What Goes Around...

(Dedicated to Tony Morris)

As a man sow, shall he reap. – Bob Marley

You’ve heard the warning. Don't try this at home. Here's another one for the list. Detoxing from alcohol.

I already knew that, having endured it enough times to prove every theory of alcoholic insanity. But here I was again, 2:00 a.m., alone in bed. My longtime girlfriend, LeAnne, had deserted months earlier, weary of my lurching trip along the bottom. “Don’t call me,” was her parting salvo, “until you get your act together.”

My act was definitely not together. Sweating, nauseous, dehydrated, I tossed and turned, blood pressure hammering my skull. And I was hallucinating, which was a first. Some ancient script kept scrolling across my bedroom ceiling, like words on a teleprompter. I'm fluent in three languages, and I've studied their linguistic histories, but I couldn't decipher a syllable. Even stranger, I kept hearing lyrics from a Tool song, as if a brain worm had crawled out of my ear canal and was taunting me from the darkness: Why can't we drink forever? I just want to start this over.

Around four, I got up for water, hungover like a melted corpse in a Dali painting. I tried to orient myself to the date.

Shit, I thought, it's Thursday morning. I'm going to miss my deadline.

That deadline was my weekly submission for the newspaper where I worked, one of the great holdouts of print media, a standard in our metropolis for 170 years. People read it during the Civil War, the Oklahoma Land Rush, the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, the two great wars designed to end all wars. They read it through McCarthyism, the Bay of Pigs, the assassination of M.L.K., Jr., the rise of the Internet, the toppling of the World Trade Centers. They were still reading it in print and on their devices.

My only remaining pride was to be part of that grand tradition. A few years earlier, my investigative piece on the dreadful conditions in for-profit prisons had been a finalist for the Pulitzer. I was riding the last fumes of that fame, my disease a riptide pulling me into oblivion.

I stood at the window of my fourth-floor apartment, my reflection as dark and featureless as I felt. A panoramic view of the city spread to the horizon—shimmering lights, bright towers, rivers of red and white traffic. I reached into the top drawer of the dresser, my hand coiling around the grip of a Glock 19. I didn’t buy it for home defense. I’d never been to a gun range. It was there for one reason only—to offer a way out if things got too grim.

I lifted it to my head and pressed it above my right ear. As I closed my eyes and tried to suppress my anguish, the only thought I had was, Call Tony.

Tony deserved to know that I’d miss my obligation. He was more than my editor. He had been a friend during my descent, encouraging me to get treatment, never threatening to cut me off.  My cellphone was on the dresser, so I picked it up and dialed his number. After five rings came a groggy response.

“John…what the hell? Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, my voice dry and hoarse. “I won’t be able to get you my article. I’m sorry, Tony.”

Silence on the other end.

“Are you okay, John? Do I need to come get you and finally take you for some help?”

“I’m just so tired,” I whispered. “I’ve lost LeAnne. I’ve lost my pride. And now I can’t even meet my deadline. I’m going to make it all go away.”

He knew instantly what I meant. “Please don’t do that, John. I still believe in you. I believe in your talent. I believe your words have made a difference to so many people. They are still making a difference. Your gift will remain, and you can start over again.”

“I’m tired of starting over. Just so fucking tired. Tired unto death.”

Again, a few seconds of silence. My finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger.

“John, I’m pleading with you. Get up off your knees and try again, this time in a new way. Let me pick you up and take you somewhere for treatment.”

I stood there, frozen, staring out at the city, my hand cocked to my head, as tears began to roll down my cheeks.

Two years later

In the break room that day, a colleague asked me, “What’s the greatest lesson you’ve learned in sobriety?” I don’t think he was really interested, just being polite. Non-alcoholics are muggles when it comes to understanding the disease. It was hard to choose an answer, but I used an adage from my Twelve Step meetings. Accepting life on life’s terms. A humble acknowledgement that there’s so much we can’t control. Or, to put it another way, there’s so much we should never even try to control. Control is an addiction all its own. My colleague nodded, then said, “Well, I admire you, John.”

I leaned back in my desk chair and thought of how that answer stemmed from multiple hard lessons. Since that fateful morning when Tony drove me to rehab, I’d gotten ample opportunities to practice letting go. I had called LeAnne, but she had no desire to reunite, having found someone who she said, “was more stable.” Then there was the newspaper continuing its transition to an online presence, hiring freelancers and paying them a pittance. My salary was downsized. Tony and I met for coffee once a week, and he tried to explain it as my friend, but I didn’t blame him. It was the new reality, and he was even questioning the security of his own position.

