Sometime in my thirties (I’m 70 now), I had the privilege of serving on the board of directors for the Home of Grace for Women. Eventually, I became the chairman.
The Home of Grace dedicated itself to rehabilitating women addicted to alcohol or drugs. Most of the women who wound up there had already tried, unsuccessfully, to beat their nemesis through other agencies. Some of them, or their loved ones, spent tens of thousands of dollars in that effort.
We seemed to be the last resort. Maybe that’s why our success rate was better than most rehab centers’. Maybe that’s why I’ve had a special place in my heart for those who are trying to turn their lives around.
A few months ago, I got a ding to pick up a gentleman from a hotel near the 3-Mile Bridge in Gulf Breeze. It took him a while to get to the car, but he called and asked me not to leave him. When he got into the car, we began some small talk.
“I’m gonna need to stop along the way, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I know I can’t smoke in your car, and also, I’ve had a lot to drink, so I’ll probably need to use the bathroom.” I told him that would be fine.
“I guess you know where I’m going,” he said.
“Well, I know what you put in the app. It’s about a half-hour away. I know that.” I had never taken anyone there.
He continued. “It’s a detox and rehab place. I’ve got a serious drinking problem. I’ve been through this before, but I’m back in trouble again. I know the next few days are gonna be hell. It’s not just alcohol, but that’s my main problem.”
We stopped two or three times on the way. Each time he got out of the car, lit a cigarette, and called someone. He updated me about the calls. Someone was trying to make sure he actually showed up at the rehab.
He asked me to play some music and requested songs that were definitely not on my playlist. Several heavy metal songs about death and destruction. After a couple of those, I told him I’d like to try something a little less frantic.
When we got there, he gathered his belongings and started toward the entrance. He seemed hopeful.
A few months later, I picked up another young man headed to the same destination. He had a suitcase, plus some extra baggage from Publix, Walmart, and others. He also told me he would need to stop on the way.
“My brother is sending me to this place. I know it’s going to be rough, so I’m getting rid of everything I have. I smoked all the weed I had left, drank some whiskey, took some pills – emptied everything.”
About two-thirds of the way there, he asked me to stop at a convenience store.
“You want a drink or something? I’ve got to go to the bathroom and get some snacks. I won’t be long, I promise!”
I turned down the drink. He returned to the car a few minutes later with a few more pieces of “designer” luggage, filled with a collection of delectables that had never seen a nutrition pyramid.
“They’re not going to give me these things when I get in there, so I’m getting all I can now!” He unwrapped and devoured everything he had. I felt sorry for the rehab folks and cautiously pointed out that I had hospital-approved throw-up bags in the backseat pouch in front of him. Luckily, we were only five minutes away.
Just a few weeks ago, I got a ding to pick up someone at the aforementioned rehab center. This ride was going to Montgomery, Alabama, a little over three hours away.
When I arrived, I saw a young lady with her luggage waiting on the front curb of the parking lot. Finally, I would get someone on the good side of the month-long treatment.
As I loaded up her bags, she said she would need to stop as soon as we left to use a restroom.
“I don’t mind waiting if you want to go back inside,” I offered.
“I can’t go back in there,” she replied. (That was a bad sign I didn’t immediately recognize.)
Once we had satisfied her immediate need, we were on the road.
“Well, how did it go?” I asked. I knew that she had just finished a month there, and I was hoping to hear positive results. Nope.
“I had to leave there! I got here last Friday, and everyone who works there is a racist! I stayed there three days, and that was all I could take.” Then, a string of colorful terms you wouldn’t share with most folks on a job interview.
Well, I thought, only three more hours. This should be fun! I got a synopsis of her life so far. She grew up in a terrible household. No dad. A mom on drugs financed through prostitution. No real friends. Sexual abuse from several who should have been protecting her. Frequent bouts of homelessness. She had it all.
One moment, she would tell me that she believed in God; the next, she declared that God hated her. She wished she could be born into a world where everyone who looked like her could treat those who looked like me the way her people were treated.
She asked to stop for a restroom break several times. Each time she stepped out of the car, she lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs, and gently extinguished the cigarette. She carefully put it back in her purse. She smoked that same cigarette at each stop. And, yes, I believe it was a regular, filtered cigarette.
At one point, I suggested that perhaps she should find friends at a nearby church.
“I tried that. The preacher stood in front of everyone and confessed to being bisexual. He didn’t make any excuses – he was just who he was.” She paused. “That’s my church, and that’s why I don’t go to church!”
I told her I hoped that she would keep trying. She promised she would try again because, at that moment, she once again believed God loved her.
We had already had a long trip, but still had an hour to go. She was about to nod off when she asked me to stop at the rest area just before we got to Montgomery. She needed quiet time. So did I.
As we approached the rest stop, I softly tried to wake her. Never mind, I thought, let her sleep.
We were about ten minutes from her home when she woke up.
“You missed the stop! I told you I needed to stop there. Now I have to go to the bathroom!!”
Gee, she seemed perturbed.
“I tried to wake you, but I didn’t want to yell at you. We’re only a few minutes from your home,” I explained.
When we arrived, the only place I could park was about a block away from the front entrance of her apartment building. I offered to follow her with her luggage. We got to the front door, she thanked me, and told me she appreciated the conversation.
She promised she would try one of the rehab places in Alabama, just not quite yet.
In case you’re wondering, the vast majority of my rides are not like this. Sure was relaxing driving home, though.
That’s all for this week!
By the way, if you enjoy these stories, please visit my website at tommyfulton.com/books and consider buying one of my books.
God Bless,
Tommy