I’ve been thinking a lot about progress, not perfection. That’s what they always say in all those AA meetings the court says I have to go to. Those meetings are a joke, but I’m the only one laughing.  All you do is sit around and listen to some person who hasn’t drank in 20 years go on and on about how they used to be one of us and then wait for everyone else who raised their hand first to quit yapping so you can have three minutes to yourself to whine about your sucky life and how you want to drink but you’re not going to. Then everyone gives the dollar you’re forced to donate to stop the club from running out of money and closing its doors on these unfortunate drunks and giving them yet another reason to drink. After that, you all thank G-d for this fellowship time and the person in charge signs your court papers and you’re free for another week.
Like I said, it’s a joke no-one is laughing at.
Another one is this: I’m not an alcoholic.
Yeah, I know, everyone says that. But in my case, it happens to be true . I’m just a 19-year-old kid who got caught doing stupid shit and agreed to be labeled with a social disease so it wouldn’t go on my record.
Maybe I’d better back up a little. Begin at the beginning like my high school English teacher Miss Jasmine always said, in another lifetime two years ago when none of this had happened yet and I was still a good kid.
It all started the summer I turned 17. I spent a lot of time sitting outside on the porch, then, staring at nothing, trying not to think. Clouds swirled around my head and made me dream things I didn’t dare dream, stuff about leaving this town and going to a big fancy school and studying what I wanted just for the fun of it without knowing what I would do with it later.
     Anyway, one of these times while I was staring at the sky and feeling life pass me by, a big huge truck pulled up to the house next door. It wasn’t a falling apart, dingy truck either. It was a fancy white truck with red stripes like people with money rent when they want to move somewhere. I sat up straight and squinted into the sun and watched while a boy jumped out the passenger side. He was about my age but a little taller than me, with dark curls that bounced off his forehead. When he went to open the back of the truck I saw his muscles, which were like a wrestler’s or a bodybuilder’s or something. I couldn’t help but wonder what his chest looked like. I raised my hand to my eyes and kind of waved. He glanced at me, then away, and went on moving stuff like he hadn’t seen me.
     A while later, the boy came over to the chain link fence and stared out. I’d just come out again, I’d been inside fixing a lemonade.
     “So,” he said. “A boy my age.” He stood still, letting the words hang in the air between us ‘til I had to say something.
     I ran my hands through my ash-colored hair, wishing it was shiny and gorgeous like his. “My name’s Arthur.”
     “Mitch,” he said, and grinned. Then he walked away. I squeezed the links in the fence ‘til my palms hurt, not knowing the twisted path G-d was about to send me down, just knowing something had changed and I had to get to know this guy.