TWELVE STEPS

         I saw my first penis when I was fifteen years-old.  I was behind the dumpster at Little Sue’s Mini Mart, adjacent to the woods where the Goths from school would hang out smoking pot in their black trench coats with their black nail polish.  My best friend Susan and I used to sneak cigarettes between that dumpster and the clump of trees, dipping ever so slightly into the dark side, but not enough for Susan to get kicked off the cheerleading squad. The afternoon of the penis sighting, Susan had tucked a Playgirl under her chenille sweater, as I bought us a pack of Salem Menthols to distract the cashier. When we got to our secluded dumpster hide-away, we flipped through the pages, at once surprised, repulsed and awed.  

         Ok, so maybe my first penis was just on glossy paper, but it left a lasting impression on me, though it had more immediate relevance for Susan. She had been spending time with our twenty-three-year-old Science teacher after soccer practices. They’d made out a couple of times and there was some heavy petting. She wanted to know what it was she was touching through his jeans and, should she decide to take it further, she wanted to make sure she didn’t betray her innocence with a shocked expression. I was just plain curious, and envious that our hot biology teacher/soccer coach had shown interest in my clearly more mature friend, while at the same time I was grateful not to be the one navigating that territory.

         The following weekend we went to a party at our friend Stuart’s house. The ACDC and Cheech and Chong flocked posters glowed in the blacklight as an orange and blue neon sign declared It’s Miller Time over the well-stocked bar. There was a good chance that every vodka and gin bottle was no more than 20% liquor though, after months of teenagers slowly refilling what they’d consumed using water from the tap. 

         Susan and I were sitting on the couch puffing clove cigarettes and sipping our second or third luke-warm cup of Budweiser and whispering about which of our classmates might have a penis worthy of being in a Playgirl centerfold. Susan went to get us each another beer from the keg. It was on its last legs in a big red bucket surrounded by a pool of water that once was ice, and she came back with a couple of cups that were mostly foam. We were debating who I might get to ask me to homecoming when the beer buzz sent Susan down an emotional rabbit hole and she began crying over the fact that she could never go anywhere public and certainly not to homecoming with the object of her affection. I stood up to get her a tissue, but as soon as I got to my feet, I fell back down. The room was spinning in a swirl of Bud and cloves.

         What I don’t recall, is how I got home. What I do remember is that I totally missed my curfew and was plotting how to silently enter my house and quietly climb the twelve steps up to my bedroom when I fell into the entry hall grandfather clock, waking up the whole family then threw up on the black and white checkered linoleum floor.

         Mom was furious. “My father was an alcoholic and I’m not going to allow the same fate for my child,” she admonished as I sloppily and shamefully cleaned up the orange puddle of Budweiser and nacho cheese Doritos.          

The next morning, I heard my mother on the phone with Susan’s mom.

“These girls need to learn a lesson before they ruin their lives,” mom said. Susan’s mother must have agreed, because three days later, my mother dropped us off at what was supposed to be an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on Hillsboro Street across from NC State University.

         There we sat in a circle surrounded by a sad group of middle-aged women as the leader rose from her chair wearing a tweed blazer and called the meeting to order. “We welcome you to the Raleigh Al-Anon family meeting and hope you will find in this fellowship help and friendship. We who live or have lived, with the problem of alcoholism understand as perhaps few others can.” 

         As they went around the room sharing painful stories about sloshed spouses, drunk dads, and sauced siblings, Susan and I looked at each other perplexed. This wasn’t Alcoholics Anonymous. It was something else, and thankfully we had nothing remotely like their stories to share as we sat in our folding chairs wearing our High School sweatshirts amongst several women in rumpled t-shirts and sweat-pants, some in business suits and one tall redhead decked out in a cream-colored dress with Alexis Carrington shoulder pads. This was a tragic, heartbroken, miserable but supportive bunch, yet what were we supposed to say when they got to us? They were all one-upping each other with stories of flying plates and brandished weapons. We might have had participated in a food fight with Planter’s Cheese balls after over-indulging on some Boone's Farm Tickle Pink at the Lake Johnson dam, but no one got hurt. We didn’t belong here. 

         At the first break, as the women crowded around the coffee dispenser and filled napkins with Chips Ahoy cookies, we made a run for it, down a couple blocks and up a flight of stairs to Mitch’s Tavern, where we tied our High School sweatshirts around our waists so we could easily pass for 18-year-old college girls, and promptly ordered a pitcher of beer, laughing about the absurdity of our predicament. If only Susan’s mother knew about our biology teacher. If only my mother knew about the stolen Playgirl hiding under my mattress and countless stolen looks at the penises within. They certainly wouldn’t be so worried about us drinking beer, we laughed.

         “Well, whatever I do, I will not marry a drunkard,” I said.

         “Whatever I do, I will not live in a trailer with a man who throws plates,” said Susan.

         We ducked into the campus mart for some squirty Freshen-up gum before meeting my mother at the designated pick-up spot. “So, girls, how did it go?” she asked.

 “Well, we learned a lot,” we said. And that was the truth.

As shared at Story Salon on September 11, 2024 when the theme was "Little White Lies."