TOMMY GUN

KINDA MAKES ME SAD when I tell the tale of TOMMY, an acquaintance of mine from A.A., who is headed downhill fast with no exit. TOMMY is becoming ever-more feral and cruel, one day at a time, careening about the streets of Denver day & night. Like the once-shiny ball of a pinball machine – from disastrous consequence to depraved dealing he bounces – but instead of bumpers & bells, and without any sort of tilt or match bonus awarded, TOMMY plunges, into a rickety descent that would make angels weep.

TOMMY is, for all practical purpose, a grown-ass man, who is missing a few crayons from the box we are all given at birth. Knowing where things stand now, I have doubts as to whether TOMMY has leveled with any of us to begin with.

Let us begin.

TOMMY’s first impression, years ago, stuck me as a neurodivergent innocent, who had lost his battle with alcohol at an early age, who had undertaken A.A.’s program of recovery, who was living in a shelter downtown, and who strived mightily to avoid all the ‘bad’ people and drug-takers he encountered daily.

TOMMY was as rag-tag as his garments, his speech stammering, rapid-fire and repetitive – but when TOMMY shared about the shame he caused his parents (well-heeled and a bit long in the tooth), a sober soul was bared. One could say, in fact, that TOMMY’s ‘focused interest’ was upon the myriad particulars of applying A.A.’s ‘design for living’ to his circumstance and ability. On and on he would chatter, conveying lessons from his sponsor, in precise detail, which he used to stay sober another day in the program. It was a lot.

TOMMY’s mannerisms & outlook also raised some concern, that he might be easy prey for the wily thugs & hustlers out on the streets, where there truly is no ‘bottom’, no ‘justice’, and no ‘peace’ to be found. Like a Lenny Small for our own time, TOMMY was at once kinetic, timid and always asking for a handout anytime we spoke; just a loan, just a couple of dollars, for just a couple of days.

Over time & ever so slowly, TOMMY’s attendance and enthusiasm went on the wane, as TOMMY’s dedication toward self and others dwindled into an empty chair and lost recollection. One could now find TOMMY milling about the sidewalk of old church, smoking reefer while waiting for a free meal handout. TOMMY no longer said hello to any of us.

TOMMY’s hardship seemingly ended when his parents (both of them) died, within 10 days of each other, from broken hearts and COVID. Somehow, no thanks to TOMMY, the house was sold, the estate settled & distributed, setting TOMMY free from his immediate circumstance and OFF TO THE RACES!

With a couple of hundred grand at his disposal, TOMMY’s social circle became, at once, far larger & far more menacing. A flat was leased, a stone’s-throw away from the Argonaut liquor store. And the hanger-onners and disciples of chaos who came to play with TOMMY were treated like royalty: Grey Goose vodka, Popeye’s fried chicken, Bacardi rum and plenty of legal weed, in the form of shatter-wax hash resin; Jagermeister, crack cocaine, White Claw tall boys, GHB and a mattress upon the floor on which to enjoy all of these things. And So. Much. More.

A rough trade, indeed, and TOMMY began to look the part. Those tattered togs of his past gave way to bright, shiny track suits, puffy down jackets, and the Blingiest of the bling. Fresh Nike kicks and a butane torch hanging at TOMMY’s side were ever-ready for the next adventure.

At this point in time, TOMMY’s friends were suddenly vanishing: into prison, a shallow grave, dug by Fentanyl, or into recovery & newly discovered adulthood. Forever summoning up new comrades and party people has become the order of the day – and the luster, of the lush life, shows its wear as the party rages on, never stopping to smell the roses or even brush one’s teeth.

TOMMY has become a force of nature, by now – a welcoming native of Colorado, beckoning lowlifes, losers and those adrift to this land of promise, so swiftly filled and so easily deflated. You can spot TOMMY out on the streets of Denver, and know him by his grimace & absolute refusal to look anyone in the eye, ever or at all.

Will TOMMY’s luck ever run out? It’s hard to predict, but it’s a fair bet that TOMMY won’t have – nor will let – anyone pull him back from the abyss.

Think of that! An alcoholic who is beyond all human aid once more.

Vaya Con Dios, TOMMY!