Towanda Knows my Secret – Chapter 4

Box of Jesus


Odd, all these years, up and around these parts, I never noticed the church.  I had heard there was a food pantry.  I had inquired about the ‘free’ meals.  I came very close to needing the services given out to the needy.  Who knows, I may still need them,  again, at some point.

I say,’odd’ because the Unitarian church happens to be the place to be.  That is if you are in need of needs.  

After having a few years of sobriety under my belt.; after giving up on the idea that blackouts are a necessary evil if I wish to live;  after all the mistakes and mistaken identities, church basements continue to amaze me.  Who would have known that all these quiet little buildings with their religious icons, held so much good stuff below the surface.  The rooms are usually the same.  Square and structurally, not sound.  Past that, every church basement offers its own unique twist on the after life of an addict.  Some have sayings like,”easy does it” and ” one day a time” all over the walls.  Others are filled with smoke and Dunkin Donuts coffee cups and farmers that appear dead, until you poke them or ask them to pass the bucket.

Tonight, there would be no open meeting of “As Bill Sees It.”  That is a meeting I didn’t even realize existed until I found the church schedule on the bathroom wall.  Tonight is ‘Take the punch out of your lines’ anger management class.

The stairs leading to the basement, in any church, however, are all the same.  They remind me of what the catacombs under the Pope’s house in Rome would look like-  dark, skinny and scarey!  The only well- lit item I could see had been the whiter- than- white hand that came out of nowhere to shake my hand.



“Hi, you must be, Stella.  My name is Instructor Poe.  Let me tell you how I know that your name is Stella.  Everyone else is here!  First rule of my class, Ms. Dewey- punctuality!  Nothing angers me more than a person who thinks so highly of him or herself by wasting other’s time by being late!”

For fuck sake!  I hadn’t even entered into the den of tranquility and the asshole had marked me as the class ass!  And, what had been with the Instructor Poe?  Near as I could tell, Mr. Poe had been a drop- out part time teacher from the nearest community college!

“Well, it just couldn’t be helped.  I had been aiding a three legged dog across the street and you know how long that can take!”  had been my retort.

The next twenty-six weeks would be 6 months of trying to not be angry when I really am in living Hell.  

As I took my metal seat and glanced about the room, it occurred to me that my town must be a very angry town.  Twelve of the most despicable and undesirable persons one will ever meet sat around me .It seemed much like knights of the round table.  Less knights, more psychos.  Less round table, more like overly used desks from the nineteen-seventies.  The kind of desk with the little metal chair attached.

There had been Al.  I had met Al once.  He worked up at the transfer station.  Recently, he had been fined for looking at people’s private information.  The kind of information found on old prescription bottles.  The kind of bottles that have refills on them.  Al, I guess, took the whole situation in stride by taking a shit on the mayor’s lawn.

Ruth, approximately, 150 years old.  Ruth lived down at the home where I would be doing my community service.  Ruth did not like string beans touching her mashed potatoes.  Ruth alerted the staff to this by hitting the night shift security guard over the head with her newly purchased oxygen tank.  I guess it’s true what they say, the elderly have the strength of ten men when they don’t get what they want.

For the most part, my little group angry person’s gone astray, were just everyday citizens that I had come across at one point or another.

That is, other than Kennedy, Kennedy.  What a strange name for a woman.  What a strange woman for an anger management group.

She sat there stoic and a step above the rest of us.  Her rich bitch attitude glowed with every name brand article of clothing that she wore.  North Face jacket, L.L. Bean duck boots and Gap hoodie- neon green!  The more notable distinction about this woman?  Her name!  Kennedy Knight!

Joking, as I sat myself across from the new kid on the block.                                                        “So, is that a stage name?”

The thing with my humor?  It is strictly designed for my consumption only.  Kennedy had not been impressed with my sophomoric behavior.  As the chairs scuffed their way into place, as the pecking order made itself without help from the ‘Instructor’, it soon became apparent that life would be very, very, very long.  At least for the next six months.

the flying beabull 6

Instructor Poe handed out the ‘I fucked up and now I’m stuck in this stupid class’ pamphlets.  The first one had a full length picture of the human body.  No fancy Latin names for body parts.  No arrows pointing at private parts.  Nothing but a sketched out anonymous image of an unknown human being.  

The usual came along with the nondescript paper.  A cheap, fill it in yourself, name tag.  A list of all attendees, their names and their phone numbers.  Dos and don’ts of class.  And, our first writing assignment.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the list of private information being handed out amongst Skanklin’s  ‘not finest”.  We had been told it was an emergency contact list.  It was not to be shared with anyone outside of the room we were currently in.

