Friends and Chevys

December 14, 2023

Dear Steve,

Hello my friend. It’s been a few months, so I thought I would reach out. The last time I saw you was when you pulled up to the curb where I was cutting grass in Old Town. That was around mid-summer. I had seen you drive by a few other times, and tried to wave you down, but it looked like you were headed somewhere else. I was glad you stopped when you did. You told me the doctors had figured something out with your medication, and that you were feeling better. I was happy you had some good news to share.

Do you remember when you handed me your business card? It was after my second AA meeting, which was my first day in recovery. That was December 28th, 2019. Can you believe that was almost four years ago? I saw you walking towards me while I was talking with someone after the meeting. You just handed it to me without a single word. The look in your eye was totally serious, and totally real.

When I saw that your card was for tree service, I didn’t know if you were looking for referrals, or if you were offering support out of kindness. I was such a wreck. I know now that you were just doing what you knew to be the right thing, and that is how we became brothers not only in recovery, but brothers in life. You introduced yourself in meetings as “Steve; and a drunk and a drug addict,” but I was not the only one that saw you as, “Steve, a true friend”.

The first “roadside truck meeting” we had was in my Tacoma outside of New Beginnings. I remember how much you said you liked my truck, even though you preferred beat-up Chevys. That was the first one-on-one conversation I had with someone at Alcoholics Anonymous. I was completely paranoid about undercover cops, imaginary investigations, and the tsunami of guilt that was sweeping me away. None of that was even happening, but I was so spun out, I didn't know what was happening. You let me go on and on, and even though you sometimes laughed at me, I knew it was because you had already confronted many of the same demons.

It wasn’t long before we were working on jobsites together, and our conversations developed into honest sessions between two men holding accountability for each other. I felt my healing take hold in your presence, because I could sense the healing that was coming through your soul. This thing we call a “Recovery Program” works, because we open up and share what has/has not worked for us with those that are looking desperately for a better way. You made me no promises, you only displayed that promises come true to those that choose to work for them. I love your story, Steve, and I was hoping to share a little of it back with you.

It took me a minute to get settled into the recovery scene, not sure I ever did. I felt like a fish out of water, especially when it came to the culture. Whenever I was nervous about something I said during a meeting, or was confused by what someone else had said, your reassurance was to let me know I was right where I was supposed to be. You talked to me in a way that made me believe in the newly found faith I was experiencing. I will never forget how good of a listener you were. I will never forget how much giving your word meant to you. I always felt like you had my back, and also gave me the freedom to fall on my face if it would do me some good. Thank you for that.

Before I forget, did you ever know Pat Coffee? He was the old guy at Longmont Counseling Services that administered breathalyzers. Anyway, I saw him leaving the grocery store one day not long ago, but I didn’t say anything because he was crossing the parking lot with his arms full of groceries, so I let him go. I hadn’t spoken with him in over fifteen years since my probation ended in 2007. The very next week he rolled up on me on a job to ask if I could put his lawn on my schedule. Of course, I had to tell him that I am closing business at the end of season, but isn’t that funny, who asks a lawn guy to start in September?

After I told him I wouldn’t be able to help him out, I said, “You gave me breathalyzers fifteen years ago!” And he replied, “Yes I did!” This world of recovery is so vast, yet so intertwined at times. I thanked him for his nonjudgemental attitude from back then, and for being part of what became the most important decision of my life today. He said, “You see, you never know what the Bigger plan has in store. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Here’s the kicker, three days later I went to Home Depot to buy new tires for one of my machines, and wouldn’t you know it, they were out of stock. I almost went without, until I remembered that there was a Honda dealer not too far away that would hopefully have what I needed. So that’s where I went next, and luckily, they had them in the warehouse. I purchased my tires, made the saleslady laugh as I walked away from the counter, and then opened the door for none other than…Pat Coffee, for the third time in a week??? Crazy my friend, crazy. We talked even more right there, and after that I kept hoping to see you out on the road again soon. It was always such a sure thing.

I wanted flag you down in that rusty old Chevy and have another roadside sobriety meeting at the golf course parking lot, high school duck pond, DMV/church lot, or wherever you wanted to just get together and hash it out like we would. Running into Pat randomly like that felt like the miracle of recovery continuing to rise from the ordinary. I didn’t read it as a complete spiritual sign until I heard that you and I won’t be able to have another impromptu AA meeting on the back streets of Longmont. Just a few weeks ago, the message I was subconsciously expecting, came through.

It was Nita that called to let me know you had passed. She apologized for leaving a voicemail. She is so sweet, and she loves you very much. We talked and reminisced for nearly an hour. One thing I had forgotten was how you and Nita had let the cat out of the bag to me about your relationship. There I was, just a few months into a new life with new surroundings, and the two of you felt comfortable sharing with just me and one other there that you were in love and nothing else mattered. What an honor that was, and it never stopped. I never felt diminished from that level of respect in our time together.

Your relationship was a true example of what is possible when we not only put sobriety first, but also our faith in a higher power to provide the love and security we may find in another. I was so happy to see you with someone who truly saw how special you were. She told me in her own words that she wouldn’t allow you to live without love and respect for the rest of your life. From what I witnessed, Nita honored that pledge to its fullest, as you did for her.

She gave me a general recap of the last few months, and days even. She said that you had passed on Saturday, October 14th, my sister Sonja’s birthday, and one week before my own. The news wasn’t shocking, or tragic. It was sad, but like no other time that I can remember, joy had interwoven with grief. Nita reminded me that five years earlier the doctors had given you only two more months to live. How grateful I am that they were wrong. Had they been right, we never would have met.

