“Hi James”

BY GABRIELLE MACAFEE

Hi James

“Hi, I’m James, and I’m, uh, an alcoholic.” I push those words out of my mouth with as little effort as possible, but I guess everyone heard me because they chant back “Hi, James.”

Huh, just like the movies. 

These people are just staring at me, their faces looking stoic and waxy under the florescent lights. One guy—Bill, is it?—raises his wiry, white eyebrows at me and clears his throat. 

I’m supposed to talk. Supposed to tell everyone the tragic story of why I’m here, who I’ve let down, and what kind of toll “the disease” has taken on my body. 

My mouth runs dry, but I stammer out a brief monologue. 

“Uh, yeah, I’m here because my ex-wife told me to check it out. She thinks I drink too much.” A couple of the ladies’ faces soften with empathy, empathy for my ex-wife, I guess. 

“I-I guess she’s right,” I stutter. Fuck. I hate that I stutter.  

“I don’t know, I think I realized she was right when she told me downing shots of vodka before work on a Monday morning is different from doing the same thing on a Friday night.” A few people laugh softly, maybe in agreement or from experience. 

“Um, yeah, I’m new here, obviously, and I-I’m just here to get better? Uh yeah, thanks.” A muted round of applause follows; I’m turning red, so I bow my head and smile. 

I stare at the green and brown carpet for a minute, rubbing a crumb further into the carpet with the toe of my sneaker.  Half of the light above me is flickering, emitting a slightly irritating buzzing sound. The girl across from me is young, maybe in her mid-twenties. She vaguely resembles my Emily, my 16-year-old daughter. 

Em hates me. She hasn’t said it but she must fucking hate me. She’s the one who caught me drinking before work. I didn’t think she was awake when I did it, it was a long weekend. Memorial Day.

Laura had let Em stay with me for the weekend, even though I had to go in for a half-day at work. Later that day we were going to have a barbecue, and I was finally going to meet the guy she was dating. 

I was so anxious that morning. I was going to meet with a very important client and felt my nerves starting to take hold of my tongue. My fucking stutter. Coffee was only making my hands shake more, so I reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled out a handle of vodka. 

Right as it hit the back of my throat, I felt better. Controlled. I closed my eyes and let it work. After a few more sips I put the bottle down and turned around to drink my coffee, to wash down the taste and mask the smell. 

But, she was staring at me. Em’s dark eyes were burning a hole right through me. 

My stomach collapsed and my head started buzzing, my ears burning with shame. I mumbled something along the lines of “It’s not what it looks like, let me explain, Em, please, 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry,

I’m so fucking sorry..” 

Damn my stutter. 

The woman next to me is named Lindy, she has cropped grey hair and is wearing a black work suit. Her posture is almost too perfect, especially for where we are. She’s sitting on the cold metal folding chair as if it is a Norwegian crafted office chair—she doesn’t stutter. 

Lindy’s been sober 15 years. 

She tells her story with detachment, as if she’s talking about her cousin or a friend of a friend. It started out pretty innocently, casually drinking with potential clients every evening in order to woo them into opening accounts with her. But every evening, she would get home and work late into the night with a glass of wine. Then a bottle. Then a bottle and some liquor.

Her work got sloppy, she lost her edge. 

She eventually got fired and ended up binge drinking, starting in the morning and into the night, managing to hide it from her husband the whole time. 

Then one night she got behind the steering wheel, drunk. She had made the 5 minute drive from the bar to her home many times before, and had been much more intoxicated. But this time, she fucked up. Her left hand lazily pulled the steering wheel into the other lane, and she collided head on with another SUV. 

She killed a 10-month-old baby. 

I looked at the carpet again, swallowing my shock and… hatred. Lindy went on to talk about rehab and about her time in prison, keeping her hands folded neatly in her lap the whole time. 

She works in a kitchen and bath showroom now, selling toilets and faucets to interior designers and construction workers. 

That explains the suit. 

Everyone claps and thanks her for sharing. The corners of her mouth pull back ever so slightly as she mouths “thank you” to her audience. 

The fluorescent lights suddenly feel brighter, and the buzzing sound above me fills my head, drowning out Bill’s deep, syrupy voice. 

Could that have been me? Coldly retelling my horrific story for the one-hundredth time to a group of strangers, shaping my carefully contrived image into that of a monster within five minutes? 

Maybe not. Not me. 

It was just for my nerves, my stutter.

Not me.