To make ends meet, I’d taken a job as an adjunct professor at a local junior college, teaching courses online. It was mildly enjoyable but never fulfilling. I longed for those years when I was hot on the trail of an investigative project, tracking it down and bringing it into focus. That was my passion, my highest calling, and I was afraid my newfound acceptance would turn into toxic regret.

Then, at one of our weekly confabs, Tony surprised me.

“I have some news, John. I got a call from a midsize paper in the Midwest. Instead of surrendering, they want to try and resurrect their presence. They offered me a job as Editor-in-Chief, hoping I can turn things around.”

Since Tony was my only real friend, my first thought was Here we go again, another thing to accept. But I pushed that aside. “Are you going to take it?”

In his mid-50s, 20 years my senior, Tony still dressed like a hipster. Graphic T-shirts from rock concerts, a leather jacket, pressed chinos, thick-framed glasses of various colors, and one of the many fedoras he collected. He took off his hat, running his hand through his goatee, then over his bald head. I’d seen him do it a thousand times.

“Yeah. I already signed a contract. I would have told you sooner, but the negotiations were touch and go.”

He took a sip of coffee. “It was hard to convince Joanne, but both of us have fantasized about living in a smaller city with less congestion. Plus, my job here isn’t stable.”

I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment. “I’m happy for you. You deserve only the best. Both you and Joanne.”

“Thanks, but there’s more. The paper gave me the latitude to bring in new talent. I’d like to offer you a job as my top journalist.”

Looking back on that moment, there was a shift in me. I’d heard countless people describe their beliefs that some higher power, some God or force, was accomplishing in their lives what they could not do for themselves. It was that instant when I made a baby step towards believing. It was like a puzzle piece snapping into place. I had no prospects, only my wistfulness about the past, and I, too, had grown tired of the impersonal vibes of the city.

“Let me think about it, Tony,” I said, but I knew in my heart that I was ready.

Summer, two years later

I shut down my computer, pleased with my latest installment in a series on fentanyl trafficking in the Midwest. It featured three families whose lives had been tragically damaged by the substance and were speaking out to make a difference. It wasn’t easy reading, but it was timely and prophetic. The narrative arcs were strong. I was feeling my old mojo.

I looked out the window of my office. The building that housed the newspaper was on the edge of town, bordered by a sweeping expanse of corn fields, the cash crop of the Midwest. Accustomed to urban landscapes, I was surprised by how much I had grown to love the vastness and tranquility of my new home. Sometimes I’d get in my car and drive to the middle of nowhere, clearing my head. Or sit at a roadside picnic table and practice letting my past and present converge into a sense of serenity.

My thoughts turned to Tony. He had overseen great progress at the paper, but I was worried about him. Joanne’s reluctance to move had blossomed into discontent.  She said she missed the cultural opportunities of the big city and complained that their new neighbors were parochial. Finally, she left Tony with an ultimatum that if he didn’t join her within a year, their marriage was over. That deadline had come and gone.

Simultaneously, Tony developed back problems—aggravated by stress and too many hours at a desk. He underwent surgery to fuse three lower vertebrae, and the pain meds they gave him during recovery got their talons into him. He had lost some of his sharpness. I saw it. So did others. It was the proverbial elephant in the newsroom. When I expressed my concern, he thanked me, shifting his gaze to the side, then told me everything would be okay, yet I knew firsthand how addicts minimize their usage.

The irony struck me—my own addiction and denial, his support as a friend, even the fact that I was investigating opioid trafficking. I wanted to help him, and I felt poised to make a difference in his life, but people only change when they’re ready.

On this day, he had phoned in sick. It had happened other times recently, and the staff was getting more suspicious. I waited until late afternoon, then called him. No answer. I waited until nightfall and tried again. Still no answer. Highly unusual.

I decided to drive to his house for a welfare check. He lived on the edge of town near a creek bed bordered by tall trees and a hiking trail. The stream was damned in various spots to create ponds where people could sit and absorb the scenery.

I parked next to his car in the driveway and got out. The streetlights were on, already attracting swarms of bugs. It was a warm summer night and I could smell the creek bottom, damp and mossy. When I got to the front door, it was slightly ajar, stoking my worries. I pushed it open.

“Tony,” I called out. “Are you here? It’s John. I’m just checking on you.”

No answer. I entered and made a quick search of the modest home, noting the decorations that showed Joanne’s sense of style. He wasn’t there. I thought about calling the police; maybe there’d been foul play. But I also knew that Tony liked to hike along the creek to a favorite spot near one of the ponds. I would check there before calling the authorities.

