Blizzard
Chris Walters, October 10, 2013
Nobody noticed the smile didn’t
reach his eyes. People bought that “kind brother” act. I can’t be surprised;
people see what they want. I see dead eyes, a mouth faking humanity. What
others think are just foibles I see as symptoms, a pattern of indicators
straight from a text book.
I’ve seen them before, years ago. I
was young, they were young, neither of us very sophisticated. Back then I was
too high and uninformed to be sure what I was seeing, they too inexperienced to
conceal themselves effectively.
My friends just called them “dicks”
and, after they started their predations, “con-artists”; I saw them as
creatures with no conscience, who saw us as stupid sheep on which to prey. I
didn’t know the terms “sociopath” and “psychopath”. I just said “monster”.
For their own comfort my friends
liked to believe I was speaking dramatically, and, after pulling together to
drive the offender away, paid them no more mind. I knew that these creatures
would become worse over time, but for my friends it was ‘out of sight, out of
mind’; “Who cares? He’s gone. He’s someone else’s problem.” I figured someone
else had said the same thing before he became our problem.
Now, with 10 years sobriety, and an
underutilized psychology degree, I’d found another one, a middle aged hippy, at
an AA meeting, speaking fluent Programese, mouth smiling or sobbing, lifeless
expressionless eyes recording every last reaction. I remember thinking his
torrent of carefully rehearsed phrases hid his character like a blizzard
obscuring a man’s shape.
It was the fourth time I’d seen him
when I realized that, before and after meetings, he only spent time with
newcomers, particularly the young ones who’d responded most emphatically to
what he’d shared. He would talk like a much younger man, but with the
experience of his age, and they’d Pavlov for him, taking his slyly phrased
orders, thinking they were fulfilling requests from some who thought them a
friend and equal.
I saw that he had a knack for
spotting young people with father issues, and providing them praise and
validation they didn’t know they’d missed out on, lowering their defenses.
However, when one of the older members, someone with gray hair and decades
sober talked to him, someone obviously respected in the group, he’d kiss their
ass, obsequious as Eddie Haskell.
I tried to tell others about my
observations, but AA doesn’t allow for “gossip”. It also dictates that anyone
can change if they want to, patently ignoring scientific studies on certain
personality and mental disorders. I was told it wasn’t my business, to keep my
own side of the street clean, that minding someone else’s business was a danger
to my sobriety. When I pointed out his false smile I was told we all ‘fake it
till we make it’.
There was a young woman named Rachel
in the meetings. She was 20, and 2 years sober. She’d had a hard life, raised
with no father, dirt poor, with everything against her. Yet she was trying, not
accepting the hand she was dealt. She was sober, working, going to school. Her
mother had been a stripper, then a hooker, then dead, but Rachel was going a
better way. I was fond of her. Not romantically; more like a fan. I just
enjoyed her progress as a purely positive thing, and I rooted for her. She was
full of light and hope and that gave me hope. We never spoke; I just looked
forward to her sharing, like a favorite TV show.
When she started hanging around with
him, though, I could take no more; I knew he’d hurt her, and I had no way to
prevent it. I moved away. For 3 months I was in a new town, with new meetings,
and had started to relax the vigilance fostered by him. Then, one
winter day, Rachel showed up at my morning meeting.
She had bruises, and would cover her
mouth when speaking, like she wasn’t willing to show her teeth. She shook when
any men approached. She shared that her boyfriend, an older man she’d met in
the program, had made her feel so special, but after she’d let him move in,
started beating her, and making her feel worthless. But he still acted like a great
guy in public, especially meetings. Her own sponsor wouldn’t listen to her,
such was the monster’s craft.
She escaped when he had messed up
her face. He’d told her she was to stay home until her face healed, took her
phone and keys, and walked to a meeting 2 blocks away, leaving her car in the
driveway.
She’d had an extra set of keys, so
packed some essentials, and fled. Now she was here, shaking, avoiding eye
contact, appearing afraid to cry, startling at noises. I was wracked with
guilt, and rage; this was my fault, and I couldn’t get past it.
When the meeting ended I got in my
car and drove. I had a 2 hour drive, and rehearsed confrontations in my mind. I
couldn’t escape it, though; words would do nothing. He couldn’t feel guilt, and
no one would believe me. They would just call it gossip.
It started snowing as I drove, and
the radio said a blizzard was on the way. I kept going, my anger building with
the snow. My plan was just to find him; what happened then I couldn’t predict.
