The doors creaked shut behind me as I approached the sparsely decorated room located in the basement of the local steel supply house and stared blankly at the occupants. The room was average in size, with a nondescript folding table off in the front corner that held an industrial size coffeemaker, which several folks desperately waited in line for. From any vantage point on the street outside this building, it was unlikely that you could guess what was transpiring two floors below this mecca of metal fabrication commerce. It was 6 a.m. on a Sunday, late in the month of June, and the coffee machine was the group's only form of solace or distraction. I shrugged off the glares of the motley group as I entered and grabbed a seat between two large fellows at the rear of the room. I was nervous, but still, I felt pretty good for a guy who just walked in off the street. Hell, I made it to the meeting and that's half the battle, right?
Our master of ceremonies, or rather, the guy taking the money from our wallets, stood up from his chair behind the podium and beckoned everyone to return to their seats. Several guys, who looked like they just climbed out from beneath a '67 Chevy with a transmission leak, parked themselves in the row of seats in front of me and nervously chain-smoked a pack of Camels together. I listened to them chatter, the conversation sounding much like the bench of the L.A. Dodgers' dugout during a mean losing streak, with its staccato pace and hushed tone. I recognized them from the Pomona swap meet and could tell from their gestures that they sure as hell remembered me.
Once everyone had settled down long enough to pay even the smallest bit of attention, our fearless leader, Tom, began again. There was no roll call, and for the most part, no one knew one another, save for three guys seated in front of me. Indeed, we had met before. We were strangers unwittingly united by a common foe, and today was the first day of our rehabilitation.
"You are not alone," Tom said.
Sure, I thought. Just get to the part where you say I'm sane and run off with my money, OK?
"There is nothing wrong with you. You've not broken the law, but you are, in fact, hurting the ones you love."
Several burly looking guys with greaser haircuts leave the room. I can hear the pea-shooter exhaust of '50 Ford that brought them here rattle the windows as they screeched out of the parking lot upstairs.
"You came here willingly, which is the first step toward living a normal life, and it's crucial that you adhere to the instructions I'm about to give you. These instructions will be rules to live by, rules that will help save your marriage, your relationships with loved ones, and above all, your sanity."
Now I'm starting to get a tingling feeling in my stomach. I get up from my chair, using the big guy on my left's arm as a crutch to lift myself up. He hardly notices as I walk quickly to the coffee machine. I hate coffee. I never drink it. The smell of burnt beans makes my gut churn, but right now chugging a cup of Joe seems like a great idea.
"The first step toward salvation is admitting that you need help with your addiction."
I was getting even antsier now. I'm not addicted to anything. Women and beer, maybe, but that doesn't count.