Who cares? That’s the first phrase of page one of Step One in the 12 and 12. Who cares to admit personal powerlessness? No one, of course! Especially in our Western culture where information is power, knowledge is power, money is power — at least that’s what we’re told. So, I love how Bill Wilson refers to personal powerlessness, not general powerlessness. Because we alcoholics have tremendous power if we only know where it is and how to access it.
What could they possibly have in common? They are both sources of power and growth
My experience is that it is harder for women to accept powerlessness than men, because we do so much. We’re mothers and nurses and teachers. We keep house and take care of the kids and make sure dinner’s on the table. “How can I be powerless?” you say. Or, “Don’t you see I’m managing my life just fine, thank you?”
What if you traded “unmanageable” for “unbearable”? As in Step One:I have to take the edge off, can’t not take that first drink and my life has become unbearable. Now that works.
And what about Tiffany lamps and taproots? Personal powerlessness is real and lack of power is my dilemma. Yet there is an abundance of power at my fingertips if I just know where to find it.
What if you traded “unmanageable” for “unbearable”?
We all know Tiffany lamps are lovely works of art all by themselves. Brightly-colored cut glass shades and bases in Victorian styles are amazing. I can place the light in the center of my table, walk around it and bask in its standalone beauty. Like my sober life, so much better than when I was drinking — no arrests, no fights, things better at home and work — all because of not drinking and doing nothing else. But if I take the lamp’s cord, find an outlet and plug it in? Wowser! The room fills with light and color and the incandescent beauty once I plug into the source of power dazzles me. I discover there’s a three-way bulb. If I’m willing to do a little work and turn up the wattage, I am astounded by the ever-expanding brilliance and beauty. It’s just like my sober life once I find the source of power, plug in and do some work. “Proved beyond doubt by an immense experience, this is one of the facts of A.A. life” (Step One, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, aka 12 and 12, p. 21).
it’s what goes deep
From this single source of power, the entire life is fed
So what about this taproot business? “The principle that we shall find no enduring strength until we first admit complete defeat is the main taproot from which our whole society has sprung and flowered” (12 and 12, p. 22). How many of us have read that sentence without ever really knowing what a taproot is? I am encouraged to look up any word in A.A. literature that I don’t understand. The words are so important. So, not being a master gardener, I looked up taproot. Think of a big round beet and that single long root extending from its bottom. That’s a taproot. Like A.A. and the 12 Steps, it’s what goes deep. From this single source of power, the entire life of the plant is fed.
Yes, I am personally powerless, but I’m never without tremendous power if I choose to tap into it. All I have to do is remember Tiffany lamps and taproots. Sobriety by itself is surely better than drinking. I plug that beautiful lamp of sobriety into the source of all power, a Higher Power I choose to call God. When I do some work on my steps with a sponsor and let that long deep taproot of A.A. anchor me, baby, I will shine!
Which is my favorite Alcoholics Anonymous wallet card? Every one. I stash them in my desk drawer and purse, where I used to hide my booze and drugs.
The life preserver card is “Just for Today.” This scrap of precious cardboard encourages me to “live through this day only … be happy … learn something useful … do somebody a good turn, and not get found out … look as well as I can … act courteously … have a quiet half hour all by myself … not be afraid to enjoy what is beautiful.” It reminds me to accept everything, especially myself, to try to do better and to appreciate the gifts of a sober life.
We pause, when agitated or doubtful, and ask for the right thought or action
The card I give away by the handful, especially to newcomers (or used to, before Shelter in Place), is “Sought Through Prayer.” One morning a speaker started to talk about the spiritual part of the program. “Wait a minute,” he chuckled. The spiritual part is the program.” And here it is, all on one card. Arrayed in elegant gold are the Serenity Prayer, the Third Step Prayer, the Seventh Step Prayer and the Eleventh Step or St. Francis Prayer. When a newcomer asks me how she should pray, I hand her this card and suggest that she try reading it aloud every morning. I do.
we constructively review our day
The card I keep on my nightstand is “The 24-Hour Program.” In silver and black it offers my sobriety schedule: “On awakening, let us think about the twenty-four hours ahead. We consider our plans for the day, we pause, when agitated or doubtful, and ask for the right thought or action … humbly saying to ourselves many times each day, “Thy will be done.”
“When we retire at night, we constructively review our day. Were we resentful, selfish, dishonest or afraid? Or were we thinking of what we could do for others, of what we could pack into the stream of life?” The best of AA, on three little cards, keeping it simple.
Clayton was educated at a public high school in upstate New York. He found himself academically over his head once he started college. There was also a change in social class. He worried about fitting in and disappointing his parents. Alcohol offered a release from those anxieties. He started drinking more in earnest and sleeping also became a problem. Wine provided a better night’s sleep and after initiating this treatment he became a daily drinker.
He was amazed how they knew what he was thinking
He was drafted into the military following college and once in the Army found drinking was an acceptable way of life with more opportunities to drink. Marijuana was also readily available. Once out of the military, he thought life would be easier and moved to San Francisco. He obtained a job in a credit reporting agency as a supervisor in the complaint department. Those old feelings of not fitting in and not doing well enough returned. He drank himself out of that job after a prodigious six-month bender.
