Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. This is your chance... Your chance at another shot. To erase the sins of your past, and start anew. To take a big ol' eraser to the messy whiteboard in your heart... and refresh that playbook. A chance to draw up a new blueprint, to chart a new course.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your chance for...

Rebirth.



So, what brings you all here, for your first step to complete transformation, and control

The person speaking is a woman in her mid-30s. She sits in a rusty steel folding chair, modest gray corduroy sweater covering her thin, tan frame. She stands at roughly 5'5", long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, thick black glasses over her eyes. You know, pretty much every teenage boy's cute librarian fantasy. The woman looks around the circle enveloping her, vacant eyes staring back. She looks straight at Tony Santos.

Tony stares back, a surprised look on his face. The usual snarl overtakes his lips, his loose, plaque-covered tooth peering through the gap. Tony looks to his left, then his right, and notices the same vacant stares making their way towards his unwashed face. The pores in his nose can be seen feet away, the sweat on his face a blip compared to the circles under his armpits, or the gloss over the back of his hairy neck.

See, Tony would lie today.

Santos: What... me? Uh, well, I'm here because I have a fuc... a freaking drinking problem, and I'm looking to change my ways. I'm looking for some people to... rally around, or just feel like...

Tony pauses, his face now pointed towards the ceiling. Tony takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Just feel like what?

Tony's eyes continue to stare into the black hole within his head. He takes another deep breath, beads of sweat forming around his temples, although it's hard to tell, given the sheen encasing the top of his head. He opens them, his pupils dilated.

Just feel like...

Santos: Just feel like I'm a fucking human being who's not alone in this pathetic fucking excuse for a body! That work for you?

The woman is visibly taken aback by Tony's hostility. If you haven't already gathered, this is Tony's first foray into a form of Alcoholics Anonymous, except without the bible thumping. Nope, this is a version organized by alcoholics, for alcoholics, no god necessary. Just alcoholics supporting other alcoholics. Passing down lessons learned, tricks to distract your brain from the sweet, sweet smell of a thick Cabernet, and commiserating when someone inevitably falls off that pesky little wagon.

It's only fitting that the air smells of cheap rubbing alcohol. After all, this meeting is taking place in a run down community center in East Boston. And, if you've ever seen pictures of Boston, you've likely seen the nice parts of East Boston. Beautiful waterfronts, views of planes flying overhead, carrying travelers from Logan Airport to Europe, and the incredible Italian eateries lining the streets.

Not that East Boston... the real East Boston.

Not quite slums, but overrun colonial homes with poor residents who've been pushed from the rest of the city, thanks to gentrification due to rising housing costs. The community center holds a rec basketball game here, a senior bingo night there, and is robbed here there and everywhere. The rubbing alcohol coating the floor, and the walls, is meant to quickly clean out the filth that can take place in this sad little box, and the scent digs into the nostrils of the current occupants like a big ol' bottle of Bacardi 151.

You do not want Bacardi 151. A form of alcohol that, in just a few shots, would get you black out drunk... if you could handle your throat and mouth catching fire.

An uplifting place for near hopeless drunks.

Alright then, let's go around the room. What about you?

The leader of this AA-esque session points to the man to Tony's right. A pudgy, balding man of Italian descent, standing at roughly 5'2".

I drink to take the pain away. The pain of being utterly alone. No woman wants to date me, no person wants to befriend me. For 10 bucks, I can grab a sixer and feel good for more hours than a person have ever talked to me.

But I want to find myself. I want to remove the cloud over my eyes. I want to see.

And that is why I'm here.

And you?

A woman in her late 40s.

To save my marriage. My ex-husband was a mean drunk, and I seemed to inherit his tendency to anger and physical abuse, both of others... and myself, when I'd hit the bottle. My current husband saw better in me... until there was no better to be found. He has a glass of wine a year, I have that in ten minutes. He raises his voice during a big play in a Sox game... I raise my voice when he tells me I've had enough. He stumbles over our broken front step... I stumble to get out of bed after another bender.

I need to better. I have to be better.

Let's go around the room. Lightning round. Why do you feel the need to truly, and utterly, wipe your slate clean and become a new man... or woman? What is your inspiration? What drives you?

And don't give me health, we all know that's bullshit. You wanna get healthy? Switch from pizza to broccoli. What's really sitting down deep within you?

Around the horn we go.

The answers are all different, but in many ways, the same.

Love, friendship, stability. Every single person wants to find one of these, or rekindle those lost. Every single person either abandoned these for booze, or chose to substitute booze for them. It was a crutch for a heart that had found an easy avenue to short term happiness, or a brain that loved that quick buzz. It was an excuse for covering up a bad night at work, or a tough day with a significant other.

