By MB. Goldfish, London, UK
I was seventeen days sober, living in assisted housing, working hard to get off the streets when I walked past the coffee shop.
Seventeen days doesn't sound like much, but when you've been drinking since you were fifteen, when you've lost your family, your scholarship, your self-respect, seventeen days is everything. Seventeen days is a miracle held together with shaking hands and the phone number of a sponsor I’m too scared to call.
The freshly air roasted coffee sent me into delirium. With the little money I made, I normally run out of money before I run out month.
I had three dollars and forty-seven cents in my pocket. All the money I had in the world. Remember, it’s that time of the month!
The scent freshly air roasted coffee grabbed my attention.
The coffee shop was warm. I could see it through the window; people laughing, reading, living normal lives I couldn't remember how to live. I wanted to go in. Not for coffee, though coffee sounded good. I wanted to sit somewhere that felt human for just a little while.
But a small coffee was three fifty. I did the math twice and scanned my pockets again. I was still three cents short.
I must have stood there too long, because the door opened, and an older man came out. He glanced at me, turned to walk past, then stopped.
"Are you coming in?"
"Can't," I said. "Three cents short."
He looked at me for a long moment. I was wearing the same clothes I'd worn for more days than I could remember. I probably smelled. I watched him decide whether I was trouble.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.
"Coffee is on me," he said. "But here's the deal, please sit at my table. I'm working on a crossword and I'm stuck. You look like someone who might know some words."
“I’m Howard.” Hesitating: “Melissa. My friends call me Mel.”
Ten minutes later, unsure what to say, hiding my hands and looking around at normal, I was sitting across from Howard—retired mill worker and welder, part-time shop teacher, widower, terrible at crosswords—drinking the best cup of air-roasted coffee I'd ever had in my life.
He didn't ask me anything. Didn't pry. Just shared his crossword and told me stories about his students and asked if I thought the seven-letter word for "perseverance" was STAMINA or COURAGE.
"Neither," I said. "GRIT."
He smiled. "Is that with three Is?”
Pausing for a moment. “That might work."
When I got up to leave, he wrote his name and the words Tuesday and Thursday am on a napkin and said: "I'm here every Tuesday and Thursday morning, If you want to help with the crossword. Or if you just want coffee."
I went back on Thursday. And the following Tuesday. And the next.
Howard never asked about the drinking. Never asked why my hands shook or why I flinched at loud noises. He just showed up, bought coffee, and shared his crossword.
A few months into our coffee chats, I told him I was an alcoholic.
"I know," he said. "You want to talk about it?"
"Not yet."
"Okay. Five-letter word for 'second chance'?"
“RESET!” while pointing at myself.
I met with him every Tuesday and Thursday for months. I told him I called my sponsor for the first time this morning and left a message.
Howard—always the kind, supportive presence in the room—looked me in the eye and said: “finding the right mentor or sponsor can feel impossible, but when you do, they become your lighthouse in the storm. When everything goes dark and you can't see any way forward, they remind you of something crucial: You're going to make it through this. You really are.”
That morning Howard and I said our normal goodbyes at the door and turned to face our day. I called my sponsor again. The phone rang and then a voice said hello.
I turned to Howard and waved another goodbye as the voice answered the phone. “Hello.” His voice echoed across the sidewalk and into my speakerphone. “Hello, this is Howard. Who is this?”
He turned to meet my stunned expression.
I walked over and shook his hand. “Did you know I was on your list?”
“No, he said. I haven’t been an active sponsor for about 8 months."
“Why are you a sponsor I asked? Are you recovering?”
“No, never touch the stuff.”
“My daughter was a veteran and a flight engineer on combat helicopters. I don't know if she was an alcoholic before she joined the military; I don't think so....” looking off in search for any clues.
“She certainly was when she returned from combat. She never talked about the things she did or saw or felt in that war. In the end, her demons were more powerful; four years ago, she took her own life. With PTSD, and self-isolation, she was determined to get rid of the voices in her head.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Thank you, it still hurts, and I miss my little girl. At that point, I decided to help someone…. anyone.”
“I appreciate you,” I whispered as I hugged him and then walked away so he wouldn’t see the tears filling my eyes. A few steps later, I noticed my hands had stopped shaking.
We still meet every Tuesday and Thursday. Howard's crosswords got easier, or maybe I just got better.
Now, I buy the coffee.
I got a job at a call centre, a small rundown apartment, and studying for my GED. Life’s better.
I still struggle every day with sobriety; I know this is a lifelong journey. Yet, I focus on staying sober for this minute, and the next minute, and then the next minute after that!
Last week, I watched him look at a kid standing outside the window, counting change. Howard caught my eye and smiled.
"Your turn if you’re ready," he said.
“I'm ready!”