Commitment Issues (7 page)

"Yeah,” Wyatt said. “The 24 Hour Club."

That's one place that will get your attention. If you get somebody to tell you what they think alcoholics look like, they'll describe people you can find at the 24 Hour Club.

"Good,” the meeting leader said. “That's Sean—Sean R.—right in front of you."

I looked up and turned around to look at Wyatt. Melt! Heart attack.
Oh my God. Get me a paper bag, because I know that I'm going to hyperventilate. If I don't hyperventilate, then I may get motion sickness. Help!
What was the leader trying to do? I couldn't talk to Wyatt. I'd just blabber incoherently.

One of our older members caught my eye, and I knew what he was thinking. He was almost a predator around pretty boys. Somebody was going to have to protect this kid. Somebody was going to have to help him navigate the waters. Even the most awful dirty old men would give a newcomer space, but they'd be hovering. They would be ready to pounce as soon as Wyatt was sober, and I decided to be the kid's protector.

"Hi, Sean,” Wyatt said.

"After the meeting, Sean is going to give you his phone number and the number of at least three or four others."

I nodded.

"Sean, make sure he has a Big Book too."

After the meeting, Wyatt waited for me. I had no idea what to say or do, but I had an assignment. We had slogans plastered all over the walls, and I caught a glimpse of one:
I AM RESPONSIBLE. Whenever anyone, anywhere, reaches out for help, I want the hand of AA always to be there. And for that: I am Responsible.

In a way, it was the only way that I could have a conversation with such a dream guy. The part of me that wanted to drool wasn't as strong as the part that wanted to be responsible. Wyatt was so hurt by his addiction that it made me want to cry with him. I had been through just what he was going through.

My head was racing, and I don't know if I made any sense to Wyatt. He was so delicate and hurt, and I was such a buffoon.

It was all business, because I was the “hand of AA” that night. He was a newcomer, and I had been around for a few years.
Ugggh, why is this happening to me?
I didn't know what to do.

I got him a copy of the Big Book, the main textbook on staying sober. The group keeps several on a bookshelf, and there is a slot to drop money. I put a twenty-dollar bill into the slot without looking to see if that was too much or not enough.

When I gave Wyatt the book, I also gave him a pencil and told him to write his name in the book. I told him my name again and gave him my cell phone number.

"How's it going for you?” I asked. Stupid question.

"Pretty good. I am unemployed,” he said. “My so-called boyfriend tossed my ass out of the apartment, and I'm camped out at the 24 Hour Club. So it's peachy. I got the world just where I want it."

I smiled. At least the guy has a good sense of humor. “Hungry?"

"No cash right now."

"I didn't ask if you were flush,” I whispered. “I just asked if you were hungry. There's a diner a couple of blocks from here. There's usually a group of guys from the meeting at the diner. When I first got here, somebody was there with an occasional meal. It's payback for that. One day, you can take somebody there, so it isn't charity. It's like I'm making a deposit in your AA bank. ‘Kay?"

That made him cry, and he leaned over to hug me. He put his head into my shoulder, and I felt my whole body get tense. Wyatt was touching me, and he had no idea what it was doing to me. I had never felt a man who was so soft and cuddly and warm and tender and....
Ugggh, I want this man so bad.

"You like poetry?” I asked him.

"Can't stand it,” he said. “Why?"

"Private joke with myself. Don't worry about it."

He drove and followed my motorcycle to the diner. We got a booth in the back.

His right ear was pierced in three places—one diamond stud and a frilly dangly thing in the earlobe, plus a loop higher up—but his left ear had never seen a needle.

"Coffee, please,” he told the waitress.

"Iced coffee,” I said.

"You guys ready to order?"

"Sure,” Wyatt said. “I'll have the number six."

"We don't have a number six,” she said.

"Couple of eggs with bacon and toast?"

"Sure, we got that. How do you want your eggs?"

"Battered and deep fried,” Wyatt said.

"The cook's going to come out here with a big knife,” I told him with a chuckle.

"Over medium and hold the mayo,” Wyatt said.

"We don't put mayo on eggs,” the waitress said, still not realizing that Wyatt was playing.

"That'll make it easier for you."

"What about you?” she asked me.