After this experience, he was bound and determined not to drink. He invested in self-help books. Many focused on staying “off the sauce” and with their help he weaned himself off alcohol. A job with the tax board came along and things began to get better. He was given increasingly difficult assignments and assumed there would be promotions with his new tasks. This didn’t happen. He did not get a planned promotion and at the same time his girlfriend ran off and married another guy.
Clayton turned forty-five. He felt stuck on a dead-end street, going nowhere. He was angry as his life seemed more than half over. He sought a therapist who looked at his alcohol consumption and said, “You’re an alcoholic. Are you willing to go to any lengths? Go to Alcoholic Anonymous.”
Before you go to bed, know where your next meeting is
He began his sobriety at the Noe Valley Ministry’s Sesame Step Study Meeting on December 8, 1992. It was a speaker discussion. Clayton was amazed how they seemed to know what he was thinking. They shared intimately about drinking over angers, fears and problems. It was remarkable to hear such insights. Si Paine was present, and he said, “Before you go to bed tonight, know where your next meeting is.” Clayton took this to heart and found the Friday night speaker meeting and after that a morning meeting on Pierce and Clay. Going to any lengths, he went to meetings regularly. He found a sponsor who was a Navy Seal who took him through the steps, directed him to call every day and suggested saying a prayer for gratitude.
After the Navy Seal he found another sponsor who asked him, “When did the miracle happen to you?”
Clayton replied, “I’ve had no miracles.”
The sponsor said, “How long have you been sober? Eight months? Isn’t that a miracle?”
Clayton agreed and went through the twelve steps again. This time when he made his amends to his parents, he realized how his anger and selfishness had caused a lot of harm. When he made those amends, his parents cried.
Jumping into the program, he took on service commitments. He met more people and they in turn got to know him. His feelings of loneliness began to evaporate.
They brought phone calls to people uncomfortable with Zoom meetings
At one stage, he needed something beyond the usual meetings. David C. invited Clayton to join the Sunshine Club and asked if he’d like to make arrangements for those unable to get to a meeting, which is what the club does. This was before the pandemic. Just as he saw how he needed something beyond the meetings, he saw there were alcoholics homebound or in the hospital. He signed on as coordinator for the Sunshine Club.
house-bound members benefited from ongoing meetings
There were many home-bound members who benefited from ongoing meetings, so along with Dorothy V. he started the Spirit of Service (SOS). He gave up his commitment as Sunshine Club Coordinator only to return, once again. There were few volunteers in Marin so he started recruiting members there. This involved traveling to Marin for meetings. He started giving orientations to new Sunshine Service volunteers and had up to thirty people ready to go.
At the beginning of the COVID -19 crisis, they brought phone calls to people not comfortable with virtual meetings. Members who can get on Zoom are doing it, but there are those who regularly attended meetings but now cannot get to any. Some are still using a flip phone. Today there are three members who get five phone calls a week from an SOS member and there is a phone tree set up to contact them.
Clayton’s focus today is on coordinating those who want to volunteer with those who need to get the program but cannot connect via Zoom or other methods. There are several recipients from meetings in care facilities, but there is always a problem identifying new recipients. Clayton attributes his willingness to venture out and recruit volunteers to his work as a tax collector. People were not thrilled to hear from him awhen he was doing that job, so he has no problem with this easier ask—pitching members to volunteer for SOS or Sunshine Club.
There is an easier, softer way, which means committing to myself to doing what is suggested. The first suggestions I ever heard in meetings were to keep coming back and to get a sponsor. This other big suggestion I learned after month three of sobriety was to be of service.
What did service look like my first year in 2010 ? It looked like writing my number down when a women’s number card was passed around for a newcomer. It looked like me sharing at every meeting I went to because I needed to remind myself why I was there but also to share my sober thoughts entailing the ups and downs of this new life to others in the rooms who were either going through the same thing or who at one time had been through some treacherous life territory and lived to not drink or drug over it. It also looked like saying “yes” to complete strangers in the rooms who asked me to join other sober people for post-meeting coffee/tea or food (what San Francisco members call fellowship). It also looked like showing up to a meeting early.
I would show up early so I could also get baked goods before the meeting
I have a bad problem of being late to basically everything and anything. So, one of my new sober promises to myself was that I would show up to meetings on time and to do so I would show up early so I could also get baked goods before the meeting at this vegan restaurant right by the meeting. The great thing about showing up early to meetings is I get to read random stuff, meditate, or shoot the breeze with another random alcoholic about how they were doing (getting outside myself). To be honest though, my first act of service was in true self-centered fashion. I walked the coffee pot around at meetings because I am a restless alcoholic and hated sitting down for an entire hour.
