The men who lived, the men who didn’t.

Luke Wesley Fluegel
Nov 1 · 5 min read

I run a Sober house. It’s a small house, as sober houses go. Three single bedrooms with single beds, and a room that sleeps two. Here are some of the characters who have lived here, and their stories.

  1. Ryan. Ry moved into the house before it was official. Before we were accredited, filed paperwork, and approved by the fire martial and city. I actually first met Ryan in the seventh grade, when I saw him wearing a Weezer shirt in our American History class. Fast forward ten years and we’re both heroin addicts, in Minnesota, trying to get our act together. Ryan watches in demurred amusement as I tried to pull this company together, using my infinite knowledge from having 18 months without a drink or drug.
  2. Nick. I’ve never seen a human drink energy drinks like this kid. Probably six or seven a day, easy. And not the commercial, gives-you-wings -stuff, but a Chinese knockoff he bought by the case from the Asian market down the street. Nick played video games 9 hours a day, with frequent breaks to shiver on the porch while he chain-smoked Newport regulars. Once, he made us all homemade sushi that was incredibly delicious. Nick moved out and promptly relapsed. I haven’t heard from him in over four years.
  3. Ash. A Russian blue, handsome, stone-cold killer of a cat, we “inherited” Ash after his owner, a friend of an ex, had to make an umpteenth stop at inpatient treatment and never came back for him. Ash has every resident trained to feed him, let him outside, and basically do whatever the fuck Ash wants them to do. We call him the O.G. He always curls up to sleep next to the new guys, and will often deposit a freshly killed Robin on the front steps.
  4. Rich. Six-foot-five, and only now in his late thirties finally showing the beginning signs of years of crack and meth addiction, Rich could still probably make it as a male model. Three days dry and off the pipe and he lights up any room. He’s moved in and promptly been kicked out three different times, once for drinking, once for smoking K2 in the basement, and once for opiates. Rich hiked the entirety of the Superior hiking trail last summer, solo. I saw him a few weeks ago getting off the light rail train, shuffling towards oblivion.
  5. Michael. Nearing or just past sixty years old, Mike has lived in every sober house and halfway house in the region, or so it’s rumored. He’s well-known in the 12-step communities around us. When I was dropped off at the front door of a decrepit Victorian some years ago, Mike had the bedroom next to me. He greeted me warmly with his Long Island drawl, and passed me some cash so I could buy cigarettes. Mike later moved into my house, where he became so indebted to the company owner for being unable to pay rent that he ended up living there for two years, slowly chipping away at his debt, $100 at a time.
  6. Chad. Not his real name, and I honestly can’t remember his real name, so this shitty pseudonym will have to do. I silently rolled my eyes when he moved in, with his high fade and a chain around his neck, but my disdain quickly turned to horror. After four days in the house, I got a call early in the morning that Chad was unresponsive on the porch. I instructed the house manager who called to give him Narcan and drove eighty miles an hour the short distance to the house. He didn’t respond to the Narcan, because he had been sharing a needle with a prostitute, shooting Xanax directly into his bloodstream. The hooker had disappeared, leaving a grimy purse behind, and when I finally revived Chad, slapping him as hard as I possibly could across the face, he told me he was going to shoot me. I wish this story wasn’t true.
  7. Ben. I have a weird pride surrounding my ability to smell bullshit, but Ben foiled me like no other addict ever has. Ben is short, blonde hair and blue eyes, and runs a sub-three hour marathon. His parents traveled frequently abroad to third-world countries to lend their expertise in agriculture and human rights. Ben was a package deal, he told me on a phone call from treatment, who came with a lovely 11-year old purebred hunting dog. She was a therapy dog, he said, and I was his last hope for a sober house who would take them both. They moved in days later. Ben promptly set up a hugely successful handyman business, each client more impressed with his work and pleasant demeanor than the last. I later learned Ben had been drinking a pint of vodka every morning in his car.
  8. Nokey. Fresh off a prison stint, I was a little overeager to have a black dude in my house. He wasn’t the first or the last, but I was tired of serving white, middle class, whiny men (See every.single.name. above.) He had one pair of shoes, no coat, and no food. Another resident stole two packages of Pop-tarts from him on his first night, both I had brought over for him so he’d have some breakfast the next day. He didn’t react, call anyone out, or get mad. I won’t ever forget how proud I was dropping him off for his first shift at McDonald's.
  9. Jeff. A former crust-punk from the west coast, Jeff bought a shitty motorcycle with his first paychecks from Whole Foods. He died in the basement of another sober house from a heroin overdose about 9 months after I last saw him. The bike is still in the garage.
  10. Sam. I spent over twenty hours on the phone with Sam’s mother, Cindy, who would call to check on her son. 21 years old and with a fledgling heroin addiction, Sam and his mom had the most fucked-up co-dependent relationship I’ve ever seen. He lived in the house for almost two years, nearly completing a college degree before falling into a deep depression. He relapsed one night after work, walking home the next morning with no wallet and a black eye. He’s currently in treatment, and his mom bought the sober house a new mattress after he wet the bed.

Written by

Faster ain't better. Recovering dope fiend. Middle-distance runner. In love with everything human. Always reading, sometimes listening.

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