Boston, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me

He closed the door behind, leaving New Hampshire. He had always longed for a life of sobriety and thought he could find it with a geographical cure. Seemed like his whole family were doomed to lives of insanity, illnesses, and cirrhosis, all related to substance and alcohol abuse. He longed for a life free of discrimination where when he walked down his suburban sidewalk and suburban street, he wouldn't be harassed and asked for his license or identification each and every time chose quiet recreation, or stared at as if he made a wrong turn into a wrong neighborhood. He left quiet suburbia quickly and ran off to Boston like his life depended on it, (which he felt it did) hoping to camouflage with others that resembled him.

Wow! Much to his surprise, not one person in authority asked him for his license or identification or where he was even going. He walked enjoying creation all about him while noticing that here in this new land, elderly white women didn't clench their purses with a death grip and tremble, little curious eyes never stared too long, and doors never slammed tight the nearer he got.

So here in this new land of Boston, he set out on a new start, a new, clean, and sober life. He had longed for this new body, new soul, and he thought he just might be getting his wish fulfilled. He began caring fervently for his physical well-being, and matters of spirituality gained more importance to him. He read the words of Kahlil Gibran, poetry of Robert Frost, Thoreau and Emerson.

He attended his 12-Step meetings and his church while working hard at two jobs. One as a promising illustrator working for the Boston Globe newspaper, and the other as a maitre'd at a luxurious hotel. He worked so hard for this new mind-set, this new body, this new way of life. He set a goal that by his 28th birthday, a year into his sobriety, he would lose an X amount of pounds, weight-lift X amount of pounds at the gym, meditate X amount of minutes each morning and night, run a total of X many miles, and save X amount of income. He began feeling really good about life! He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

He arose one morning and fell to his knees in a posture of gratitude and began thanking his Higher Power for another day of sanity, for another day of life. He praised this Power for allowing this birthday to be a sober one. No fighting, no arguments. Just contentment and peace, and best of all, no hangover!

After working his shift at the hotel that day and retrieving his tips and paycheck, he headed to the bank humming one of his favorite spirituals songs, "My Sweet Lord" by George Harrison. He loved that song, and thought of a drunken past event when he and one of his sisters sang that tune in her car and cried together, laughing so hard because they had a mistaken belief that they were watching a flying saucer when in actuality they were watching a sun rise in all its glory. He walked to this rhythm, strolling along with a confidence he had not felt in a while, be-bopping along with a cadence of sobriety. He was finally starting to feel he was meant to be here all along, that this was his Walden.

Half-way home to his halfway-house of a home, feeling very bleary and weary, to his surprise some people that resembled like him began to approach him. Only they were more tired and angry than he and demanded that he hand over his income. Could this be really happening, he thought? I am not in Kansas anymore. He felt angry that these angry knife-wielding thugs that looked so much like him, would want to take what didn't belong to them. He certainly would not give it up. But after seeing the daze of desperation in their eyes and the fear disguised as courage that only an addiction casts off, he said in a quick desperate plea. "It's my birthday guys, and today is one full year of sobriety..f-f-f-for me! The past is the past. I am here to make a good start. Please don't hurt me!" But these angry young men that resembled him, stabbed him some nine times, overkill one would say, with one fatal blow to the liver, as it had stated in the police report.

Lying on the ground, this fatigued, sober and wounded soldier summoned strength enough to walk and fell into a doorway of a restaurant where with his bloodied fingers weakly dialed 911. Amidst screams of disbelief and terror, his spirit left, and he sent out a peace message to all of his beloved family members. His fear had been surpassed by enlightenment and love and his last thoughts ironic. "Wow, I came here to escape. I looked for a geographical cure, and there is no such thing. Never has been! Boston, why hast thou forsaken me?"

A younger detective, feeling his battle fatigue, sighed. During this gruesome investigation he had discovered this young man's identification, an identification that ironically this young man was reluctant to release, who had found it so hard to give up many times hence, in a far-away land in New Hampshire. The detective noticed that his birth and death dates would read the same way on his epitaph. He fell back onto the side of the building where the body was, leaning back in dismay, quickly searching for words to tell a family about this tragedy. With a tear in his eye he sighed and said with a street sarcasm, "Happy Birthday?"