He had been after me for years to come to his AA meeting. “You don’t have to say anything, just listen.” he assures. Thanks, but no thanks. To someone deeply committed to the program, this is a declaration of denial.

A true believer can spot a fellow addict at mile off. They pride themselves on their x-ray vision – seeing past a veneer of normality that masks the tell-tale signs of addiction. My friend is one of these. He sees something in me that reminds him of himself. I want to tell him that while our circumstances may be similar, I don’t wrestle with the same demons. He’s gentle but unrelenting. “Everyone has a story to tell.” Catharsis.  He doesn’t seem to understand I have no urge to share.

Recently, a new tactic”Getting my four year chip. What would you say if I asked you to present it?” His motives are sincere and transparent. “Get fucked.” We have that kind of relationship where that sort of thing is my friendly way to saying “You’re my friend and while I’m honored, it’s not going to happen.” I didn’t even have to ask to know it’d involve making a speech about what a great guy he is, and what the program means to him, and why its helped change his life for the better.  All of these things are true of course, I just don’t feel ready to tap into my emotions and publicly announce “Dude, I love you.”

He invites me out to eat. Afterwards he takes me to his girlfriend’s house. She’s pulling a cake out of the oven. “Hummingbird Cake – made with bananas and pineapple and vanilla and cinnamon and pecans!” Sounds like a smoothie.  “Are you coming to the meeting tomorrow? I’m gonna be there.”

Sometimes I have so much free time on my hands I don’t know what to do. To be honest, I’m rarely bored. I can almost always find something to do, something to occupy my eternally wandering mind – a book to read, a bass to strum, an email to send, a future to ponder. This particular Sunday was an exception though. I find myself staring at a wall. As much as I don’t want to, I should really go.  What time?  He texts: “Starts at 7, but you don’t have to be there for the whole thing.  7:30 is fine.”

At 7:27 I walk past the trio of smokers outside the front door.  I step inside a large room filled with folding metal chairs facing a podium.  Half of them are filled. A middle-aged woman is speaking. A few of the people turn to look at who just walked in.  No sign of him.

I step back into a carpeted hall and explore. I spy the hummingbird cake on a platter in a kitchen off the main room. My friend is cutting it into single portions. “Grab that stack of paper plates,” he says and hefts the platter with the cake. I follow and place the stack next to the cake and a tall coffee urn.  We sit in the back row.

One by one, various people get up and introduce themselves. “I’m Larry and I’m an alcoholic.” The audience roars back “HI LARRY!” The personal testimonials following a similar arc – begin at a young age, habit forms (a ritual), behavior changes, life spirals down, rock bottom, attends first meeting reluctantly, slowly becomes enthusiastic convert, happy ending but daily struggles continue. Sitting in the back, listening, bearing witness its like watching a family discussing some guarded personal matter. I’m a spectator and this shouldn’t be as interesting as it.

This is not meant to be cynical but its hard not to notice the similarities. One thing I note, every woman who speaks mentions the loneliness and the pain of isolation as an effect of their addiction. I can relate.

My friend’s moment is brief. After the scheduled speakers, his girlfriend takes the microphone and speaks from the heart. She hands him his token and they hug. I slip out the door.

He texts me the next morning.  “Thanks for coming.” I wonder if that was a typical meeting.  I wonder about the people there and how they feel telling their stories. They confess, admitting their failings, expressing their regrets, vowing to be strong. There is no judgement – or maybe there is. And I wonder what they’d say if I stood before the lectern and told them … a ghost story. I don’t need their understanding or their absolution.

“So, do you think you’d like to come to another one?” Thanks, but no thanks.