The Overpass is my Higher Power.

I just got back from an AA meeting. It was the most boring part of my day. Sure, they're spilling their guts, but not to me. They're telling their secrets to everyone. I feel no sense of accomplishment like I usually do when  I hear gossip. I didn’t even earn them by being alcoholic. A woman asks, “Are you one of us?” and I have to confess I'm not. I'm here for Stephanie, my little friend who lives under the bridge. She's not imaginary. She's real. She's homeless. She's the troll under the bridge. The Billy Goats are the cars, the bridge is the overpass.

I explained this to Stephanie one night when it was raining. She said she doesn't care if she's the troll; she's dry. She’s only dry in the physical sense. She drinks all the time. The first week I knew her I thought she had a speech impediment. She's in a wheelchair with unexplained nerve damage so it seemed possible, but in fact she was just drunk.

She decided she wanted to go a meeting this morning after we went to the police station to file charges against our neighborhood's current menace.  I’ve noticed the police seem to be big in homeless people’s lives. They could be teams, Shirts and Skins, they play so often together but against each other. But in this instance we're playing on the same side. How I wound up playing since I'm neither homeless nor cop I have no idea. Probably being obsessed with saving a dog.

Stephanie calls a couple times to confirm I'm joining her for the meeting. I text, but don't pick up. I hate time pressure. When I get to the underpass I think, ‘Oh crap, she isn't here, maybe I should have picked up.’ I walk through the underpass to Pontius Avenue. She’s sitting on the curb peeing. There's very little traffic so it affords her more privacy than the underpass would. I hold her wheelchair steady so she can climb back in it.

She insists on getting her purse, though there's nothing she or anyone needs in it. It reminds me of 7th grade when girls carried purses. We arrive a little late; they’re already being boring when I push Stephanie up the wheelchair ramp seemingly into the middle of the room. I'm prepared to sit on the floor, I like it there, but some guy offers me his seat. I decline it then another guy offers me his seat and tells me I'm a fire hazard. So I sit down and remember I'm wearing the jeans that do the plumber thing.

People don't say, “I'm Donald Duck” or whatever "and I'm an alcoholic", like they do in movies. They say "Donald Duck, Alcoholic", like it's a credential. I lack the credentials to enjoy this meeting, but Steph turns around a few times to look at me. She's beaming, she's relating. I wonder if anyone recognizes her from a block away under the bridge.

Stephanie makes friends with an older woman next to her, or just a woman with elegant ”mature” grooming. Stephanie ingratiates herself with people like a little girl. In a high voice she says, “I’m Stephanie, what’s your name?” and they always tell her. No one is too respectable or too shady to do it. I appreciate the woman offering Stephanie her phone number. It feels gracious. But listening to their stories I also think they seize on newcomers in codependent need. I will not be satisfying to anyone, so I don't feel very at home.

She turned her head because she was eating
and didn't want her picture taken with her mouth full.

The meeting ends with the Lords Prayer. I only know it because when I was 11 I memorized it to learn backwards, because that's the prayer of witches and I wanted to be one. We head out, down the wheelchair ramp and the block home to her underpass. There, she introduces me to a man with a mariachi mustache,  ensconced on the remaining section of a sectional couch. He tells Stephanie to let him know next time 

she’s going,  then hands her his Corona and she takes a swig.