Where I'm Calling From

“When this happens, my mouth dries up. It’s an effort just to swallow then. I know something’s about to happen and I want to head it off. I want to hide from it, that’s what I want to do. Just close my eyes and let it pass by, let it take the next man.”

In describing the physical and mental aspects of withdrawal, the narrator indirectly expresses his genuine fear regarding the life-or-death situation of his alcohol use disorder. His desire to “hide from it” seems an almost childlike impulse, but it is also a sign that the problem of addiction is overwhelming and too big to deal with on his own. By also desiring to “let it take the next man,” the narrator suggests that he views addiction as a zero-sum game; somebody must necessarily reap the consequences. In fact, his phrasing implies a comparison between addiction and the grim reaper.

“A couple of guys got down on the floor beside Tiny. One of the guys put his fingers inside Tiny’s mouth and tried to hold his tongue. Frank Martin yelled, ‘Everybody stand back!’ Then I noticed that the bunch of us were leaning over Tiny, just looking at him, not able to take our eyes off him.”

When Tiny unexpectedly has a seizure, some of the men at Frank Martin’s immediately jump into action to help him; this is a result of withdrawal that they must have seen before. The narrator’s description also conveys a bodily dissociation, as he recalls noticing what he was doing after he had already done it. This implies that he was witnessing something so frightening that he was not able to be fully present for it, let alone imagine it could also happen to him.

“What’s J.P. talking about, anyway? He’s saying how when he was twelve years old he fell into a well in the vicinity of the farm he grew up on. It was a dry well, lucky for him. ‘Or unlucky,’ he says, looking around him and shaking his head.”

Although the narrator absolutely depends on J.P. continuing his storytelling, he is not actually paying close attention at first. It is as if the sound of J.P.’s speech alone is sustaining him. When he finally tunes in and hears J.P. describe himself as “unlucky” for surviving his fall into the well, the extent of J.P.’s shame and despair becomes evident. This passage also demonstrates the narrator’s characteristically ironic voice; when he says it was “a dry well, lucky for him,” the word “dry” is a subtle pun on the idea of abstinence from alcohol.

“In short, everything about his life was different for him at the bottom of that well. But nothing fell on him and nothing closed off that little circle of blue. Then his dad came along with the rope, and it wasn’t long before J.P. was back in the world he’d always lived in.”

J.P.’s experience at the bottom of the well stays with him for the rest of his life, as the event involved some of the worst fear of his life. Although none of his fears were realized, it was the threat itself that was traumatizing. Once he was rescued, he had to return to a world that was unchanged, even though he himself had changed dramatically, and this passage suggests that he could not find a way to reconcile that.

“He could feel her kiss still burning on his lips, etc. J.P. couldn’t begin to sort anything out. He was filled with sensations that were carrying him every which way.”

The narrator receives indirect characterization through his retelling of J.P. meeting Roxy. His discomfort with intimacy and romance is evident in the “etc.” that he uses to censor the description of J.P.’s kiss; and, after the kiss, J.P. was filled with nonspecific “sensations.” The narrator’s discomfort with even vaguely intimate detail reflects his own relationship difficulties with his wife and his girlfriend.

“‘I had everything I wanted. I had a wife and kids I loved, and I was doing what I wanted to do with my life.’ But for some reason—who knows why we do what we do?—his drinking picks up.”

In this part of J.P.’s story, the narrator combines J.P.’s direct quote with his own retelling and narrative intrusion. This passage also highlights The Complexity of Addiction and Recovery: In J.P.’s case, it is not material want or unfulfillment that causes him to drink; the reasons are more complex. By asking “who knows why we do what we do?,” the narrator hints at this complexity, while also using the first-person plural “we” to subtly denote humanity at large and suggest that addiction could happen to anyone.

“J.P. quits talking. He just clams up. What’s going on? I’m listening. It’s helping me relax, for one thing. It’s taking me away from my own situation.”

