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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “War of Water” cc&d, v282 (the April 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:  |
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Coincidence **
Bob Johnston
* Originally published in Kaleidoscope Online, No. 73 (2016).
** The characters portrayed in this story are entirely fictional; and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
“My name is Jack, and I’m an alcoholic.”
I must have said that fifty times in those first two months. Not that I really believed it, but that’s what you’re expected to say at AA meetings. And the conditions of my probation called for three meetings a week. What a comedown!
I was a partner in Briggs, McDonnell, and Price, the biggest advertising agency west of New York. Not bad for a kid named John Joseph McDonnell from the wrong side of the tracks in Peoria. After high school, I put in a couple of years at the U, majoring in tennis and girls. Then I headed for Chicago and got a job with the Paul Briggs agency. Worked my way up, brought in a couple of big accounts, made it as a full partner before I was thirty.
One of the smartest moves I made along the way was marrying Jena, a 1950 debutante with the face of a movie star and a figure to match. And not incidentally, she had inherited a sizable chunk of “old money.” The inheritance included a hundred acres of prime real estate south of Hinsdale, next to the country club. We sold off most of it, kept ten acres for ourselves and built our dream house. Four thousand square feet, Olympic size pool, and a tennis court with grass that was every bit as good as the Wimbledon center court. Not that I had much time to use it.
Five years and two kids later, Jena was up to her ears in big charity projects and I was the life of the party at the country club.
Six days a week, I parked the wagon at the Hinsdale station and took the commuter train to Chicago. The pressure at the agency was pretty intense, and I put in long hours. It was always six or seven o’clock before I got back to Hinsdale. Then I’d have to stop off at the club for a drink to help me unwind, and it usually took three or four to do the job. By the time I got home, the nanny had put the kids to bed, and Jena was already sleeping if she wasn’t out ramrodding some big charity event.
I knew I was drinking too much, but I couldn’t seem to break the cycle. Then one night I didn’t make it home at all. I’m a little hazy on the details, but I remember thinking it would be a good idea to drive to Aurora. The next thing I remember, I had driven the wagon through the front window of the Ford agency. The cops took me to the hospital to get patched up, then to jail. I spent the night in the drunk tank, and my lawyer didn’t get me out until nearly noon. A week later, the judge hit me with a big fine and one year’s probation, with the condition that I had to attend at least three AA meetings per week.
Well, that was one hell of a wakeup call, and for a while I didn’t have any trouble staying away from the booze. I wasn’t about to go to any AA meetings in Hinsdale, so I found a Chicago group that met at five o’clock in a second-story room above a tattoo parlor. On my meeting days, I would take a cab to Union Station and walk the two blocks to the meeting. I’d sit through the meeting, totally bored, then get my attendance paper signed and hurry back to the station to catch my train.
As you might expect from the neighborhood, the AA crowd was a seedy bunch. “Wino’s Club” is what they called the meeting room. No way I could relate to these down-and-outers. I heard a lot of horror stories and a lot of talk about God—or a Higher Power, as some of the guys liked to call him. Didn’t make much sense to me. But most of the guys were staying sober, some of them for many years, so it looked like something was working.
I settled back into pretty much my old routine, minus the booze. The pressure at the agency was just as heavy as ever, and I really missed that drink at the club to help me unwind.
One of the problems at the agency was a bad situation at our Houston branch. Kevin, the branch manager, had left his wife and taken up with a young floozy, so he wasn’t giving much attention to the agency. We had already lost three sizable accounts, and several others were threatened. Paul told me I had to go to Houston to straighten things out. It looked like a nasty job, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. Also, I was a little apprehensive about making this solo flight into a tough situation after only two months away from the booze. I remembered that in earlier years, when I was traveling a lot, booze got me into some pretty dangerous situations. I had plenty of time to think about this on the flight to Houston.
As I checked into my hotel that evening, the girl at the desk offered me a pink card admitting me to their private club. This was a fiction of the Texas liquor laws, which required “club membership” if you wanted to buy a mixed drink. I said “No thanks,” but she initialed the card and pressed it into my hand.
“You will really like our Candlelight Club. Tonight we have a great combo playing there. And of course there is no obligation. You can drop in for a drink or two, or just relax and listen to the music.”
It seemed unkind to refuse a gift from this sweet young señorita. I thanked her and put the card into my wallet.
My room was quiet and the bed proved to be comfortable. After a good night’s sleep and breakfast in my room, I was ready to dig into the can of worms at the agency.
As it turned out, I wrapped up the job before five. Fired Kevin, put in his secretary as temporary manager, and hired the head guy from the Rosenberg agency. I took a cab back to the hotel, feeling good about the day’s work.
After booking a morning flight, I decided to have dinner at the hotel. On the way to the dining room, I passed the entrance to the Candlelight Club and heard a familiar sound—Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.” I went in and sat down at a table. Great music, soft lights, and beautiful people. Perfect end to a great day, I thought. Now for a martini, one before dinner can’t hurt me, and I really deserve it.
A waitress appeared at my side, a pretty little thing. “Welcome to the Candlelight Club. My name is Sheila, and I’ll be happy to serve you. May I see your card, please?”
I took the card from my wallet and held it up to the candlelight to make sure I had the right one. It was the right card, and it carried the initials of the beautiful señorita of the front desk: AA.
Some kind of a switch clicked inside my head as I handed the card to the waitress. She gave the card a quick glance and handed it back to me. “Now what would you like from the bar?”
It didn’t take me long to decide: “Orange juice on the rocks, please.”
“Yes, Sir. Coming up.” She about-faced and bounced off toward the bar.
I put the card back into my wallet, and the orange juice arrived in due course. A superb orange juice, probably the best I’d ever had. I tried to make it last, but finally drained the glass and laid a twenty on the table. The band was still playing Brubeck as I walked out into the hall.
In the dining room, the steak was every bit as good as advertised, and the coffee was strong and full of character. It had been a good day.
Back in my room, I took the card out of my wallet and looked at the initials, trying to make some sense out of them. I decided that the señorita might be named Alicia Alvarez or Adelina Anaya. Whoever she might be, it was one hell of a coincidence that put her on the front desk in that particular hotel on the night of April 14, 1959.
I was completely convinced that just one martini in the Candlelight Club would have put me back on the old merry-go-round. “Powerless over alcohol,” as they say in the meetings.
