Three taps meant: I’m here. I’m thinking of you.
It was the middle of August in New York City, I’d never been to the Bronx, let alone that far uptown on the 2 line.
Buzzer.
“Hi, I have an appointment to see Brenda,” I said in my best voice to the few women in the management office.
“That’s me, come sit down,” a pleasant, older woman gestured to her work area.
And within the hour, I had been accepted into their program for women with addiction problems.
I went into what someone later termed transition shock at the noise level, in between people chatting, music blasting from the dining room while someone played a different playlist in the backyard. But right after rushing up three flights of stairs to put away the plastic bag with the stuff, there I was, in that very room from where the deafening sounds came.
I detest plastic bags to this day, the cheap, flimsy NYC bodega kind. That one. Everything I owned fit inside it.
Deafening to me.
In time it almost grew on me, especially a handful of the women who, for different reasons now contribute to this story.
“Hey, you want one?” offering an open pack of Newports, from the door to the backyard.
That was Myrna, the young woman with whom I shared the room. Her story was of abandonment, neglect even of self as addiction had swallowed whatever plans she once had.
And Esther who, as someone “confidentially” shared, relapsed and either left or was removed from the program. She and I would’ve made great friends.
There was Ramos who, true to the old lesbian stereotype, comported herself with a theatrical level of masculinity. She once gifted me a pair of black Jordache sneakers.
Full stop.
Then there was Diana. She took an interest in me and, I, in turn, let myself be flattered by her admiration of me. We soon became “an item,” as she enjoyed saying, much to the chagrin of an admirer I had inadvertently encouraged. I had become reclusive, venturing downstairs only for a quick cigarette and a meal, I felt utterly uncomfortable, and spent most days in the room.
Diana’s interest, her gentle coaxing, got me out of that room, and out of my head.
It felt good to be asked: “Hey, where were you all day?” No one had asked me that in years. We got to the point of late night conversations, her feet discreetly on my lap, going over old VHS tapes. A Field of Dreams was the very first of many movies she shared with me.
In the evenings, we felt a certain intimacy to my tapping on the ceiling to let her know I was back, much to the amusement of Myrna. Three taps, code for “im here, im thinking of you.”
And Darlene, the go- between, carrying love notes back and forth in her ever present wicker purse. And also the CD player left on my bed. “Play track 14” discreetly tucked in.
The one day when things got intense between Diana and me while my roommate was out. A nice, slow burn, fewer and fewer pauses.
The door burst open. I felt my stomach drop.
My admirer screeched in horror and ran to the management office.
I was given a week to move out, a magnanimous act from a director who prided herself in having removed a pregnant girl from the program despite the girl’s kneeled supplication.
In my optimism, I took the embarrassment as a clue to pursue a deeper involvement with Diana.
It did lead further into my renewed life in sobriety although not in ways I had expected. And for the first time in over two decades I was not disappearing into a bottle of whisky.
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