do? And I’m sick of all the slogans and recovery-ese. Let us love you until you can love yourself. One day at a time. That crap. Right now I’m in a six-month inpatient program and I hate it.”
“What about a higher power? How you doin’ there? What’s your understanding in that way?”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “Not so good, I guess. It’s pretty nebulous if you ask me.”
Anderson was glaring at me. “What’s nebulous? What’s that word mean?”
“Well, I guess what I’m saying is that I ignore Him and He ignores me. I try to avoid getting zapped. My opinion is that God has zapped me a lot. God doesn’t like me much. That’s what I think.”
“Listen to me. You and me got to live with the disease of alcoholism for our whole lives. But we don’t have to die from it.”
“Meaning what?” I said.
“Do you want to get this deal? Do you want a good life? Are you ready to start to turn this thing around?”
“I am. I mean, I’ve got nothing to lose. My life’s morphed itself into a pile of dogshit. So sure. I’m ready.”
Anderson stuck a craggy old finger into my chest. “Then will you do something for me?” he asked in a low voice. “Will you do what I ask you to do without any argument or back talk?”
“Okay. If you think it’ll help. Sure.”
“Go back to your room now. Get up and do it. Go in and close the door. I want you to get down on your knees and I want you to ask God—whatever you think that God is—for help. Will you do that? Just say God please help me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t go on like this no more.”
I had to take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I don’t want to, but if you think it’ll help, I will. I’ll do it.”
“When we get back to town I want you to call me every day. If you do what I tell you, you’ll get what I got. I’ll give you a guarantee and sign it if that’s what you want. Fair enough?”
So I went back to my room and closed the door. I thought about what Anderson had said for a long time. Then the thought came: fuckit. You’ve got nothing to lose.
So I got down on my knees and I looked up. There on the wall was a picture of some medieval angel or saint with a halo painted around his holy head. I had to close my eyes to remove the image. Then I said the words. Okay, God, it’s me, Bruno. I’ve really screwed things up. If you’re there, and can hear me, I need your help. I can’t do this alone.
That was it.
When I opened my eyes nothing had changed. I felt the same. The saint was still there on the wall and I didn’t feel any different.
Across the room in my suitcase was my cell phone. Before I went into the next meeting I wanted to make sure it was still working so I could call Anderson when I got back to Costa Mesa. So I went over to the chair and unzipped the side pocket of my bag, found the thing, then turned it on.
There were two more messages from Dav-Ko.
I was going to delete them but I decided to call back instead. I pressed redial and the number clicked in. Rosie Camacho answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Rosie,” I said, “It’s Bruno. You guys have left some messages for me.”
“Hiya, honey. Howz it going?”
“It’s going. What’s up? Why the phone messages?”
“Hang on, Bruno bambino, lemme check something. There was some mail—a couple of things. I put ’em in a box under my desk. Stuff that wasn’t a bill. They came three or four weeks ago. I left you those messages about it.”
“Right. I know. I didn’t listen to them. I just didn’t feel like any more bad news. Sorry.”
“Okay, here it is. Here’s a letter. It’s from—lemme see—Charter House Press.”
“Open it for me, will you?” I asked. I could feel myself holding my breath.
Then I heard Rosie tearing open the envelope and pulling the letter from inside.
“…Okay,” she said. “I got it. I’ll read it to you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dear Mister Dante.
Your manuscript was forwarded to us and submitted for publication by Ms. J. C. Smart. Years ago Ms. Smart was an editor for this firm and has remained one of our consulting directors.
After reading your stories we