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The
Writing Life
Adventures
in Research
by Sandy Tritt
I
sat
in my car and waited until five past the hour. Convinced the last
stragglers had arrived, I sneaked through the heavy oak doors and
slithered against the back wall, willing myself invisible. Normal
people would have been satisfied to interview others or finish their
research from the library, but not me. I wanted to experience an AA
meeting personally, so my fiction could sing with authenticity. So,
here I was, feigning to be a coat rack, hoping no one would notice me.
I
glanced around the room. It would be almost impossible in my small town
not to recognize anyone, and sure enough, they were there. Not that I
minded that they were there, mind you, but that they would know I was
there. The sophisticated blue-haired lady was my daughter's playmate's
grandmother. And the lady in red looked familiar as well—my
mind
scanned for where I'd seen her —my father's business
associate,
perhaps? And Mr. Bogreens, the custodian at my church.
I
should have left before anyone saw me, stepped back through the door as
silently as I'd entered. I slid my right foot toward the exit, then
moved my left to catch up. I concentrated on getting out, on escaping
from this poorly planned escapade.
"Door
prize?" A man with soft walnut eyes pressed an index card into my hand.
"No,
thanks," I whispered.
"The
first one's free," he said.
"No.
I'm not . . ."
"Everyone
enters the door prize," he said, his voice raising.
Fearing
a commotion, I scribbled my name and mumbled my thanks. The rest of the
group had formed a circle, so I relaxed in my obscure spot by the door.
I was safe. I concentrated on capturing all the details I needed to
make my fiction real. The PA system must have been a donation from the
old high school stadium, as it blasted through the ceiling panels,
giving each speaker's voice the resonance of God's very own. I also
noted the bare light bulb dangling from a dusty wire, and figured I
could make an analogy from it. I listened to the tone of the speaker's
voice, and watched his mannerisms as he spoke of his disease and
recovery. I waited for the words I expected, "Hi, my name is Bob, and
I'm an alcoholic..." And soon, sooner than I'd expected, the
meeting adjourned with the recitation of the Serenity Prayer.
I'd
survived. I buttoned my jacket and slid toward the door. Hopefully, no
one had spotted me.
Someone
tapped the mike twice, then spoke so loudly her words hung on the
ceiling, and I had to wait for them to trickle down before I could make
them out. "Sandy Tritt! Sandy Tritt!" The neon words fell from above,
over and over, beating me down.
"You
Sandy?" an elderly man said, pointing his arthritic finger at me.
I
wanted to deny it, but by this time the buzzing crowd swarmed around
me, and I understood how Jesus Christ felt when the crowd screamed,
"Crucify him! Crucify him!"
"You
Sandy?" a young woman demanded.
I
nodded, swearing to myself and to God above that I'd never, ever again
infiltrate sacred meetings in the name of research.
The
kind-looking man I remembered from earlier came to me.
"Congratulations," he said. "You won the door prize."
"I—I
don't want it," I whispered, eying my escape.
A
woman with evil eyebrows thrust a microphone in my face. "Speech!"
I
was
caught. I was cornered. I took a deep breath, leaned into the mike, and
made my confession. "Hi. My name is Sandy, and I'm..." I looked at
the now silent crowd hanging onto my every word and realized that the
man in back looked way too much like one of my daughter's teachers, and
undoubtedly the press was there and my picture would be splattered
across the front page of Sunday's paper. My charade was over. There was
nothing left for me to do, so I hung my head and admitted my addiction.
"And I'm a writer."
© 1995 Sandy
Tritt. All rights reserved. www.InspirationForWriters.com
You may reproduce portions of these
essays and stories for educational purposes like writing workshops as
long you distribute our copyright notice and our URL
(InspirationForWriters.com) with each page. For use in conferences,
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