Ninth Step
Joel Maddock woke every morning to the sight of the large poster hanging on the wall opposite his bed. On it, the twelve steps were enumerated in large, bold letters that he could read without his glasses. Since being admitted into the exclusive Pineview Recovery Center, he had managed to check a few of the boxes with a thick, red felt marker. He vowed he would not leave rehab until he had completed all twelve steps.
Step 1 was easy: admitting he had a problem. Of course, he had a problem. He may be a drunk, but he wasn't stupid. He couldn't get through the day without a drink. Hell! He couldn't make it out the door in the morning without a bracer. Thus, he earned the first red checkmark before he even learned about the twelve-step program.
Step 2 was not a difficult one either: believing that a power greater than himself could restore his sanity. He had often laughed that only a miracle could get him to stop drinking. Still, it took a little while for him to realize it was no joke, that he could not stop on his own. God knows he had tried!
"You would think my wife leaving me and taking the kid with her would have sobered me up," he once confessed during one of the daily meetings held at the center. "But no! I watched them both walk out the door with a glass of scotch in my hand."
He wanted to stop drinking; he really did. But he couldn't, not on his own, not without help.
Red checkmark for Step 2.
Step 3 was a little trickier. Making the decision to turn his will and his life over to the care of God was hard for an agnostic to do. It was only the last few words of the third step ("as we understand him") that allowed Joel to earn that checkmark. He was able to think of God as an abstract power in the universe, not the all-powerful, all-loving, all-vindictive father described in the Bible, but as a physical force of nature. But could such a God help him recover? Maybe. He was willing to give it a try.
Red checkmark—just barely—for Step 3.
Thus, the first three steps were completed by the time Joel Maddock, Academy Award-winning comic actor and stand-up genius, entered Pineview. Thankfully, he was not the only celebrity at the high-priced, luxury rehabilitation center. There were two other actors, four singers, a former presidential candidate and two professional sports stars. Some of Pineview's residents took to the bottle, like him; others were addicted to pills and other substances; some had trouble with both. All needed help to kick their habit.
No sooner did the comedian unpack his bags on his first day there than he was given a laptop computer.
"What's this for?" he asked the male nurse.
"Number 4," the six-foot-five, three-hundred-plus-pound behemoth replied, pointing to the now familiar poster on the wall. "You have to search your soul and make a moral inventory of yourself."
"Seriously?"
"Didn't you familiarize yourself with the twelve steps before you came here?"
"Buddy, I don't read anything but the scripts for my movies. And even then, I prefer to adlib."
"My name's not Buddy; it's Grover."
"You ever seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Grover?"
"Yeah. Years ago."
"You remind me of the Indian in it."
"The word Indian refers to someone from India. The character in the movie was a Native American."
"Thank you, but if you've ever seen any of my stand-up acts, you know I'm not politically correct."
"I've seen one. I'm not a fan."
With that, the burly nurse left the room.
"Cheerful fellow. I hope he's not expecting to get a tip when I leave here."
The comedian's eyes went to the Dell laptop that was beckoning him from the Queen Anne writing desk in front of the window. Joel didn't like computers or tablets, nor was he overly fond of cell phones. He believed people nowadays spent way too much time on their so-called devices. He could understand teenagers flocking to sites like Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, but he failed to see why adults spent so much of their time on social media.
However, determined to take those twelve steps to sobriety, he opened the laptop and pressed the power button. After entering the password that was printed on a label to the right of the touchpad, he clicked on the Word icon on the desktop. He paid no attention to the ribbon at the top of the screen. What did it matter to anyone what font he used to bare his soul? Would his faults seem any less glaring in Times New Roman or Trebuchet than in Arial or Verdana?
Wrists resting on the edge of the computer, he took a moment to think. According to the wording of Step 4, he was to make "a searching and fearless moral inventory" of himself. Where was he to start? How far back in his life was he to go? His two index fingers began to move, searching out the appropriate keys, and words slowly began appearing on the screen.
I was a troublemaker at school. I never did anything that warranted expulsion, but I spent a lot of time in detention. I thrived on the attention that being the class clown brought me regardless of the consequences.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Joel sat at the desk, getting up only to go to the bathroom. The stroll down Memory Lane was not a pleasant one. At times, it was like trying to remain upright while walking into a Category 5 hurricane. To his credit, he was brutally honest about his failings as a husband and a father.
I don't know who is gonna read this, but I sure hope they don't blab the details to the tabloids.
