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February 1988

“AA doesn’t work for me,” he said. “It doesn’t work for me, either,” I replied. My new friend was not in the best of shape. He was just leaving the hospital. I was helping him fill out some forms, since that’s part of my job. There was an element of life that was missing from his eyes. He was thin, as if he had starved for a long time. Whatever they had put him in the hospital for, he looked like a man who was starving to death. Not just from lack of food, but from a spiritual starvation.

Worst of all, he looked like someone who had seen or heard nothing humorous for years.

But he raised his head and stared at me. I could tell he was surprised by my answer. So I grinned, because he was looking directly at me. It was the first time he had done that. Then I told him the story of “When I Was Coffeemaker.”

“I was railroaded,” I told him. “Forced into it against my will. By the way, how many AA meetings have you been to?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe a dozen. But it doesn't work for me.”

“Me neither,” I repeated.

I was coerced forcibly into the job of AA coffeemaker (I explained to him). Now, this was one of your big meetings—usually about eighty people or more. I was nominated and voted into the office by acclamation—no one chose to run against me. A great honor! Well, I decided to show them how tough I can be. I accepted. But I’ll tell you, a week later I got even with the guy who nominated me. I talked him into being my sponsor!

Now, you might think it’s easy making coffee. It ain’t. It's hard. Especially when you’re doing it for eighty, ninety, maybe a hundred alcoholics, the same ones every week, and they don’t show any appreciation. Let me tell you, it’s no picnic.

This meeting started every Friday at 6:30 P.M., which was about two hours after I got off work, on the other side of town. That meant I had to drive all the way over there and do the job without even going home first. Not only that—I had to stop on the way over to buy fresh coffee cake at a bakery. This was not one of your stale cookies meetings—it had class. None of that nondairy creamer, either. I used to buy real cream. And the coffee? Of course it had to be the best in AA. I wanted to show these people I could take anything they could dish out.

I found a produce store that sold gourmet coffee and bought five or six pounds at a time. I tell you, people started begging me for the secret.

Now that wasn’t all, my friend. Not only did I have to make two big urns of coffee and hot water for tea, I also had to set up these huge tables for the entire room, line up all the chairs, set out the free literature, and get the stuff ready for the secretary. Not only that, I had to get all this done before anybody else showed up. After all, I didn’t want anyone saying I had help, did I? Oh, and then after the meeting I had to put all the tables and chairs back where they came from and wash the coffee urns. It was hard trying to stop people from helping with clean-up, so I finally had to accept that.

Well, to make the story short, I resented this job every week for six solid months. It never occurred to me that there might be something wrong with my thinking. But I was determined to show them. I turned up every week, cold sober. Of course I knew that when the time drew near for my term of office to end, I had them where I wanted them. Because by that time, I had the job down pat, you see. On Valentine's Day I brought heart-shaped cookies. On St. Patrick’s Day I got green cookies shaped like shamrocks. I knew where to get the best deal on freshly baked coffee cake, and once a month I brought in a huge birthday cake. I knew exactly how to set up all the chairs and tables in the least possible time to seat the greatest number of people in the smallest possible space. And no one else knew these secrets, because I was doing the whole job alone. In other words, this meeting had become entirely dependent on one person—me, the coffeemaker. Well, I figured I had the perfect revenge. All I had to do was wait until my very last week as coffeemaker. Then I stood up and announced that my job was finished. They hastily elected some poor newcomer to take my place, and I handed over the keys. But I knew I wouldn’t be back next week. There wouldn’t be anyone to train this poor sucker—he’d just have to figure it out himself. He’d probably quit when he discovered how much work was involved. There was no way they’d ever find a replacement for me. And with no one there to set up the chairs and make coffee, I figured this meeting would last about a month before it went out of business entirely.

However, there was one thing I hadn’t quite figured on—that I would actually miss that stupid job. I was true to my resolution and stayed away from that meeting (I kept expecting to hear reports that it had folded for good). But now I suddenly found that I missed having something important to do on Friday evening.

I also realized something I hadn’t really thought about: I had somehow stayed sober for the last six months. Maybe this had something to do with the fact that I was forced to think about someone besides myself for a while. Maybe I had approached that coffeemaker job with as warped and twisted a mental outlook as I had ever been able to manage when I was drinking. But I had shown up, and I had done it, and I was getting better. Not only that, I was even beginning to make friends, and people were speaking to me and remembering my name. Maybe “it” was working in spite of myself.

HEARD AT MEETINGS:

“I HAVE TO DO THINGS THAT GET MY MIND OFF MYSELF AND OUT OF THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. IT’S TOO CROWDED, ANYWAY.”

–JIM F., TASMANIA, SEPTEMBER 2008

Well, it wasn’t long before I found myself another AA service job, as secretary of a different meeting. Ever since then, I’ve had at least one job where I have to show up on a regular basis and think about somebody besides myself.

You see, that’s why I said that AA doesn’t work for me. Because it’s the other way around. I work for AA. If I don’t work, I don’t get better. There’s no recovery without service.

What’s that? You want to know what happened to that meeting after I deserted it? Oh, I went back a few weeks later just to see how far downhill it had gone. Let me tell you, it was awful. This guy who replaced me as coffeemaker didn’t have the least idea of the right way to set up the tables and chairs. So they got set up any which way. Needless to say, the quality of the coffee left a lot to be desired. Worst of all, the new coffeemaker was getting there much later than I ever did. Which meant he didn’t have a chance to do it all by himself—other people were helping. It was almost like he was cheating. I was scandalized.

But somehow, the meeting managed to continue without me. That was a couple of years ago, and now I’m General Service Rep for that same group. We've gone through several other coffeemakers by now, and I’m damned if every one of them doesn’t take that job as seriously as I did. But then, this sobriety stuff is a serious business, isn’t it? Say, what are you laughing at, anyhow?

BART B.

San Francisco, California