When I Woke in a Gutter for the Last Time…Part 2

This panel from the Berlin Wall, painted by the graffiti artist known as Indiano, is on permanent display outside the Imperial war Museum in London. The words are adapted from a poem by Rilke’s “Torso of an Archaic Apollo.”

In my last blog I wrote about waking up in a gutter outside the flophouse where I was living in Cardiff, Wales. It was difficult to climb out of that gutter soaked in rain and urine, but it is even harder to write about it.

I was 21 years old. The only thing I wanted to do was drink and stay drunk. The only thing I knew for sure is that I had to change my life or I would die. I had to make a decision. Unfortunately, I decided to get drunk and probably die, but first… I promised these kind people, Viv and Rita, that I would go to their Bahá’í meeting in Newport, the city of my birth, a few miles from Cardiff.

I met Bahá’í’s a few months earlier in Limerick, Ireland. This was during The Troubles. A week before I got caught in a crossfire between British soldiers and Catholic protestors in Northern Ireland. People killing each other in the name of religion pushed me over the edge from agnostic to atheist. How could there be a god? But the Bahá’ís that I met were kind, and I needed kindness. If the Bahá’ís believed in drinking instead of God, i probably would have joined up then. But alas, they didn’t so I left.

So Now I was headed for a meeting down the street from The Windsor Castle, the pub where I lived as a child. I figured I’d go to the Bahá’í meeting, show my face, then bail for the Windsor Castle where I would work on the day’s binge.

But when I reluctantly arrived at the meeting something happened, something I never expected. It saved my life.

Rita introduced me to a man named Phillip who had just stepped down from the podium where he had given a talk I couldn’t pay attention to…

***

“Good to meet you, Peter,” he says, “Rita tells me that you’re a seeker, that you’re interested in what we believe.”

“Yes…I mean not really…maybe a little.” Talking’s impossible. You need to get out of there. Just mumble sorry and go. Get a drink.

Instead, you say, “No. I’m not interested in the spiritual stuff or the God stuff, but the other things that you believe, the social things, the unity, that makes sense to me.”

Viv hands you a cup filled to the brim with hot tea. Because your hands are shaking you spill it. You use both hands to lift it to your mouth and try to slurp hot tea from the saucer. It feels good on your sandpaper tongue. You swallow it hoping you won’t chuck it up.

“They’re connected, Peter, aren’t they?” Phillip says. “The spiritual teachings make us better individuals, and the social teachings make the world a better place.”

Can’t he see there’s no God. Maybe there was once, but he’s off the job now. Retired. Fishing. Getting drunk.

“Uh huh,” you nod.

“We’re building a new world, a new society built on justice. On equality. On oneness. Because we don’t have clergy, we have to do it ourselves. It’s our responsibility to make a better world. What do you think?” he asks.

“Makes sense.”

“Do you believe this, Peter, that this is from God?”

“No...I’m not sure...I think so...maybe...I don’t know....”

“If you believe that this religion is from God, then you need to join us. You can do a lot of good.”

“I can’t do that,” you say, panicking, spilling more of your tea. “I can’t do good. I’ve never done good. I can’t live the kind of life you’re supposed to live, and, I mean, I don’t want to be a hypocrite.” You don’t say, “Listen, I’m freaking out. I need a drink.”

“Have you considered,” Phillip says, “that you might be more of a hypocrite if you believe in the Bahá’í Faith and don’t join than if you do join and try to live the life? None of us are up to it, but we try. Trying is key.”

“What?” Did he just call you a hypocrite?

“Imagine,” he says, “that there’s this village on the bank of a river that’s overflowing and is about to wipe it out. While others are trying to rescue people, pulling them out of the water to keep them from drowning—and that’s good work—we’re building a new village, a village where everyone will be welcome no matter their race, religion or color. And there you are, watching us from the top of a mountain, safe and sound. If you believe in this, Peter, then you have to help us. You have to come down from your mountain and get wet and dirty with us and help us build that new village, a new world. Peter, we need you.”