One night turned into two. Two nights turned into two weeks. Two weeks turned into two months. Two months... yup, you guessed it... two years, with rarely a moment of sobriety in between. The hearts in this room had been left hollow by replacing affection with a good night of wine sleep. The minds of these (mainly) intelligent humans had been left untapped by taking a quick jolt of endorphins over real stimulation.

What felt right in the here and now, felt like the wheel was stuck veering left. A quick hit was one of many detoured, deterring you from the ultimate destination.

But not one man in this circle. Not...

Santos: Tony Santos. My name is Tony...

The organizer holds a finger to her lips, shaking her head.

We don't say our last names here, Tony. We're all on a first name basis, and only if it feels right. You're as anonymous as you want to be, but we also want to keep you a shred private, given the circumstances. We're all in a very fragile circle of trust here. We're all one step away from a bitter divorce, or a trip to the ER. We're all one misstep away from losing our job, or getting a nasty black eye. We're all one step away from...

...personal ruin.

And that's why we keep a fresh coat of paint over our very public, but very anonymous, time in this room. We want to tell all, without telling all. Learning from one another, without learning of each other. Does that make sense, Tony?

Tony brushes his hair to the side, and it quickly falls back over his eyebrows. The open space between hairs on top of Tony's head is more prominent than ever, thanks to the fact that increasingly long hair just so happens to exacerbate hair loss. Tony stares into the organizer's eyes, a puff of air coming from his wide nostrils.

Santos: A fresh coat of paint, huh? A fresh coat of paint? I've had a fresh coat of paint over this big fucking facade my entire god damn life, lady, I don't need to be lectured on covering up my failures now. And none of the people in this room need to be told the same. You need to be honest with all of the sad souls sitting in this circle.

Shame isn't a fucking strength! Shame is just a way of accepting the bullshit you've gotten yourself into, but only enough to hide your weaknesses like a gaping maw, without any plan on patching it up.

Tony looks around the room, posing a question to the group.

Santos: Do you want to be ashamed of who you are? Ashamed of stumbling around a hallway, or vomiting in a toilet, or texting an ex a part of you your ex hasn't cared to see in years? Or are you going to fucking learn from it? Are you going to learn from the impulses you've been unable to control? Are you going to remember those late night texts, and find the woman, or man, who will take you at your fucking rock bottom?

Because I fucking will. Hell, I'm a god damn champion, a conqueror of similarly flawed men and women. Booze coats my stomach, and my liver, and pollutes my brain, and I've managed to hold a championship in a wrestling federation for four months.

The room audibly murmurs. Tony looks around, his hair flinging from left to right as he reads the reaction in the room. His eyes squint, his eyebrows turn inward, arms raised in the air.

Santos: You don't believe me? What, because my lips are practically attached to an IPA? Because I'm as utterly helpless as you are, rolling on pavement and ruining relationships?

Well, believe it. This is what you can do, even if the blur of booze covers your eyes. I'm a champion of a wrestling organization, because, by day, I hit the gym, and by night, I ruin it all. But in between those ropes, I've found my motivation. I've found the thing that wakes me up in the morning, and it's not an Irish coffee with an extra shot of whiskey. I've found motivation in gold, and it's the fucking best kind of drug. Instead of chasing another buzz in the corner of my brain, I chase another kick into someone's head. Instead of chasing another night on the ground, I chase a man lying on the mat. Instead of chasing...

The other attendees stare at Tony, and the unnamed organizer, as he begins his descent. The room begins to rotate, slowly, before the pace picks up. Tony's eyes quickly go left to right, catching up with the rotation. Tony raises his hands to his sweaty temples, pushing inward to stabilize his brain. Tony's eyes move left to right, faster and faster, his eyeballs seemingly moving so fast as if they're rolling around his head. Tony goes, and goes...

Santos: ...chasing the next high.

A king size bed, with the AA-esque organizer. Her name is Kayla. Tony managed to fall to the ground, and she picked himself up. She found him. She saved him. She'd saved him.

Tony lays in bed, naked from head to toe, blanket covering his chest. His... vacant... eyes, stare at the ceiling. He felt good, he felt right. But he felt... conflicted. He hadn't had a drink, but he felt a gut punch, like a 50 pound weight was sitting on his chest. Like a ball of pain and shame were weighing him down. Like he was being tested to be better. Like he was being...

Reborn.

The organizer smiles, draping her arm over Tony's rapidly dilating chest, as the scene fades to black.

September 2013 and May 2019 Star of the Month
1x Hart Champion
1x Television Champion
1x Xtreme Champion