a.m. in the normal industry, so I feel guilty for being passive.但当我坐在车里，一路上看见窗外景物是多么光彩照人，建筑物是多么雄伟壮观，我立刻就心旷神怡了。出租车一路呼啸前进，我像踩在云端般惬意。 我突然感到我获得了一股清醒的力量。 而这确实很令人激动。 出租车一路畅通无阻地呼啸至第二大道，这时黄灯亮起来。我想我们可能过不去了，但是出人意料地，我们竟然赶在红灯亮前过去了。We did it!这使我兴奋异常，我们这样一路顺畅仿佛是上天注定的；而错过这个灯则预示着坏运气，像一个诅咒。我今天成功解决了工作，我今天还要去参加匿名酗酒者会议，我不会再喝酒，我甚至不想喝酒，每件事似乎都恰到好处。 我甚至都觉得我都不用像以前一样，费力说服自己不要喝酒。 “你肯定就是奥古斯丁，”一个穿着大花衣服和Reeboks鞋子的女人对我说道，“我是温迪。”她伸出手。酗酒顾问和大花衣服之间到底有什么渊源？ 我从“治愈地平线”接待区的椅子上站起来。她不知道怎么握手。她把她的手放在我手心里，仿佛正递给我一条她刚抓到的让她无所适从的小鲑鱼。我想，她父亲可能一直想生个男孩，所以一直没心思教她怎么握手。 “你好，温迪，很高兴见到你。” “请跟我来。”她笑着说。 她身上散发出一股护发素和她大花衣服上那些花的味道，我怀疑她是想借此掩盖什么。不过当然，酒鬼们通常是敏感多疑的。 她走进办公室，在她办公桌后坐下，并向我指着旁边的椅子。我对面的墙上挂了一副裱起来的海报，上面写着：你愿意放开你的意志，任它而去吗！ ?她还有一张塞满各种手册的大书柜：《管理信函》、《十二步骤》、《当酒鬼的孩子长大成人时》、《如果你想和我们一样》…… 接下来的五十分钟，我们过了一遍我的“治疗计划”。星期二和星期四小组治疗，星期一一对一治疗。我签了一份同意表，申明我不会和小组里任何一个人发生恋爱关系；还有如果我不能再参加小组或一对一治疗，我必须得至少提前二十四小时通知。 “你回到现实后感觉如何？” 我肆无忌惮地笑起来，现在的我已经开朗而富于表达力。“还说不准，但是充满希望，真的充满希望。”我已经学会了如何充沛地表达感情，这样使我的话听起来更可信。 “那很不错。”她安心地说，“有一些复杂的情绪没关系。我很高兴你能照实说你还说不准。”她对我微笑，房间里陷入沉默。不知道为什么，我的手开始慢慢出汗。也许我该说些什么，但同时我又想，这些医生会对沉默见怪不怪的。所以实际上我并没沉默，我是在内心嘈杂地挣扎，竭力控制自己的情绪。这也是酒鬼们的专长。 “你在普莱德院过的如何？”她问。 她是自我回来以来第一个提到这个名字的人。“那里课程很紧张，”我说，“起先我一直想走。我对它的第一印象并不好。” “但你后来改变主意了？” I nod. “是的。我开始没想到那里那么紧张，那儿有没完没了的情绪发泄和乱七八糟的事。我是说，那儿不像我想的那么好，那么宏伟。那儿好像是一点点地潜移默化地改变你，所以我慢慢意识到了我确实是个酒鬼。” “我听说很多人都跟你有同样的感受。” 这使我很想问她，她是不是也是一个酒鬼，她的“听说”似乎表明她自己没经历过。我不喜欢一个治疗师只会呆板地照本宣科，我喜欢那种真枪实弹地战斗过，最好还丢了一条腿的治疗师，我喜欢有实战经验的治疗师。这种想法对我来说没什么不合理，比如我认识的每个女人都看过妇科，她们只是不想说出来，让人指指点点。 “那么，什么使你成为了一名化学品依赖症顾问？”我问，仿佛我在面试她似的。 “你怎么会这么问？”她反问我。 “我知道这不关我的事，但是我很好奇你是不是也有过这种瘾症的经历？” “我有没有这种经历对你的课程有影响吗？” 我感觉我落入了圈套。如果我说是，我的心理健康跟你是否也曾是酒鬼息息相关，那么似乎我的心理健康不关我的事了；如果我说不，没什么不同，那么她会反问我又为什么要问那个问题。