“My name is Bond…James Bond.”

“Hi James!” rang a chorus of chain-smoking observers in folding metal chairs.

“I’m…I’m not really sure where to start,” winced the visibly uncomfortable secret agent.  He’d been fed to sharks, poisoned, shot at, pierced with deadly lasers, and bitten by a 7 ½ foot mutant with metal teeth, but he had never faced such treachery as this before.

He was in AA.

“The studio sent me here.  They say if I want to keep appearing in films, I’ve got to clean up my act.”

James took a shallow sigh and recapped his increasingly virtuous lifestyle.  “It started back in ’89.  They cut me down from three seductions per film to the confines of monogamy.  Last year, they made me stop smoking cigarettes.  Hell, my Astin-Martin now comes equipped with side and passenger airbags.  I guess this is all that was left.”

Rosie, the meeting counselor, quickly rose to her feet and spoke.

“James, that’s all very nice.  However, we have a policy here at AA that we don’t blame others.  There is no ‘they’.   The first step to recovery is acknowledging you have a problem, and then taking personal responsibility for that problem.”

Rosie was in her late forties – a faded beauty whose face reflected the strength and sadness of one who had lived too much in this world.  She spoke with a conviction that kept her platitudes from sounding trite.  She wasn’t working from a text, her script was the life she had lived, and the regrets she carried on her strong but sunken shoulders.

In his prime, James would’ve turned Rosie’s retort right back at her, with a swivel of his left eyebrow, or a seductive half-smile that said, “Ever had sex on a moving ICBM?”  This Bond, however, was a mere shadow of his former self, more Woody Allen in “Casino Royale” than, say, Connery in “Dr. No”.

James stared down at the floor in shame.  “I guess you’re right.”

“Say it, James,” pleaded Rosie.

Oh, how many times he’d heard a woman utter that phrase.  But she was usually naked, tipsy, and attempting subversive espionage.  Right now, those sweet words rang with a dense thud, like the sound of Oddjob’s bladed hat striking a garbage bag filled with moist rice.

James confessed, “I’m…I mean, I guess…no, I am.  I’m an alcoholic.”

The room burst into such fulminating applause that James looked around to see if Jack Nicholson had just shown up.

No, this genuine show of appreciation was for him, for verbalizing what he had never even considered before.

Encouraged by the support, James continued.

“This whole drinking thing started when I was just coming up through the service.  The wine flowed like, well, wine, and every night I’d finish off a bottle or two with other potential ‘double-0’s’.  We’d go over our British Intelligence Training Manuals, practice jujitsu on one another, and gripe about those pissy little French exchange agents.”

“By the time I was made a full agent in Her Majesty’s Service, I had graduated to gin, bourbon, and even the occasional fifth of Irish whiskey.  But I was still what you’d call a ‘social drinker’ by most standards.  I mainly drank at upscale cocktail parties, where it was expected, because, you know, if the Emperor of China is drinking loaded sake, well then, everyone else better be as well.  It was a matter of diplomacy…how we kept the peace.”

As James scanned the room, he realized no one there had even the slightest frame of reference for where he was coming from.  He was face to face with unshaven oilrig workers decked out in denim, housewives so numbed by valium that they couldn’t even bring their gaping lips together, and teens so alienated from society that they would find  “Catcher in the Rye” quixotic.  But they seemed attentive, so he proceeded.

“Anyway, not long after I became an agent, Q told me I needed a signature drink.  Something I could order that would set me apart from other agents.”

“Vodka Martini!  Shaken not stirred!” rose an enthusiastic shout from the audience.

“Ah, a fan,” said James with a slight grin - a grin that quickly melted away as he made eye contact with Rosie.  No one at these meetings was to receive special treatment.  There are no ‘celebs’ in AA.  You can go to Betty Ford for pampered recovery, or a ‘Drew Barrymore’, as it’s known in the biz.  But in AA, the pressures of fame are no excuse.

