The room was full tonight. Old. Young. A businessman. A slacker. A soccer mom. Our pale faces looked exceptionally grim under the unforgiving fluorescent lights. Roger, a heavyset man in his forties, was getting to the climax of an all-too-familiar tale.
“I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but it’s never too late. Never too late to put that bong down, take off that tie-dye T-shirt and… and do what you have to do.” Roger did a silent “Thank you” and collapsed back into his chair.
The dimly lit multi-purpose room was the ultimate stereotype of AA meeting rooms. The grease-stained box of donuts. The awful coffee that always tasted burnt, no matter how fresh it was. It was all laid out on a gray folding table that, if it could speak, would be begging to be put out of its misery before it was forced to hear another heartbreaking tale. The posterior-destroying metal folding chairs, the kind that was now straining under Roger’s considerable weight, were prepared in an imperfect circle, arranged such that the participants felt compelled to share their stories. I ran my hand over my freshly shaved head. It was my first meeting.
The night continued in this fashion for the next hour or so, every person reciting a different version of the same…
