Tucked between a barbershop and an antique store along a dark highway into Knoxville, Ky., the Flatiron Club is easy to miss driving by at night. Its only announcement, completely invisible in the dark, is a small, unlit sign above the door.
Inside, two older men and a woman holding a Styrofoam cup loiter in the fluorescent-lit space. A nearby foldout table and chairs sit unused. A young man, thick-armed in a tight black shirt, walks in.
“Sorry,” an older man tells him, “the meeting’s been canceled — the organizers got sick, no one came.” Then he pauses to reconsider. “Pull up a chair,” he says.