He assumed all Pineview's staff members, regardless of their position—be it psychiatrist, therapist, nurse or orderly—had to follow the privacy restrictions outlined on the patient intake form.
It was nearly six o'clock when the unsmiling Grover knocked on his door.
"Dinner time," the nurse announced tersely.
"Oh? Dutch treat, I hope," Joel joked.
The male nurse gave him a glaring, pejorative look that expressed more contempt than any verbal insult.
What's this guy's problem? he wondered. Is he like this with everyone here or just me?
He was reminded of his early days as a stand-up comic, performing during open-mike nights at the comedy clubs. As a nineteen-year-old novice to the business, he had to deal with the occasional drunk heckling him from the audience. The wise mouth he acquired while in high school, the one that got him into trouble with his teachers, paid off. He briefly considered using that talent to cut Grover down to size—figuratively speaking—but then thought better of it.
I'm the star. I'm the guy with the four mansions, the sports car collection and the Academy Award. He's a male nurse who has to babysit a bunch of drunks and addicts all day long. No wonder he's so grumpy! No doubt I'd be pissed off at the world, too, if I were in his shoes.
* * *
"Very good," Dr. Smedley Quisling, one of the center's counselors, said after reading Joel Maddock's assessment of his shortcomings.
"Does that mean I can check off Steps 4 and 5 on my to-do list?"
"You can check off Step 4 but not 5."
"Why not? I confessed all my weaknesses, just like it says."
"But according to Step 5, you need to admit them to yourself, God and another human being."
"I admitted them to you."
"I don't count. I'm your therapist. You need to get up in front of everyone at the next meeting and speak."
"If you say so, Doc. I suppose this step will be a piece of cake for me. I make my living performing in front of an audience."
"This won't be the same at all. You'll have to speak from the heart if you expect to get any benefit from your confession. You'll have to tell them about Killian McMann."
"I don't think I can do that. Even if you and the other employees here can be trusted to keep your mouths shut, what about my fellow residents? How do I know the story won't get out?"
"It's been my experience that Pineview is a lot like Las Vegas. What happens here stays here. After all, you'll be talking to a group of people with their own addictions and problems they'd like kept secret."
It took more than a week for Joel to summon the courage to stand up in the group meeting and admit to his faults. Even then, he failed to make any mention of Killian McMann. He was just not ready for that; perhaps he never would be. Three weeks later, however, after listening to the confessions of other addicts in the program, he realized Dr. Quisling was correct. They all had committed acts while either drunk or high that would probably end their careers or destroy their lives if those actions were brought to light.
Finally, fighting the urge to run to the nearest bar and drink himself senseless, he stood up in the circle of celebrities, wealthy businessmen and society VIPs—these were the only people who could afford the high cost of treatment at the center—and revealed his most damning secret. Oddly enough, the people in the group took the news in stride. No one seemed to care. There was not a raised eyebrow or expression of surprise in the room.
I might just as well have admitted to cheating on a math test in grammar school for all the reaction my admission got, he thought.
When he got back to his room, he picked up the magic marker and drew a large red check next to Step 5. He was one checkmark short of being halfway through the program, and already he felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
This twelve-step plan is actually working! I feel like I'm going to eventually walk out of this place a new man.
Steps 6 and 7 were relatively easy—much easier than Step 5 had been! Both, however, required a belief in God, a belief that Joel lost long before puberty set in.
"How can I honestly say I'm ready for God to remove all my defects of character and humbly ask him to remove my shortcomings when I don't even know if he exists?" the comedian asked Smedley Quisling during one of their private sessions.
"Are you saying there is no God?"
"No. I'm saying I don't know one way or another."
"Then you admit there is a possibility that a force greater than ourselves exists in the universe?"
"I suppose it's possible."
"I've personally helped many agnostics, and I suppose an atheist or two, reach sobriety through this program. I tell them to give the Almighty the benefit of the doubt. Go into the chapel here and try speaking to him. Even if the doubting Thomases are right and there is no one up there listening, you'll have made an honest effort to reach out."
Joel took the therapist's advice, and two weeks later, after many visits to the chapel during which he prayed on bended knee, he was able to check off Steps 6 and 7 on his list.
"Seven down, five to go!" he exclaimed, proud of his accomplishment. "Even better, I haven't had a drink since I got here."
