The Drunk Monk

We sort of met, on DC Metrobus 36 as it descended Wisconsin Avenue into Georgetown. He climbed the stairs that morning pausing only to drop his money in the farebox. The bus sputtered into gear as he walked toward the other passengers. I detected a slight limp. A shiny leather satchel with shoulder strap crossed his chest but looked out of place against the wrinkles of his blue button-down shirt. When he moved to sit down next to me, I noticed his dirty jeans. 

He glanced in my direction and quickly turned away to finish lowering himself into the seat. From the satchel, he took a book and a pair of glasses. The thin rectangular frames fit over a hook nose more caricature than defining. To appear as though disinterested, I hid my gaze by closing my right eye and opening my left in hopes that it was hidden in profile. I recognized the book he was reading and when he pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with little birds to catch his sneeze, I made a mental note: good book odd handkerchief.

A few weeks later it was on another bus moving up Massachusetts Avenue past the Naval Observatory on my way to the National Cathedral when I heard him.

“We have to find a way to agree, don’t we?” His question came out more like air than words. Articulators are needed to sharpen words, and they were missing from his speech.

Moving down the aisle, I noticed he wore the same tired clothes. And sure enough, he was clutching the shiny satchel. 

 “It’s nice to meet you. I am Finnegan Edwards,” I heard him say to the young woman next to him, fanning herself with some papers to break through the stagnant air.

I left the bus thinking what a character—an odd mixture of man, something between a gnome and a nerdy scholar. When I assumed my seat in the basement of the National Cathedral, he appeared in a row just behind me as I reluctantly said to a lady that asked if it was my first time at this recovery group. “My name is Drew.” An awkward silence followed as I erected a wall where this woman had tried to tear one down. I was uncomfortable watching people claim seats so the meeting could begin. I wasn’t totally new to recovery, but some of the formalities could have been read in Latin for all I knew.

Halfway through the meeting we finally broke for coffee, despite a torrent of fear I rushed Finnegan with the words “Will you be my sponsor” spewing from my mouth. The whole time thinking to myself I need an ally. These strangers might become enemies and at least this disheveled man who had been carrying that book by Flannery O’Connor seemed intelligent enough. I hoped he was a kindred spirit.

“It’s Drew, I believe.” He paused to interrupt my impatience, “Finnegan.” Then he exhaled calmly and put out his hand and touched my sweaty palm.

I stood there scanning the room thinking No matter how beautiful the façade all church basements look the same.

“Stop by tomorrow and we will chat,” he said handing me a slip of paper with his home address.

He lived two long blocks from the intersection of Massachusetts and Wisconsin in a typical DC mid-level 1960’s high rise—best described as drab given the opulence of close by Georgetown. The door opened easily on a faded, but large room filled with objects: trinkets and books and fabrics and candles. Its otherwise humble contents were a single reclining chair near a low table with mauve and tan floor pillows. In the farthest corner of the room, a vibrant yellow canary, aware of our movements, began an anxious chopping song.

“She’s a warbler. They sing different types of songs. No matter where they end up their songs are imitations of ones they learned in their natural environment. My favorites,” he uttered through short breaths, “are the ones that sound like water fountains.”

This was the most Finnegan had ever said. I was relieved because silence made me anxious. Racked with anxiety and spinning out of control in my mind, I noticed while he talked that the little yellow bird was actually spotted with errant patches of white.

 “A friend offered her to me when he left for South America. Almost two years ago already.” 

“Ah. That was nice. I mean you must like birds or had thought about buying one, right?” 

“Not really, but where I used to live, they became a familiar presence at 3 a.m. wakeup calls. So why not? It couldn’t hurt to listen to their songs—they are quiet chants.”

While drinking our tea Finnegan walked over to the cage where he began fumbling with the safety latch. Finally, he freed the bird, and she began to canter around the room like an aggressive child. A yellow boomerang of insanity whipped about him as he limped to his recliner. He sat with an “ah” and rested his long, bony fingers on his knee. Not a second later, she came to perch.

“This is Serenity,” he whispered with a smile. “She can be confusing.”

