Twelve-step
recovery meetings (AA, NA) were a big part of prison life, mostly because
prison administration mandated offenders to attend if they wished to gain
privilege promotions. Some showed true interest in working the steps and improving their lives, however, and found
support in Southern’s AA gatherings. These were sparsely attended compared to
NA – and thus far more
solemn − thanks to a much slacker observance of the sign-in sheet by
prison officials. Only a devoted eight or ten guys sat for AA, undistracted by
dozens of disinterested inmates typically forced to attend the NA gatherings.
The civilian
AA meeting leader was an ex-con called Jerry, a jovial black guy of around
sixty. He had a sing-song voice and wore the perma-grin of a former mental patient,
which he was. His shares usually
ate up a good twenty minutes, and usually included a baby delivery story,
Psalms 23, reference to the size of the lines he used to snort, and that he was
certifiably crazy. Jerry was often told of being interned at a “nut house,”
where he defecated on the lawn while not even drunk at the time. The guy was a
hoot, at least until it became clear he repeated the same stories nearly every
week.
These
meetings quickly became redundant, mostly since locked up guys (including me)
rarely had new using dilemmas or experiences to share. A few tidbits emerged that
I'll never forget, however. One guy told of taking extremely hot showers before
church to (theoretically) remove the smell of his Johnny Walker Red-soaked
Saturday nights. Another observed that the inmate "gate check” − money issued to egressing
offenders – amounted
to forty-five dollars. "Now do you think it's a coincidence that's about
what a handle of Jack Daniel's costs?" He repeated this multiple times,
and he was dead serious.
The group
also entered a unique debate about the gray areas of sobriety. For instance, is
smoking a cigarette at a literally dizzying rate a violation? What about
smoking one vigorously to trigger a bowel movement? After all, I gained a buzz from smoking
rapidly but doing so was also medicinal. And indeed, aren't most recreational drugs homeopathic and helpful until they’re
abused?
Alas,
conversational nuggets like these were too rare to transcend the usual tedium
of meetings. I heard: "I know I've done wrong, I'm going to do right, and
I’m going to work the steps," ad nauseum. Some guys may have benefited
from prison AA, but I eventually sought personal growth elsewhere.
Much more
worth attending were the NA meetings, even though they weren’t exactly
productive 12-step studies either. But at least these watered-down versions were
often wildly entertaining because the room was invariably packed. Offenders that were intent on privilege level promotions were absolutely required to attend.
Luckily
these meetings were hardly by the book,
otherwise resentment and drudgery would have filled the room. Instead, the NA
and twelve step tenets were discussed only occasionally, and the bulk of the
time was dedicated to war stories,
i.e. stories from partying days. This defied traditional meeting customs, but
the civilian facilitator didn’t mind. He knew the awkward silence of guys unwilling
to discuss feelings and fears of recovery was no good for anyone. Boisterous
story time certainly beat shoe-gazing slogs through the twelve steps, and suspicious
yarns full of dubious detail and excitement kept motherfuckers entertained.
Guys told of
running from the cops or literally getting away with murder. Sordid domestic
violence details were revealed as if describing a trip to the store. I learned
that impregnating a gainfully employed woman is a reasonable career aspiration,
and outstanding new street terminology.
Dry goods is slang for drugs other than
alcohol, and coin operated is a street
term for a hooker. Pimp rolling
describes a confident man’s gait, and “You
ain't gotta lie to kick it" means bullshitting is not required to
participate in a discussion. Tales were told of a tecato gusano*,
a “psychic worm" Hispanics believe causes addiction and can never be sated
or killed.
* Coincidentally, I also encountered
the term in Infinite Jest that same evening; the only two times of my
life.
Monthly Speaker
Meetings were also captivating, as guys took to the lectern and told stories of
their misspent lives and the demons that landed them in NA (or prison).
Civilian volunteers occasionally filled this bill, but my inmate brethren were usually
more entertaining. I also once took a turn, describing my sneakily destructive
pattern of abuse.
Again, my bout with chemicals was less obvious than usual. For
instance, my first drink of the day never came through a straw due to the shake,
and I was never broke and homeless. Instead, my vulgar pleasures weakened my
energies. Hard partying − and
the subsequent hangovers –
robbed me of motivation to lead a productive life. Anyway, I presented
the NA meeting with such “recovery talk” for a while, but my audience’s
glazed-over eyes soon moved me to Plan B.
I dropped war stories of my own, along with some of my more
off-color stand-up material. I killed,
so to speak, and a bit describing tooth-free fellatio also earned the nickname Gum Bob. Many guys related to this,
since even young adults among the downscale actually have dentures*, thanks to methamphetamitic
pursuits. In any event, my speaker/comedian turn made me feel great, and I
wasn’t a total loser for a while.
* In fact, Poli-Grip is provided to all indigent
inmates for free.
