Late Night Walks

This is something that I experienced and wrote about in the winter of 2017, after having just gotten out of my first stay at St Josephs Institue (which is an inpatient rehab) about two months prior. I was staying at a halfway house right next to downtown Rochester, and I would frequently explore downtown late at night when I could not sleep. This is one of those moments, that for whatever reason, stuck with me.

The streets are dark, dead, and bare. Most of the city has already done what needs doing, and are tucked into their cozy, warm, homes. But not me. My mind has latched onto a worrisome notion and it just won’t let go. So instead of lying in bed and trying to fool myself into a restless sleep, I chose to suit up into my winter gear and wander the endless expanse of pavement my city has to offer.

Its’ when I’m crossing the Plymouth street bridge, and with a chilling breeze cutting through me like a knife, that I think back to the not-so-distant past. I was homeless, living in my poor excuse for a car, and heavily addicted to heroin. I went to sleep every night, hungry, cold, exhausted, and entirely alone. There were mornings when I had to scrape frost off of my beard. My cell phone, having not alerted me to any messages in weeks, was nothing more than a technologically advanced paperweight. And my stomach was constantly pleading with me to eat, and therefore prolong my poor excuse for an existence. If there is a Hell, I can say with certainty that It doesn’t always have to be fire and brimstone, but can also be of ice and snow.

Somehow, I managed to come back from the netherworld I found myself in and got sober. That journey, with its intricacies, is what let me to the exact spot I’m in right now. All of these thoughts are running through my mind as I continue to walk. The fact that I’m alone on this tour of Rochester’s “nightlife” is not lost on me. I stop at a crossing and patiently wait for the sporadic speeding cars to pass through and something catches my eye.

A man of about 65, sporting white hair and beard, dressed in a worn army jacket, denim jeans that were probably blue at one point, and shabby winter boots is very slowly making his way to the same crossing I am at, but on the opposite side. In his left hand, he clutches a glass bottle with what I’m assuming is some type of alcohol. And in his right, is a lit cigarette. With a seemingly herculean effort, he brings a cigarette up to his lips and inhales deeply. It’s pretty obvious that he is homeless. And having been in a very similar situation not long ago, I can feel my heart tear ever so slightly. The little white man trapped in the box on the lamp post lights up and signals me that it’s safe to cross the street, but my feet have become rooted to the pavement.

I watch him slowly begin to shuffle across the street and my cognizance concocts an image of this man in a very different spot. I try to imagine the series of events that brought him to this tiny blip on the great spectrum of his life. Was he born here? What did he do for work? Did he have a family? How did he become addicted? And it is in this moment, completely unbeknownst to him, that I find an untapped well of inspiration. And I realize that while I may be alone in physicality, I am never alone in spirit.

When we choose to take up arms in the battle against addiction, we must be prepared to fight every single day for the rest of our lives. And at first glance, the fight may seem completely futile. But when we just take the time to slow down and look around, we can see that we are surrounded by our brothers and sisters in arms. Some of them will give up. Others will be cut down. But for every person who falls, there is one who will continue to move forward.

This image of being surrounded by my friends in recovery flows through my mind while I’m standing at the edge of the road, and before I know it, the man is upon me. Our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds before he looks down at his feet. But that one look tells me everything that need be said. His haunting blue eyes show me that he wasn’t always this way. That he now survives on next to nothing, only because he must. I see great and terrible sadness. And above all I see shame. That’s a feeling that I have come to understand very well.

I want to stop this man and offer him a warm meal and a comfortable place to sleep, veiled from the unsavory elements outside. But I have neither of those to offer, as I am still barely getting by myself. What I do have are a couple of extra cigarettes, which I don’t hesitate to share.

“Thank you, thank you. God bless you, sir”

The man says to me, and the cigarettes quickly disappear into his jacket. I see a tiny fraction of a smile form on his dry and cracked lips before he turns back into the direction he was originally headed. I continue to stand and watch him stumble along, wishing only that he reaches his destination intact. Because in addiction, as well as in everyday life, sometimes small victories are all that we can ask for. The haggard figure eventually disappears from my line of vision and his hypnotic effect on me is broken. My feet decide to stop rebelling against my intentions and carry me onward through the black, starless night.