86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,76
on him. There were only a half dozen people in the world who had survived his kind of cancer and surgery. And most of them were in hospitals, dying.
After the first four-hour session in the library, where old Bob never even sat down and answered written question that the guys passed forward, the group of us filed into dinner in the big retreat mess hall. A ninety-minute break.
More statues and Jesus stuff. A big woven banner above the tables on the wall depicted St. Francis feeding a sparrow. The words sewn into the cloth beneath it read: You have not chosen me—I have chosen you. All of us, including the three brothers in robes who ran the place, began our meal by joined hands and parroting the Lord’s Prayer. But the food was okay.
After the meal, while a lot of the guys were outside smoking and petting the four adopted stray dogs that roamed the grounds, I pulled TJ aside to ask him if it’d be okay for me to speak with Anderson privately. He said, “Sure, Bruno, I’ll talk to Bob and set it up.”
Twenty minutes before the next session Anderson and I sat down in the library alone. The old man had been a line mechanic for Lincoln-Mercury for thirty years. I could tell by his manner that he wanted to be friendly, but he was an impatient-type person and his interpersonal skills weren’t too good.
Bob was sitting on the corner of a table. He rocked forward then faced me. “TJ says you’re sober a few weeks.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ve tried AA a few times, but it’s never stuck. Something always happens and that’s it.”
“What happens?”
“I usually get depressed or pissed off. My brother also died recently. That did me in. And I was in a job that I hated. But look, I heard you talking about your thinking, about being sober a long time and your mind still killing you. That rang my bell. I’m like that.”
“Look kid, I got alcoholism, see. My trouble with the law and all of that stopped when I quit the booze. Right? I mean, I thought I was okay. Right? I thought I was what in AA they call a winner. I mean I was sober, right? So how come my wife left me? How come I kept getting fired from jobs because of my bad temper? Here I was twenty years sober but I wasn’t no winner. See what I’m saying?”
“I do. A few weeks ago I tried to kill a guy. So I know exactly what you’re saying.”
“I’ve worked with four men that died from suicide, sober. Four. They were like me. Just like me. So what’s my problem? How come I’m a person who wants to do well—to do the right thing—but I can’t? How come I’m always mad at my boss and I still terrorize my kids? How come years sober, I’m still pulling guys who cut me off on the freeway out of their cars and punching them out?”
“Right,” I said. “How come?”
“Because I have to treat the mental part of my disease. Quitting booze is one thing. Living with my brain sober is another. But, see, today it’s all different. I have been at peace with myself for a long long time. That’s what I want you to hear. Not the war stories. We all got those. I want you to hear that today—right here, right now—I got a good life. My living ain’t always so great. I mean, I got cancer and I take chemo all day and every time I see the doctor he shakes his head and tells me I might cash in anytime. But that’s okay, see. Because, inside I’m okay. I’m at peace with myself. I got a good life. I’m not angry or pushin’ and shovin’ the way I used to. My brain’s okay, right now. I’m alive and happy, right now. This minute. And right now is all I got. Can you hear that?”
I nodded.
Anderson was smiling for the first time. “Your name’s Bono, right?”
“Bruno. Bruno Dante,” I said.
“So here’s the thing, Bono…”
“Bruno.”
“Right. Okay. So, see, unless you change how you think you’ve got zero chance at this deal. Guys like us—you and me—have to apply this thing as a way to live, as a treatment for a broken brain. AA meetings are okay—they’re good—but they don’t treat thinking. Your brain will kill you sober, Bono. Mine almost did more than once.”
“Bruno.” I said.
“Right. Bruno.”
“So what do I