You called me a few times when you felt that your physicians were being assholes about not following their guidance, and I was happy to listen to your frustrations. I knew you were scared about some of the pain and changes, but I can’t tell you how much your perseverance and strength inspired me to stand up to my own fears. I couldn’t stay in my own self-pity for too long because I knew the fight you were in. What a fighter you were. Maybe it didn’t serve you very well when you were younger, but when I knew you, the fighter in you made me feel secure at an unsecure time in my life. All that I learned from you became a part of my path and progress. Those tools will forever be in my box.

We didn’t take much time when I saw you last to get entirely caught up. I don’t think it was the right time for that. I guess you were just saying goodbye in your own way. Thank you for taking the time and making the effort. It means so much to me that you did.

Now, I have a short story that I have been wanting to share with you for months. Do you remember always telling me that I was the smartest guy you knew? Well, I never took it to heart because I know how birdbrained I can be. In fact, you are going to roll over when you hear this one...

As I had said, I closed my lawn business at the end of this season. It was just time to move on, and the part time job I had over the off-season as a mentor at a sober house was really growing on me by mid-summer, so I kept up with it. Recently, I accepted a full-time position. It really feels like the first solid gig on my path that matches with some natural ability. After just a few months, they made me the Saturday activity coordinator, which means I get to plan day trips to random places around Boulder, Denver, and the Front Range. I got a little emotional driving to work, on this particular Saturday, because I was planning on taking a group to my favorite hiking trail, and the realization hit me that my life was truly starting to show some undeniable changes. It’s hard to believe what I am experiencing as of late. It can be unreal to compare life today, to the condition of the other one not that long ago. Sometimes, I get caught up in it. Back to the story…

Often, there are enough of us on the excursion that we take a Mercedes Sprinter passenger van on our activity trips. I saw that we would need fuel, and so it seemed best to fill up on our way to the trailhead by going through Nederland, rather than the more direct route via Lefthand Canyon. I was just learning how to operate this type of vehicle, and taking the scenic route gave me some more time to feel out how the large van likes to drive.

It was mid-July, and the heat was on, even in the mountains above 9,000ft. As we approached the top of the canyon and dropped into Nederland, I saw a Sinclair station that had the diesel I was looking for. “Hey y’all,” I called out, “the dinosaur has the green nozzle for diesel, so I will stop there if you want to get snacks and Gatorades, or whatever…” And as I parked at the pump, my small crew of hikers began to pour out of the van. One by one, most of them new to our program, they sauntered into and out of the gas station. The conversation seemed to flow from person to person, and topic to topic as we all were just practicing getting to know one another. Before long, we were back on track, and no more than 20 minutes from the trailhead.

I sat high in the captain’s chair as the mountain highway peeled around a banking turn that revealed the expanse over the St. Vrain Valley. We were driving where the eagles fly, and the oohs and ahhs from the seats behind me carried the soft echo from the tears of reflection that I had shed on my way to work just a couple hours earlier. For the first time in twenty years of over-trying, it felt like things were starting to come together, right there in that moment. But then…

Right then the engine began to sputter. The van was coasting down the road on the side of a mountain, and then as we started up the next hill the power started to fail. We lost speed, and the accelerator pedal was getting zero response. “What the fuck is happening? Why the fuck is this happening? No! No, no, no, no, no!”

“It’s seems like bad fuel, Peter,” said the youngest of the gang. “Did you put regular gas in the tank?”

“I couldn’t have,“ I exclaimed. “You all heard me say I chose that gas station because they have diesel. There’s no possible way that I put regular in, right? What else could it be…?” Nothing else, because that is exactly what I did. I pulled off to the shoulder, and upon spinning off the gas cap, the smell of gasoline hit my nose. I looked down at my phone. “Who has service?” Everyone said their phones were dead. “I have one bar,” I said. “Let’s hope I can get through…”

I couldn’t believe, for the next thirty minutes or so, I could call the office phone, the tow truck dispatch, and the tow truck driver himself, but it happened. We had rescue on the way and time to kill, and everyone stepped in and took care of each other. It was a beautiful thing.

The tow truck was ninety minutes longer than expected because of a head on collision in the canyon. He came up a different route than we did because he did not need gas like we did. He had to turn around and go back up through Nederland. Luckily, he was able to get through to my cell phone so he could relay the delay. I had plenty of time to ponder my mistake, and the reasons for it. Maybe avoiding that head on collision was the reason. Maybe it was to learn a lesson on making the best of a shit situation. Maybe I need to learn how to better manage distractions. Months later, it occurred to me that maybe it proves the existence of a higher power, because if you put the wrong fuel in a Mercedes it dies within 5 miles, but if you put the wrong fuel in a human being, they can carry on for twenty-five years, or more.

At the end of the day, I caused over 20k in damage to the van in my first month as activities coordinator. The company ended up selling it. Yep, how smart am I looking now? Fortunately, my boss has seen the same look in my eye that I saw in yours on my very first day in recovery, and he didn’t think firing me was the right solution. It’s the look that said, “If you’re ready, I am here.” That, for me, is as real as it gets. Showing that kind of conviction and faith makes all the difference. Put that in your gas tank and burn it.

I miss you, my friend, but I know our friendship has no end. I have gone on long enough here, for now. I may write a few more times down the road if it’s OK with you. I’ll tell Ben, Pat Coffee, and the squirrels hello the next time I see them. So many people miss you, and your story carries on. I love you brother.

God bless,

Peter, your true friend

p.s. “I’m about as fucked up as a soup sandwich.” -Steve McCary