The paved trail along the water had light poles spaced at intervals, but it was still gloomy. Frogs and crickets had begun their evening symphony, accompanied by the gurgling of the creek. I quickened my stride and, sure enough, as I approached the first pond I could see Tony’s unmistakable form, his bald head reflecting light from a pole just above him. He was seated on a bench, and when I slid next to him, he looked at me.

I’ll never forget his eyes. They mirrored my own that night I had pressed the gun against my temple. It was the gaze of a man trapped in his personal purgatory, conceding the doom of a repetitious behavior that would grind him throughout eternity.

He tried hard to focus. “John? What are you doing here?” His voice was soft and raspy.

“I’m here to help you, Tony. I know the pills have taken you down. I know that Joanne leaving is still depressing you.”

He turned away, his breathing labored. The plaintive call of a lonesome owl drifted out of the darkness.

“Too much,” he whispered. “Just too much.”

“I know,” I said, “But I want to remind you of some words you said to me a couple years ago. I believe in you, Tony. I believe in your talents. I believe in how you care for other people. Hell, I wouldn’t be sitting her next to you unless you had stayed by me.”

He began to shake, a tremor running through his body. Then he slumped forward, placing his arms on his legs. One of them slipped and I was afraid he would topple over, so I supported him under his armpit.

"Come with me, my friend. Let’s get you the help you need.”

He rubbed his right hand over his head and sighed. “Okay, John. Okay.”

A year later

The hotel’s grand ballroom, with its opulent chandeliers and art deco design, was a splendid choice for our region’s journalistic awards banquet. The tables sported newsprint tablecloths, and large TVs on the walls displayed the year’s best photos and art.

Our staff had carpooled to the capital, an annual trek that we all enjoyed. Seated at our table, my colleagues were drinking wine or cocktails from the open bar as I nursed a ginger ale. Tony sat next to me, sipping a Diet Coke. As I looked around at their faces, I thought of how far afield our life’s paths can take us. We end up in divergent realities we never expected, but when we make them our own, they enrich us immensely.

Just moments before, I had received an award for my series on fentanyl. A far cry from contending for the Pulitzer, but somehow more valuable to me given all that had happened in the past few years. As the evening neared its climax, they were about to announce the ultimate award—Journalist of the Year.

The MC, Editor-in-Chief of the state’s largest newspaper, went to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “thank you for being here. Let me congratulate all those who have received awards this evening. We are a talented group. Together, we’re keeping journalistic excellence alive in a rapidly changing world of sound bites and short attention spans.”

She lifted her glass. “A toast to our continued success in the coming year.”

There was a raucous chorus of “Here! Here!” that died down in anticipation of her announcement.

“And now,” she continued, “we come to tonight’s most prestigious award. I would ask for the envelope, but there isn’t one.”

The crowd tittered.

“With no further ado, let me recognize our journalist of the year, Tony Harris, for your editorial prowess, your sharp wit, and your business acumen.”

The room exploded with applause, and people began to shout, “Speech! Speech!”

Tony looked genuinely surprised. He got up and made his way steadily to the podium, evidence that his physical therapy was making a difference. He took the mic from the MC, then ran his hand through his goatee and over his head before scanning the room in a moment of silence. Everyone quieted down.

“For those of us who have ink in our blood,” he said, “this night is a celebration of that passion that will not let us go. And I can’t thank you enough for this honor.”

He looked down for a moment, clearly emotional.

“I want to share a truth that I’ve learned firsthand. Karma can be a bitch, but it can also be the force that saves our lives. I won’t get into the details of how deeply I understand this, but I just want to say one other thing.”

He’d taken his coke with him to the front.

“I have a personal toast to my friend for many years, John Newcombe.”

He lifted his glass.

“John, what goes around comes around. You know what I mean, brother, and I’m eternally grateful for our relationship.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I lifted my tumbler and toasted not only to Tony, but to every suffering soul, every individual trapped in purgatory, every person teetering on the edge of a decision that was as final as the closing of a coffin lid. And for every last one of them, I poured out a silent prayer of hope and healing.

“Here! Here!” shouted the crowd around me.

Krin Van Tatenhove is a writer, visual artist, and spiritual adventurer. His 40 years of professional writing experience have led to countless articles and 18 books. With so much despair in the world, he likes reading and writing redemptive stories that lead us back to hope. He is married, has four children, and lives with his wife and disabled adult son in San Antonio, Texas. This story is from his latest collection entitled "The Sanctuary: Tales of Hope and Redemption," available on Amazon here. To learn more about his background and download many of his projects, visit Krinvan.com.