“Anyway, Vodka martinis are a dime a dozen.  It was the ‘shaken, not stirred’ that set me apart from the spy ring rift raft.  Before I knew it, I was ordering them everywhere.  They’re bloody tasty, and kind of light.  You don’t realize you’re taking in such high proof alcohol because shaking mixes so much better than stirring.”

A hand went up in the audience.

“Yes?” asked the gentlemanly secret agent.

“Does your watch have a t.v. screen on it?” said an oily, portly man about three rows back.

“Yes, it does.”

James proudly pulled back the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket to reveal a large faced Bulova with a spring board display that lifts up to reveal a 1 ¼ inch monitor.

“That thing get HBO?” came a heckle from the crowd.

“Hardly.  It’s designed to transmit commands from underground headquarters in Britain.”

Another voice piped up.

“James, did you ever sleep with Moneypenny?”

“Well, I…”

Realizing the ship was veering way off course, Rosie cleared her throat loudly, with a blatant ‘a-hem’ that shut James down just two words into his tale of sexual conquest.

“Um…that’s really not of consequence,” said James ashamedly.

Suddenly, questions were being fired from all corners of the room:  “How come you never get shot?”  “Is that your real hair?”  “You’ve got great teeth…are you really British?”

The atmosphere was now more press conference than recovery therapy.

“Please, please,” James winced, “I’m here because I’ve got a problem.  I’d like to deal with that.”

The crowd settled as Rosie encouraged, “Go on, James.  You’re doing fine.”

“I’ll cut to the chase.  I’ve gone round and round on this and it all comes down to one thing: there’s no one left to fight.  The cold war always gave me plenty to work with:
a stolen missile here, a mad Soviet waging chemical warfare there.  I kept busy, and my spirits were high.

Sure, now, we’ve got the Middle East, but we take such heat for portraying their citizenry as warmongers.  At one point, my producers were actually considering having me try to resolve the Irish Protestant/Catholic crisis, but no one could decide which side I should fight on.  I mean, I was raised Catholic, but now I’m more, I dunno, Episcopalian.  It just wasn’t my bag.
 

So, when you’re a top-level intelligence agent with no one left to conquer, and you’ve got a proclivity to drink anyway, well, you end up like some kind of sad Eugene O’Neill character.  You sit in the pub, going on and on about the ‘good ol’ days’ when the villains were discernible and the women were willing.  So, anyway, that’s why I’m here.  I’m too young to quit, but too old to change careers.”

Rosie saw an opportunity to use this high profile addict as an example.
“Are you now, James?  I’d say there are many jobs you’d be suited for, even at your age.”

“Well, I gave it a shot.  I took a part time job at Radio Shack for a while because, you know, I love gadgets.  But they got mad at me when McGyver kept dropping by the store to visit. We’d get bored and make detonators out of VCR remotes.  Besides, I had to ask for every customer’s phone number and address when they checked out, even if they just bought a 9-volt battery.  Bloody pain in the ass.”

“Have you thought about a desk job, as a detective?” asked Rosie.

“A desk jockey? No thanks! I like action - falling down ski slopes, being suspended over a shark tank, having seductive women slip me a mickey.  If I were ready to settle down, I’d just start the lecture circuit.  Indiana Jones clears 55 grand a speech. Hell, even Barnaby Jones gets a piece of the public speaker pie.”

Sensing James was at the lowest emotional point of his life, Rosie dangled a carrot before him.

“James…you see this?”  She produced a plastic poker chip from her breast pocket.  “It’s a 30 day chip.  For many recovering alcoholics, it’s the greatest treasure they own.”

“Does it detonate anything?” inquired James.

“No.”

“Does it cut through human flesh when thrown from a distance?”

“James…it’s a poker chip.  It represents a full month’s sobriety, and I’d venture to say that it’s a greater badge of honor than anything your perilous career has ever granted you,” boasted Rosie.

