Out of the Drink

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In time it turned out to be
the damnedest thing he'd ever seen.
It would bring other geese
right down on your head.
So close you could almost touch them
before you killed them.
This man, he never wanted for geese.
And for this his goose was given
all the corn and barley
it could eat, and a barrel
to live in, and shit in.

I took a good long look and,
unmoving, the goose looked back.
Only its eyes telling me
it was alive. Then we left,
my friend and I. Still
willing to kill anything
that moved, anything that rose
over our sights. I don't
recall if we got anything else
that day. I doubt it.
It was almost dark anyhow.
No matter, now. But for years
and years afterwards, living
on a staple of bitterness, I
didn't forget that goose.
I set it apart from all the others,
living and dead. Came to understand
one can get used to anything,
and become a stranger to nothing.
Saw that betrayal is just another word
for loss, for hunger.

If a recovering alcoholic is to survive, he or she must leave all elements of the drinking life far behind, for, like the goose in the barrel, they call out. At 10 o'clock every night, without fail, Ray would unplug our telephone. He didn't want any of his boozed-up former friends calling us, shattering our peace. He was securing the perimeter. In his book Carver Country he writes to a young writer who's trying to make it out of his own drinking problem. Ray tells him that for years he didn't do anything except try to stay sober. He made it his priority. He didn't care if he never wrote another thing, if only he could stay sober and alive.

Even in his sobriety, there were skittery times. Shortly after Ray learned that his lung cancer had accelerated, I watched him set out to attend an AA meeting in a nearby town. A half-hour later the phone rang. It was Ray. He was in a bar. 'I didn't drink anything,' he said, 'but I've ordered something. It's still sitting on the bar.' I took a breath and, like a hypnotist, told him: 'Just get to your car and drive straight home. I'll be waiting in the driveway.' He drove home, stopped the car before he reached the house, and got out to hold me, like a man clutching a life raft.

During my time with Ray, I learned that there are all kinds of recoveries from alcohol. For some the desire to drink still hits them like a javelin, and it's all they can do to keep from falling to their knees. But Ray finally got to the high ground, where the desire no longer plagued him. And I was privileged to be there with him.

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