One of my earliest memories of my sobriety is of the night I moved into my second, and hopefully last, halfway house. Here’s the setting: it’s a balmy summer night in Delray Beach, Florida and I am less than happy. I don’t want to be in this misbegotten state, let alone this tourist trap of a village that the villagers seem to think is a city, and I really, really don’t want to be moving into another halfway house but I’ve completely run out of options. Homelessness awaits if I don’t acquiesce to the wishes of those around me, namely my family, my friends, and well, just about everyone I know. Rewind a week or two prior and I’m on the phone with one of my closest friends back home. I’ve been lambasting halfway houses with reckless abandon and decrying the wishes of, well, everyone, with a forlorn, dismayed and decidedly tragic tone in my voice. The gentleman on the other end of the line listens patiently and formulates what he’s about to say masterfully. When I’ve exhausted myself to the point of awkward silence, he says, “You know…if it’s you against the world, the world might have a point”. This resonated deeply within me at that moment and for years to come. To this day I quote my friend at every turn…but I digress. So I arrive at this nicely but not ostentatiously appointed little two bedroom house. It’s in a quaint neighborhood that looks like it’s been recently, and subtly, gentrified. I can almost smell the crack cocaine lingering in the air nearby. I soon find out that this is unfortunately common in the so-called recovery industry, this locating of sober living facilities in or near some pretty nasty neighborhoods, some more so than others. I suppose it’s somewhat unavoidable to a certain degree but none the less unsettling at times. I’ve come to believe that this is a kind of right of passage inherent to halfway house living…that is, crappy, ill located neighborhoods, people stealing your food and leaving a mess of that same food for you to clean up, exorbitant weekly rental fees…not to mention watching housemate after housemate not so slowly deteriorate and eventually relapse before your eyes, and sometimes not so slowly as I am about to illustrate. So I’m in this formerly crappy ‘hood at this vaguely quaint little house about to embark on my newly clean and sober life…and already something is rotten in Denmark. My roommate, let’s call him Francois, is looking a bit shifty and more than a little shady. He’s been in and out of the house half a dozen times before I’m even unpacked. His formerly fancy clothing is rumpled and he’s damn sweaty, even for Florida. Being consumed with myself at that time, as we alcoholic addicts sometimes are, I only noticed this in a peripheral fashion but in the back of my mind I knew something wasn’t kosher with this fellow. I tried distractedly to engage Frenchy in some light, get to know you chit chat type conversation but I got next to no response what so ever. Seemingly, his mind was elsewhere and I simply did not register as either friend nor foe, safe or threat. He was on a mission, I knew not what for and I didn’t want to know at that given moment. I just wanted to unpack, relax and have a sandwich, maybe watch the tube for a minute and pass out. Finally, dude disappeared for what seemed like hours. I took the time to settle in and grab a bite to eat, then reclined on the sofa for a quick nap. The peace and quiet of those spare moments was soon shattered by the owner of the house entering in a flurry of expletives and all around blusterous excitement. He intimated to me that he suspected Francois of using alcohol for something other than antiseptic purposes and asked if I had any information on the subject. I told him what little I knew with no exceptions and he went about rifling through the suspect’s belongings for evidence. He soon found what he was looking for in a nearby clothes hamper and proceeded to quickly and efficiently pack the guy’s stuff up in a matter of minutes. As I said, this whole scenario seemed to span many hours but in actuality it was probably only a couple. Next thing I knew, dude was on the front porch being interrogated and subsequently giving up the proverbial ghost. Minutes later he was being escorted to a waiting vehicle and was hurriedly driven away to God knows where. I later found out he had been sent back to the drug and alcohol rehabilitation center he had recently arrived from. This was my introduction to halfway house life: some drunk guy getting the bum’s rush back to rehab within a matter of a couple hours on my first night there. The bright side of the story is that his exit was expedited with such exacting military efficiency. I wish all such facilities were as hardcore…may I never have to deal with the trials and tribulations of halfway house living ever again.
