California Fire And Life

47

Letty's at the regular Thursday-afternoon south coast meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, which because of its time and location is generally known by the sobriquet "Ladies Who (Drank) Lunch."

This is not the kind of meeting Letty's used to. She's used to night meetings in church basements, meetings with broken cookies and greasy coffee and stories about blowing the rent on beer and bourbon benders.

She's not used to a meeting in broad daylight in a "togetherness space" on a pier in a marina, but that's where the ladies go to share their experience, strength, and hope and that's where Pam went to do it with them, and that's why Letty's there.

Thinking, The ladies are gorgeous. I mean for a bunch of drunks these babes are put together. Whatever boozy fat they put on in their sinful days these girls worked off on the treadmills and exercise bikes and spinners. Skin glowing with health, eyes bright, hair shiny, full and sexy. If AA ever wanted to do an infomercial, they'd shoot it at the regular Thursday-afternoon south coast meeting.

Even women who weren't alcoholics would go out and get hammered so they could come to the meetings and look like these ladies.

What twelve little steps and a few hundred thousand spare dollars can't do, Letty thinks.

Anyway, she's there, and the ladies aren't drinking greasy coffee – they're sipping Frappuccinos (decaf, low-fat milk) out of clear-plastic go-cups. There are a few guys there, not your nine-to-five types, but real estate brokers and insurance salesmen and other men who can take the middle of the afternoon off to share their experience, strength, and hope and maybe get lucky, and as fortune and solid planning would have it there's a Holiday Inn within a hot five-minute walk of the meeting. There are so many pickups happening at this meeting that it could be called Ladies Who (Drank) Lunch and the Men Who Lust After Them, Letty thinks.

Quit being such a bitch, she tells herself.

It's not their fault they're rich and you're not.

They're gorgeous and you're not.

Get over it.

And get over Jack Wade. Twelve years is too long a time to be carrying a torch. Your arm gets tired. Twelve years and the son of a bitch never even called. Never would have called. You never would have seen him again if you didn't need his help, and you're such a bitch that you'd use him like that.

But the truth is she has been carrying a torch for twelve years. She's had a few boyfriends but nothing serious because in the back of her head – in the back of her soul – she's holding out for something she lost.

Jack.

Jack lost his soul and took yours with it.

So you're pushing forty and you have no husband and no kids and no life outside busting skulls.

And it isn't these ladies' fault.

It's your own.

So get over it, girl.

So she sits and listens to the preamble and to the speaker and it's the same stuff everywhere: if you're a drunk, you're a drunk; no matter what the view is, it turns to shit. She makes small talk with a couple of the ladies during the break, and when the meeting resumes and the chairperson asks if anyone wants to speak, Letty waits for a few people to talk about what's going on with them and then she raises her hand.

My name is Letty. Hi, Letty – blah, blah, blah…

"I'm here," she says, "to ask if any of you knew my sister Pam. She died three nights ago and they say she'd been drinking. She was about five-eight, black hair, purple eyes. I know she used to hit this meeting – I don't know what other meetings she used to go to but I'm hoping you can help me."

Amidst the Oh my Gods and Not Pams and a couple of sudden sobs, about five hands shoot up.

Turns out they can help her.