The session was well underway by the time Maggie arrived at the meeting. The room was a large multipurpose space, far too big for the little ring of a dozen chairs at the center. If the hallway lights were harsh, the lighting in here was worse. You couldn’t turn on only the few lights that you might need; it was all or nothing. So the big space was drenched in hundreds of watts of lifeless white fluorescent photons. Maggie tended to make science fiction illustrations the way some use sports metaphors to describe the various situation in their lives. To her, the room was very much the prison scene from George Lucas’ THX 1138, but with an American Flag and obligatory coffee urn in one corner: it wasn’t a prison because of its confinement, but rather because of its expanse.
Maggie entered the Circle of Trust as quietly as possible and a few of the folks whispered greetings to her. Suzette, a heavy-set girl with a new-wave hairdo and quarter-sized, smiley-face ear studs, was sharing about her confused feelings towards her father. Maggie listened patiently, but found that she was keyed in on Rhett Herron. Who knows? Maybe Paul was on to something. Fortunately, Rhett was seated directly to the right of Suzette, the girl who was speaking, which meant that he would likely be sharing next. Around the circle, counterclockwise from Rhett, were Kathy “with a K”, Sandi the cat-lady, Dave the rich guy, Maggie the undercover detective, Patricia the herbal chick, Mick the group leader, and of course Suzette the girl with the cool hair.
Rhett was muscular, which is to say that he was huge. And not just size huge, but grizzled, chiseled huge, see-every-vein-and-sinew huge. He was a beast in a pink, collared Polo shirt and khakis creased sharp enough to cut bread. His face, in contrast to his physique, was handsome in a smooth boyish way. His hair was high-and-tight. When asked, he would tell you that he wore his it this way so that when in combat, his opponent wouldn’t be able to use his hair as a handle. He always carried a desert-camouflage duffel bag with his name on it wherever he went. And he was missing his right leg from the knee down.
Saber wrapped up her emotional passage for the night and everyone thanked her for sharing. Maggie was eager to hear what Rhett had to say.
“Good evening, Group, my name is Rhett Herron and I am a sex addict.”
The Group collectively welcomed Rhett.
“So this has been a difficult week for me. I’ve been thinking a lot about the war this week. And I am finding that whenever I fixate on the war that feelings of desire to go back out and hook-up increase.”
Mick, the group leader, asked Rhett, “Rhett, what do you think triggered this fixation?”
“There’s been a lot of information in the news the past two weeks, a lot of coverage of operations. It comes and goes whenever significant developments in the battle take place. For instance, if a key target is acquired, or if we sustain troop loss, the media will increase their coverage. Two weeks ago a high-profile lieutenant was captured, so naturally there has been a lot of chatter. Whenever I am exposed to more information about the war, I experience heightened feelings of anxiety. And this anxiety produces in me the desire to find comfort, I believe, in sexual gratification.” Rhett, Maggie noticed, said everything as if he was reading a report, and he had an aversion to contractions.
“Would you say that you are self-medicating?”
“Um, yes. I think that this would be an accurate description.”
“So Rhett,” Mick’s voice was low and non-threatening by design – if HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey was had a psychology degree from Rutgers, Maggie thought, this is just how he would sound – “How do you feel towards the Iraqi people exactly?”
Rhett was a disciplined man. He was one to keep his emotions subservient to his purpose. But Maggie perceived the slightest slight crack in Rhett’s armor from this question. His voice rose just a degree or two, “I feel misunderstood, I guess. I feel unappreciated. I feel . . . I went over there to help those people. We set them free from a psychopathic dictator, from oppression. . . How is it that we are the bad guys, now? We are not the bad guys, we are the liberators. Those people took many of my best friends, good men. They took my leg. They took – well, I don’t want to get in to that right now. I’ll tell you something strange, you know what I miss the most, personally? My swagger. They took my swagger! I used to have a great walk: confident, head held tall, Oorah! And now, I’ve got this stinkin’ Forrest Gump waddle! It’s not that it’s a painful thing, or anything like that, but it’s with me all the time.”
“How long have you been recovering from your sexual addiction, Rhett?”
“Since I got back, sir – I mean, Mick.”
“Does anyone want to share any feelings with Rhett?”
Sandi, the cat-lady offered to join in, “I get where you’re coming from, Rhett. I think we all have triggers, you know?” Sandi would have slept with Rhett in a New York minute, if he would only ask. “For me, it’s whenever I get stressed-out at work, or maybe sometimes I get all reminiscent of my Ex’ and forget what a total dill-weed he was. I just feel like throwing myself back into that whole scene again. But I’ll tell you what really helps me is . . .”
Patricia the herbal chick interrupted - her dark, shiny hair was braided into two Pocahontas pony tails and she wore a red paisley bandana, wide across her forehead, “But they didn’t ask for us to liberate them. They don’t want us over there. A lot of civilians, Rhett.”
“Understood. But sometimes you have to break some eggs to make the omelet. Sometimes you have to help people even if they don’t know they want it. It’s like . . . ”
“Ok, you know what, screw that! You want to know what your deal is? You’re just a woman-hater, plain and simple. How dare you equate women with war? How dare you get aroused by it! I find that deeply offensive. I find you offensive, and perverse.” Patricia folded her arms across her tan tank top.
Mick mediated, “Remember everyone, this is a safe place. We are all trying to figure ourselves out, and we’re all at different places. Let’s restrict our comments to ‘I’ words . . . ”
“I find Rehtt offensive!”
“. . . and not use judgment words.”
Maggie was tickled. She was getting a bit of unhealthy pleasure watching the situation fall apart. And best of all, she didn’t have to get her hands dirty; the Group was doing her job for her. All she needed was some popcorn. And besides, Patricia might just be on to something. Maggie decided to sit back and take Kamal’s advice: she would just observe for a while.
“Well I will say this,” Rhett responded, struggling to maintain his professional composure, “Maybe women and militants aren’t all that different after all! They don’t appreciate when you come in and try to take care of them, you lay your life on the line, you care for someone, and then you’re the bad guy, you, you’re the one . . .”
“The one what? The one with the restraining order?”
Rhett stood. He had had enough, and knew the best thing for him to do would be to leave. “What you don’t understand is that the things I did – the things I do – I didn’t do to those people, it’s something I did for those people. But that is not something you would understand.” Maggie wasn’t sure if he was referring to enemy soldiers, or his past lovers.
As Rhett hobbled away with a gimpy sway, his duffel bag throwing off his already unsure center of gravity, all Maggie could think was, “I sure would like to get my hands on that bag.”
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