"Short stack, side of sausage,” I said.

"You want mayo?” she asked.

"He can't,” Wyatt said. “He's driving."

The waitress walked away shaking her head. It was like I was sitting with a completely different person. Wyatt was so scared in the AA meeting, but he was almost bouncy at the diner. He was good with one-to-one conversation, but he was intimidated at having to speak before about thirty people in a group setting.

Wyatt plucked his eyebrows, and he had the longest eyelashes you can imagine. His pale skin was flawless, and it made his green eyes stand out as the only source of real color on his face. He must have known how pretty he was, but he didn't act like it. Wyatt was just a regular guy.

Wyatt undoubtedly had a lifetime of stories about guys trying to put the make on him, and I did my best to remain proper. He needed the hand of Alcoholics Anonymous, and I was that hand. At least for now.

"Blond hair with green eyes,” I said.
Great, Sean, why did you have to swing the conversation around to Wyatt's looks?
Sometimes the crap that comes out of my mouth is awkward.

"Yup,” Wyatt said. “It was a little something my mother wanted, and they considered me a special order because of it. She had to pay a big deposit."

"I don't think I ever—"

"Estonian,” Wyatt said.

"Isn't that near Finland and Russia somewhere?"

"Very good, my geography scholar. Latvia is in there too, but Estonia is sort of its own deal. The language isn't like Russian or Finnish or anything else. It's a little like Hungarian, for some reason, but Hungary is a long way south."

"Were you born there?"

"In Hungary?"

"No, silly, Estonia,” I said with a laugh. Wyatt had a quick mind for somebody just coming off an addiction like booze.

"Heavens, no,” he said. “I couldn't stand the cold. I was born down on the gulf coast."

"New Orleans?” I guessed from his accent.

"You writing a book? Yeah, I was born in N'Orleans, but we didn't stay there long, though I picked up the accent. I got cousins still there, but I mostly grew up in Wisconsin."

"I thought you didn't like the cold."

"It's complicated. I moved south as soon as I could."

"Didn't mean to pry,” I said. “Sorry."

"It's okay. No big deal."

"Are you okay at the 24 Hour Club?"

"It's just ducky,” he laughed. “I go to a meeting a day there. It's the rule, and I have to help out around the club."

"What do they have you doing?"

"Trash cans and dishes,” he said. “Water seeks its own level."

"Hang in there. It does get better."

"I hope so,” he said as he looked at his right hand. There was a broken nail, and I noticed that each of his little fingers had nail polish. The little finger on his left hand was black, and the little finger on his right hand was chartreuse.

"Colorful,” I said. “Just your little fingers?"

"Done it for years, but I gotta make these last. My ex kept all my—no, I shouldn't say anything."

"Why not?"

"You bought me a book, and you're springing for food. I don't want you to restock all my fingernail polish."

"Big collection?"

"Some of the colors don't actually exist in nature,” he laughed. “For some reason, my ex didn't include any of my toiletries in the stuff he threw out on the sidewalk. Or maybe he threw them in the dumpster."

"Sounds like a jerk,” I said.

"Yeah, I can really pick ‘em.” That made me wince. I was hoping that I wouldn't ever be lumped into the same crowd as his ex-boyfriend.
I am responsible. I am responsible. I am responsible.

It was so hard to concentrate on helping Wyatt. I mainly wanted to write poetry and sit in a field with wildflowers and hummingbirds.

Be responsible, Sean. Keep your hands off the poor guy, Sean. He's a fragile kid.

When we were finished with our food, we stayed and talked for a couple of hours. Wyatt was an artist. Like so many of us in AA, he had proved to the business world that he was unreliable. Hiring a drunk Wyatt was just as risky as hiring a drunk Sean. He had made a name for himself, but it wasn't the kind of name you'd use in polite company. He missed the deadline for finishing a four-page newspaper spread for a store's biggest sale of the year, and it cost the store millions of dollars. When the advertising agency fired him, Wyatt got a job dressing mannequins in the main window of a downtown department store. That worked well until he stayed up late one night reworking the Christmas display in the store's front window. When people came to work the next day, they saw male mannequins having sex in the main window.

"I think I remember that,” I said. “It was really funny."