Finally, after asking a woman with solid time to be my first sponsor and then working the steps, my service looked like offering my number to newcomers, to picking up the phone and calling other women I met in the rooms, to getting my first sponsee. Then it looked like leading my first meeting for three months. And that is when my life started really changing. While I could say working the steps totally changed my life because it did, what really started changing was that I was no longer stuck in my problems when I was of service. You see, I am exceptionally good at biting off more than I can chew, because I love the challenge and it is a sad sick thing that I like to prove to myself I can do the impossible. The only problem is: I have problems I get stuck in to remind myself I have problems. Crazy, right? So, committing to being of service at a meeting keeps me out of my problems. Seriously.
I walked the coffee pot around at meetings because I was restless
Fast forward to the first part of 2020, attending a meeting close to my place in SF for the first time right before lockdown (March 17th) and staying after to ask the trusted servants of Raising The Bottom for a service commitment. Shockingly the only major one available at the time was Intergroup Rep. I knew nothing about Intergroup. Seriously. NADA. Call it a blessing or a curse, but my ignorance or rather lack of knowledge or awareness on something sometimes saves me time and time again. This was another such time. This saving came in the form of me having to inform the group, “Hey you guyssss – you can count on me to show up week after week and report to the group what goes on at Intergroup to also share what the targeted message might be.” So then comes the pandemic and having to find a new way to do meetings, and luckily what was amazing was how quickly meetings went online. What was also crazy, was how this service commitment (I was offered by the Grace of my HP and agreed to) helped me get comfortable with Zoom meetings, and consequently with searching for and attending other meetings.
Since online sober meetings were changing rapidly in the early part of lockdown, I quickly realized I needed to attend and participate in more meetings than I was anticipating. Mainly because I personally needed the meetings even if I did not fully realize it and more importantly, I do not like being unprepared. Thanks to this service commitment – there was no way at nine or ten years sober that I was going to be responsible for a service commitment and only go to a meeting a week.
This service commitment and (my initial ignorance to Intergroup) saves me three different ways:
1) It forces me to actually commit to something other than myself – shocker.
2) It keeps me showing up week after week because I have a legitimate excuse and reason – I am there to tell you about Intergroup or whatever my commitment is. Even though, if I am being totally honest, there are sooo many times I have thought about asking someone else to sub for me. However, this program has taught me to not excuse my way out of things and my good ole character defects also told me I cannot be the person having someone sub for me.
3) It keeps me plugged in to being of service to others.
Can you imagine if every person who has worked the steps said I am so busy with this newfound sober life and cannot regularly make a meeting? That would mean there would be no AA. Better yet, can you imagine being the sober fellow who has 20 years and does not think a service commitment makes sense for them anymore? If there is something I know, it is that I do not carry this epic, amazing, sober life of mine without the fellowship and program of Alcoholics Anonymous, and if I ever think I am too busy or have too much time for a service commitment, please sit me down and remind me who helped get my life back. Other Alcoholics who were of service.
Since my AA fellows are great at calling me out when warranted, I will kindly call out anyone who has more than a year and uses the “I have so much going on with my work, family, and sponsees that I can’t take a service commitment.” Can you imagine that? That would mean every meeting would lack volunteers. Seriously. Let‘s be real. If you have worked the steps with a sponsor, cheers. You are more fortunate than most who come into the rooms via Zoom. Now pay it forward and carry the message by taking a commitment to keep yourself and others sober. And for those who have not worked the steps with a sponsor, please keep coming back, because I need to remember what it felt like my first few days, weeks, and months of sobriety to remind me that I only have a life because other people kept showing up to save their ass even when they did not want to.
When born, most of us come into the world untainted and perfectly innocent. From that time on, we are influenced by everything we experience in life, good and bad. If we are loved and nurtured we may develop a feeling of trust and safety, but if, as it sometimes happens, we get our hand slapped when we pick up something from the coffee table, it may trigger an attitude of defiance and resistance. These two opposites are just examples of the many conflicts we encounter in a lifetime. We are conditioned to think and react in a certain way as the result of the experiences we are exposed to.
This is probably the biggest hurdle we in AA must face
Newcomers in Alcoholics Anonymous, (A.A.) and even some seasoned veterans, often find it hard to grasp a concept of a “power greater than ourselves.” This is probably the biggest hurdle we in A.A. must face in our search for a happy and meaningful life. Once we get past all our resistance to the concept of a Higher Power, it becomes much easier to proceed with the rest of the program. What is meant by the word God and what God can do for us, can mean something different to just about everyone that is having difficulty with it, and if God alone was the answer, why do priests and ministers come to A.A. for treatment? Why not just go to church?
Alcoholics Anonymous is here for all alcoholics that want to get sober regardless of their approach to faith. Anyone that thinks that we are trying to convert someone into a religion or out of a religion is simply misguided. The Big book (Alcoholics Anonymous) and the 12&12 (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions) have many comments explaining this, but unfortunately this old conditioning, bolstered by the ego, seems to block some of us from breaking down the resistance on this subject, or some members may just fake it to appear to be going along with the program, but never getting the results. If we denied the possibility of a God of the different religious groups, they could not have A.A. available to them, and if we made it a requirement that we picked one of those beliefs, atheists would be left out, and where would Buddhists stand? If a person believes that he does not have a higher power, I might remind him/her that alcohol was more powerful or else why would he need A.A.? With this in mind, I might suggest that he may only need to find a power greater than alcohol to begin with. Then, as it says in Step Two: To acquire it, I had only to stop fighting and practice the rest of the A.A. program as enthusiastically as I could.
old conditioning, bolstered by the ego, seems to block us from breaking down the resistance
As I look back on it now, I realize that that was exactly the way I found my way through this challenge. I find absolutely no conflict in any approach that one discovers on his own, only that he practices the rest of the program with enthusiasm. What it seems to imply is that if we trust the process and, just do the suggestions, we will find a suitable understanding of a power greater than yourself that you can do business with.
