Not My Circus

When I had 140 days sober, Kevin had a back surgery.

Although no longer using drugs, I was what alcoholics in recovery call “dry.” Everything was still about me. Kevin locked his meds in a lock box under our bed. He wore its key around his neck. It slept through the night with him, nestled in his chest hair. He Googled how a man took a sledgehammer to his wife’s lockbox to steal her meds.

And wondered what I might do.

Meanwhile, I kept hearing about this mysterious “fellowship” in Alcoholics Anonymous. Fellows met for coffee. Lunches. Had sober brunches and baby showers. Riddled with self-pity, I wondered where my invites were? Was I invisible? Why couldn’t they see me? Sure, I showed up late and left meetings early, but I was there!

My sponsor offered that mind reading was not actually a thing. She smiled.

“Henriette, if you want help, you have to ask for it.”

And so I shared how I felt like an alien standing in my kitchen without a Xanax melting on my tongue, or vodka hidden behind the water heater. How everything in sobriety—washing the dishes, buying groceries, being nice—seemed So. Damn. Hard.

“My husband’s having back surgery…I’m scared.”

It was the best I could do.

After the meeting, a woman approached who reminded me of my favorite Danish aunt. She was tall, Viking tall, with long blond hair and almond-shaped eyes that sparkled. She smiled.

“I’d like to bring you and your husband a meal.” My heart leapt. I loved K! Her shares were raw and humble. One afternoon, she’d let me ramble on about migraines and chiropractors and my new kidney transplant for an hour as I trembled in the Empire Center parking lot in Burbank. Sobriety was like being slapped upside the head with a bucket of ice water every hour on the hour, and K.’s listening ear had been like a warm towel to pat me down.

“Really?” My cheeks flushed. “Oh, that’s so nice!”

We chatted easily. She would cook me a chicken and drop it off the day after Kevin came home from Cedars-Sinai.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Encino.”

Ah, our first snag. Kevin and I lived in Shadow Hills. It would take her 25 minutes to get to me. An hour round trip. That didn’t seem fair.

“Why don’t I meet you halfway?”

“Sure,” she agreed, nodding. “Where?” Her blond hair gleamed under the church’s parking lot lights.

“Well,” I mused, thinking out loud. “I could zip down Sunland which becomes Vineland…”

K. caught on. “And I could take the 101 to Vineland. We could meet at…?”

Our eyes met. I felt our brains fuse together with the twisted, altogether perfect location.

“CIRCUS LIQUOR!” We guffawed. It WAS perfect!

For those who haven’t seen the 1995 hit movie “Clueless,” where Alicia Silverstone’s Cher is mugged at gunpoint in front of this iconic LA liquor store, and then forced to her knees in an Alaia (“like, a totally important designer!”), allow me to explain.

Circus Liquor is indeed a store that sells liquor. Found at the corner of Burbank & Vineland in the East Valley, it’s notable for its 32-ft neon clown with its creepy smirk and weird-o pinprick eyes (and when you’re talking clowns, that’s saying something). Its nickname is “Valley.” You know, as in Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

Hmmm.

As we climbed into our cars and said goodnight, I reflected on how light I felt. How amazing that two, new-to-each other alkys were laughing, mouths elastic with joy, at planning a rendezvous at a store devoted to selling alcohol, or in our cases, bottled death.

And so, about a week later, my broken and stoned husband rested post-surgery, our pocket basset hound, one Miss Maggie May tucked by his side, as I zipped down Sunland Blvd. I pulled into the Circus Liquor parking lot and spotted K. waiting by a large white vehicle, her blond hair shining like a beacon. She passed me a cardboard box filled with goodies. No, there was no Xanax or chardonnay to bring me relief, but an entire roasted chicken, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and to this day, the creamiest, most flavorful gravy I’ve ever guzzled.

Our version of a drug deal.

“Thank you, K.” I hugged her, then thanked her again. And then once more. (The Canadian in me straight up unraveling with gratitude.)

“You are so welcome.” She hugged me back firmly, and told me to take care of that husband of mine.

As I whipped back up Vineland Ave., the car filling with the rich smell of hot food, my mouth watered the way it used to water for the wine in the fridge…and my closet…and behind the water heater. My shoulders softened, thankful. I knew it wasn’t the chicken I was grateful for. (Although let me just say, that meal was fine. I mean, a melt-in-your mouth sensation.) As the small homes along Vineland morphed into the shadowed canyon near home, my lightness returned. K. had seen me. She’d recognized herself in my words, in my fear, and offered me hope under the parking lot lights.

Cut forward 12 years. It’s 2025 and I’m in a Zoom AA meeting listening to K. lead. Always a banger. She scraped any veneer off alcoholism with a razor’s edge. How she used to hate everyone, until she recognized she really hated herself. And, oh, how I related.

The next morning, Jack and I trudged through the last days of an unusually spectacular fall (read: no snow!). I looked to the bright sky, the cool air tingling my cheeks. I pulled out my phone.

“Hi, K.! It’s Henriette. I loved your share yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Never cocky, nor falsely modest, K. was straightforward in our conversation the way she is in her recovery. Honest. Direct. Present. I brought up how I used to call her “Chicken Lady” in jest.

“Circus Liquor!” she laughed. I could almost hear the head slap.

“Yes! YES! You will always be my chicken lady, K.”

She asked for my address, but I didn’t wonder about it. Christmas was coming after all, and Canada is very far away from Southern California, although in that moment, I felt like K. was right by my side. I hung up the call feeling the way I always do with K.

Lighter.

A couple weeks later, it arrived. And if you haven’t guessed what it is by now, I’m a terrible storyteller. I pulled out the Circus Liquor t-shirt and burst into tears. For some, this gift might seem morbid. Why wear a t-shirt advertising the thing you know can kill you? But, of course, that’s not how I look at Circus Liquor at all. When I look at Valley, that weird, fluorescent clown-statue-thing I don’t see an homage to what will kill me. I see K. Her blond hair gleaming and those almond-shaped eyes sparkling with something I so desperately needed. Need.

Hope.

And the knowledge that I am never alone.

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