The train rushes along with back-rattling turns, surfacing from Philly’s underground up to the overhead tracks of the Frankford Line. I must ride through the gentrified suburbs of Northern Liberties and Fishtown before reaching Kensington. I’m unfamiliar with parts this far north, at least from what I can remember. There were plenty of nights I woke up in a parked train car, overhead lights at full tilt, sliding doors wide open, and the conductor calling, “End of the line!”
My meetings aren’t court ordered, at least not yet. I’m still trying to settle a DUI accusation, and the lawyer advised me to do a little voluntary AA time to smooth out the plea deal.
“It’s not impossible to work a deal as is. But if you could attend a few meetings, and maybe see a counselor. It would show good faith to the DA.”
“I’ll do anything,” I say.
“Listen, you have to stay completely off the police radar, too,” he says.
“Not a problem,” I say.
“If you keep showing up to court and providing information as soon as I ask for it, we’ll get this all worked out,” he says.
“I just want to be done with the waiting and get on with the punishment,” I say.
“Look bud, with your background and a little good faith, I think we can get the DA to plea down. No promises,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, not really knowing what plea down means.
The car screams to a halt, an acrid smell ever present. It’s better than the smell during afternoon rush. Sweat-soaked workers baked by the mid-day heat crowding each car. Junkies slouched in the corner seats precariously guarding jars of unknown substances. Three more stops.
The platforms look decent up here, surrounded by buildings with modern facades. Brightly lit restaurants and salons. But lurching away from each station, the city tells a different tale. Abandoned lots, boarded windows, and a rusty film covering everything in sight.
I’ve got an address on my phone and vague directions from the AA online directory. When meetings are in church basements or dedicated meeting halls, finding the room is usually easy. Look for a group of smokers. Always use the side entrance. Don’t bother anyone not attending the meeting. Finding a room in the city is a different story. We’re charity cases, the broken masses, and we need to stay as hidden as possible. Anonymous. Regardless, I’m grateful for the hospitality of so many unknown people.
Walking down the stairs onto Frankford Av, the first thing I notice is how the locals are moving. Some are dressed to hustle, wearing high-shined knock-offs, looking for wandering outsiders like me. But the majority are stooped, eyes fixed on their next step, covered in layers of overcoats and various head-coverings, shuffling by unnoticed. I want to look confident, but without sticking out. Too late. I knew polished leather boots and crisp jeans were bad ideas. I catch a lot of second glances, and a few thirds.
I’m trying to keep cool while frantically scanning for addresses on doors and storefronts. Peeling window stickers are hard to read, and every brick and concrete wall seems to have ten entrances. 2828 Frankford Avenue. My GPS says to enter the building on the left. I look up and spy some AA-looking dudes heading into an alcoved doorway on the left, where my phone assures me I’ll find sobriety. I decide to follow them in.
There are no working lights inside. Only the sun, which snakes through the overhead tracks, is shining through the front window. No sign of flooring, just dusty concrete. A cleared off countertop that could have been an old checkout to the left, a man standing behind it staring at me. People sitting on the floor. I don’t know what to do. I begin making a move for the opening toward the back, which seems to lead toward a room filled with more people. Are they all lying on the floor? My mind is spinning. The smell is so foreign to me that I’m speechless.
“Hey pal, what are you looking for?” the man behind the counter asks.
“I’m here for the meeting,” I reply.
“Not here,” he says and begins walking right at me. I break into a heavy sweat. “Follow me.”
I immediately move back out into the street, where the man is leading me a couple doors down. I can already smell the welcoming scent of burnt coffee.
“This is the meeting room. Don’t go back where we were. I might not be there next time,” he says, already walking away.
“Thank you,” I say. I doubt the words reach him.
Time to regroup, take a deep breath of fresh city air. I need to get into the room before the chairperson calls the meeting to order. There are more unwritten rules of AA than of baseball, and walking into a meeting late is grounds for unwanted attention. If only I could stop sweating.