Step Two is the rallying point
I’m still not sure what or who (if you like) I am asking for guidance from but I’m open minded about these things. I have to let everyone find their own brand of enlightenment, without pre-judging anyone else’s approach on this matter. I believe that changing my perception was what put me firmly on the road to recovery. The only thing that I have to resist is my ego.
The way I do that is by living by sound and unselfish principles many of which are discussed in A.A. meetings, and many are assimilated through osmosis as I continue to put 2 and 2 together. It is not that complicated. If I don’t get caught up in the debate and just follow the simplest suggestions, it all works out fine.
When they pulled Ramone Luna off his plane at Los Angeles, he was talking to his wife back in São Paulo after flying overnight from Brazil. His jet was taking on new passengers before continuing to San Francisco. Two men in fine suits waded through the departing travelers and arrested him. They were polite and quiet, escorting him to the airport security center. He was detained in a small white room with a folding chair and a metal table. They took his carry-on bag, everything in his pockets, and his wedding ring. He waited there for several hours. There was no way for him to tell exactly how long. When a short man with thick glasses finally walked into the room, Ramone had been sleeping. They politely woke him up and informed him that he was being arrested for trafficking illegal narcotics. He explained that he was a Samba musician traveling to the San Francisco Bay Area to visit his brother and his family for Christmas. They cordially listened to his explanation then ushered him to a waiting patrol car for transport to a local detention center.
Several days later, in the detention center, Ramone began to worry about whether he would ever see his wife again or be released. He explained several times that he never messed around with drugs except for beer, cigarettes, and occasionally some rum. He asked to see a lawyer and call his family. He was told that his requests were being reviewed. Finally, one day, he was escorted to a small concrete room where he waited for over an hour. The room had a small toilet with a sink and a concrete slab extending from the big-enough wall for him to lie down on. There was no light in the room, aside from a small window on the door.
When two men arrived in the room, Ramone was lying face-up on the slab. Both men wore suits. One was considerably bigger than the other. The smaller one was of African descent while the other seemed from European lineage; otherwise, he couldn’t tell one from the other.
“Getting comfortable?” the smaller man asked, “If we may, we would like to have a short conversation with you, Mr. Luna.”
“I apologize,” Ramone said, sitting up, “Of course, please let us talk and excuse me again.”
“Not at all,” the short man said, “My name is Ron Williams, and this is my colleague David Curtis.”
“Very pleased to meet both of you.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any good news for you, Mr. Luna.”
“What is wrong?”
Williams glanced at his partner. “From what we learned, you are an awfully bad man. We have determined that you are more than likely working for Maranhão Cartel as a lieutenant. We are fairly sure that you’re using this trip to see your brother as a cover to travel to California for other business. We don’t know what that could be.”
I’m afraid we don’t have any good news for you, Mr. Luna
Upon saying this, Williams walked over and sat next to Ramone.
“Here’s the good news,” he continued while patting Ramone’s shoulder, “If you could provide us information about why you are here and who you’re meeting, we can mitigate a transfer to a more comfortable place with supervised access to phone calls.”
Williams paused and looked him in the eyes. “What do you think, Mr. Luna?”
Ramone could feel his skin crawl and didn’t know what to say. He knew he wanted to get out of that place as soon as possible, go straight home, and never return to the States. “Please, I will help you by any means possible and tell you anything I know. But please understand I am not with any cartel aside from the São Paulo Samba Fellowship.”
Williams smirked and looked over at his colleague. His stillness was unnerving to Ramone, who felt sweat dampening his shirt. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. We need to know why you’re here, and we need to figure out the Maranhão Cartel plans. We don’t have time. Some of our people are in danger.”
“Please, I will help you in any way I can.”
“Then tell us the real reason you’re here.”
“I have…”
“If you fear your employer, you should know we can give you full protection and bring your family here from Brazil.”
Ramone tried to remain as calm as possible while he chose the right words. “Mr. Williams, please. I just wanted to see my brother. I don’t like to even take medicine from the doctor.”
Mr. Williams glanced at his partner again. Frowning, he got up slowly and stood over Ramone, looking him in the eyes. “Okay, here is where we’re at. We have to know what’s going on within the next couple of months, and we can’t bullshit with you. So, we’re going to keep you in this room for an exceptionally long time. We’re going to keep you until we decide that you are ready to be honest.”