Your hands shake. Hot tea spills over your fingers, but you hardly feel it. The Windsor Castle is open. This man says they need you. Nobody’s ever told you they need you…Your head is pounding. If you believe this religion, if you believe in their God, their unknowable God, you need to join them. He called you a hypocrite. You don’t know much about this religion, but you think you might believe it. But you can’t live it. Could never live it. Leave. Walk down to the Castle. Get a drink, you’ll feel better. Go get your ear pierced. Put a little gold ring in your ear like a pirate. Like a genie. Leave now. Jump off a building. What do you believe? Walk away from this man. Jump off a building. Kill yourself. Pierce your ear. You believe in Viv and Rita. How they open their home to you, feed you, let you sleep on their couch. How they answer your stupid questions and never make you feel stupid. We’re all humans and should be treated equally. You think it might be true. You want it to be true. You need it to be true, even though you don’t believe in God. You don’t know how to figure that part out. But if you join, you can’t drink. How do you not drink? You don’t believe in God enough to not drink. But their God is different. Their God doesn’t tell you you’re going to hell. Their God is unknowable, so of course you can’t figure it out. Rita said your poems are like prayers. Maybe you can ignore the God stuff and just work on the saving the world stuff. And write poems. You want to save the world. And God knows, ha ha, you want to save yourself. You want to eliminate prejudices. Your prejudices. You want to be a good person. If you become one of them maybe you can be a good person. It’s after eleven. The Windsor Castle is open. You’ll never be a good person. Say goodbye to these people. These kind people. Walk down the steps. Walk out into the rain. Walk down the block to the Windsor Castle Hotel. Right Now. Order a whiskey. Order a beer. Lift them to your lips. Order a whiskey. You can taste it. Your tongue will become a tongue again, not a paddle, a paddle made out of cactus, of spines. You can taste it. Your hands are shaking. It’s impossible to keep them still. Your whole body is shaking. You are a storm. Your teacup is a monsoon. You think of the cliché, storm in a teacup, but it’s not a cliché. A storm. It’s your life. Shaking. Shaking. Shaking. But this shaking is different, more intense than the shaking you were shaking a moment ago. You’re shaking from inside. Even your heart is shaking. Your lungs. Something wants to come out of you. Something else wants to come in. The Windsor Castle is open. Leave right now. Say goodbye to these sweet people right now. Walk down the steps. Walk down the block to The Castle. That’s where you belong. Not here. You don’t belong here. You belong in the Castle. Order a drink. Leave. Right now. Leave.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Phillip asks.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I believe,” you say, and you mean it.

“Are you sure?” Phillip asks.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Say it again.”

“I believe,” you say. “I want to be a Bahá’í. I want to be like you.”

“That’s grand,” Rita says.

Viv hands you a card and a ballpoint pen. “Just sign this, Peter. That’s all there is to it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a registration card. When you sign it, that’s it. You’re a Bahá’í.”

You don’t know what to do with your cup and saucer. Rita takes them out of your hands. “No baptism or anything like that?” you ask.

“No,” she says. “All you have to do is read the card, and if you agree with what it says, then sign it.”

You read the card. It says that you believe in the Bahá’í Faith and its founder and its teachings and that you’ll obey its laws.

“Okay,” you say. Your hands are still shaking. You sign the card.

You give it to Viv, who squinches his face trying to read it.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t make it out. Would you mind signing it again?” He hands you a second card. You try to write your name neatly, but it’s the hardest thing in the world because you’re trembling so much, not just your hands, your whole body. Viv looks at it and shakes his head. “Would you mind trying again?”

“I understand if you don’t want me,” you say, “but I’m not going to do it a third time.”

“No worries,” Viv says. “We’ll make do, won’t we?”

And just like that, you stop shaking.

***

And that’s how I began to change my life.

April 2, 1972, one week sober. I knew I had to change my life, but I didn’t know how to do that. I knew that if I that following the teachings of the Bahá’í Faith would be my best hope.  

If you’ve read this far, you might want to read the rest of my story in A Tipsy Fairy Tale: A Coming of Age Memoir of Alcohol and Redemption.

This story is not meant to proselytize, but if you’re curious about The Bahá’í Faith, you can learn more here.