Falling off the
wagon
by Matt Arnold
There’s
nothing like falling off the wagon, that insane
thrill of a free-fall without a parachute. In
spite of the oncoming splat, the euphoria is
limitless. I should know. I cannot count how many
times I’ve had to utter, “My name is
Matt Arnold and I have a problem.” I’ve
forgotten how many times I’ve walked some of
the twelve steps; never have stood atop the last
I’m sorry to report. I once made it to seven.
Something always throws me off of my game.
There’s always a sandcastle in my rear
window, as my grandmother used to say.
I made it
almost ten months this time. Not too bad; not too
good either. Today was a crappy day at work. It
is a long story but let’s just say I
won’t be using that set of keys anymore to
open any doors. On my way home, I knew the
all too familiar feeling. The anticipation of
throwing it all away, the realization that tomorrow
will be another day and I can deal with all the
ramifications then.
I’ve been
around. I know where to get the stuff. One of my
students told me his sister has been dealing and
told me where I can find her. He could see I was
down and after all I’m the Mr. Kotter at my
school; tight with the kids I mean, not that I
tell stories about strange relatives, or have
curly hair, or am Jewish, or work at the high
school I went to, or teach social studies for
that matter. Actually, I guess I’m nothing
like Kotter. But back to topic.
Anyway, this
student’s sister, she sells the stuff, to
anyone willing to pay. I drive around for awhile
after work, as though I haven’t made up my
mind. Finally I swing by her corner. It's a lost
cause. I wish she weren’t so damn cute. That
makes it even more of a crime. She doesn’t
actually handle the money. The old hag with her
does the financials; the girl is just the mule.
They always make me ask for it. That is the only
way they know I’m not a cop. It is
humiliating, but I’m the one buying the junk
after all.
I look down at the ground and mumble, “How
many boxes of thin mints can I get for $20?”
|