J.P. stops talking several times during his storytelling, prompting the narrator to urge him on each time. The narrator’s commentary in this instance reveals the disconnect between his emotional experience and J.P.’s: The narrator imagines that what J.P. needs is a captive audience, but J.P. seems more affected by the content of his own story. Both men are ultimately focused on their own needs, including the narrator in his need to be distracted from his problems.

“He was here at Frank Martin’s to dry out and to figure how to get his life back on track. But he wasn’t here against his will, any more than I was. We weren’t locked up. We could leave any time we wanted. But a minimum stay of a week was recommended, and two weeks or a month was, as they put it, ‘strongly advised.’”

By emphasizing that he and J.P. are at Frank Martin’s voluntarily, the narrator highlights the aspect of personal responsibility that is often associated with recovery from addiction. Here, however, there is a clear distinction between what is said and what is meant. For example, J.P. was forcibly brought in by his in-laws, but the narrator describes him as not “here against his will.” Similarly, though the men can technically leave at any time, they do not actually feel that option is available.

“The next morning Frank Martin got me aside and said, ‘We can help you. If you want help and want to listen to what we say.’ But I didn’t know if they could help me or not. Part of me wanted help. But there was another part.”

Frank Martin offered to give the narrator the help he needs, but the narrator was skeptical; this anecdote is retrospective, and readers already know that this first attempt at recovery was unsuccessful. Because there was “another part” of the narrator that did not necessarily want help, he feels a sense of culpability for the treatment not working, yet his observation shows a nascent self-awareness that attests to his capacity for growth and healing.

“New Year’s Eve morning I try to call my wife. There’s no answer. It’s okay. But even if it wasn’t okay, what am I supposed to do? The last time we talked on the phone, a couple of weeks ago, we screamed at each other. I hung a few names on her.”

When the narrator’s wife does not answer his phone call, he feels a renewed sense of helplessness and alienation. The phone is currently his only means of reaching his wife, and he is entirely dependent on whether she picks up the phone. Both the narrator’s dejection and his sense of powerlessness reverberate in his question, “[W]hat am I supposed to do?”

“I think about calling my girlfriend, and I’m dialing her number when I realize I really don’t want to talk to her. She’s probably at home watching the same thing on TV that I’ve been watching. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to her. I hope she’s okay. But if she has something wrong with her, I don’t want to know about it.”

After experiencing the depth of his alienation from his wife, the narrator feels similarly alienated from his girlfriend. This alienation is complex; he can easily imagine that both he and his girlfriend are watching the same thing on television, and yet the distance between them feels infinite. However, while a degree of emotional intimacy is evident in the narrator’s ability to imagine his girlfriend’s life and predict her habits, that intimacy is based in passive familiarity rather than any commitment or emotional labor on his part. When he considers the prospect of sharing in the burden of her potentially serious diagnosis, he backs away—and by not wanting to know if something is “wrong with” his girlfriend, the narrator tacitly consents to the distance between them.

“I watch her get out, and I see them hug each other. I look away. Then I look back. J.P. takes her by the arm and they come up the stairs. This woman broke a man’s nose once. She has had two kids, and much trouble, but she loves this man who has her by the arm.”

While watching J.P. and Roxy interact, the narrator again reveals his discomfort with intimacy. He cannot even look at them as they hug. Despite this discomfort, the narrator’s tone of wonder in this passage suggests that he actually craves this very kind of love.

“I know it’s a dumb thing to do, but I do it anyway. ‘Roxy,’ I say. And they stop in the doorway and look at me. ‘I need some luck,’ I say. ‘No kidding. I could do with a kiss myself.’”

In a moment of boldness, the narrator attempts to participate in the intimacy J.P. and Roxy share. It is risky—he is asking to kiss his friend’s wife—and yet it is safe—he is simply participating in a chimney sweep tradition. It is not only the superstition that the narrator hopes will bring him good luck, but also the attempt at a deeper relationship. Kissing Roxy can only be practice; the narrator must bring this agency into his own relationships if he wants to enact change.