At this point, Ramone was both mortified and angry. He wanted to get up and throw a punch, but he realized the consequences and kept himself in check. “I have! I swear to God, I have. Please!”
“We will be back, maybe in a week or maybe in a month. Until then, you’re going to stay here by yourself. You’ll be fed, and you’ll be kept warm.”
At that moment, Williams pointed to the vertical glass slit that acted as the room’s window. “See the slit in the door? That is your source of light.”
Williams then pointed at a horizontal slot under the window with a small table attached below it. “See that closed slot underneath? That’s where meal trays will be dispensed.”
“Please,” Ramone said, raising his voice further, “What can I do to make you understand that I will help in all ways I can?”
“Oh, that reminds me. David, could you bring in the mattress?”
Williams’ companion quickly left the room and returned promptly with a mattress that he propped up against a wall. He pointed at the mattress. “This is your bed. Please don’t have an accident on the bed, Mr. Luna. You will not get a replacement. You can use the sink to clean yourself and drink water. You will be given a fresh roll of toilet paper every-other-day with your breakfast.”
“Please!”
“Goodbye, Mr. Luna. I hope you think hard about being honest with us the next time we talk.”
“But what am I going to do till then?”
“Use your imagination, Mr. Luna. In fact, I’m feeling generous.”
Williams riffled through his pocket and pulled out a pack of playing cards, throwing it at Ramones’ feet. “Here’s a pack of cards I bought at the airport. Take it to kill time while thinking. And think hard about being more honest next time we speak.”
Ramone ignored the pack of cards and left them on the floor where Williams dropped them. He was in shock and felt satisfied lying on his mattress, meditating on scenarios in which his probable release would be realized. Between moments of contemplation, he slept.
Days blended together until he lost track of time. He moved only to eat and use the toilet; otherwise, he lay docile, lost in his ideas and dreams. Finally, an hour after awakening from a nightmare, he picked up the pack of cards and dealt a game of Klondike.
He could barely see with what light entered his room. Regardless, he began to play. He lost. He dealt another round, and he won. He dispensed another and gave up halfway through the game. This continued off and on for several more days, at least as far as he could tell, having lost the awareness to comprehend the passage of time.
This continued off and on for several more days, at least as far as he could tell
Eventually, Ramone began to feel the effects of solitude and started talking to himself. These informal conversations mirrored his thoughts. There were also times when he would awaken from vivid dreams and continue discussions that he began in his sleep.
He became restless, lying around and playing cards with himself. He started exercising randomly throughout his hours, which eventually evolved into a regular routine before meals. He slept less and thought more. His conversations with himself became more complex as his ability to sleep vanished. Soon, he couldn’t tell when he slept and when he was daydreaming. He hadn’t seen or heard from anyone for what appeared to him a long time—maybe days, maybe months. He couldn’t make sense of time anymore. At some point, he decided to change things around.
He’d been playing the only solitaire games he knew—Klondike and Pyramid—and it had become stale. The cards were worn now. He had memorized and studied the pack design, which was all red on the back with a cheap illustration that featured an airline jet lifting off. He examined the font on the playing side—a basic serif—and the artwork on their fronts—detailed but typical. He was bored. He needed something different when he couldn’t stand lying on the mattress or running through his exercises.
He decided to play a simple hand of poker with his brother Miguel. This was challenging since Miguel wasn’t there nor a gambler. But Ramone was confident that the game would work since Miguel understood the basics of poker. He realized this was crazy. But in light of his situation, he felt he needed to do something before things got worse—before he got worse. Besides, there was no one around to notice his insane behavior.
He dealt two hands of five-card draw. Miguel sat across him in Ramone’s mind’s eye. Miguel was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt, green khaki shorts, and those aviator sunglasses he liked so much. Smiling like an idiot, he was sure to win the first hand. He was right and took his phantom winnings with a cock-sure grin.
“Good game,” Miguel said while smiling, “Let’s go again.”
He dealt the next hand and was able to win again. Miguel smirked but wanted to continue playing. This went on for roughly three more hands until Miguel was down to his last chips. No one was frowning now. He went all in, swearing under his breath. Ramone saw him lay a pair in front of him. Miguel had three of a kind and took the pot for the first time.
Ramone dealt again, and once again, Miguel went all in. Ramone took the bait. Miguel took everything a second time. Ramone was trying not to frown but went all-in on the first bet. Miguel saw him and showed him a pair of eights. Ramone had nothing.
“Sucker.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ramone muttered, putting his cards down, “I hate when you pull that kind of stunt. When did you learn to play?”
“You’re too gullible, brother,” Miguel replied, taking the imaginary chips, “I play Texas Hold ‘Em at Artichoke Joe’s with Gina all the time.”
At this point, Ramone became tired of playing make-believe, deciding he had a masochistic streak. There was no way Miguel and Gina went to Artichoke Joe’s. He had to drag them in there the last time he was in town just to look around. Putting the cards away and laying back on his mattress, he wondered if he would see either of them again. He asked where Dalinda, his wife was now. Was she worried? Has she called the Brazilian consulate yet? If she has, what was the consulate doing? He thought about his Mom and Dad back in Mexico City. What would they think?
