Who's Sitting Next To You?
March 1991

 I know who you are. You are "X" who attends the ABC Meeting
at the XYZ Club where N.A.'s meet in Anywhere, U.S.A.

 I saw you there the other night at the eight o'clock meeting.
I don't know how long you've been clean, but I know you've been
coming around for a while because you spoke to a lot of people
who knew you. I wasn't one of them.

   You don't know who I am. I wandered into your meeting place
alone the other night, a stranger in a strange town. I got a cup of
coffee, and sat down by myself. You didn't speak to me.

   Oh, you saw me. You glanced my way, but you didn't recognize
me, so you quickly averted your eyes and sought out a familiar face.
I sat there through the meeting.

   It was okay, a slightly different format but basically the same
kind of meeting as the one I go to at home.

 The topic was gratitude. You and your friends spoke about how
much N.A. means to you. You talked about the camaraderie in your
meeting place. You said how much the people there had helped you
when you first came through the door how they extended the hand
of friendship to make you feel welcome, and asked you to come back.
And I wondered where they had gone, those nice people who made
your entrance so welcoming and so comfortable.

 You talked about how the newcomer is the life blood of N.A. I
agree, but I didn't say so. In fact, I didn't share in your meeting.
I signed my name in the book that was passed around, but the
chairperson didn't refer to it. He only called on those people in the
room whom he knew. So who am I? You don't know, because you didn't
bother to find out. Although yours was a closed meeting, you didn't
even ask if I belonged there.

It might have been my first meeting. I could have been full of
fear and distrust, knowing N.A. wouldn't work any better than
anything else I'd tried, and I would have left convinced that I
was right. I might have been suicidal, grasping at one last straw,
hoping someone would reach out and pull me from the pit of loathing
and self-pity from which, by myself, I could find no escape.

I might have been a student with a tape recorder in my pocket,
assigned to write a paper on how N.A. works - someone who shouldn't
have been permitted  to sit there at all but could have been directed
to an open meeting to learn what I needed to know.

Or I could have been sent by the courts, wanting to know more, but
afraid to ask. It happens that I was none of the above.
   
I was just an ordinary addict with a few years of clean living in N.A. who
was traveling and was in need of a meeting.

 My only problem that night was that I'd been alone with my own mind
too long. I just needed to touch base with my N.A.  family.

 I know from past experience that I could have walked into your
meeting place smiling, stuck out my hand to the first person I saw
and said, "Hi. My name is - . I'm an addict from - ."If I'd felt like
doing that, I probably would have been warmly welcomed. You would
have asked me if I knew Old So-and-so from my state, or you might
have shared a part of your drug-a-log that occurred in my part of
the country. Why didn't I? I was hungry, lonely, and tired. The only
thing  missing was angry, but three out of four isn't a good place for
me to be.

 So I sat silently through your meeting, and when it was over I
watched enviously as all of you gathered in small groups, talking
to one another the same way we do in my home town.

   You and some of your friends were planning a meeting after the
meeting at a nearby coffee shop. By this time I had been silent too
long to reach out to you. I stopped by the bulletin board to read the
notices there, kind of hanging around without being too obvious,
hoping you might ask if I wanted to join you, but you didn't.

 As I walked slowly across the parking lot to my car with the
out-of-state license plates you looked my way again. Our eyes
met briefly and I mustered a smile. Again, you looked away.
I buckled my seat belt, started the car, and drove to the motel
where I was staying.

   As I lay in my bed waiting for sleep to come, I made a gratitude
list. You were on it, along with your friends at the meeting place.
I knew that you were there for me, and that I needed you far more
than you needed me. I knew that if I had needed help, and had asked
for it, you would have gladly given it. But I wondered . . . what if I hadn't
been able to ask?

I know who you are.

Do you remember me?