* * *
For Step 8, Joel went back to the Dell laptop. The next milestone in the journey to sobriety was to make a list of all the people he had harmed and be willing to make amends to them. Naturally, his wife and son were placed at the top of the list. They were followed by the names of several women he had mistreated before, during and after his marriage.
I suppose I ought to include my parents on this list. They would have done anything for me, but after I made it big, I didn't have time for them. I never called or visited. Hell, I didn't even attend their funerals.
The list was a long one. It was not until the text continued on to the second page, that Joel realized he had a lot of sins to atone for—and they were not the worst. It was not until midway through the second page that he typed the name of the man he had injured most: Killian McMann. Finally, he arrived at the point where he could think of no one else to whom he owed an apology. That was when he printed out the pages and brought them with him to his next session with Dr. Quisling.
"You certainly seem to be taking this program seriously," was all the therapist said when he saw the length of the comedian's list. "However, putting a name on a sheet of paper isn't difficult. The hard part is to be willing to look these people in the eye and make amends for how you've treated them."
"A lot of the people on that list are dead, and a few others ... I have no idea where to find them."
"Take this list back to your room. In your desk drawer, you'll find colored highlighters. Cross off the names of those who are deceased. Use a different color for the names of people you don't know how to locate. If necessary, we might have someone here hunt them down."
"And the others?"
"You'll need to make arrangements to visit them. You can start with those who live nearby."
"I'm not looking forward to this," the comedian admitted.
"No one ever is. Quite frankly, Step 9 is the hardest of them all. It's been my experience that most of those who fail the program do so at that point."
Joel returned to his room, and after putting a red checkmark next to Step 8, he went to his desk and retrieved the highlighters. Nearly half of the people were crossed off: some were dead; the others he had lost touch with over the years. That still left more than four dozen names on the list. Of those people, only ten were within a short driving distance. To visit the rest, he would have to make special travel arrangements.
It's a good thing I have a lot of frequent flyer miles. Some of these people live clear across the country!
The following day, he began his quest for forgiveness with his ex-wife and son—not that he actually expected Jeannie to forgive him. But he would make the effort anyway. He did not call ahead since he presumed she would refuse to see him. His supposition was confirmed when, upon seeing him on the stoop, she tried to close the door in his face. He moved quickly and pushed against it.
"Leave or I'll call the police," she threatened.
"Please. I just want to talk to you. It'll only take a few minutes."
"You have one hell of a nerve showing up here!" Jeannie cried.
"I know you don't care, but I'm in recovery. I'm at the point where I have to face the people I've hurt and make amends."
"And you think you can make up for all the hell you put me through?"
"No. But I want to tell you how sorry I am," he said and reached into his pocket. "Here. This is for you and Davy."
It was a check for fifty thousand dollars. The embittered ex-wife took one look at it and laughed.
"You always did think money could make up for the love and attention you withheld from us."
"Is Davy here? Can I see him?"
"He's upstairs in his room. Just wait here, and I'll go up and get him."
Unlike his mother, the boy showed no hostility toward his father. In fact, he did not even know who he was.
"This is your daddy," Jeannie told him.
Seeing his son was like looking at an old school photo.
"He's the spitting image of me when I was his age," he said with amazement.
"I hope the resemblance is only physical."
"Me, too," Joel agreed. "Believe me. I don't want him to wind up like me."
For the first time since beginning his journey toward sobriety, he was tempted to get a drink. It took every ounce of willpower he could muster to not stop at a bar on his drive back to the center.
In the weeks after he visited with Jeannie and Davy, Joel called on some of the women he had "dated"—to use a polite euphemism for what amounted to one- or two-night stands. There were mixed reactions to his sudden reappearance. The majority gave him a verbal lashing. One slapped him soundly across the face. None of them had any sympathy for what he was going through, and no one was willing to bury the hatchet.
I can't blame them, he thought as he put a line through one of the names. I was a real prick to them.
The next several people were less antagonistic. Predominantly male, they were business associates he had screwed over in some way. One was his former manager; the others were costars in his movies. Despite the raw deals they received from him, they managed to have successful careers. All were willing to let bygones be bygones (although Joel did not expect any of them to add his name to their Christmas card list).
Three weeks went by during which the comedian spent a good deal of time in airports and hotel rooms. In addition to dining at fast food restaurants, he consumed a good deal of humble pie. And all he drank was coffee, soda, bottled water and an occasional iced tea. He did not touch a drop of alcohol. Not a wine cooler or even a beer.