The do and don’t list was fine.  The needing to ‘leave personal space’ at the front door, motto, was not so cool.

Instructor Poe believes that the invasion of personal space; an overt intrusion are the cornerstones of our current society.  So rather than fighting it,  he believes we, as a whole, should succumb to it!

WTF?  Part of the function my father used in his dysfunctional discipline had been standing over my shoulder.  

“Where’s your father?  Have you seen him since he got home from work?”

My typical response, “He’s right there.  Over my left shoulder.  How can  you miss him?  He’s the one with a scowl and swearing, lazy bitch!”

Instructor Poe Poe went so far as to put chalk marks on the floor.  Each chair placed exactly one inch from the other.  

The photocopy of the unknown naked person?  One of the assignments had been to ‘picture’ the person in our family that angers us the most.  We are to than take that picture and draw ourselves that angry asshole.  Along with that, in our journals, we will be taking a look back.  A look back into our family history.

The whole shitty situation just went from solid stool to runny poop!  The lonely little peckerhead, Poe, even went so far as to sign us all up for a free trial offer with’ My Pedigree-tree’. is an online service dedicated to telling you just how fucked  you really are.  They not only tell you that you have no chance of leading a normal life,  they offer online newspaper clippings, birth certificates and arrest warrants, confirming that you bloodline never had a chance.  Right from the moment your ancestors got off the boat from Bosnia and/or straight from the time when your great, great, great, Cherokee Uncle took a shot at Custer!

Something happens to me in times of difficulty.  It feels as though my ass is on fire.  Not fire from a bad case of tacos.  Not the burning sensation one gets when eating sardines and pepperoni on Ritz cracker.  It is more like an external tingling burning sensation.  Usually it leaves me feeling like I need a oil drum filled with ice.  My sobriety coach tells me time and time again:

“Fool, you’re having a fucking anxiety attack.  Get to a meeting.  Do you feel like drinking?  Have you said the Serenity Prayer?  Have you asked for help?”

Bruce Lee, funny name huh?  I wonder what his parents were thinking.  Anyway, Bruce believes all adult stress is directly related to not following the rules of sobriety.  Maybe, maybe not.

I felt clean.  In a spiritual sense.  I am mindful to the others, to the best of my ability.  An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting would not cure the situation.  I suppose breathing would.  But breathing is difficult when you are not able to breathe.

This too, shall pass.  And, if not a cigarette, usually takes care of the situation.  The Buddha believes that one should be mindful constantly.  Mindful and aware of others. Continually respectful of how our actions and thoughts effect others.  

That perhaps,  the customer ‘not at your’ service representative who always refers to you as sir, has no medical coverage.  And, maybe, the lack of medical coverage and poor wage has caused the young adult to upgrade and/or refurbish their grammar school  eye glasses.  Which would make sense because not only do they mistake your sex, they have an enormous capacity for spitting.  Not an all out wadded up piece of liquid comprised of breakfast and post nasal drip.  Just little drops of drool.  Enough to water the customer down.  Not enough to cleanse the soul of the forgotten customer.  Anyway, Buddhism tells us that this little pimple head with legs and arms could easily have had a devastating morning.  And, with just one wrong word from the practicing human Buddha, the Thrift Store Savant, could call it quits.  He or she is now willing to take leave of this world just because you told them to.

‘Get a vasectomy and help the world!’

I am a Sinner, I am a Saint

I am so trying this philosophy.  I am really working the awareness idea.  I had been doing well.  I cut the sarcasm down to just jaded retorts on rare occasions.  I leave the idea of getting my way, no matter what, at the cat box door.  Particularly when planning a day trip to any government service agency.

Candor and Cotton Candy…

fringetown 13

Coming into town

Up over the hill

the church

the steeple

the broken neon


stolen spokes.

Checks and balances that bounce and float.

At the edge of the road in Fringe-town…

a poetic slippery slope.

Across to the west side

the damaged pavement

next to the Tar Factory…

the Opera house

the food pantry.

Helping Hands and bake goods for sale

under the shadow of all things stale.

Lest I forget…

the surrounding sound igniting life…

in Fringe-town.

The hustle of dump trucks

the lyrical sound of crushing metal and rust.

The nondescript noise of used strife.


requiem of a dream

‘hanging on to hanging on to letting go.’

This town has miles of sense of…

nowhere left to go.

In the middle of the road

on the edge of nowhere…

the tombstone table tops

the Sunday Mass

with the Father…

holier than thou in back alley talks.

The taste of candor and cotton candy…

crossing the sidewalk.

Backyard ghetto talk

Dirty needles in stock.

Middle of the road, Fringe-town

looking up to looking down.

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