Lifting his left finger, Serenity took off again flying around the room with increasing speed until suddenly. Smack. She hit the wall and lay prostrate on the floor.

“Jesus,” I said.

Finnegan replied, “As you can see, today she has decided to be Chaos, her alter ego. I love it when she behaves like a lunatic. She seems unaware of the walls. She reminds me of how I spin into insanity very quickly.”

“Ah, I see,” I said, giggling inside with how silly this seemed. Simultaneously thinking to myself This old man is completely nuts! Staring at her for a while I chimed, “Is she a Gemini?”

Finnegan, it turned out, was a former Trappist monk. In addition to his daily duties, he snuck alcohol into his well-known Kentucky abbey. This idea made me want to trust him even more especially when he said, “The hardest place to find a higher power is in a religious order.” Even the sickly green walls of the kitchen had a charm that fit the Drunk Monk, the moniker I chose for him. Every time I visited, I smelled vanilla, the same smell as my grandma’s kitchen when she baked and secretly dabbed a little extra behind her ears. The safety of the room allowed me to slowly open up to the light of new ideas.

Every Saturday, we would attend a 10 a.m. meeting above the bank on Wisconsin Avenue, which brought some peace, but then I would spin like those helicopter seeds that fall from maple trees when Finnegan “suggested” we go for coffee on a small cross street three blocks away.

It was late Spring on this particular Saturday, but already the air was heavy and the sun hot. The minute we left the air-conditioned meeting, we were assaulted by the heaviness of the pregnant air. To live in DC meant you would crave salt like the sober crave sweets.

The shop had a glass atrium area that opened to a stand of white oak trees which felt out of place beside the traditional dark, brick structures of old Georgetown. The Drunk Monk would hold court there for the day and was often joined by an odd mixture of characters who sought his counsel. I loathed being near other people in the early days. It was a mental battle between fear and courage; not accepting who I was made it easier to judge others and then run away so that I would not be rejected and abandoned.

If we didn’t go out for coffee, I would walk Finnegan up Wisconsin Avenue before heading home myself. Our walks filled time and my fears were held unspoken but known. He told stories to break me. “In recovery the only story we really have is our own,” he would say. “If you’re tired of living the way you are, change it.” Most of the time, I rejected his suggestions as ludicrous, recovery bullshit.

One particular Saturday morning at the coffee shop Finnegan ordered his customary Tea Ole which made it sound fun instead of what it was, milk added to a tea bag and hot water. As usual, never able to make up my mind, I settled for black coffee. Delores appeared first. She rolled through the doorway in her wheelchair. It was decorated with fake yellow sunflowers and appointed with a huge canvas satchel on the back with “Roll with Love” painted in psychedelic colors. She was about fifty years old with platinum blonde hair, a saffron ribbon pulled it from her face. Two or three rings on each of her fingers overwhelmed her hands. She had overdrawn her eyes to compensate for small brown openings and rouged her cheeks in a manner that made her look like a cockatiel. When she talked, she reached at people with her nose. Peck, peck, pecking away, moving closer and closer until she quietly chirped a queer little bible verse or some recovery jargon she had memorized.

“First things first,” she said to no one in particular, “I need some coffee or that dizzy mess hiding inside will come out,” and proceeded to walk to the counter and order with an exhausting level of specificity.

My mouth flew open. How is she walking? I questioned myself. I could not keep my eyes off this odd woman as she took slow deliberate steps back to us. Finnegan rarely looked up from working on his crossword puzzle, but never missed the banter about him. When Delores finally sat down, he asked her about the halfway house and she said, “You know Finn, I’m doing okay. It’s just a shit ton of work. Keeping up with these young things is exhausting, too.”

“You go easy on those girls, Delores, they’re not half as bad as you were sleeping with other people’s husbands just to get your fix. There but for the grace…” I heard him say firmly but gently.

At first, I hadn’t noticed her shoes. One had a thicker sole than the other. She caught me staring and said, “Oh honey, don’t get confused. One of my legs is shorter than the other so these things help me walk. There’s a problem though. I don’t want to walk! I find rolling to be more adventurous. Like flying.”