“My dear, I’ve had sex with a woman named Pussy Galore.  Let’s not go comparing stripes…you’ll lose.”

“You see, James, you’re still clinging to sensual desires…women, glory, martinis.  This chip represents something greater…something that resides within you.  The question is, do you have the guts to claim it?”

Rosie’s moralizing made James want that chip more than he wanted Mary Goodnight and Dr. Holly Goodhead in a fortnight long menage-a-trois.  “Give me that chip,” said James with blunt determination.

“No, James.  You have to earn it.  29 more days without a drink and its yours.”
“I don’t think I’m making myself clear.  Give…me…the…chip.”  James separated his words for maximum dramatic effect, a trick he picked up during his Roger Moore days.

“I can’t do that, Mr. Bond.”

“But of course you can,” retorted James, revealing a derringer in his right palm.
James aimed the tiny barrel squarely at Rosie.

“Very well, Mr. Bond, if you’re going to resort to threats.  But I want everyone to take note: James Bond steals that which he cannot earn,” relented Rosie.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever…the chip.”

“Catch!” said Rosie as she released the poker chip with a rapid wrist motion that sent the object orbiting at warp speed for James’ right hand.  Before he could react, the chip struck James’ hand with a powerful thump, causing him to drop his weapon and cradle his hand in anguish.  Then, the chip boomeranged back to Rosie, and landed gently in her upturned palm.

As she returned the flat sphere to her breast pocket, Rosie gave James a parting shot: “Don’t screw with your AA counselor, Mr. Bond.”

Rosie turned and walked out of the auditorium as the other AA members sat in a bewildered hush at what had just transpired.

James sat on one knee and stewed in his humiliation, fearful to look up at the crowd which, he was certain, was passing severe judgement on him right about now.

“So this is what it’s come to,” thought James.

Suddenly, a massive hand reached down, offering James the opportunity to rise to his feet.

James looked up past a badly out-of-date seersucker suit.  He was suddenly eye to eye with Detective Harry Callahan.

“Dirty Harry?” said an astonished James.  “You’re in…?”

“Not for drinking.  I’ve got some anger issues to work out.  On your feet, punk.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry.  See what I mean?  I can’t relate to anyone on a civil level anymore.  I assume everyone’s a felon in the making.”

“So why are you in AA?”

“It helps.  I can’t explain it.  It just helps.”

“O.K.”

“I’m your sponsor,” smiled Harry.

“My what?”

“Sponsor.  I’m the one you call in a moment of weakness.  When you start thinking about a vodka martini, when you find yourself surrounded by other drinkers in a social situation, when you’ve just survived being beaten, bound, and fed to a tank of man-eating piranhas and feel you could use something to calm your nerves…”

James noticed the crowd had completely dispersed, leaving just he and Callahan in the auditorium.

James rose, dusted himself off, and collected what was left of his pride.

“So, what’s the secret, Harry? It must be tough for you.  The vigilante cop isn’t exactly in vogue in Hollywood anymore either.”

“You gotta diversify.  Find a new angle.”

“After so many years? But my public has certain…expectations.”

“Hey, they booed when Dylan went electric, but he won ‘em over,” said Harry.

The two weathered crime warriors began to walk for the exit, shoulder to shoulder.

“I feel like I’ve put my public through enough changes.  Remember George Lazenby?”

“No,” retorted Harry.

“Just as well,” winked James.

“I’ll tell ya how I did it.  Let’s grab a bite down at “Suddenly Salad”.  I’ll tell ya all about it.

“You don’t seem like a salad man, Harry.”

“Had to.  Studio took me off red meat.”

“You don’t say,” replied James.  “What’s that like?”

“It sucks,” said Harry, as he held the door open for 007, and escorted him to his
 ’84 Chevrolet.

James couldn’t help but smile.  “I’ll bet it does, Harry.  I’ll bet it does.”