As he waited for his flight at Newark Liberty Airport, he took out his list, permanently creased from being folded and unfolded so many times, and crossed off another name. Then he counted the ones that were left. There were only ten.
One of them was Killian McMann's.
* * *
Joel sat in his rental car, gazing at Killian's trailer, which was located on an abandoned movie set in the middle of the desert. The former stuntman was the only person on the list he had yet to apologize to.
What can I say to him? he wondered guiltily. I'm sorry I ruined your life?
Or should he be honest and admit that if he found himself in the same situation, he would do it all over again?
He turned off the Honda's engine and opened the driver's door. But he could not bring himself to get out of the vehicle.
"I can't do it!" he announced to an empty car and then closed the door and turned the key in the ignition.
"Ain't you the guy who had that comedy special on HBO?" a young man tending bar at Red's Tavern asked when Joel plopped down on a stool at the bar.
"Yeah."
"I thought so. You're one funny dude! I nearly pissed my pants I laughed so hard."
"I've been known to have that effect on people. My manager once suggested I pass out Pampers to the members of the audience."
"That's a good one. What'll you have?"
"Scotch on the rocks."
"Sure. This one's on the house," the bartender said, placing the drink on the bar.
The comedian stared at the ice cubes floating in the amber-colored liquid. The glass felt cool in his hand as he raised it to his face. He closed his eyes and sniffed. The whiskey had an aroma that made his mouth water.
"Something wrong?" the young man asked when Joel put his glass down without taking a sip.
"Alcohol nearly killed me."
"Then why did you order it?"
"I thought it might give me courage. But if I drink it, it'll be a sign of cowardice."
The bartender shook his head. Celebrities! Who could figure them out?
"Thanks, anyway," Joel said, taking a twenty out of his wallet and laying it on the bar.
A quote from Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms came to mind as he got back behind the wheel: "The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one."
That's easy for you to say, Ernest, he thought resigning himself to his fate.
Once again, he drove out to the desert. This time, however, he did not hesitate to get out of the car. There was a beat-up Trans Am parked in front of Killian's rusted RV, a car that looked like it was held together by rubber bands and Elmer's glue. It was the kind of vehicle an ex-con would drive.
Joel knocked on the door. When the former stuntman answered, a look of astonishment appeared on his haggard face.
"What the ...?"
"Can I have a word with you?" the comedian asked.
"You came all this way to talk to me? I'm flattered, but why?"
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah, sure. Sorry for my manners. But after being in prison, you lose some of the polish."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Why? Are you planning on doing a comedy about prison life? Trust me. There's nothing funny about being behind bars."
"No. Let me explain. Do you mind if I sit down?"
"No. Of course not. Would you like a drink?"
"I'd love one about now, but no. I'm in a recovery program for alcoholism, which is what brings me here today. I'm at the ninth step."
"I don't know what that is," Killian said with a confused but benign look on his face.
"It's where I'm supposed to make amends to the people I've hurt," Joel explained.
"There must be something I'm missing. You've done nothing to me that would require an apology. I know some people didn't like you, but I always thought you were a swell guy."
Do I really have to go through with this? the comedian wondered. What good will it do Killian to learn the truth now?
But this demeaning apology was not meant to benefit the former stuntman. It was for Joel's own good. He had to unload all his baggage if he wanted to conquer his addiction to alcohol.
There were two types of people, he realized one summer when he went swimming in the Atlantic with his friends as a teenager. One type walked into the ocean slowly, gradually immersing themselves in the cold water, inch by inch. The other type dove into the surf headfirst. Joel was the latter type of person, always preferring to take a plunge rather than a slow but steady approach.
"The Ferrari," he said.
Killian looked as though he had been punched in the gut. Mention of the car brought back the horror of the accident and the harrowing experience afterward.
"I took every precaution," he insisted defensively. "I don't know why the explosive went off when it did. I rigged it to detonate exactly ninety minutes after the key was turned in the ignition. For some reason, it blew up too soon. I can't explain ...."
Killian had been stunt coordinator on one of Joel's early movies, a comedy action film that required blowing up a Ferrari. Unfortunately, the explosives detonated earlier than expected, and two people died as a result. Since Killian was responsible for orchestrating the stunt, he was charged with manslaughter. After a speedy trial, he was convicted and sentenced to ten years but released on good behavior after serving seven.
Joel sighed and took another plunge.
