John Clark with the beginning of the first story I ever sold, In Your Dreams. That was more than twenty years ago.

“I nod to Ray as I assume the position. My hands are out at my sides, legs slightly spread while his partner runs the wand up one leg, past my crotch, then down the other. We all know it’s a waste of time, but I‘m cool with it. Neither of them want to lose their jobs because they let up right when one of the hardasses upstairs makes an unannounced walk through.

As I wait for the door to open, I wonder who’ll get stuck chairing the meeting tonight. Most of the time it’s one of us old timers because the guys on the inside are still so raw and squirrely they’d waste fifty minutes just mind farting before getting around to business. Good thing AA teaches patience and tolerance, because there’s a hell of a lot of meetings I’d rather attend on a Friday night than the one in the library at Dellone State Prison. Still, I like to remember when life was ugly as hell and everything seemed ready to leap out and gnaw on my soul.”

Fast forward to just before COVID hit. I signed up for and went through training to run AA meetings at the Somerset County Jail.

Before I was able to do so, the pandemic sent the jail, like a lot of other entities, into lockdown. When things started getting back to normal, I took the refresher training and started running one meeting a month as part of a small group of volunteers so we could ensure continuity and offer the male inmates one meeting a week.

For the first year or so, things were hit or miss. Sometimes the jail was short staffed, sometimes in lockdown, at times they forgot to have a list ans I’d sit for half an hour before signing out and coming home.

Regardless of the circumstances, we kept going, eventually switching from Wednesday nights to Mondays when there was nothing to compete with our offering. Things got better, and inmates who were there for any length of time started looking forward to coming and actively participating.

Like I noted at the beginning, the process is similar to what I described. I leave everything except my car keys in my vehicle, enter the building, and sign the log. After using the phone to let the control desk know who I am and why I’m there, I go through the screener and wait until the first sallyport ( an electronically operated metal door, one of two or more allowing access to the inner part of the jail-only one sallyport can be open at a time) buzzes and I can open it. I repeat the process a second time and then a metal slot rolls open, where I retrieve a two way radio, our packet of AA materials, and a roster of those inmates who have signed up for the meeting.

Depending upon the size of the group, we meet in a classroom, or the chapel. The classroom is smaller, but has far better acoustics. I generally start by saying “My name is John and I am an alcoholic.” I then share pertinent parts of my life that I hope they can relate to; coming to in a jail cell, driving a car into a lake, hitting a tree while riding a motorcycle, and some of the other moments that would cause anyone not on the road to alcoholism, to pause and think, That’s pretty insane behavior, maybe I ought to stop doing this.

At that point, I’m reading the room, seeing who’s relating, who looks like they’re still not ready, and open it up for anyone else to share. I tell them there are no stupid questions other than the one you are afraid to ask.

Generally those who attend are under forty, Blacks and Hispanics in greater numbers than the general population of the state (not a judgment, simply an observation), and tattoos in abundance. Every so often, I see someone I know from when we lived in Hartland.

If I ever had any doubt that alcohol and drugs are an invitation to a downward spiral, listening to these men as they share, takes care of that. While most of them have done things far worse than I have, the feelings of self-loathing, hopelessness, and despair are ones I can relate to. They always take me back to before I got sober.

How effective are these meetings? It’s like when I worked at the Augusta Mental Health Institute…We seldom saw our successes because they went on to live a good life.

In any event, I generally leave the jail feeling good about the experience. I also keep my eye open for AA books and related recovery ones when visiting a thrift store and pass them on when I’m running a meeting. One other thing I do at the end of every meeting is share the promises from the big book of AA because they offer hope. I’ve copied them below.

“If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us — sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.”