His Dad was irritated that he immigrated to Brazil so he could play Samba professionally. Ramone was entranced by Samba, which his father found pathetic. There was something with the way the guitar mixed with rhythms and accented the lyrics and melody. It was like a dream seeping into real life through rhythmic playing, a festival of color and energy. When he was a kid, he would listen to Samba CDs and envision casinos and clubs with exciting women. He’d see fights breakout and escapades untangle during the length of recordings. He’d imagine canvases and houses on cliffs and beaches—young and old intermingling their secrets, crimes, and lusts. He never forgot about those visions. When he grew older, he put his hands on a guitar and another on a plane ticket, leaving his hometown for the streets of São Paulo. That’s what he had going for him while lying on the thin foam mattress in his narrow concrete prison— his wife, his guitar, his Samba.
Ramone became restless. His exercise routines throughout the day were beginning to get dull. He was more aware of his narrow cold world. There were times he thought he would scream at the top of his lungs as hard as he could until his throat was raw. Other times, he would cry long and hard. Nothing ever happened. No one ever came. No one cared.
His food was delivered regularly, and every other day he was given a roll of toilet paper. He tried for a while to attract the attention of the person who pushed his tray through his slot, but it was like there was a robot on the other end. He pleaded and complained, but nothing happened. He cried and threw his tray back against the door, but nothing happened. He carried on one-sided conversations with the door, but nothing happened. He prayed to the food guy, begging for mercy, but nothing happened. His food was delivered regularly, and every other day he was given a roll of toilet paper.
Eventually, he passed beyond that phase in his misery, discovering true despair. It was then that he remained in his bed indefinitely, except to relieve himself—he hadn’t forgotten what that son of bitch Williams had said about his mattress. He didn’t take his trays anymore, nor did he exercise. Ramone laid their defeated and empty, barely having the energy to use the toilet. He lost weight and became weaker every time he awoke. Eventually, he stopped sleeping but remained in this half-awake state of being, a kind of self-hypnosis, which made time passed rapidly. He didn’t know how fast but noticed his whiskers exponentially grew as he laid still. He completely lost track of days and truly didn’t know if weeks or months had passed.
At some point, Ramone decided to eat. They just delivered his meal, and it smelled really good. In fact, it tasted wonderful—even though it was the same kind of stuff they had been providing him. After finishing, he saw the pack of cards lying on the floor where he left them; it felt like an eon since he played with the cards. He decided to play a couple of more rounds with his brother.
He sat down on the cold floor and began dealing two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, just to entice Miguel. He looked up, and there, his brother was sitting on the floor across from him. This time though, it was more than Ramone’s imagination constructing a ghost in the nothingness. Miguel was there. And Ramone didn’t question his presence.
Miguel was wearing the same clothes he wore the other times. He was stretching out like they were about to play some tennis instead of cards. Ramone shook his head and thought about how much his brother loved to ham it up around him.
“You ready to go, buddy?”
“Let’s do this.”
Ramone stretched out to get himself ready and realized that they were no longer in a concrete cell. They were sitting in the sand right outside Clube do Paraíso, where he had regular gigs. It was near sunset. There were a handful of people at the bar and a solo player performing. Ramone figured it was the middle of the week. It was then that he felt something was wrong.
“Miguel, for some reason, I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”
Miguel took his cards. “The club doesn’t own the beach or the sand, brother. No one’s going to bust us.”
“Oh, okay. That has reason.”
They played a couple of hands. This time Ramone was aware of Miguel’s skills, and things were a little more even.
“Shouldn’t you be in San Bruno with Gina? I mean, are you both here, or is it just you?”
“We’re here on vacation,” Miguel said, lying down in the sand, “Remember?”
“My apologies. My head has been in other places lately. I think I got a concussion or something.”
“What do you mean? I’m getting a concussion listening to you.”
“No, it’s just I swear I was in jail before we started playing.”
Miguel sat up and looked at Ramone. “In jail? This doesn’t look like a jail. Were you in jail recently or something like that?”
“I thought so. I don’t know. Where’s Gina?”
“With Dalinda. Let’s get a drink and catch a cab home.”
They walked over to the bar and ordered some beers as the sunset receded into the twilight. The beach was warm, and the lights of homes in Guarujá’s beach community were visible. Ramone sipped his beer and looked towards the ocean. It was then he realized that none of this experience was really happening. He was still in his narrow concrete room. He was staring at his cell door. Beyond that was the mysterious landscape of the detention center. Beyond that was the world at large. Beyond that were Dalinda and Brazil. It was there that that beach was located in the coastal town of Guarujá near São Paulo. But Ramone was still in his narrow concrete room.
He lay on his mattress for a couple of hours, trying to process what happened. He had been in his cell for a long time, but then he hadn’t. He had been on the beach in Brazil with his brother. It was real, but so was his life in the concrete room. Ramone wondered what life was and what was fiction, then considered whether it mattered.