He had no car of his own. If he was
to go to a meeting, in this weather, it would be near his house.
On sudden inspiration I left the
highway 2 exits early. I knew there was a liquor store there. I paid cash for
the cheapest bottle of vodka they had. The snow had quickened, and my driving
slowed, but I resumed my trip.
I got to the church where the
meeting was held 15 minutes before the start. I had been going at 15mph or less
for 2 hours since the liquor store. Visibility was about 10 feet. I entered the
lot by the farther of the 2 entrances. Unsurprisingly the parking lot was
empty; too much snow for most people to risk driving. Someone had at least
shoveled the snow banks at the entrances left by the town snow plow.
I parked far from the door, and
contemplated. If he was home I could leave the car and walk there, but how to
get him out? And what would I say?
I wasn’t ready to admit why I’d
bought the vodka.
I looked toward the basement of the
church, the whole building just a vague shadow in the thick wet whiteness. The
lights were on. I couldn’t see inside, but there was someone there. I put on my
gloves, put the vodka in my messenger bag, and got out of the car. As I got
closer I saw a snow shovel by the door outside. I walked up to the window of
the kitchen, and looked in.
The place was set up for a meeting.
There were snacks, and the tables and chairs were all in place. But no one was
there. I heard a voice near the door, and hid. It was him. He was talking to
someone on the phone. He was angry, and his façade was in danger of cracking.
“But I set everything up!”, he said,
then listened for reply. “So? It’s winter! It snows! The janitor shoveled out
before he took off!” “Yeah, well, I left my boots in my car, when she stole it,
and I just have my
sandals!” “Fine! Don’t come crying
to me when you drink!” he yelled, hung up, and
stepped outside. He was 5 feet away
from me, but separated by snow and a corner of wall.
“God damn it!” he yelled, and I
heard something hit the wall and shatter. A piece bounced near me, a bit of
pink plastic, a shard of a conspicuously girly phone. He then went back inside.
Before I could retreat to my car the
lights went out, and he emerged. He couldn’t see my car through the snow, and
with the lights now out, couldn’t see me though I was within grabbing distance.
He started walking right past me, and I followed, matching my steps to his.
It was difficult because he was
walking poorly, wearing flipflops in the snow. Fortunately he was too cold to
pay attention. I still didn’t have a plan when I heard the snowplow returning.
It sounded like it would arrive shortly
after we reached the street. I knew what to do now.
I increased my pace and closed the
distance between us, getting within a foot before saying “Hey, man”. The plow
was now within 200 feet.
He startled and turned losing his
balance, but catching himself.
“Oh, hey!” he said, putting on his
act immediately, though his teeth were chattering. 150 feet.
“Rachel says ‘hi’”, I said and went
into action. I stepped hard on his bare foot, while slamming my forehead into
his nose. I followed this with a shove using everything I had. It worked
perfectly; he hit the asphalt backwards, his skull bouncing. He was badly
dazed, and trying to sit up. 100 feet.
I had the vodka out, opened and in
his mouth. His unfocused eyes fluttered, but after resisting and spilling some
vodka he began to swallow. 50 feet. I ducked behind the remnant of snow bank
left by the janitor, leaving the bottle in his grasping hands, and watched. The
snow covered him just enough to obscure his shape, and with the low visibility
he couldn’t be seen at all unless you knew to look. The plow then covered him,
a heavy wet snow bank burying him completely, and the driver never saw.
I stood and inspected his tomb.
There was no sign of movement. I waited another 5 minutes, letting the plow
return to increase the pile. I then returned to my car, idling with no lights,
and waited through one more pass of the plow.
I got the shovel that had been left
outside, went to the far entrance, and removed enough snow to drive out. The
trip took all night, but I returned to my new home without incident.
The next day the local news had a
report of a body being found in a church parking lot. The church’s plow man had
begun plowing out the lot, and uncovered the body in the process. There was
damage from the plow, but it was believed that the man, who was found with a
half empty bottle of vodka, had passed out and died of exposure. The man had no
ID, so fingerprints were being run by police.
That night the news had more on him.
His fingerprints linked him to a dozen disappearances of young women around the
country. I emailed a copy of the story to my former sponsor, with the words “I
told you so.” I got a reply with a bunch of program babble about it not being
my job, my only job is to stay sober, blah blah blah. And I thought stupid
sheep, blind in the snow.