Fucken crazy, I noted.

Tom on the other hand was plain as plywood. Round head, gap tooth, and sparse hair. His entrance interrupted Delores’ outlandish explanation for choosing a wheelchair. He looked in my direction while greeting Finnegan.

“Tom this is Drew, Drew Tom.”

Tom seemed uninterested but asked if I was the new one while simultaneously spitting through the gap as if he was an Alfred E. Neuman Pez dispenser.

“Yep,” said Finnegan without looking up.

“Y'all's workin’ them steps I bet,” he said without looking at me. “Them saved my ass good.”

“Finnegan helped you too?” I questioned.

“He got me through prison.”

“Prison?”

“Yep. Finnegan told me we all make mistakes. We are all a bunch of average fools.”

“He called you a fool?” I charged back.

“He helped me see how I put everyone in jeopardy. I screwed up royal takin’ that money and beat’n my wife. He showed me that the hardest part of getting sober is letting go of the lie that I was perfect. You don’t end up in jail if you is perfect.”

Peter interrupted from the doorway, “Calm down. Your friendly sober faggot has arrived. Anyone got two quarters? I want to get the paper.” His corrupt introduction involved a smile and a swish around the floor. An “I dare you” to anyone in his path. He paused, bent over, and grabbed my cheek pretending not to know me.

 “Aren’t you a cutie, I’m Peter, '' he said with a straight face and thrusting his crotch.

It felt like hours before the others burst into laughter saying, “Don’t worry about ‘her.’ That's just Peter’s anger, how he compensates for his shame.”

“Shame?” I asked.

“He wants us to believe something he doesn’t believe himself. He’s still lying. He hates that he’s gay.” What are they talking about, I thought to myself. He’s perfectly okay with being gay, he’s just a bully.

After some time, a certain logic emerged that was counterintuitive to my own way of thinking. Peter, Delores, and Tom moved between the monstrous and the humane refereed by Finnegan. There were passing references to the twelve steps, but most of the time was mindless small talk about the morning meeting. “You know that Lucille is a ditz. She is running the meeting because she is sleeping with Dillard,” said Delores. “I guess you sleep with the rich to get that job,” she continued without a hint of irony.

I wanted to drink so bad. It was the first time that the voices inside my head were spoken out loud. What I would give for the slow drip of gin to calm my nerves. I bounced between feeling sad for them and being disgusted. It was one of the hardest days of my life. The epiphany came and I looked directly at Finnegan to accuse him of the set up. Somehow, he knew that when I recognized other’s insanity as my own, I would hit a wall and fall too. He knew I was telling myself I was fine, despite the lack of evidence to prove it.

I should have felt relief, I suppose. But I could only focus on my inability to breathe in any air. I needed to take one last flight, I thought to myself when Peter broke ranks by announcing his plans for the day.

“Sorry I can’t go with you to the harbor and the Key bridge, I got things to do,” he sputtered. He was so arrogant. He implied our lives were trivial. Of course, I wasn’t going either, but that was not the point.

“Aren’t you special?” chimed Delores. “But don’t forget Peter, the truth is beautiful,” she blurted out in an obvious acknowledgement that she thought he was lying. 

A few more folks from the meeting entered the coffee shop in the middle of Peter’s exit. An asshole named J.D. with a bitch named Priscilla in tow; he was a ladies’ man and she a therapist who tossed her title around as if she was better than the rest of us “fucking alcoholics.” It soon became apparent that they were joining us for the remainder of the day. I was already socially exhausted and wondered how I could fake my interest in this scene much longer. I hated them both but mustered an appreciation for J.D.’s sarcasm toward Peter especially when he would insult him with a throwaway line like, “Where are you off to, baby? You need to go home and put on a prettier outfit?” I was arrogant enough, in those days, to believe that they did not associate me with Peter. I had no idea either that I might be at risk of drinking.

I escaped from the group and made it out onto the streets to watch people. I would imagine conversations with them as I strolled Georgetown aimlessly. At a Starbucks, I ordered an iced coffee I did not want, or need, and saw Delores fly by in her chair trying to catch up with Finnegan and his followers. Then Peter flirting with a boy near the entrance to Blue’s Alley, a popular music venue. Things to do my ass.