He looked back at his door and noticed they had served him another meal. It seemed like he just ate, but he also felt burning bangs of hunger as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Getting up, Ramone took his tray, devouring its contents. He drank some water from his sink, used the toilet, and cleaned up. Soon after, he exercised again for the first time in a while, feeling rejuvenated and spry.
The problem was what to do with his energy. After playing a couple of more hands of Klondike, Ramone thought about how long he had been in the concrete room. It must have been months since he was imprisoned, but then he decided it couldn’t have been that long—maybe only several weeks. He couldn’t tell but felt that his jailers would return soon. He focused his thoughts on that. Specifically, what he should do when they returned.
He quickly decided he was going to have to lie. They didn’t want to hear the truth; they wanted him to tell them they were right. The problem was how he was going to play them. He thought about this a lot while playing solitaire until he grew tired and went back to his mattress. He lay down and tried to rest, but he was too restless. He sat up on the side of the bed and looked at the opposite wall, then closed his eyes and prayed.
“Hey Ramone,” a voice said in the quiet of the concrete room, “You aren’t sleeping, are you?”
Ramone sat up, opening his eyes—looking in the direction of the voice. There was nothing but his toilet and sink. He looked to the cell door, which was the same as always. He clamored toward it and looked through the window slit. Nothing was there but the wall adjacent to his cell door. The voice seemed to come from his room, though. He went and sat back down on his mattress.
The voice seemed to come from his room
His nerves were fried. It seemed like his hosts were messing with him now. He closed his eyes and prayed some more.
“Hey Ramone,” the voice said again, “Wake up; we’re almost there!”
Ramone slowly opened his eyes and looked around his empty concrete room. He considered whether he was talking to himself and not aware of it before dismissing the notion as crazy. It was then that something happened that he truly never expected to ever occur in his life, though consciously he was expecting and hoping for it to happen. His cell door opened.
He blinked his eyes several times from the glare of light in the hallway. The brightness was overwhelming, and he could barely see the silhouette of the two men outside the entrance. The larger of the two men walked into the room. Ramone noticed his uniform and recognize him as one of the detention guards.
The guard kept his game face on and looked at him as if beckoning him to make a move. Ramone looked into his eyes, which were as cold as the concrete in the cell.
Soon after, the other man walked in. He was about Ramone’s height and wore a maroon medical scrub. He had a serious expression on his face but more in-line with someone focusing their attention on a task at hand. He looked at the guard briefly.
“Mr. Luna,” the guard barked, “Thank you for your continued patience. Please allow Dr. Brand to perform a momentary examination to determine your ongoing health. This is mandatory, and any unexpected behavior deemed hostile will be dealt with in a swift and meaningful manner. Do you understand what I have said, sir?”
Ramone wondered if this was another fiction his mind had created. He didn’t know what to say and was far from making a movement or any bullshit like that.
“I repeat. Do you understand what I have said, sir?”
“Yes.”
The medic then went about performing a complete physical on Ramone while he sat there completely still. Ramone had no energy to move and was in shock by the sudden appearance of other human beings. Also, he contemplated the veracity of their existence in his concrete landscape.
After the medic was finished, he asked him some questions, which Ramone answered briefly as the medic made notes. Most of the queries were simple. How was he sleeping, and was he experiencing anything unusual? This question made Ramone laugh to himself. He also asked questions like his name, including basic information about himself and where he was now. The guard stood behind the medic, stone-faced and glaring. When the medic was finished with his questions, he looked at the guard then walked out of the room.
The guard began backing out of the room. “Thank you for your cooperation and continued patience. Have a nice day.”
“How much longer till I can leave? I mean, how long until I will have a follow-up conversation about my case?
The guard closed the door. “Have a nice day.”
Ramone was again alone in his concrete room. The silence was unbearable. He lay back down and thought about what he should do next. He considered over-analyzing what just happened but couldn’t get his mind to focus on anything aside from the silence. It beckoned him into a meditative state of emptiness, both in thoughts and feelings. He found it refreshing and began to feel a vibration around him. Thinking it was because of the shock he had a moment earlier, he began to recognize the shaking as a sensation he felt while driving.
He opened his eyes and confirmed what he felt. It was warm and humid. He was sitting in an SUV on the main road back to São Paulo. His brother was driving casually. There was some kind of Mexican Hip-Hop on the stereo. The stench of Miguel’s cigars was everywhere inside the truck.
His brother said, glancing at him, “You were sleeping like a rock, Ramone. When’s the last night you slept, buddy?”
Ramone was confused but slightly relieved. He sat up straight and tried to clear his head. “I had some crazy dreams.”
“No kidding?”
“No,” Ramone replied, glancing at his brother, “Just like this situation where I get locked up in the states when I was trying to visit you and Gina.”
“What? Did they catch you with drugs and stuff?”
“No, but they thought I was a big shot with some cartel.”
“Huh. Well, that sucks. Did you even get some dream time partying it up when they got you?”
“No”
“Well, that really sucks.”
“Hey, where are we going again?”
“So, like, don’t tell anyone I said anything, but we’re heading to this bar to have a drink.”
“Oh, what does that mean?”
