One cold January morning, as I pulled my car around the corner of my office building, I was struck by a memory of one of the most powerful experiences I’ve ever had in my practice with the homeless.
This is in response to an old prompt about whether I prefer my voice on tape or face on vidoe, but it brought up good memories that I like to flip through. In college, my freshman year, I was best friends with two girls, Ann and Ali. Ali’s roommate moved out of her dorm room for some reason I don’t remember, and one night, inspired by Fiegling from a Romanian friend and cheap wine from a fake ID, she let us take magic marker to her walls to decorate.
This really happened, and it was funny.
My fiance were and I were relaxing at our favorite cigar bar downtown, sitting on the super plush seats in the front window. A group of guys came into the bar and sat on the couch across from us. One of the guys was clearly the designated drunk and was still in a happy mode of drunk, talking to everyone. They were firefighters from Queens, members of the first fire academy graduating class after 9/11. They came to town for a hockey game, and were gonna rush back to New York the next morning.
We started talking about their time in our city, comparing things we enjoy about our respective homes, and then they asked about our professions. Right when I told them I’m a drug and alcohol counselor, the Designated Drunk looked at his friends, horrified, and said, “This isn’t an intervention, is it?”