I Promise.
Frank the Angel saw that I was in no position to acquire my own cigarettes.
“I just have no idea where to go!” I said. “But I have a credit card!”
I can’t sufficiently stress how stupid I was, loudly announcing my credit card to a stranger on Braddock streets.
“I know a place,” said Frank the Angel. “I’ll get your cigarettes. What kind?”
“Oh boy,” I said. “Virginia Slim Menthol Light 120’s.” I couldn’t believe I was being so particular when I had just been absurdly devastated by the sheer lack of tobacco in my grasp.
Frank the Angel said he would do the best he could.
“I don’t have any money,” I said. “Do you want my credit card?” I waved my card at him, dropping my ID on the sidewalk, then picking it up again.
“That’s okay,” said Frank. “It’s on me.”
He turned to go but stopped.
“Please stay here,” he said. “I promise I will be back.”
Then Frank the Angel disappeared with the driver of the car who, rather coincidentally, was also an NA member named Frank.
I sat down on the curb and waited, giggling. They’re from NA, I thought. What are the chances?
Narcotics Anonymous (NA) is a fellowship, much like Alcoholics Anonymous, based on the 12 steps. I’d been to many NA meetings during my time sober, and I’d learned from them the same way I learned from AA meetings. The people were similarly welcoming, caring, and kind. And anyone who had clean time in NA – just like sobriety in AA – was a walking miracle.
So I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when Frank the Angel returned from wherever he’d gone and handed me a pack of cigarettes that were almost the right kind.
“Can you tell me where you got them? I smoke menthol.”
“Wait, I’ll be right back!” Frank the Angel grabbed the pack, laughed, and bolted – again.
“No, you don’t have to …” I started, but he was gone. Other Frank sat in the car.
Within minutes, Frank the Angel was back – with menthol cigarettes.
I hugged him. “You really are an angel,” I said.
And then I told him my whole story: rehab, boyfriend, AA, NA, breakup, relapse, meetings, detox, thrown out of the bar, the train, my last cigarette – and then: Frank the Angel.
I couldn’t get through the story without laughing and crying even though I’d felt so dead inside only moments before.
“It sounds stupid,” I said. “But I really think you were sent here to remind me that I can actually get sober.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid,” said Frank the Angel. “It sounds just about right. Do you need a lift home? I promise, you can ride in the back and we will take you straight there.”
I had absolutely no way to get home and here was this angel, offering me a ride.
NA angels felt safer than Braddock streets.
I nodded idiotically and climbed into the car. As promised, Frank the Angel took me all the way home – which wasn’t close – and wouldn’t take a nickel for gas.
Which was good, because I didn’t have a nickel. But I offered to use my credit card to fill up their tank.
They dropped me two blocks from my house; I wasn’t quite so trustworthy as to let them see where I lived.
As I clambered out, Frank the Angel scrawled his phone number on a business card and handed it to me. “Call me anytime,” he said. “For anything. I mean it.”
They drove away and I walked home, thanking God the whole way.