“No more porn houses.”
“No, I’ve made a note. Client would like to avoid homes that could be featured in extracurricular videos.”
I was drafted rightout of college to the Kansas City Pioneers. During my four years in Missouri, I was able to establish roots. Make friends and become a local at some of my favorite restaurants. Missouri wasn’t my first pick. I’d hoped to get drafted to a city like New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago. Looking back now, Kansas City probably saved me. I was twenty-one coming off a breakup and I was ready to be on demon time.
There is trouble to be had in Missouri if you go looking for it and I did a deep dive into the seeder aspects of the city. The first two years I was a reckless asshole looking to fill a void. If there was a party, I was usually in the thick of it surrounded by beautiful women. I was getting more pussy than I could manage and experimenting with drugs I had no business trying. Looking back on it now, I don’t know how I was able to maintain the late nights and early practice times. I was moving at a breakneck speed, but I always knew I couldn’t fuck up my golden ticket.
So I showed up to every practice on time, sometimes with sunglasses and a raging hangover, but I was there, and I ran those drills until I was ready to puke. There’s a reason we arewarned that everything should be tried in moderation because overconsumption gets old and eventually you have to fuck weirder, indulge harder, and ignore your morals.
When I ended up at a party snorting coke, I knew I’d lost the plot. Eventually, I fell all the way back from the party scene and worked on me. I was straight as an arrow, I cut out sex, started saying no to drugs, and learned to enjoy the company of an intimate circle of friends. I’m not saying I’m a choir boy now, but I’m choosy when it comes to who I give my energy to.
I’d been in Vegas for barely two weeks, but I knew I needed to go to an NA meeting. Shit was coming at me fast and I couldn’t do this sobriety thing alone. It was seven in the morning, and I was at Clean Slate Collective, a narcotics anonymous group held inside of a storefront church. This was the part I hated the most because the anonymous never really benefited me. People knew who I was. And if they didn’t, they could guess from my six-foot-five frame I was a ballplayer. In Missouri everything seemed removed, no paparazzi or celebrity vloggers looking to break the next big story.
“Welcome in,” a man in a tan short-sleeved plaid shirt called out. “Find a seat anywhere. There are plenty open.” He wasn’t kidding, it was just me and him.
“Am I early?”
“No, I’d say you’re right on time.” His voice was rough, and his face lined. He was probably in his fifties but if he told me he was older, I wouldn’t bat an eye.
“Is it usually this well attended?” I joked, taking a seat across from him.
“On Monday people have to work.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
“That’s up to you. But if you prefer, we could just talk. I could use the company. Name’s Pete by the way.”
I scanned the empty room with its wood paneling and folding chairs. “I’m Aldrid … Al. People call me Al.” No one called me that, except my dad. I hated that name.
“Nice to meet you. What brings you here?”
“I’m new to town. Just moved here for work. I thought it would be good to establish a routine. In Missouri, that’s where I came from, they told me finding a group and attending a meeting was critical to my sobriety.”
“So, you’ve attended meetings in the past?”
“Yeah, once a week, sometimes more when needed.”
“You know there are other meetings in nicer neighborhoods.”
“I’m aware and I’ve been to some of them in the past.”
“And?”
“And I hated them. The people didn’t seem real. I couldn’t relate to their problems. And I found myself judging them, which is crazy because I’m in no position to think I’m better than the next addict.”
“When’s the last time you used?
“A year and a half ago.”
“When’s the last time you wanted to use?”
“What time is it?” I joked. “Are you a pastor or something?”
“No, me I’m a meth addict. Recovering, but if my mother heard you confusing me for a man of God she would be tickled pink.”
“I’m sure she’ll get a big laugh when you tell her.”
“She’s dead.”