The heat was beginning to soak my shirt, so I found a bench and opened my book bag stuffed with towels, water, and extra t-shirts. Transplants to the nation’s capital quickly learned the importance of a bag, or “survival kit,” to navigate the often-oppressive weather. The only thing worse than high temps was being alone. It is strange to hate people and need them at the same time, but the thought of being alone made me hyperventilate.

They tell you when you come into recovery to connect with others, look for the similarities, but every time I joined Finnegan and his friends it felt like a social ordeal. It was easier keeping people out than admitting I did not know how to befriend them. Trust takes time and effort were ideas I was trying to hammer into my head. I had grown accustomed to fabricating stories. My journals were full of them. Without alcohol I could not stop thinking, I would return to thoughts as to a scab that needed to be picked because the healing made it its. I was again revisiting a conversation with Finnegan that made this problem even clearer.

He had said, “Drew, a mirror may distort, but it never lies. Every word out of people’s mouths seems to enrage you. You don’t have to be a follower of mine, but you will have to admit to others who you are or be left behind. I thought… I thought your goal was to be great like you perceived your father to be. If that is the case you have to start by taking responsibility for who you are, Drew, rather than focusing on who and what you aren’t.” 

“Yeah, but he used words as weapons. He did not understand me,” I grumbled knowing how foolish it sounded.

“He was not at war with you. You are at war with yourself.”

“What are you talking about,” I questioned dishonestly.

“You’re mad. Admit it, Drew. You are unable to see you are judging everyone and everything just as you are judging yourself. But you do not know who you are, let alone who they are. Maybe it’s an old habit to stave off rejection, but every time you do this you reject yourself, Drew.”

A slight breeze stirred the thick mucus of humidity. My body ached. His words were gut-punches. I walked toward Dumbarton Oaks but lost energy and interest in trying to delude myself with the beauty of Georgetown. The throaty growls of red-bellied woodpeckers making love in the trees felt like I was being mocked. A spider draping her web between two branches made me wonder where I belonged. Two strangers near the entrance to Rock Creek Parkway appeared to be scoring drugs. I could spot drugs and alcohol for miles. This time, however, I recognized my own behavior as nothing more than escape from the truth.

I looked up at the parchment of sky, a bruise of purple bleeding into the fire of sunset and felt the full weight of loneliness on my shoulders. I saw the choice as following what I knew back into my addiction to alcohol or follow the twilight back into Georgetown to find these odd people before inky night descended. I knew I had to talk to someone or drink.

Walking I thought. Finnegan had let me bounce back and forth between everything I hated and everything I could not live up to. He was right that I rejected others instead of letting them reject me. His patience was what I thought love might feel like. I knew I could not outsmart him, and I no longer wanted to. He wasn’t mean to me; he was honest.

The streetlight hummed on, and I noticed Finnegan sitting on the bench waiting for the bus. He did that, hung out all day with the people he considered family.

“Hey stranger! What did you think of my friends?” he queried.

“Colorful,” I blurted out.

“So, Tom said you used to sponsor him and that you called him foolishly average.” These were the only words I could muster. I delivered them as surrender. Knowing that I knew better.

“Ah. Well, that is only sort of true.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“People hear what they need to hear Drew. What I said to him was, when we accept that we are average we can have moments of greatness. The only thing foolish is continuing to lie to ourselves despite the evidence. Just like you he eventually stopped pretending. Stopped lying. He decided to get to know himself a little better.”

“I wasn’t raised to be average, Finnegan!”

“You weren’t raised to be a drunk either, but that doesn’t seem to matter now, does it?”

“I guess not.”

After a long silence between us, the bus arrived. I looked at Finnegan and whispered, “I am so lonely,” to which he replied, “I know.” Then I watched the Drunk Monk in his dirty jeans climb the stairs, before turning back to me. 

“Hey Drew, good work today. You recognized the choice is ours to make. Live in the insanity or be restored.”