Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

(This is from my memoir that tells of how I overcame my addiction to heroin. This part takes place directly after my first rehab where I’m just getting used to living at my halfway house in Kerrville, TX. A true story.)

     Now, that I had been in Kerrville, staying at The Red Rooster, I had a schedule and set routine for everyday. The house had a policy that you must find a job within two weeks of your first day. I had been talking to this restaurant Chili's on the River for a couple days. They had me come in for three different interviews. The two weeks had already passed but my house manager and I both knew I already had the job.
        What chain restaurant would ask for a third interview if they didn't plan on hiring you?
        It was the third week when I finally got the call telling me to come in and start bussing tables. So I was the new busser/host at Chili's on the River, a chain that was one of Kerrville's biggest hits. If you were new to town and you wanted something familiar, you came to us. We always had a steady rate of customers, or guests, as we were supposed to call them.




During this time waiting on a job, I attended meeting after meeting in hopes of abiding by another house rule. Along with everyone in the house having to have a job, we also must have a sponsor to lead us through the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. 
     Many people who are fresh out from rehab put it upon themselves to do the "90 in 90"—attending ninety meetings in ninety days; in other words, a meeting everyday for the first three months, or, you guessed it… ninety days. I was not one of these people. But since there was nothing to do in this town, besides loitering around in a Hastings or Walmart and spending fifty-dollars for a footprint tattoo that's no bigger than a quarter, I found myself sitting in many meetings. I would wind up doing the "90 in 90" before the first ninety days had gone by. There was a meeting at nearly every hour of the day. If your sponsor made you attend ninety meetings in ninety days, you truly had no excuse for missing one. 
     The first few weeks while I waited for Randy to graduate, I was on a mission. During every one I sat through, whether it was for alcoholics, cocaine addicts, or narcotics, I listened to what each person said and tried to figure out what kind of person they were and what kind of sponsor they'd be—a strict, military-type; if they were reliable; the type that preached the Bible along with the Big Book; or the laid back type who didn't take things all that seriously. 
     If I had the choice, I would probably have gone with the lazy one, but I knew if I was going to stay clean and sober, I needed someone a little bit more strict than that. But not the kind who would drill the book into my head making me memorize every page he thought was important—which is every page, of course. 
     There was one guy I kept seeing at every meeting. He was all over the place: Alcoholics Anonymous, Cocaine Anonymous, Narcotics, Anonymous, you name it. And at every meeting, he had something different to say, each pertaining to another topic. He looked a few years older but spoke as if he was thirty or forty years older. Everything that came out of his mouth during a meeting was on point and profound, making me look at the program in a whole new light. A better light. He was a loud and proud extroverted African-American by the name of Taz. After the meetings, him and his entourage of other recovering addicts would be surrounded by many others wanting to talk to him, especially the women. I decided after a day of three meetings, in which he also attended, he was going to be my sponsor. 
     The next day, in a Cocaine Anonymous meeting at the Outpost Recovery Club, I spotted him. The entire meeting was spend deciding on when and how I was going to ask him if he'd sponsor me. It was the first time since being in rehab, I'd thought about drinking and wanting a drink to take the nerves away. I hadn't had to deal with any fears sober yet, until now. I left the meeting early to smoke a cigarette, hoping it would calm me down but to no avail. 
     I sat on top of a bench outside and went over the plan in my head. The plan was to wait outside until his crowd of followers left and then I could find my window to walk up to him. I'd introduce myself first, then we would shake hands, and then I would tell him how I really liked what he said in the meeting. 
     "Hey," said a voice, interrupting my concentration. 
     I turned around to see a young kid with metal all over his face. His ears were gauged with two more pierced loops going though them, had multiple loops around each eyebrow, his nose and three piercings on each top and bottom lip. He looked like an Airport security's nightmare. I gave him a nod and said something then looked back to make sure Taz hadn't left yet. Luckily, he was still there, talking to—
     "I saw you raised your hand, needing a sponsor," he interrupted again. 
     This was true. Towards the end of every meeting, they will ask for people in need of a sponsor to raise their hand, which I had before I got up and left for a cigarette. I figured I could talk with this kid and keep an eye on Taz at the same time. 
     "Yeah…?" I said, in a way that also asked, What's your point, little boy?
     In the corner of my eye, I saw him move, making me turn towards him to see him reaching out his pale, skinny hand. "I'm Raphael."
     My mind instantly forgot about what I was there waiting for, and became filled with a feeling of pure, uncut nostalgia. I had grown up loving the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I loved them so much, Michelangelo, the pizza-loving, orange-wearing turtle, had come to my birthday party in Kindergarten. I remember he was huge and had made me so incredibly happy, until some little brat started wailing because the guy in a giant, life-like turtle suit had scared her. That's when he had to leave. This was also when I was very young, before I'd grownup a bit to like the rude attitude of the rebellious turtle, Raphael. 
      It was this, as well as a weird feeling in my gut, that told me to give this kid all of my attention. I introduced myself and prepped up a way to start talking about the Ninja Turtles with him. 
     "So… Raphael, it is?"
     "Yeah, but everyone calls me Raphy (Raw-fee)."
     "Ok. Can I call you Raph? Like from—"
     "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?" 
    He'd beaten me to it, showing me he must get that all the time. I had a nickname in high school I wasn't too fond of, so I told myself to try to not bring it up again. 
     "Yeah, if you want," he replied. "So, you need a sponsor?"
     As he asked this, I had already turned around to look for Taz but didn't see him. Well, maybe this was a sign, I thought, and turned back to answer him. 
     "Yes, I do."


     My gut feeling had been right about sticking with Raphy. The next day, Taz was nowhere to be found. It turned out,  his sponsor had relapsed, so he joined up with him to go on a cocaine-fueled bender in Las Vegas. I never saw or heard about Taz again after that.