Mick sets down the carburetor part he was cleaning, his movements slowing. His face doesn't change—he's always been hard to read—but something shifts in his eyes. Something knowing.
"Why are you asking me this?"
"Just wondering. Curious if it's actually possible. Or if it's one of those things people say is possible but never actually works."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me. I can feel him seeing things I'm trying to hide. I start to regret asking, start to think of ways to backtrack, to laugh it off and change the subject. But before I can say anything, before I can take it back, he speaks.
"Yeah. I knew someone."
"Did they quit? For good? Or did they just cut back and call it quitting?"
"Eventually they quit for good. But it took them a long time to get there. A real long time. Lost a lot of shit first." He picks up the rag and wipes his hands slowly, methodically. "Lost his wife first. She walked out after years of putting up with his shit—the broken promises, the embarrassment, the unpredictability of it all. Almost lost his kids too. They stopped coming around, stopped returning his calls, basically wrote him off as a lost cause. And he damn near lost his business. Came this close to bankruptcy because he was too drunk too often to notice the bills piling up, the clients leaving, the whole thing falling apart around him."
"Jesus. That's rough."
"It was. It was about as bad as it gets without dying." He pauses. "But he stopped eventually. Hit rock bottom and realized he had exactly two choices. Keep digging deeper into the hole, or start trying to climb out. So he started climbing."
"How? Did he go to rehab or something? Get professional help?"
"Couldn't afford rehab. That shit costs thousands of dollars, and he'd already burned through his savings on booze. So he went to AA meetings instead. Every single day at first, sometimes twice a day when the cravings got really bad. Found a sponsor—older guy who'd been sober for twenty years. Worked the twelve steps, did the whole program, went to meetings for years." He shrugs. "It's not magic. It's not a quick fix. It's hard as hell, especially at the beginning. But it's free, and it works if you actually work it. If you show up and do the work instead of just going through the motions."
I nod slowly, filing all of this away, trying to imagine actually going to one of those meetings. "You think it's possible to quit on your own? Without the meetings or the sponsor or any of that? Just willpower?"
"Possible? Sure. Anything's possible if you're stubborn enough." Mick looks at me directly, his gaze steady. "But it's a hell of a lot harder. A hell of a lot lonelier. The meetings give you people who understand what you're going through. People who've been exactly where you are andmade it out the other side. When the cravings hit at two in the morning and you're about to crawl out of your skin, about to lose your mind, it helps to have someone you can call who gets it. Who won't judge you or tell you to just try harder."
"Yeah. I guess that makes sense."
"You guessing, or you asking for a reason? Because there's a difference."
I don't answer. I can't. The words stick in my throat like broken glass. I just stand there holding the dirty rag, staring at the floor, feeling exposed.
Mick doesn't push. He just nods once, like I've confirmed something he already knew, and goes back to cleaning carburetor parts. We work in silence for the next hour, the only sounds the radio and the clink of tools and the occasional car passing outside. The silence is comfortable though, not awkward. He doesn't make it weird.
Around five o'clock, when I'm packing up my tools for the day, getting ready to leave, Mick calls my name.
"Jay."
"Yeah?" I look up from my toolbox.
He's standing by the workbench, arms crossed over his chest, looking at me with an expression I've never seen before. Something almost like concern. Almost like he actually gives a shit.
"That person I was telling you about earlier. The one who lost everything before he finally got sober."
"What about him?"
"That was me," he says. "Twenty years ago, I was exactly where you are right now. Drinking every night, telling myself I had it under control, watching my life fall apart piece by piece and pretending I didn't see it happening. Convincing myself that tomorrow I'd cut back, tomorrow I'd do better. Tomorrow never came."
I freeze completely, my hand still on my toolbox lid. "Mick..."
"I don't talk about it much. Ancient history, water under the bridge, all that. But I see you, kid. I see the way you come in some mornings looking like you haven't slept in days. I see the way your hands shake when you think nobody's watching. I see the way you avoid talking aboutyour life outside this shop." He shakes his head slowly. "I've been there. I know what it looks like from the inside."
"I'm not—I don't—" I can't finish the sentence.
"I'm not judging you. I've been there, done that, got the scars to prove it. I just don't want to see you go down the same path I did. Don't want to see you lose everything before you figure out you need help." He uncrosses his arms. "You've got talent, Jay. Real talent with bikes. And you've got a good heart, even if you try real hard to hide it behind all that armor. I'd hate to see you throw that away because you're too stubborn or too proud to ask for help when you need it."
My throat is tight, making it hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Nobody has ever said anything like this to me. Nobody has ever looked at me and seen something worth saving, something worth fighting for.
"I'm trying," I manage to get out. "To get better. To stop. I'm really trying."
