Secret Societies: Meetings in Odd Places

My friends are dressed up, some in costumes, others in semi-formal wear and they are be bopping to music courtesy of our friend Tony, a deejay in his own right only no one on the outside knows.

No, it’s not a cult, although some say it is.

We have renovated this old grocery that has been closed for decades into our new recovery meeting place after moving from an old house that was to be a temporary stay. Before that we were in this really cool old building a few blocks away but when the landlord tripled the rent after nine years of occupancy we were forced to relocate much to our chagrin.

The old grocery is listed in the Tarrant County Historic Registry and now a rainbow is painted over the archway of the small kitchen with the words “Karma CafÃ?©” greeting visitors.

The space is tiny, tiled, and the ceilings billow with pillow-like, parachute material waving from the top of the building creating an airy atmosphere.

Outside some new and old members mingle smoking, getting caught up, rehashing the past for some, and bragging for others.

In the back is still the old cooler where the original mom and pop would keep their drinks to sell their customers.

I use up all my film snapping pictures of my friends, some who I haven’t seen in probably close to a year.

Looking back the next day I’ll recall with fondness how we danced to “The Time Warp” from Rocky Horror amidst perfect weather outside while the rest of the neighborhood sat back quietly unbeknownst to the celebration inside.

Soon this place will be full of memories too like the ones we made at our former place that we moved out of.

That particular building was originally a massage parlor (the legal kind) then when our group rented the building it underwent a huge transformation thanks to the talents of various members of our groups who could drywall, paint, scrape, and caulk in unison, all the while laughing and having a blast, with their friend, the music blaring in the background to keep the momentum.

The first time I walked in there and saw the exposed colorful brick inside the huge building I was intimidated yet intrigued.

We used to have anniversary and birthday parties once a month and Christmas parties and dinners every year. Everyone brought a potluck dish at Thanksgiving and we all gathered in the huge main room with high ceilings and fans, long, old-fashioned windows that open horizontally and share our holiday meal together. Then a small group would take off to a movie, another would go have coffee, and others would just simply scatter and go to another recovery meeting.

In the summer it could get unbearable on birthday nights but we hung in there for everyone anyway, some of us later meeting up at a restaurant maybe, some of us having had dinner together beforehand then walked across the street to join the fun.

One time I almost had to call the cops on some friends of mine – girls who were fixing to come to blows over roommate problems.

I listened many times as we stayed open all night on New Year’s Eve with movies, music, games, cards, food, conversation, antics, and secrets.

Those walls hold many secrets, confessions, some pulled from the very depths of despair and triumph.

I dressed up as Cleopatra once for one of our annual costume parties, serving up cheese and appetizers to my friends in attendance with my proud headpiece.

I dragged myself in once to a meeting after nearly dying in the hospital from my asthma once again, to tell my friends about my latest survival.

We had yard sales in that building, fundraisers, speakers, committee meetings, public relations sessions, babysitting, all kinds of dogs visiting, and even memorial services there.

Rewind even further and you’d find us in a tiny building over ten years ago, where people would jam together celebrating birthdays complete with elaborate decorations and plenty of dessert. We met there for years then our group split off, with some of us still assembling there until the place burned down.

Ironically enough when we occupied that space the landlord would never address the furnace leak which was the cause of the fire.

But after the place almost burned to the ground he remodeled it, fixed everything, and even put in window boxes of blooms, now using the space for his office.

Fast forward to Saturday night again, this past weekend.

As I walk to my car now after the party I noticed a few cards milling through the street, curious on-lookers, wonder where the music is coming from.

They don’t know that we have created a new haven, a fourth place to sketch our sentiments to each other, being fed again with friendships that have lasted for eons.