"Missionary position,” he said. “One had his legs up in the air, and the other was wearing a Santa Claus hat."

"I remember thinking it was funny. You probably brought holiday cheer to lots of grumpy perverts that year. I wish that I had seen it."

"You still can, because there was a picture in the newspaper. All you have to do is go to the library, and you will see my work enshrined forever."

"They printed a picture?"

"Yup, but they censored the interesting parts."

"Sounds like the kind of story that isn't going to go away quietly. Got any prospects?"

"Art work?” he laughed. “It's going to be some time before anybody wants to hire me."

"Been there, done that,” I agreed. “I took a job writing obituaries for the newspaper, and I worked at a pizza joint for a few months."

"I don't see you tossing pizza dough into the air."

"Well, we didn't have to toss it, but I really wasn't very good at making pizza. I always dripped sauce on the edge of the crust. You wouldn't believe how complicated a pizza really is. The standards on arranging olives and pepperoni are much more strict that I would have guessed."

"Maybe I need to work at McDonald's or something,” he said, staring at the table. When he thought about the reality that was facing him, he stopped being funny and perky.

"Maybe, but why not concentrate on going to as many meetings as possible for a while?"

"I should, but I really don't want to stay at the 24 Hour Club longer than I have to."

I wanted to invite him to stay at my place, but that would have been the stupidest thing possible. There was no way that Wyatt and I could live under the same roof without me ripping his clothes off. I had to be the “hand of AA” for now. Sometimes this sobriety stuff is more difficult than you might think.
Why can't Wyatt and I just be regular people without the need for AA? Why can't we date and have fun like a regular couple?
The man of my dreams had arrived. He was sitting right across the table from me at an all-night diner, and I couldn't touch him. The only relationship (if you could even call it that) was one guy with a couple of years of sobriety helping a newcomer. I was playing the part of the “hand of AA,” and I really wanted to play a different part with Wyatt.

I added some extra money to the tip to make up for us hogging one of the waitress's tables. It was almost sunrise when we left. There were a few construction workers coming in for a really early breakfast. It was still dark, but I could feel the city starting to wake.

Just before he went over to his car, Wyatt hugged me tightly and gave me a big kiss on the mouth. He held me tight and wouldn't let me move. When he relaxed, I saw that he was crying again.

"Call me if you get squirrely,” I said as I held his hands.

"I've been squirrely for years, you know,” he laughed as he wiped a tear from his face.

He nodded and turned to walk to his car. It wasn't really a walk. Wyatt glided or floated or something. There was a little bounce in his butt, and that made me crazy. I pretended to get my motorcycle ready to ride, but I was really watching Wyatt. If he saw me watching, he didn't acknowledge it.

So pretty. He was at the other end of the spectrum from Chico. Wyatt was soft and looked cuddly. Chico was fierce, and Wyatt was tender. Chico knew that he just wanted to be my talent agent with some sex on the side. My ass had been a ride at Chico's amusement park, which was fun but not the kind of thing that would last forever. Wyatt was tentative and unsure what he wanted or what he ought to be doing. Chico was hunky, but Wyatt was exquisite.

Exquisite, and so off-limits to me. Nobody
decent
who had been around AA for any length of time would try to get cozy with a newcomer. We (try to) let the newcomer concentrate on staying sober. It's all about the program, not about me being in heat.

Even if Wyatt and I were grizzled veterans of AA, it still wouldn't work. I am such a bottom in bed, and guys who are as girly as Wyatt are bottoms too. I don't know why, but they are. I am the butchest bottom that I know. It isn't an act that I rehearsed; it's just the way I am. My ride is a Harley, but that doesn't make me a grease monkey top. Riding a motorcycle just makes me a motorcyclist. When I am in bed with a guy, I don't insert anything anywhere. They insert stuff into me: mouth, ass, I don't care. You don't even have to play with my dick if you don't want to. I want you inside me, and I am completely satisfied with that. It's the way I'm built. I've tried the other way, and it never worked. The last time I tried to mount a guy, it grossed me out. Having my dick inside his ass was awful. It was perverted, and I went limp quickly. I was built to be a bottom, and it was killing me. I wanted Wyatt so much. Knowing that I would never have him made tears come to my eyes.