"There was this girl on the set, a busty blonde who had a minor, nonspeaking role. While I was between scenes, I decided to have a drink with her and—well, one thing led to another, and we wound up in the Ferrari. I turned on the car to hear the stereo."
"You WHAT?"
"I turned on the engine. I didn't know the car was wired to blow up."
"So, it was your fault, not mine. Why didn't you say something to the cops who investigated the matter?"
Remember Hemingway: "The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one."
"I didn't want to get into any trouble."
"You stood by while I was arrested, put on trial and sent to prison, and you said nothing! All the while knowing I was an innocent man!"
"That's why I came here today, to make amends for what I did to you."
"Oh, that's just great! You came here to ease your conscience—assuming you have one. Do you know my life was destroyed? Not only did I spend seven long, miserable years locked up, but when I was finally released, I had no wife, no family and no home. Hell! The only job I could get was washing dishes."
"Let me try to make it up to you," Joel offered. "I can't change the past, but I can help you get your life back on track. I'll get you a job, a good one. You can move out of this trailer and get a new car."
Killian stood up, walked to the kitchen and opened a drawer. When he turned around to face the comedian, he had a gun in his hand.
"I bought this to kill myself with," he announced in a dull monotone. "Many a night, I sat in that chair with the muzzle in my mouth, but something always kept me from pulling the trigger. Now, I realize it was fate that stayed my hand."
Moments later, there was the sound of a shot, followed by Joel's scream of pain as the bullet shattered his right kneecap. There was a second shot, and the left kneecap was hit.
"Are you crazy?" he cried. "Why did you do that?"
"I wanna see you suffer," the stuntman declared, his hand steady and his voice full of menace.
Tears streamed down the comic's face. Despite being in agony, he refused to beg for mercy. He would not give his tormentor the satisfaction.
"If you're going to kill me, go ahead and do it already!" he shouted in defiance.
"What? And miss the pleasure of watching you bleed to death—I believe exsanguination is the proper term for it. I ought to thank you for coming to see me today. This is the best I've felt in years. In fact, I'd say it's cause for a celebration."
From the cabinet above his stove, Killian removed a bottle of Jack Daniels and from the refrigerator, a can of Coca-Cola. He poured both into a large glass and then returned to his seat.
"Aahh! That's good. Want some?" he taunted the injured man. "There's really no point in remaining sober. You're not gonna live to get to Step 10 of your program."
"Screw you!"
"You already did, when you let me go to prison."
Killian waited for more than two hours, yet Joel Maddock was still alive.
"I suppose I missed all the major blood vessels," the ex-con said, getting bored with waiting for his nemesis to bleed out. "The hell with this."
When he raised his gun again, Joel closed his eyes, waiting for the kill shot. Would he feel it? He heard the gun go off, but the only pain he felt was in his knees. He slowly opened his eyes to see Killian McMann sitting on the chair with half his head blown away.
He didn't kill me! He's dead, but I'm still alive!
Knowing he had to get to the hospital, the comedian reached into his pocket for his cell phone, only to realize he had left it in his rental car. He tried to stand, but his knees were shattered.
If I can't walk, then I'll crawl.
With a good deal of effort and immense pain, he managed to pull himself across the floor with his arms. He made it to the door and reached up for the knob. When it opened, he noticed the vehicle was gone. Someone had apparently stolen it.
Maybe Killian has a phone, he hoped, dragging his agonized legs back into the small living room area. He searched the dead man's pockets, but they were empty.
The poor bastard probably couldn't afford a cell phone, but he might have had a landline.
Since the trailer was a small one, it took little time to search it. There was no phone anywhere. Joel's eyes briefly rested on the keys to the Trans Am.
Even if I managed to get into the car, I couldn't drive it with my knees shot.
Realizing there was little likelihood of his being rescued, he crawled to the kitchen and reached up to the counter for the bottle of Jack Daniels.
"Here's to sobriety!" he said and finished the bottle.
Then, with what little strength he had left, he inched his way back into the living room area. He picked up Killian's gun and pointed it at his temple. Suicide was often referred to as the coward's way out. If so, Joel reasoned, then Hemingway died a thousand deaths because he died by his own hand, or rather his own gun.
"Oh, hell! What does it matter in the end? One death or a thousand; dead is dead. I suppose it's better to go out with a bang than with a whimper," he laughed and pulled the trigger.
That's not alcohol Salem has; it's chocolate syrup. Sadly, there's no way he can recover from THAT addiction.