于是我给了她一个广告文案式的回答，我模棱两可地说：“我只是突然想到了这个问题。我对这种'情绪'治疗还很陌生，所以我就老实地把自己的想法说出来了。对的错的，好的坏的，相关的无关的……”我耸耸肩，笑起来。 “这是个好主意，”她说，“你的这种不自我编撰是很正确的。”接着她又说：“那么，你去过匿名酗酒者会议了吗？” 我想，我得更要管住我的嘴，小心说话了。 我回到了家，发现自己心里摇摆不定。我觉得自己是多余的，我思维涣散，停滞不前；心神不宁，又没有力气。沮丧？我又想到了那幅心情图。我想我是有点害怕和想家，或别的什么，也许是孤独吧。慢慢地我知道怎么回事了。 我是想念酒了。 我想念它们宛如想念某些人，我感觉自己被遗弃了，或者是我自己当初走出了某种粗暴而互相辱骂的关系，但现在突然又想回去。因为此刻的回忆使我觉得，实际上没那么粗暴。在复原院时，他们告诉我这种感觉很正常，他们说心情好后就不会这么想了，他们说这就像家人去世时的感觉一样。 我一觉醒来，暗自庆幸我没梦到更多。然而这种轻微的快感，使我意识到我这次没有喝酒，没有宿醉未醒，这是不喝酒令人愉快的一面。 我在办公室里一整天都在努力让自己进入现实，以前让我恼火的事情我现在也一笑而过；我开始练习接受现实。我开始回复打来的电话；当我被叫去为别人写文案时，我也不像以前那样大骂滚出去，而是一反常态地说没问题。 午饭时间，我和格瑞尔一起去了一家沙拉吧。我用波菜叶、生花椰菜、跟火柴一样细的南瓜条，还有一小勺低脂软干酪拌了一份沙拉。我像一个拼命在减肥的小女孩一样，柔柔弱弱地吃这些寡淡的东西。这段时间以来我减掉这么多体重，真让我觉得奇妙，我现在几乎要瘦到皮包骨了。我现在每天做一百个仰卧起坐，一星期去健身房四次。如果你是住在纽约的同性恋，你不去健身房，渐渐地你就无人问津了。 格瑞尔看到我的午饭，轻蔑地拿眼睛瞟我。她也拌了份沙拉，不过她的堆满了熏肉和奶酪。“你怎么能这样虐待自己呢？”格瑞尔似乎对自己如此善待自己很满意。实际上那是因为她又高又瘦，所以少了顾忌。不过她同时还是不满足，一直认为自己不够瘦而深深苦恼。 “没关系，很容易，”我说，“如果我能做到不喝酒，那做其他任何事都太小菜一碟了。” 我开始学着品赏不同品牌的矿泉水了。Evian太甜，Volvic口感清爽，PolandSprings也还不错，而DeerPark喝起来有塑料味。 我们把午饭打包带回格瑞尔的办公室吃。“我发现你有了个重大变化。”她说。 “比如？”我说，机械地叉起一片干波菜放到嘴里。 “比如你不那么发火。”她叉起一大块熏肉，裹了层奶酪。 “可能是我在很多方面被改造了吧，”我说，“比如不像以前喜欢火上加油了，变得淡定了，很多事情能过去就让它们过去。”这些事实也让我吃惊不已，我从来没想过有一天我的思想能朝某些健康而有意义的方向发展。但为什么我又觉得怅然若失？ “你什么意思，让它们过去？”格瑞尔问。 她这么一个接一个地提问，让我觉得自己成了总理大臣，正在夸夸其谈地教诲人。“哦，我是说，我戒了酒，同时好像也戒了其他一些东西。你知道吗？就像那个蝴蝶效应。” “蝴蝶效应？”她问。 “就是亚马逊河流域雨林里的一只蝴蝶拍了拍翅膀，就会引起空气里花粉的传播，然后会引起什么地方的一个人打喷嚏，然后就会引起一阵微风……等等等等，最后就会影响到洛杉矶的交通或其他什么事。我想不起来具体是怎么说的了。” “哦，是的，”格瑞尔说，“几年前有个本田汽车广告好像就是那么说的。” 我对她转转眼睛：“我只是觉得我现在身上包袱少了……我也不知道……我比以前能接受其他事物了，不再愤世嫉俗。还是不要和河流对抗，老老实实地随它而行吧。” “天哪，你真的听起来变了很多。”她拿餐巾纸轻轻擦嘴，接着她突然低头看着它。“竟然说到雨林了，”她说，“可怜的餐巾纸。” 吃完午饭后，我又一次感到心里烧起一团火焰。一团让我引以为豪的火。虽然微弱，但确实使我感觉我开始洗心革面了。用专业一点的话说，我现在正脚踩云端，飘飘然了。