Not my best subject.
I have nothing to do yet, but I still need a schedule so my thoughts don’t hammer away at me. I need a job. I need meetings. I need exercise, and walking is a good place to start. In order to do any of that, I have to leave the house, which—it turns out—is the first stumbling block.
Here’s my list of things to do today:
1. Ask Minerva about filling out practice job applications. They can’t be harder than the billion and six forms I’ve had to fill out to get treatment.
2. Talk to my roommates to see if they have a line on any possible jobs.
3. Print out a schedule of local meetings—yes, there’s an app for that, but I like printing a calendar to stick on the wall so I can highlight the meetings I’m going to.
3. Leave the house and walk to the meeting of my choice.
4. Buy more snacks.
5. Return to the house triumphant.
Dr. Franklin once reminded me it takes a certain expertise to live as an addict. My life wasn’t always lawful or admirable, but the way I survived could objectively be considered a skill set. Living life on the street without ending up in prison or dead requires motivation, innovation, latent intelligence, charisma, and determination—all things successful people use in legitimate jobs every day.
That’s hard to believe though.
All I see when I look back are dirty dicks and nights spent lying on the icy street with nothing to eat. But then there was also Beck, someone I had to look out for because he had no defenses whatsoever. I rose to the occasion for Beck, so why can’t I do it for myself?
Having someone else to look after made all the difference, and I fucked that up.
I should have taken care of myself like I did Beck.
I could have gone to a local homeless shelter, gotten a job, found a place like the one I’m living in now, but instead, I walked away, dynamited all the bridges behind me, and ended up not only worse off but using again.
I didn’t have enough self-esteem to worry about my own physical and mental health, or my safety, or my conscience the last time I was in St. Nacho’s.
Even if I have to go to a meeting every day and let a sponsor preview every single move I make from now on, I won’t make that mistake again. Not ever.
I want more than a life spent on my knees to buy something that makes me zone out.
I want more of those rare, surprising moments of happiness I had at Hope House.
I want—someday—to be the kind of equal partner a man like Luke could love.
I want more. And I’m going to get it.
Tug
I spent the next couple days of my vacation swimming in the motel pool, relaxing, reading, and walking on the beach. I ate a lot of seafood. At night, I went to local bars to drink and listen to music. I never went back to the venue where Ari’s band was playing.
In fairness, I considered looking for Ari—getting my jacket was an obvious excuse to see him again—but the more I thought about it, the less I felt I had anything to offer. I know he was probably just looking to hook up, but the way we’d engaged, how easily we’d come together, made me think if I’d stayed, I’d have regretted it.
Maybe the difference was inside me.
I hadn’t hooked up with anyone for a while because the last few brief exchanges had been exhausting and disappointing. It used to be hot to get with a guy I’d just met. It was exciting and a little dangerous, like an adventure. Now most hookups felt sleazy to me.
I wanted connection, or at least conversation, before hitting the sheets with somebody. I wanted laughter over coffee the next day. Brunch. I was ready for a relationship, not an adventure.
Was that a sign of old age?
No doubt Tug would have something to say about that. “Okay, Boomer,” or an equivalent to indicate I wasn’t good at having fun anymore.
The fact remained that I was having fun on my vacation, all alone, and despite the missed opportunity with Ari.
I’d gone shopping for trinkets—seashells in a hurricane lantern for Mom and a sextant for Dad. Silly t-shirts for my brothers Ben and Mark. A shell necklace for Becky and coral earrings for Chloe. I got wooden train cars I knew Chaz would love to add to the set he already had. And I got down time for me, which I needed more than I could have imagined.
The most important thing I did was take the time to consider whether I was ready for a change. I was definitely ready for a new challenge, but other than the chance to do my part in the recovery community, I didn’t know what that would look like.
What did I really want?
I was single. I had time and resources. I could find a way to help as a volunteer, or even go back to school. I’d almost made up my mind to broach the subject with my family when I got home. Almost…
In the meantime, I decided to see if Tug wanted me to stop by on my way back to Galt.
Luke: I’ll be driving through Santo Ignacio on my way home. Want to have dinner?
Tug: Sure. I have lots to tell you. Minerva got me a job! I’m working until three today.
Luke: Excellent, where?
Tug: Tell you when you get here. ETA?
Luke: See you around five.
Tug sent a thumbs up.
My drive from Morro Bay to St. Nacho’s took no time at all, even with the heavy holiday traffic on US 101. I arrived at three—well before it was time to meet Tug. Though the streets seemed packed with cars, I found a spot off Main Street only a few blocks away from the beach and let myself simply wander around until it was time.
I’d felt the appeal of St. Nacho’s when I’d dropped Tug off on Friday. It was so gorgeous—so peaceful and eclectic—that for the first time since college, I asked myself what it would be like to live somewhere other than Galt.
I thought it was a fluke, that I was probably imagining things, but the town had an undeniable charm that gripped me and didn’t let go.
On my return, the familiar, inspired feeling seemed even stronger. The doubt I’d felt when I wondered about making changes dropped away, and I was left with the kind of breathless excitement I’d felt when I’d arrived at UCSC for the first time—the certainty that my possibilities were endless, and I had the game to do anything I wanted.
Everything about St. Nacho’s—its small-town atmosphere, its obvious liberal biases, its eclectic businesses and restaurants, and its breathtaking views—filled my heart with a weird certainty.
Every breeze brought the mineral fragrance of ocean water and charcoal smoke and tar and sunscreen. As if I walked in slow motion, the people who passed me along the boardwalk with strollers and pets came into startling focus. Vibrant men and women played frisbee and volleyball on the beach. Amazing kites, each one more intricate and marvelous than the next, flew overhead. The happy sound of children’s laughter filled the air.
I stopped for frozen lemonade and simply stood near the seawall, people-watching for a long while.
Behind me, Nacho’s Bar had set up a taco stand with a line so long I wondered if everyone would actually get fed. A guy played classical violin in the shade of some palm trees. He must have been a local favorite. Everyone who walked past him waved. He dipped his head to acknowledge each person without missing a note.
My muscles loosened and relaxed beneath the warm sun. My racing thoughts quieted. The earth seemed to pull me toward the sand, so I sat with the heat of the seawall at my back, surrounded by music and the sound of waves. My chest tightened with unnamed emotion.