One Day at a Time - Installment 1

Don’t look to me for solace. Think of all those lost souls meandering about, meeting in dingy, free-rent rooms, pouring their hearts out, begging for someone to help them put the booze/pills down. I attended one the other day—“A.A. Courage Quit Group”, or something to that affect. You'll question my motives for this. You’ll say I’m a troublemaker, but I’m too small for that, too insignificant, I lack the power; I lack the ambition required for such a feat. No. Thelma is who you want. Blame your sins on her. Don't worry; I doubt you know her. I doubt a lot of things, but mostly I doubt Thelma, Thelma the Psychiatrist. She sends people to those meetings, like begging her for help is not enough. They have to pay a penance. They have to gather and suffer. God would have it that way I tell you, but Thelma won't. She won't tell you anything of value.


It's not that she doesn't enjoy her work. I know she does. I can see it all. I can see her lying there at night, relishing all those intimate secrets she’s harvested from her worshippers, plotting ways to get more. I would even say she loves her patients. It’s true. She nourishes them the way a dog nourishes his fleas, and after years of practice, she has quite a collection, like a gourmet brand of “mixed nuts”.

I saw one just the other day. His name is Mike. He was carrying a self-help book, probably from one of his groups. He stopped me as I was making my way to the local convenient store. He was pulling an imaginary hair from his forehead. I remember reading about his condition somewhere. He said he had been going to his meetings. He had his life together now. “Not a single drink in four days,” he said, as he gently pulled, hand over hand, the infinite wild hair from his raw forehead. “I just live one day at a time,” Mike said.

What a shame, I thought, or did I say it out loud? I’m not sure. I couldn’t read his expression. His hair-pulling hands blocked my view. He just stood there, waiting for a response. I wanted to walk away. I did. I was afraid he might know, but how could he? Thelma could have told him. She knows everything. It’s all in her files. She has stacks of them. I know she does. Don’t ask me how I know. I don’t know if I can say. I do know that Mike wasn’t walking away. His worn-out boots seemed rooted to the concrete. His white legs and camouflaged shorts growing out of them. His yellow teethe soaking up the sun. He was still waiting for me to interact, to feed into his illness. I refused.

“What about one day at a time?” he asked. I did say it out loud, but he would get no more out of me, no matter how much he pulled. “What’s a shame about living one day at a time?” he asked again. I stayed strong, though. I wouldn’t fall for his ploy. I knew what he was doing. I knew he wanted to pull it out of me like he pulled his imaginary forehead hair. I could feel it. I could feel the tug. I swear it made by brain itch.

I closed my eyes. I though it might help. I thought it might make the itching go away. I thought it might make him go away. Instead, he just spoke louder, like I couldn’t already hear him. Then he let go of his forehead hair and began to wave his arms about. I turned my back to him, but I could still feel the air from his waving arms. They felt so close. Yes, that was it. He wanted to get close. I could see it all then. He wanted to get close to me like he was with Thelma. He wanted give me his feelings, but I held tight. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I kept it all for myself. The satisfaction, I mean, the satisfaction of living more than one day at a time.

I wasn’t going to share my secret. I wasn’t going to tell him how I lived all my days at one time, over and over. I wasn’t going to tell him he was cheating himself. I wasn’t going to tell him his girlfriend was cheating as well, or did I? The past doesn’t die. It’s born over and over. Much like Mike’s kicks to my back as I lay on the sidewalk. Where’s your hair now, I thought.