但是我知道脚踩云端会有一个麻烦，你会摔下来，而且摔得更重。 下班后我径直去了“治愈地平线”参加我首次小组治疗。治疗前十五分钟和在复原院里没什么不同，因为我是新人，所以他们又过了一遍我早已知道的规则：不能打断别人的话，别人哭时不能递纸巾，要说“我认为”……我们绕房而走，进行自我介绍，谈各自的生活及断酒的时间。 十五分钟后，一个人推门而入，微妙的变化出现了。 这个人在众目睽睽下走进来，带着一种冷酷的英俊，像明星从杂志上走下来。他有一头乌黑的头发，幽蓝的眼睛，坚毅的鼻子和下巴，还有一对酒窝。他又有点不修边幅，头发零乱，衣衫不整；但是他的这种不修边幅看上去又像是每天花一千五百元请专人设计师刻意打造出来的。他一边走向窗户旁的一张椅子，一边为自己的迟到道歉，操着一口低沉的南卡罗莱纳州口音。“我今天过得糟极了。”他一开口说话就迅速统领了这个房间，但是似乎没有人介意他的霸道。实际上，每个人都入迷地凝视着他，我也是。他的眼睛只要一眨，房间里似乎就会颤动一下。我也感觉到这种颤动，让人震惊！ 他的名字叫福思特；他又吸毒又酗酒；他不愁钱，并且总是有大把时间；他有份含糊不清的临时工作；他和一个从伦敦非法入境的酒鬼住在一起，从我收集的信息来看，他好像在竭力要把那个人赶走。“我昨天晚上真是累坏了。”他说，“我下班时已经凌晨两点了，再让我回去面对他真让我快崩溃了。所以我到了第八大道，准备弄点毒吸吸。我已经疯了，失去了控制。但是那个皮条客就在我眼皮底下被警察逮住了，那时我正要向他走过去。”福思特呼了口气，向后甩甩头。我看着他的喉结和他脖子上黑压压的一片胡茬。“我真是精疲力竭了。” 他用手指捋捋头发；他的眼神空洞，仿佛谁都没有看在眼里；他坐立不安地在座位上扭来扭去，完全沉浸在自己的世界里。 小组协调员维恩这时问道：“有人愿意对福思特说些什么吗？” 这时我左边一个年长的人说道：“我很高兴你昨天没吸上，真的很高兴。” 福思特立刻做了个“谢谢”的口型，接着在椅子里躺得更低。 房间里陷入沉默，大家在观察他。观察英俊的人是很有趣的，一个陷入危机的英俊男人则更迷人。 “你知道，”福思特带着一种狂躁不安的腔调说，“我真想去佛罗里达群岛去划皮艇，找块地方种马铃薯，过真正的生活。我讨厌现在这种混乱疯狂的生活，我真的厌倦了。”他一边说，一边用拳头捶着大腿。 他拿眼睛快速扫视了一下房间。一会儿这儿，一会儿那儿，然后看看我，然后又看看别人，但是他最终总会意味深长地回头看看我。他盯了我很长时间，仿佛我鼻子上挂着什么似的。 “嘿，很抱歉我迟到了。你叫什么名字？”他一边说一边从椅子里站起来走向我，手伸了出来。 “奥古斯丁。”我说，我小心地将手在我的牛仔裤上擦了擦再去握他的手，我的心跳得厉害，我发现他也在发抖。 “奥古斯丁，”他重复了一遍，“奥古斯丁，真有趣的名字。介意我叫你奥吉吗？” “不介意。”我轻笑，竭力掩饰我因为被这个男人赐了一个昵称而喜出望外的心情。 他也报我以轻笑。“很好，”他说，“欢迎到这里来。” 他坐回去，小组活动继续。接下来的一个半小时，我注意到他一直在观察我。 小组结束后，众人挤进电梯，电梯里一片寂静。这是电梯的奇妙之处，仿佛它有种使人缄默的魔力。一秒钟前，大家还在小组里对陌生人大敞心扉，现在却都无话可说了。 出电梯后，大家互道再见，分道扬镳。 我往左向公园大道走，我能感觉到福思特就在我身后几步远。和我说话，和我说话，和我说话，我全身颤抖地暗暗祈祷。 但他没有。在公园大道时，他往北走去，我往南走。 我穿过十个街区回家，一路上想着这次小组活动，尤其那个叫福思特的人。我开始渴盼星期四的小组活动了，我知道这种渴盼源于福思特。 我径直去了佩里街参加了匿名酗酒者会议。今晚，发言人谈到恢复中的人们是如何热衷于寻求巨大的戏剧性效果或奇迹；我们是如何孜孜希望一杯水能魔术般地从桌子上升起来；我们是如何奇思妙想，以至于我们忽视了世界上有玻璃杯其实已经很神奇了；我们忽视了其实玻璃杯没有飘起来，飘走，才是更神奇的事。