The man entering had shoulders that touched both door jambs as he passed into the room. His face was the size of a catcher’s mitt, pitted and creased and polished dark at the cheekbones from taking punches, his tiny eyes like black seeds buried in flesh. They called him Roast Beef.
“Hey, Beef,” said a skinny guy with weak chin and an oiled pompadour.
The big man’s voice was surprisingly high pitched. “You seen Anthony?”
Pompadour gave a shrug and moved to one side as a slight figure wearing red canvas slides slipstreamed behind the big man, smiling, eyes swiveling around the room. A voice called out, “Switch! Over here!”
Switch made his way through the crowd. A hand reached out. Switch ignored it and sat down next to a squat man with thick arms who compensated for his thinning hair with an unconvincing combover.
There was a loud rap on a table at the front of the room. A swarthy man whose large knuckles showed signs of having been broken more than once rapped the table again and spoke loudly: “Welcome to Cell Block B’s nightly meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Larry, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, Larry,” the room chorused without much enthusiasm.
“Please take your seats.” He called out to a man seated in the back, “Samuel, will you please read the open meeting statement?”
Samuel, nearing 80 and bent nearly double at the waist by arthritis, stood slowly, holding a sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve in his painfully crumpled right hand: “This is an open meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. We are glad you are all here – especially newcomers. In keeping with our singleness of purpose and our Third Tradition which states that ‘The only requirement for A.A. membership is a desire to stop drinking,’ we ask that all who participate confine their discussion to their problems with alcohol.”
“Beansie, will you give us the Serenity Prayer?”
The squat man with the combover stood as the entire room intoned the prayer’s words with him: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”
He sat down, glancing at the guard who stood in the corner checking names off a list on a clipboard. He reached the bottom and called out to the room, “Anybody seen Anthony?”
A voice in the back said, “He’s in the clinic. Fell down and broke his knee.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
The guard started for the door. “I’m going to be right outside. Any fucking around, and every one of you is in lockdown, got it?”
As he turned to leave, a guy in the back shot him the finger. The guard closed the door behind himself, and the room went silent.
Larry glanced down at a sheet of instructions on the table before him. “We’re going to pass on reading the steps and go straight to our speaker for today. Johnny, you want to come up here and take a seat?”
Johnny Machine, 35, beginning to go gray at the temples and skinny as a walking stick, stood and walked to the front of the room and sat down behind the table.
“Hello, my name is John and I’m an alcoholic,” he said with a barely suppressed smile.
“Hello, John!” someone called out from the back of the room. A guy with a crewcut sitting in the same row told him to zip it.
“I know most of youse need to be here if you want a chance at parole. That don’t matter. I know I said it before, but I’m gonna say it again anyway. AA ain’t just about the booze. It’s about life, right?”
A few guys nodded slowly. One guy let out a fart so loud, it got a laugh and a punch in the shoulder.
“I did some stupid shit when I was drinkin,” Johnny said. “I did even more stupid shit when I was flat-out drunk. But the stupidest thing I ever done, I was stone cold sober, right, Beansie?’
Towards the back of the room, Beansie acknowledged his friend with a nod.
“Dumb fucker that I am, it was my idea to rob a bar in the Village in the middle of a blizzard on Christmas Eve. Wearing Santa suits. That was my idea too. What wasn’t my idea was gettin’ caught.”
Johnny leaned against the back of the chair, which like every other chair in the room, was fixed to the concrete floor with a 3/8th inch bolt, its nut filed smooth so it could not be removed except by drilling out the bolt.
“I gotta back up. We got caught twice that night, first by Vincent ‘The Chin’ Gigante, to whom I owed some money.”
“Tell ‘em how much you owed Chin, Johnny!” Beansie called out.
“It was two grand, but when you’re into the Chin, it coulda been a C-note. Doesn’t matter how much you owe, it’s gonna hurt, you don’t pay up. Anyway, Chin saw us walkin’ down the street, yanked us into his club, and he was about to turn loose Tony the Hammer on me when I told him we were on the way to take off the Roadhouse on Seventh Avenue. He asked me what the fuck we were doin’ in Santa suits, and I told him they was our disguises. You coulda heard him up on 14th Street, he was laughin’ so hard. ‘This I gotta see,’ Chin says. He even drove us over to Grove Street. The Chin and Tony sat in the car on Bleecker and watched us cross Seventh Avenue and walk into the Roadhouse.”
“In our fuckin’ Santa suits,” called Beansie, waving a hand in the air.
“You got that right. Me and Beansie walk through the door, and it’s so crowded, we could barely move, music blasting from about six speakers, people dancin’ between the tables, partying like it was fuckin’ New Years Eve. We had a shotgun in this fuckin’ bag Beansie was carryin’ and reached in and took it out and waved it over my head and yelled, ‘This is a fuckin’ stick up! Everybody on the floor!’ Nobody could hear us over the music, so I shot out this big fuckin’ speaker near the bar, there was a couple of pops and the music stopped, and I racked the gun and shot out the back bar and yelled, ‘this is a stick up’ again and waved the gun around the room, and everybody dove for the floor.”
Most of the guys at the meeting were new and had never heard the Christmas Eve story before, and Johnny had their full attention now.
“Beansie was goin’ around grabbin’ wallets and purses and jewelry and watches and shoving them in the sack. I went up to the bar and pointed the shotgun at the bartender. I didn’t even have to say the words, and he was emptying the register and shovin’ bills across the bar. I turned around to grab Beansie and split when I feel this hard jab right in my crotch, and I hear a voice I recognized. ‘Hey, Machine. That’s my service revolver you’re feeling down there below your waist. How are they hanging?’ It was this cop who drank in bars around the Village, the Lion’s Head, the Corner Bistro, obviously the Roadhouse. He was the NYPD’s chief hostage negotiator. I froze.”
“‘Put the gun on the floor,’ he says, ‘Slowly. That fuckin’ thing goes off and I’ll shoot off your balls one at a time.’ I did what he said. I look at Beansie. He’s headin’ for the door. The cop yells at him, ‘I can see you behind that fake fuckin’ beard, Beansie. If I have to come after you, I’ll get the DA to tag a charge with five extra years on your indictment.’ Beansie stops. I’m standin’ there with my arms over my head, and for the life of me, Beansie looked like fuckin’ Santa Claus with that sack over his shoulder. The whole thing lasted, maybe, three minutes.”
Johnny looked around the low-ceilinged room. Two dozen or so rapt faces looked back at him. He smiled.
“It was at that very moment God gave me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” Johnny said to uproarious laughter. “A .38 in the nuts will do that to you.”