“It’s a surprise party, dumb-ass. Dalinda rented out the whole place, but it is supposed to be like I’m taking you there for some drinks for your birthday, just you and me.”
“Oh, it’s my birthday?”
“Oh man, you better go back to sleep, buddy.”
Ramone felt someone nudging his shoulder and looked over at his brother. But he wasn’t there. He looked in front of him and found himself staring at the wall of his concrete room. He was nudged again, and this time noticed Ron Williams standing beside him while he sat on his bed. Williams had a concerned looked on his face and silently examined him for a moment.
“Mr. Williams? Are you real?”
Williams was alone this time. His partner wasn’t there, nor was there a guard. The concrete room’s door was open behind him. Williams scratched his chin before saying anything. “Mr. Luna, do you realize you were talking to yourself just now?”
“No, I was asleep.”
“With your eyes open?”
“I guess.”
“Well, Mr. Luna,” Williams said, sitting beside him, “You’ve been doing that for quite a while, and, in some cases, you’ve been shouting out loud. My associates are beginning to get concerned.”
“Oh, are we going to have another conversation? Because I am ready to tell you everything.”
Williams brushes his knee and stretches. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Luna, we have cleared you, and you are no longer considered a person of interest. Frankly, the Brazilian consulate has been lobbying for your release after everything that has happened. We sincerely apologize for such long incarceration. There have been several amnesty organizations that have also been petitioning for your release. I am afraid that we have made an extremely serious error. And I sincerely and deeply apologize for your treatment. We will fully compensate you for any health-related expenses you may have incurred, including mental health treatment. I am also authorized to provide you with an extremely generous financial compensation package with your signature on several liability release forms. We can discuss those items and a couple of others at a later time once you have had a chance to recover.”
“May I call my wife?”
“Well, that, unfortunately, is the bad news I have for you. It appears your incarceration has reached the cartels in Brazil. Apparently, a rival cartel took it as an opportunity to take hostages as leverage against the Maranhão Cartel. I am afraid they were able to locate your wife and daughter.”
“Are they alright?”
“I am sorry to tell you that both were killed once Maranhão Cartel refused to cooperate with the other cartel. I am so sorry, sir.”
Ramone said nothing and continued to stare at the wall.
“So, if you wouldn’t mind,” Williams said, getting up slowly, “Could you please remain here for a short while longer. I will leave the door open. A medical examiner will be in a few moments for a quick check. He will then escort you to a very nice room with a patio where you will reside for a day or two until we can finalize your release. I am authorized to take you wherever you want. Your passport will be in your room, along with all your possessions. You are more than welcome to continue your journey to San Francisco to visit your brother. We can also transport you to your remaining family in São Paulo. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
Williams left quietly.
Ramone continued to stare blankly at his wall. He looked for something in the concrete that might reveal that this was just another fiction created by his mind. That he was still trapped in his small home while his family was safe in São Paulo. He couldn’t convince himself of anything, though, as the hallway light poured into his room from the open door. He squeezed his eyes tightly together to block the light. He began to pray.
“You know,” a voice said, “No matter how much you pray, life will continue unchanged.”
“What do you know?” Ramone muttered, opening his eyes and looking at the concrete wall.
“I know that you wanted this moment to happen for so long,” the voice answered, “Only to realize how much it has cost you.”
“I never was told the price,” Ramone said to the wall.
In fiction, things are the way we make them
“No one ever is. That is life, as they say. In fiction, things are the way we make them. But in life, this is not always the case.”
“This is not very comforting. You’re not helping.”
“What do you want me to tell you? This is life.”
Ramone thought about this for a second. Then he looked around him for the source of the voice. He was alone. He thought maybe if he closed his door, he would see who he was talking to. It would at least make things more comfortable. And so, he got up and closed the door. Returning to his mattress, he waited for the voice to show itself, but nothing happened. Ramone closed his eyes.
“Well,” he whispered to the empty room, “If this is life, then give me fiction.”
It was then that he heard a woman singing a plaintive note to some Brazilian ballad before the Samba orchestra began performing their rhythmic melody about beach sunsets and the coastal moan of the ocean.
Ramone opened his eyes to see the club Miguel had mentioned. He’d been there before. He recognized most of the people. The band was on a small platform, and the middle-aged woman singing had a broad smile. To his left was Dalinda in her lavender party dress walking towards him. She walked over with a drink, and they kissed. They strolled together to the dance floor, where couples had already begun to dance.
He could hear a voice echo from somewhere far in the distance. It was Williams’ voice. He was talking to someone else. There was a concern in his tone. Ramone couldn’t make out what was being said and lost interest; instead, he focused on Dalinda and the music.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Dalinda whispered in his ear.
Nothing, my love. You look wonderful tonight. You’re just as I always remember in my mind’s eye.”
Ramone smiled, humming along with the samba music. He danced with his wife and bantered with his brother and some friends. The twilight dimmed the sky above. The warm and humid air saturated the packed club. It was such a great evening that he never wanted to leave São Paulo again. Yet William’s voice beckoned. So Ramone closed his eyes, held tight to his wife and sang along with the Samba performers.
